------------------------------------------------------------------------ the flaw in the sapphire by charles m. snyder author of "comic history of greece" "runaway robinson" "snap shots" etc. new york the metropolitan press ------------------------------------------------------------------------ copyright, , by the metropolitan press registered at stationers' hall, london (all rights reserved) printed in the united states of america press of wm. g. hewitt - vandewater st. new york ------------------------------------------------------------------------ augustine e. mcbee a friend who stands since "auld lang syne" to all that's fine related; to him, this little book of mine is duly dedicated. --charles m. snyder. new york, september, . ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the flaw in the sapphire chapter i not long since there lived, in the city of philadelphia, a young man of singular identity. his only parallel was the comedian who is compelled to take himself seriously and make the most of it, or a tart plum that concludes in a mellow prune. he was the affinity of two celebrated instances to the contrary. to those who enjoy the whimsies of paradox he presented an astonishing resemblance, in countenance, to the late benjamin disraeli, and maintained in speech the unmistakable accent of o'connell, the hebrew statesman's celtic antagonist. for these reasons, until the nature of his business was discovered, he was regarded with interest by that class which is disposed to estimate the contents of a book by the character of the binding, or thinks it can measure a man's ability by the size of his hat. on nearer acquaintance, he was relegated to the dubious distinction of an oddity to whom you would be pleased to introduce your friends if you had only a satisfactory account of his antecedents. he was cheerful, startling, ready and adroit. until betrayed by his brief but effectual familiarities, it was a curious experience to remark the approach of this singular being and wonder at the appraising suggestion in his speculative glance. presently you decided that it was the intention of this young man to address you, and, unconsciously, you accorded him the opportunity, only to be scandalized the moment afterward by the query, altogether incongruous in such a promising aspect: "any old clothes to-day?" and you passed on, chagrined and wondering. for a number of years, while his auditors paused in an attempt to disentangle the semite from the celt, there was scarcely a day in which he had not subjected himself to the more or less pronounced hazards of rebuff incident to his invariable query, and there were few citizens of the sterner sex whom he had not thus addressed. apparently no consideration restrained him. none was too dignified, none sufficiently austere to escape his solicitation; and while, as a rule, he waited until the object of his regard came to a standstill, he had been known to approach diagonally, and, at the point of incidence, presenting his query, pass on with a glance of impassive impersonality when it was evident that his overtures were futile or worse. when successful in his forays, he would convey the results of his efforts to his father, who, after getting the garments thus secured in a condition of fictitious newness, displayed them in front of his establishment, marked with prices which, as he explained to those unwary enough to venture within the radius of his personality, brought him as near to nervous prostration as was possible for the parent of such inconsequent offspring. however, no matter what the rewards of such industry, it must not be imagined that its disabilities did not insist upon due recognition and ugly ravel, and that such shred and fibre did not obtrude their unwelcome appeals for repair upon their central figure. shrewd, intelligent, persistent, he soon discovered that the very qualities which made him successful in his calling rendered him obnoxious to those who were unable to harmonize his promise with his condition. however, like the majority of his countrymen, outside of those who constituted the manhattan police force and provided the country with justices of the peace, this young man was a philosopher. he could always provide a silver lining for a cloud as long as it was plausible to do so, and when he had exhausted his genial resources, he looked at facts squarely. on this basis he decided, finally, that his was a case of "bricks without straw," enthusiasm minus its basis, an unhappy conclusion which was emphasized by his patient attempts to soften his angularities with the advantages provided by a night school. unfortunately, a business man, with an eye to the bizarre, to whom dennis had presented some of his characteristic enterprises, had put the young irishman in the way of securing a biography of the hebrew premier, whom he provided with such an absurd travesty of likeness, and the "ole clo' merchant" was so impressed by the resolution and dexterity of the celebrated statesman, that he became, from that moment, the prey of a consuming ambition whose direction he could not determine. he grew positive daily, however, that, in view of these stimulating aspirations, he could no longer pursue his embarrassing avocation. on the basis, therefore, that the greater the pent the more pronounced the explosion, the young merchant developed a dangerous readiness to embrace the first opportunity that presented herself in the hope that the caress would be returned. presently, the determination to exchange his present humiliations for future uncertainties advanced him to the point where he informed his father of his decision, and the latter immediately succumbed to a collapse which was hebraic in its despair and entirely celtic in its manifestation. when this irate parent realized, at last, that this invaluable arm of his business could not be diverted from its purpose, with cruel celerity he cut off his son from all further consideration and forbade him the premises. with the previous week's salary in his pocket, which, fortunately, had been undisturbed, dennis muldoon, on the day succeeding this unhappy interview with his sire, set out for new york city with his few belongings condensed, with campaigning foresight, in a satchel whose size and appearance would scarcely inspire the confidence man to claim previous acquaintance with its owner in order to investigate its contents later. in this manner protected from the insinuating blandishments of the "buncoes," and guided by his native shrewdness, dennis finally found accommodation for his meager impedimenta in an unassuming lodging-house called the stag. this establishment reflected, in a curious way, the demands of its patrons. almost the entire first floor was occupied by the glittering details of a seductive barroom, through which one was compelled to pass, challenged on every side by alluring labels, before reaching the restaurant immediately in the rear. above, the floors were divided into numerous sleeping-rooms barely large enough to accommodate a bed, washstand and one chair--a sordid ensemble, unrelieved by any other wall decoration than the inevitable announcement: "this way to the fire escape." by a singular coincidence which would have aroused a lively emotion in the moralist, a bible occupied a small shelf directly under the instructions quoted above. dennis, however, was too weary to recognize the grim association, and shortly after his arrival retired for the night to recuperate his energies for the uncertainties of the morrow. awakening at dawn with a sincere hope that his dreams of a succession of disasters were not prophetic, and, despite the appeals of the glitter and the labels in the bar, breakfasting with his customary abstemiousness, dennis issued from the stag with a determination to make the effort of his life to secure employment. he had no definite plans other than a profound determination to resist the invitations of baxter street, a thoroughfare congested from end to end with innumerable shops devoted to the species of merchandizing from which he had so recently escaped. here his talents would have procured for him ready recognition, a condition which deepened his determination to avoid all possible contact with these solicitous sons of shem. beyond a singular desire to enter a large publishing house, dennis had no idea as to the direction of his efforts. aside from the fact that books held an unaccountable fascination for him, he could not explain this predilection, for their influence over him was in the aggregate. he loved to wander, with aimless preoccupation, among closely-packed shelves, and in pursuance of this indirection was familiar with the interior of every library in the city of philadelphia. he appeared to have too much respect for the books to touch them, and was sufficiently in awe of their contents not to attempt to read them. he was impressed by the volume of things, and had, unsuspected by himself, the capacity of the bibliophile to detect and enjoy the subtle aroma which emanates from leaves and binding. in harmony, therefore, with the resolute quality which had secured to him what success he had enjoyed in his abandoned business, dennis decided to exhaust the pleasing possibilities presented by this elevated industry before applying elsewhere. the éclat of possible authorship did not influence him, despite the encouragement afforded him in the surprising efforts of his imagination displayed in achievements such as the following, with which he embellished the front of his father's establishment: this suit was $ and cheap at that i'll let it go for $ and so on indefinitely. urged, then, by the advantages which lubricate the lines of least resistance, and stimulated by that clarion phrase in his unfailing campaign document, his copy of beaconsfield: "i have begun many things many times and have finally succeeded," dennis presented himself, about ten o'clock, at one of the well-known publishing houses. with all the alarm which affects the fair débutante at a court presentation, he beheld the confusing labyrinth of counters, department aisles and shelves, which combine in such a depressing suggestion of intellectual plethora and transient futility in this famous edifice. advised by his sensations, dennis was quite ready to assure himself that he had entered at the wrong portal, and, returning to the street, he discovered that the building concluded upon a rearway congested with a disorderly array of drays, cases and porters. encouraged by the assurance of these more familiar surroundings, dennis cast an anxious glance about him to discover one more in authority than the others. his quest was given direction by a familiar accent. "wake up, ye lazy divils! it's dhramin' ye are this marnin'." guided by the sound, dennis beheld a naturally cheerful irishman occupied with the double task of assuming an austere demeanor, and quickening, with brisk orders, the movements of the porters under his direction. his present difficulties mastered, this vivacious master of ceremonies turned to look, with an inquiring glance, upon dennis, who had presented himself to the attention of the former with the unmistakable appeal of the candidate in his demeanor. "i want a job," said dennis simply. "phwat?" inquired the foreman sharply, staring at the mosaic of physiognomy and accent embodied in dennis. "i want a job," repeated dennis. "i nade wurk." there was no mistaking the peculiar burr in the utterance of the last two words, but the foreman continued to regard the speaker with suspicious amazement. "phwat are ye, annyway?" he said with guarded brusqueness. "a poor man, sir; i nade wurk." "oi don't mane that," with less severity at this frank acknowledgment; "but where do yez hail from--limerick or jerusalem?" at this pointed question, which promptly reminded dennis of the singular contradiction he presented, he replied, with a genuine celtic adroitness that had an immediate effect upon his hearer: "nayther; i got off at the midway junction." "ha, ha!" laughed the foreman, as he appreciated this clever explanation of the singular compromise presented by dennis. "shure, that's not bad. by the mug ye wear, i wud advise ye to go to baxther street, but by the sound av ye, oi rickommind th' broadway squad. wurrk, is it? why don't ye presint that face at th' front? i hear they're shy on editors." "shure!" said dennis, who believed that he was progressing; "but the only things i iver wrote were store signs." "ah, ha!" replied the foreman, "so it's handy with th' brush ye are." "yes," answered dennis. "wait a bit," said the foreman, and pointing to a marking-outfit he directed dennis to display his name and address upon a smooth pine board which he provided for that purpose: dennis muldoon, the stag hotel, vesey st., n.y. "ah, ha!" cried the foreman as he contrasted the name with the incongruous face of the young man before him, "ye don't have to play it on a flute, annyway; there's nothin' sheeny about that." then, directing his attention to the character of the work itself, he added: "that's not bad at all, at all. see here," he said abruptly, as he picked up the board which dennis had decorated and fastened it to the warehouse wall with a nail, "oi'll kape that for riferince. oh, oi mane it," he said with gruff assurance, as he noted the disappointment which shadowed the expressive face before him; "an' mebbe ye won't have to wait so long, nayther." "i hope not," said dennis frankly. "well, ye see," said the foreman, "the prisint incoombent has been mixin' too much red wid his paint, an' it don't wurrk." "you mean he drinks?" asked dennis with humorous inquiry. "oi do," replied the foreman; "an' now that we have inthroduced th' subject, excuse a personal quistion: do ye wet yure whistle in business hours?" "no," answered dennis promptly, "nor out of them. father attended to that part of the business." "well," replied the foreman, "oi can't talk longer wid ye this marnin'. come 'round be th' ind of the wake," and dismissing dennis with a nod he withdrew into the warehouse. the main feature of discouragement which presented itself to dennis as he left this locality to ponder over its possibilities, was that the end of the week was five days off. this was serious. his rupture with muldoon, senior, had left him but poorly provided with linen and lucre; and a campaign of assault upon the barricades of prejudice and suspicion, which was involved in the anxious solicitude of the man seeking employment, demanded every possible accessory of personal appearance and a reasonably equipped commissariat. anxious, therefore, to subject his meager resources to the least strain possible, dennis at last succeeded in securing, in one of the more pretentious stores on baxter street, a contrivance for the relief of penury and threadbare gentility known at that time by the name of "dickey." this convenience consisted in a series of three shirt bosoms made of paper to resemble the luxury of linen. when the surface first exposed showed symptoms of soil or wear, its removal revealed a fresh bosom directly under. adjusted to his waistcoat, it was almost impossible to detect the agreeable sham, which, under favorable auspices, could be made to last for a week. thus equipped, dennis proceeded to his hotel, where, after according the cheerful salutation of the industrious barkeeper the acknowledgment of a lively irish nod, in which there was both fellowship and refusal, he proceeded to the rear, to banquet upon whatever offered the most for his money. during the two days succeeding, dennis, true to the apprehensive calculation natural to the unemployed, did not propose to rest upon the assurances of his irish friend in the publishing house. anything untoward might occur. in fact, he was familiar with this seamy side of providence. he had been so often misled by promises that it was only his wholesome celtic faith and prompt capacity to rebound which kept him from becoming entirely blasé. his experience, however, left him alert. so he applied industriously at various establishments for employment, and received his first lessons in the courteous duplicity which ostentatiously files the application for future reference, and the cruel kindness of frank rebuff. on the morning of the third day of this futile foray, dennis noticed that the exposed bosom of his dickey was not altogether presentable. it appeared to have registered the record of his applications and failures, and, as such, was not a good campaign document, so to speak. having progressed in his simple toilet up to the point of embellishment, he proceeded to tear away the soiled surface, and in doing so discovered not only the clean bosom beneath, but that the rear of the one just detached was covered with a block of minute print. drawing the solitary chair close to the window, he read by the light of early dawn the following extraordinary compilation. chapter ii in the city of ---- there lived one rodman raikes, unpopularly known as the "fist." the title, however, was not in recognition of personal prowess, for no more cringing, evasive creature ever existed. he was little in mind, little in body, and little in his dealings. if a principle could ever be concrete, raikes was the embodiment of the grasping and the uselessly abstemious. he appeared to shun a generous sentiment as one would avoid an infected locality, and usually walked with head tilted and body bent as if engaged in following a clue or intent upon the search of some stray nickel. he was thoroughly despised by all who knew him, a sentiment which he returned with vicious interest, and never neglected an opportunity of lodging some sneering shaft where it would cause the most irritation. his character was so much in harmony with these generalizations that he had been described as dividing his laughter into chuckles--if the strident rasp which he indulged could be called by that name--in order that it might last the longer; and that he grinned in grudging instalments. his obvious possession was an entire row of brick houses, in the most insignificant of which he dwelt. over this sparse domicile a spinster sister presided, who reflected, on compulsion, in the manner of a sickly moon, the attenuity and shrivel of her brother. a nephew of raikes' completed the circuit. this young man intruded upon this strange household an aspect so curiously at variance with that of his rickety elders that he suggested to the fanciful the grim idea of having exhausted the contents of the larder and compelled the other two to shift for themselves. he was, in the eyes of the disapproving raikes, offensively plump; an example of incredible expenditure applied to personal gratification and gluttonous indulgence. the miser behaved as if he appeared to consider it a mark of studied disrespect to be compelled to contrast his gaunt leanness with the young man's embonpoint, and was propitiated only by the reflection that he contributed in no way to his nephew's physical disproportion, since the latter was able to be at charges for his own welfare from resources derived from steady outside employment. adjoining the house occupied by raikes, and connected with it by a doorway let into the wall, was a series of three dwellings used as a boarding-establishment by a widow who had seen better days and was tireless in alluding to them. these buildings had been remodeled to communicate with each other, a continuity that concluded with the raikes apartments. for some reason this miserable man preferred to occupy the portion just indicated with no other tenants than his gaunt sister and the robust robert. this arrangement was all the more curious from the fact that raikes made no attempt to dispose of, in fact, strangely resented any suggestion of letting, the lower floor of his end of the row. that one of his avaricious disposition could thus forego such a prospect of advantage was the occasion of much speculation. if robert understood he gave no hint; and if the boarders on the other side of the partition indulged in curious comment they refrained from doing so in his presence. the suggestion had been made that raikes secreted something about that portion of the premises he occupied, but since none had the courage to investigate such a possibility, the problems it created were permitted to pass unsolved or serve to tantalize the imagination. regularly, at meal-time, the door leading from the raikes apartment would open, and the mean figure of the miser, after presenting itself for one hesitating, suspicious moment, would slip silently through and subside into a near-by chair at one of the tables. directly after, the spinster would filter through with the mien of an apologetic phantom, and raikes at once established the basis of indulgence by tentative nibbles of this and that, which were almost barmecidian in their meagerness, and the sister, under his sordid supervision, followed his miserable example. with singular perversity, in the midst of reasonable abundance, he forbore to accept the full measure of his privileges. the discipline of denial was essential to the austere economies he practiced in all other directions, and his sister, rather than submit to the hardness of his rebukes, acquiesced with dismal resignation. robert was able to endure the table behavior of his uncle no more than the others, and so occupied a seat in the dining-room surrounded by more agreeable conditions. if this course was intended as a diplomatic frankness to indicate to raikes that his nephew did not expect a legacy to follow the demise of that austere relative, no one could determine. the young man, however, continued to sit in whatever portion of the apartment he pleased and enjoy himself as much as the handicap of his relationship would permit. on this basis, as if to manifest in himself the law of compensation, robert grew vicariously robust, and accepted, with cynical good humor, the irritation of his uncle over his adipose. raikes and his sister had the table at which they sat entirely to themselves. only on the infrequent occasions of congestion had others been known to occupy seats at the same board. it was more than hungry human nature, as embodied in most of the inmates, could stand to witness this exasperating refusal to accept a reasonable measure of what was set before them; a disability to which the scarcely concealed scowls of the exacting miser added the chill finishing touch. one morning, however, a new boarder arrived. accommodations could not be found for him at the other tables, and, as was the custom of the widow under such circumstances, he was intruded upon the society of this morbid duet, after the manner of his predecessors. if the usual rebellion matured at such association on the part of this recent guest, the landlady expected to be assisted by one of those vacancies which occur with such incalculable irregularity, yet reasonable certainty, in establishments of this character. at this a prompt transfer would be effected. this, however, was an unusual boarder. if his presence was obnoxious to raikes, the latter refused to realize it; if the miser had his peculiarities, the newcomer did not see them. he ate his meals in silence, with an abstemiousness that, unknown to himself, recommended him as cordially as any consideration might to his shriveled table companion; made friendly overtures, disguised in perfunctory courtesies, of passing the bread or the butter when either was beyond the nervous reach of the eccentric raikes, and ventured an impassive suggestion or two as to the probable conduct of the weather. in appearance the newcomer was startling. his complexion was a berry-brown; his expression, aside from his eyes, was singularly composed. these were uncommonly black and piercing, and peeped from receding sockets through heavy eyebrows, which hung like an ambush over their dart and gleam. his nose was a decisive aquiline, beneath which his lips, at once firm and sensitive, pressed together changelessly. his figure was tall and spare and usually clad in black, a habit which emphasized his already picturesque countenance. there was an indescribable air about him which suggested event, transpired or about to transpire, which introduced a sort of eerie distinction to the commonplace surroundings in which he found himself, and invited many a glance of curious speculation in his direction. all this was not without its effect upon raikes, and it was remarked, with the astonishment the occasion justified, that the miser, in the ensuing days, emerged from his customary austerity to the extent of reciprocal amenities in the passage of bread and salt. however, this was but the beginning. raikes discovered himself, at last, responding, with a degree of chill urbanity, to the advances of the stranger, and ere the week had concluded had assumed the initiative in conversation on more than one occasion. by this time one of the inevitable vacancies had occurred at another table, and the widow, as usual, offered to translate this latest guest to the unoccupied seat. the latter, however, for some strange reason, indicated a desire to remain in his present surroundings, and when this disposition was understood by raikes, the conquest of the miser was complete. as if to indorse the perverse aspect of inflexible things, it seemed, now that raikes had ventured ever so little beyond his taciturn defenses, he was encouraged to further boldness. the stranger exerted a fascination which, in others, raikes would have considered dangerous and which he would have made his customary instinctive preparations to combat. he could not recall a similar instance in all the years of his recent experience when he was constrained to recognize, nay, surrender to, a diffusive impulse such as this curious stranger awakened in his mind. in yielding to its insinuations, even to the extent already recorded, he was agreeably conscious of a sort of guilty abandon which, at times, stupefies the moral qualities ere delivering them into the hands of a welcome invader. for some time robert, with the others, had enjoyed the entertainment offered by this transformation of satyr to faun, and the inversion advanced to still further degrees their curious regard of the "sepoy," a picturesque description bestowed upon him by the blasé boarders. consequently, one evening, when, at the conclusion of the dinner, the "sepoy," in response to the invitation of raikes, was seen to disappear with the latter through the doorway which led to his apartments, robert's interest in the spectacle changed to genuine alarm, until a moment's reflection upon his uncle's well-known ability to take care of himself reassured him. intruding the door between themselves and all further speculation, the strangely-assorted pair proceeded along a dimly-illumed hallway to a room in which raikes usually secluded himself. as the sepoy advanced, he could see that, with the exception of two sleeping-chambers, revealed by their open doors, the apartment in which he found himself was the only one where any kind of accommodation could be found, as the balance of the house offered unmistakable evidences of being unoccupied. "be seated, sir," croaked raikes, with a voice strangely suggestive of a raven attempting the modulations of some canary it had swallowed. "i do not smoke myself, and, therefore, cannot provide you with that sort of entertainment; still, i have no objection to you enjoying yourself in that way if," with a cynical shrug of the shoulders by way of apology, "you have come prepared." accepting this frank inhospitality in the spirit of its announcement, the stranger, smiling with his curious eyes, produced two cigars, one of which he offered to raikes, and which was consistently and promptly refused. "i can't afford it," expostulated the latter. "i never indulge myself even in temptation; the nearest i will approach to dissipation will be, with your permission, to enjoy the aroma. i do not propose to rebuke myself for that." "as you please," returned the other as he replaced the weed in his pocket. "it is my one indulgence; in other respects i challenge any man to be more abstemious." "i have had none," returned raikes with a rasping lack of emotion, "for the last ten years. it is too late to begin to cultivate a disability now." "you are wrong," replied the sepoy. "one's attitude cannot be rigid at all points; that is bad management. the finest tragedy i ever witnessed was emphasized by the trivialities of the king's jester. "however," he added, as if in support of his theory, "i can, at least, trouble you for a match." while raikes busied himself in an effort to show the hospitality of the service indicated, the sepoy's busy, furtive eyes glanced here and there about the room with quick, inquiring glances. at one end a bedstead stood, which an antiquarian would have accepted gladly as collateral for a loan. near-by a wardrobe, equally remote if more decrepit, leaned against the wall to maintain the balance jeopardized by a missing foot. one chair, in addition to those occupied by raikes and his companion, appeared to extend its worn arms with a weary insistence and dusty disapproval of their emptiness. a table, large enough to accommodate a student's lamp, several account books and a blotting-pad, completed this uninviting galaxy. to the walls, however, the sepoy directed his closest scrutiny. with an incredibly rapid glance he surveyed every possible inch of space, turning his head cautiously to enable his eyes to penetrate into the more distant portions. presently, after an amount of rummaging altogether disproportionate to the nature of his quest, raikes succeeded in finding a lucifer, which flared with a reluctance characteristic of the surroundings. the sepoy, availing himself of its blaze, deposited the remainder of the stick, with elaborate carefulness, upon the table, as if urged by the thought that his companion might convert it to further uses. as raikes resumed his chair, the sepoy, recalling his glances from their mysterious foray, directed them, with curious obliqueness, upon his companion. in no instance that raikes could recall had the sepoy looked upon him directly save in fleeting flashes. at such moments raikes was conscious of a strange tremor, a vanishing fascination, that he vainly sought to duplicate by attracting the other's attention, in order to analyze its peculiar influence. "may i ask," he ventured after a few inhalations of his vicarious smoke, "may i ask the nature of your business?" "surely," replied the other. "i am a collector." "of what?" inquired raikes, dissatisfied with the ambiguity of the answer. "sapphires," said the sepoy. "ah!" cried raikes. "yes," continued the other, regarding the kindling glance of the avaricious raikes with a quick, penetrating look that was not without its effect upon the latter; "yes, and i have had many beautiful specimens in my time." "but where is your establishment?" asked raikes. "wherever i chance to be," was the reply. "still," ventured raikes, astonished at this curious rejoinder, "you have some safe depository for such valuables." "doubtless," replied the other drily; "but i have a few in my room now, and, by the way, they are pretty fair specimens." "ah!" cried raikes. "may i see them?" "why not?" assented the sepoy. "in the meantime," he continued, as he inserted his hand in his waistcoat pocket, "what do you think of this?" and describing a glittering semicircle in the air with some brilliant object he held in his grasp, he deposited upon the table a sapphire of such extraordinary size and beauty, that raikes, able as he was to realize the great value of this gleaming condensation, stared stupidly at it for a moment, and then, with a cry of almost gibbering avarice, caught the gem in his trembling hands and burglarized it with his greedy eyes. as raikes, oblivious of all else, continued to gaze upon the brilliant with repulsive fascination, a peculiar change transformed the face of the sepoy. he directed upon the unconscious countenance of his companion a glance of terrible intensity, moving his hands the while in a weird, sinuous rhythm, until presently, satisfied with the vacant expression which had replaced the eager look of the moment before in the eyes of the tremulous raikes, the sepoy began, with an indescribably easy, somnolent modulation, the following strange recital: (to be continued on dickey no. .) * * * * * "thunder and lightning!" cried dennis as he reached the exasperating announcement in italics at the bottom of the dickey back: "continued on dickey no. ." "what th' div--now, what do you think of that? an' it's me crazy to hear what that meerschaum-colored divil was a-goin' to say. 'dickey no. .' why, that's the one i have to wear to-day, an' to think the story's on the back of it." truly was dennis harassed. he had been in many a pickle before, but never in one quite so exasperating. tantalized, in the first place, by the uncertainty surrounding his prospective employment, he was now confronted by a predicament which threatened to jeopardize a vital adjunct to his personal appearance. a native curiosity, to which this outrageous tale appealed so strenuously, prompted him to detach bosom no. regardless. an equally characteristic thrift warned him against such an inconsiderate procedure. finally his good judgment prevailed, and with desperate haste he adjusted the remaining bosoms of the dickey to his waistcoat, plunged into his coat, clapped his hat on his head and rushed from the room. all that day dennis continued to receive his instalments of that bitter instruction in the ways of heedless employers and suspicious subordinates which, eased by a native good humor, conclude in the philosopher, or, unrelieved by this genial mollient, develop the cynic. by evening he was compelled to admit, as he retraced his steps to the stag, that he had not advanced in any way. as he was about to pass under one of the dripping extensions of the elevated, a great splotch of grease detached itself from the ironwork and struck, with unerring precision, directly in the center of dickey no. . "ah!" exclaimed dennis as he realized the nature of his mishap, "that settles it; i'll know what the sepoy said to-night." a remark which proved conclusively that the philosophical element was still uppermost in the mind of this young irishman. after a brief exchange of courtesies with his countryman behind the bar, and a dinner so modest in the rear room as to arouse the suspicion and encourage the displeasure of the waiter, dennis hastened up the stairway, divested himself of his upper garments, ripped off dickey bosom no. , and began. chapter iii as the sepoy proceeded, raikes leaned forward in an attitude, the discomfort and unbalance of which he seemed to be entirely unaware. his only means of maintaining his rigid poise was in the arm which lay, with tense unrest, upon the table. from his hand, the fingers of which had released their clutch, the stone had rolled and gleamed an unregarded invitation into the eyes of the drawn face above it. the sickly grin of a long-delayed relaxation beguiled the extremities of his mouth, the grim lips had relaxed their ugly partnership, and his entire figure seemed upon the verge of collapse. raikes was listening as never before. the clink of coin, the dry rattle and abrasion of brilliants, the rustle of bank notes could not have fascinated him more than the even, somnolent modulations of the speaker. every word found easy lodgment in his consciousness. there was not a sound or motion to divert, and the tale was a strange one. * * * * * "ram lal," said the sepoy, "was a native merchant, trading between meerut and delhi, who decided to sacrifice the dear considerations of caste for the grosser conditions of gain. "from the performance of mean and illy-rewarded services to his patron, prince otondo, ram lal had developed, with the characteristic patience and dangerous silence of the true oriental, to a figure of some importance, whom it was a satisfaction for the prince to contemplate with a view to future exaction and levy as occasion demanded. "his royal master resided in the kutub, a palace situated not far from delhi on the road to meerut. "this pretentious edifice, which had been established in the thirteenth century and which still presented, in some of its unrepaired portions, curious features of the bizarre architecture of that period, had been the dwelling place of a long line of ancient moghuls. "its present incumbent, however, regarded with indifference the ravages of time and decay, and satisfied himself with the lavish furnishing of that considerable portion of the palace which he occupied with his dusky retainers. "to be at charges for all this the princely revenues had been seriously depleted. "since he could not look to decrepit relatives in delhi for further allowances, and as the british government proved equally obdurate, the prince found it necessary to calculate upon all possible sources of income. "in such speculations, therefore, the unhappy ram lal became an object of logical interest. "up to the present the merchant had been undisturbed in the security of his possessions, which were suspected to be enormous. "his royal patron had contented himself with the avarice of calculation, and, in order that his depredations might be worthy his proposed brigandage, he provided ram lal with every opportunity to develop his hoard to a respectable figure. "the prince, having enjoyed the advantages of association with sundry british officials, was entirely too sagacious and philosophical to discourage the industry of the merchant at the outset; and with the patience which is enabled to foresee the end from the beginning, he awaited developments. "in consequence, the merchant attained to everything but the ostentation of his possessions, and only assumed the dignity of his riches in the less calculating confines of his household. "even here, however, the subsidy of his liege was active, for among the servants of the merchant were those whose appraising eyes followed every movement, and whose mercenary memories recorded every transaction. "with all the concern of a silent partner prince otondo balanced, in his philosophical mind, the various enterprises of ram lal. "if they met with his august approval, the merchant's traffic was singularly free from obstruction; if the element of uncertainty was too pronounced for the apprehensive potentate, the most surprising occasions for the abandonment of his projects were developed for ram lal, whose intelligent mind was inclined to suspect the identity of his providence. "prince otondo did not propose to have his interests jeopardized by precipitation or undue hazard. "but this unhappy merchant, with perverse and unaware industry, advanced still another claim to the covert regard of his calculating highness. "although a widower, there remained, to remind him of his departed blessedness, a daughter, who was, as reported by the mercenaries of the prince, beautiful beyond their limited means of expression. "the unfortunate ram lal, therefore, commending himself to this elevated espionage, first by his 'ducats' and next his 'daughter,' was in the predicament of the missionary whose embonpoint endears him to his savage congregation and whose edibility is convincing enough to arouse the regret that he is not twins. "prince otondo, whose imagination was stimulated by this vicarious contemplation of beauty, did not find it difficult to decide that the transits of ram lal to and from the british barracks were open to suspicion that demanded some biased investigation. "unfortunately, too, the colonel in charge of the british forces at delhi was equally uneasy concerning the integrity of the merchant, a state of mind which had been judiciously aggravated by the emissaries of prince otondo. "the officer in charge knew that the merchant, with his license of exit and entry, was in an exceptional position to acquaint himself with considerable merchandisable information. "ram lal, therefore, in response to the pernicious industry of his evil genius, like an unstable pendulum, was in danger of detention at either extreme. "the prince speculated like a machiavelli upon the advantages of such action on the part of the colonel, and the latter looked to the former to relieve him of the responsibility. "however, diligence, even when baneful, has its rewards, for one day, when ram lal arrived at the british horn of the dilemma, he was arrested upon a charge framed to suit the emergency and subjected to a military court of investigation. "at the end of eight days the merchant was released, acquitted, and on the ninth he directed his course homeward. "the colonel, however, had provided the prince with his opportunity, for when the irritated merchant arrived at his dwelling, he was informed that sundry officials from the palace had searched the premises for evidence of sedition, and, failing in that, had decided to accept all of his portable chattels as a substitute. "this was depressing enough, but still might have been accepted with the customary oriental impassiveness had it not been for the fact that the marauders had added his daughter to the collection. "at any rate, she could not be found, and as she had never ventured from the shelter of the paternal roof without the paternal consent, ram lal felt that his deductions as to her whereabouts were entitled to consideration. "he was unable to get any indorsement of his unhappy logic, for the servants had all disappeared. "he determined, however, to act in accordance with his assumption, and after taking an inventory of whatever had been overlooked in the foray, which was little else than the premises, he seated himself upon a mat beneath a banyan tree in the garden, which concluded the rear of his dwelling, and was presently ells-deep in a profound reflection, which was not only ominous in its outward calm, but curiously prolonged. "the only evidence of mental disquiet which, it was natural to suspect, disturbed him, was a strange light which gleamed from his eyes at intervals with baleful significance. "at the conclusion of two oblivious hours ram lal appeared to have arrived at some definite purpose. "he rose to his feet and strode, with a marked degree of decision, to his dwelling, where he slept in apparent and paradoxical peace until morning. "ere the sky was red, or the dews, in harmony with this unhappy man's dilemma, had been appropriated by the sun from the tiara of dawn, ram lal set out for the palace of the kutub, in which prince otondo was compelled to reside for the present for some very convincing reasons provided by the british government. "in a little while the merchant had traversed the short distance intervening and was admitted through the courtyard gates. "the last of the kings of delhi was a decrepit old man named dahbur dhu, whose sole object in life seemed to be an attempt to reanimate the pomp and pageantry of a dead dynasty. "pensioned by the british government, which permitted him to continue this absurd travesty, if his feeble exasperation over his predicament and his silly ostentations could be called by that name, this realmless potentate occupied his waking hours in futile revilings of the hand that at once smote and sustained him. "while not thus engaged, he would gravitate almost to the extreme of servility in his efforts to exact additional largess from the powers in control, to expend upon this senile attempt to augment the consideration of his pageant throne. "several efforts had already been made to remove the irritating presence of this royal household to bengal, but the time had not yet arrived when the british could regard with indifference the native prejudice which would be aroused by such a procedure. "the infirm moghul, therefore, continued his vaudeville, which was mainly confined within the palace walls at delhi, and persisted in his endeavors to augment his revenues. "however, to mitigate the nuisance as far as possible, the british government consented to recognize his grandson, prince otondo, as the successor to the throne, and yield a degree to the exactions of the moghul if his young kinsman would agree to remove himself permanently from delhi and reside in the kutub. "to this, for a reason which shortly transpired with almost laughable incongruity, dahbur dhu assented, and prince otondo established himself at this royal residence with an outward manifestation of satisfaction, at least. "despite the fact that the merchant was a familiar figure in this enclosure, he believed that he remarked an unusual degree of interest awakened by his presence, and was assured that he detected more than one sinister and smiling glance directed, with covert insinuation, upon his impassive countenance. "an uneasy suggestion of conspiracy met him at every turn. "with that gravid apprehension which creates in advance the very conditions one desires to combat, ram lal prepared himself for a series of events which made him shudder to contemplate. "it seemed to him that the salutes of the swarthy satellites of the prince were a degree less considerate. "he was convinced of a cynical estimation usually accorded to the destitute. "the depression of disaster was upon him. "he could only think in the direction of his forebodings, so when at last he arrived in the familiar ante-chamber and announced himself, his voice reflected his trepidation and his demeanor had lost a palpable degree of its customary assurance. "while the merchant awaited the response to his request for an audience with the prince, he made a sorry attempt to assume a cheerful aspect, with the success of one who is permitted to listen to the details of his own obsequies. "when not thus engaged, he traversed the apartment with intermittent strides--another chryses about to make a paternal plea to this oriental agamemnon. "he had canvassed his demeanor, reviewed his cautious phrases, and had even provided a desperate denunciation, which, when he considered the privileged rascality of his royal auditor, he felt assured would at once conclude the interview and his liberty. "as ram lal was about to end his fifth attempt to apprehend the result of this expected interview, the curtains parted and a stalwart attendant, impassive and silent, appeared. "in response to the eloquent concern betrayed in the glance of the merchant, the other, holding the curtains aside, indicated, by an inclination of his turbaned head and a sweep of his hand, the dignity of which was intended to convey some intimation of the personality of his master and the proportions of the privileges accorded, that the merchant was expected to proceed, which he did with trembling precipitation. "as ram lal entered the room, his alert glance discerned the figure of the prince extended, with unceremonious abandon, upon a divan. "advancing, he made profound obeisance to the reclining potentate, who acknowledged his presence with a spiritless motion of his hand not unsuggestive of the humiliating degree of his condescension. "at this period of his career prince otondo presented, in his personality and surroundings, considerable of the picturesque magnificence with which the native rulers delighted to surround themselves. "his presence, at once dignified and carelessly amiable, was not the least vital accessory to the sumptuous abundance, to which he added the last touch of distinction. "a smiling cynicism, which was one of his most engaging characteristics and an invaluable masquerade for his genuine sentiments, lingered about his thin, patrician lips. "his features balanced with cameo precision, and in his eyes, usually veiled by lashes effeminately long, the whole gamut of a passionate, intolerant nature was expressed. "'well, most ancient and honorable!' said the prince, with an exasperating suggestion in his manner of appreciation of the travesty of his words, as he gazed upon the merchant with a glance whose speculation the latter could not determine. 'well, how speeds thy traffic and thrive thy caravans?' "'not well, my lord,' answered ram lal, 'not well.' "'ah, ha!' exclaimed the prince, with an indescribable insinuation of biased rebuke in the look with which he challenged further revelations from the speaker. 'that touches me nearly; this must not be; an industrious subject may not suffer while there is a remedy at hand.' "''tis on that head i would beseech your majesty!' exclaimed the merchant, seizing the opportunity provided, with such plausible ingenuousness, by the august speaker. "'proceed, ram lal,' urged the prince, with an amiability which the merchant had known to be a dangerous prelude in the past. "'great prince!' replied the merchant with the prompt obedience which contemplates a possible reversal of privilege. "'nine days from home i strayed. "'on my return i find my house despoiled of all its store. "'and with the rest, o prince, the priceless tokens of thy high regard. "'aside from these, i do not mourn my loss, for it may be repaired. "'nor will i question fate, whose ears are dull to hear, whose eyes refuse to see the victims of her spleen. "'but hear, o prince--my one ewe lamb, my sole delight--my daughter greets me not. "'the empty halls no more re-echo to her tread. "'no more sweet mur----' "'enough, ram lal,' interrupted the prince. 'i have heard that a needle thrust into the eye of a bullfinch will make it sing, but i did not know that misery could transform a merchant to a bard. "'disjoint your phrases a degree. you say your daughter greets you not?' "'yes, o prince,' replied ram lal, abashed at this cynical embargo upon the melancholy luxury of his rhythms; 'yes, and it is of her i would speak.' "'speak,' urged his august hearer. "after a moment's reflection, in the manner of the unwelcome envoy who has reached the acute juncture of his recital and is about to disembarrass himself of a dangerous climax, the merchant continued in sordid hindustani: "'as i have said, o prince, my daughter has been taken from me, and i come to you in my extremity.' "'and why to me, ram lal?' demanded the prince, with a gleam in his glance which was directly responsible for the pacific presentation which followed. "'because,' replied the merchant with discerning irreverence, 'if it so please your highness, your providence is practical, and the ways of vishnu are tedious.' "'ah!' exclaimed the prince appreciatively; 'that was not so bad for a merchant; but to the point.' "'little can occur in this cantonment that is not known to your highness, or that cannot be determined if you so desire. "'i ask your august assistance, and i have, as you will see, observed the proprieties in making my request. "'it is a time-honored custom for the suppliant to signalize his appreciation of the importance of the favor he solicits, is it not so?' "'i did not know,' replied the prince, 'that commerce could develop such an oracle; it is a subtle sense of fitness you express. i am interested. proceed.' "'i will, your highness,' responded ram lal, as he inserted his hand in one of the folds of the sash which encircled his waist. 'you recall the stone of sardis?' "'ah!' exclaimed the prince, his cynical listlessness transformed at once into the abandon of eagerness. 'what of it, o merchant?' "'this,' replied the latter as he withdrew his hand from his sash, 'if your highness will deign to examine it,' and the speaker extended toward the incredulous prince a small box of shagreen, which the latter clutched with the grasp of avarice. "'will his highness deign?' repeated ram lal to himself with bitter irony as the prince pressed back the lid and exposed to view a magnificent sapphire, the gleam and the glitter of which affected him like an intoxication. "as the prince, oblivious to all else, fixed his avid glance upon the scintillant stone, an astonishing change transformed the merchant from the suppliant to a being of marked dignity of bearing and carriage. "his eyes, no longer obliquely observant, were directed with baleful purpose upon the half-closed lids of the fascinated potentate. "his hand disengaged itself from the sash, where it had reposed with something of the suggestion of a guardian of the treasury, and was gradually extended with sinuous menace over the declining head of the prince. "his long, lithe figure straightened from its servile stoop, and a palpable degree of the authority which appeared gradually to fade from the fine countenance before him found an equally congenial residence in the expression of the merchant. "there was command in every feature. "as for the prince, his figure appeared to decline in majesty in proportion to the access of dignity which had added its unwonted emphasis to the personality of ram lal. "he leaned inertly forward, one hand resting upon his knee. "in his slowly relaxing clutch the brilliant gleamed. his forehead was moist; his lips dry; his delicate nostrils were indrawn in harmony with the concentrating lines of his brow, and the next moment, as if in response to an insinuating pass of the merchant's hand of cobra-like undulation, the rigid poise recoiled, he settled more easily upon the divan, and with eyes still fascinated by the entrancing bauble he listened, with anomalous impassiveness, to the weird proposal of ram lal. "'hearken, o prince! "'my daughter has been taken from me by whom i shall not venture to inquire. "'if she is returned to me, i shall be satisfied. "'i am here therefore to beseech your highness to see that she is restored to me. "'to-day, as the sun declines, i shall expect her. "'if she does not come to me then, o prince, a heaping handful of the precious stones you hold so dearly will be missing, and in their stead will be as many pebbles from the fountain in the courtyard. "'the sapphire i leave with you as a witness of my plea.' "and slowly the merchant retreated toward the door, his eyes fastened the while upon the prince. "as he reached the threshold he paused, and with a voice that seemed to lodge in the consciousness of his inert auditor like the sigh of auster over the daffodils and buttercups of a dream, he repeated: "'_to-day as the sun declines._' "and the next instant, with an abrupt motion of his hand strangely at variance with the placid gestures just preceding, the merchant disappeared through the curtains which screened the doorway. "and now," said the sepoy abruptly, as he moved his chair with a sharp rasp over the bare floor and transferred his glance at the same time from the drawn countenance of his rapt auditor to the gleaming gem on the table, "and now--is it not a beauty?" "ah, ha!" murmured raikes, disturbed by the abrupt cessation of the sedative tones of the sepoy and the abrasion of the chair, "superb!" and that instant all his keen animation returned. apparently raikes was not aware of any blanks in his scrutiny and resumed his regard of the tantalizing facets with knowing sagacity and an envy that affected him like a hurt. "in all my years," he creaked, as his long, prehensile fingers riveted like a setting to the fascinating bauble, "i have never seen such a gem. "the cutting is exquisite; it is a study in intelligent execution; every facet here cost a pang; how vital it was not to waste an atom of this precious bulk. "what a delicate adjustment of the lines of beauty to the material consideration; the balance is perfect." and with this confusion of frank cupidity and rapacious regard, the miser, with a supreme effort, pushed the stone impatiently toward the sepoy. "ah!" exclaimed the latter, "it is a pleasure to show the gem to one who is able to comprehend it. "it is even finer than you have discerned. the lapidary was subtle; his work sustains closer analysis. have you a stray glass? "no? well, i will send you mine and you can entertain yourself until i see you again." "what!" exclaimed raikes, "you will leave this stone with me?" "why not?" returned the sepoy evenly. "you have a due regard for property. i do not fear that this gem will meet with mishap in your possession. besides, it will be a revelation to you under the glass," and, arising, he stepped to the door, leaving the brilliant upon the table in the grasp of the astonished raikes, who was unable to comprehend such confidence and unconcern. traversing the hallway, the pair reached the door which opened upon the apartments controlled by the widow. as he paused on the threshold to make his adieux to raikes, the sepoy, looking at the former with a marvelously glowing glance, repeated, with an emphasis so eerie as to occasion a thrill of vague uneasiness in his companion, the concluding phrase of the singular tale he had related to raikes: "_to-day as the sun declines._" and the moment after he disappeared, leaving the startled miser to gaze, with greedy contemplation, upon the sapphire which he retained in his grasp. (to be continued on dickey no. .) * * * * * "oh, ho!" exclaimed dennis as the exasperating phrase in italics met his glance, "an' it's here you are again. shure, a man would tear his shirt to tatters for a tale like that," and with appreciative meditation over the vexatious quandary presented by the cunning of the bosom-maker in thus adding another ruinous possibility to the inevitable soil and wear, he added: "shure, the man who put that sthory on the dickey-back knew his business. where the dirt laves off the guessin' begins, and betwixt the two it's another dickey i'll be after--ah, ha, an' it's a fine thing to have brains like that." with this discerning tribute, dennis turned the last dickey around and discovered that it was protected in the rear with a sort of oiled paper, through which the story shadowed dimly. here was the pinch of his dilemma. his curiosity was sharpened and his judgment impaired. in a variety of ways literature incapacitates a man for the exigencies of existence. dennis found himself visibly enervated. at last he remembered that the week had advanced only as far as thursday. between that time and the fabian saturday a number of untoward events might occur. a more seasoned applicant might present himself to the foreman upon whom dennis depended, or, equally grievous, the present bibulous incumbent might be alarmed into mending his ways. hitherto dennis had resisted the temptation to present himself to the attention of the foreman in advance of the date appointed. in order, therefore, to master the anxiety which might betray him into some overt importunity, he decided to devote the day to a persistent canvass of the possibilities offered by the various wholesale houses. unknown to himself, dennis had learned that the secret of patience was doing something else in the meantime. however, the practical at last was triumphant, and dennis, with a resolution that demanded prompt execution for its continued existence, adjusted the remaining chapter to his waistcoat in the early morning and descended to the lower floor. on this occasion his solicitous friend behind the bar insisted upon detaining the young irishman, who, urged by his solitary predicament and a degree depressed by the series of rebuffs which by now had developed a malicious habit, proceeded to the counter and, resting one foot upon the rail near the floor with a redeeming unfamiliarity, responded to the inquiry of the barman by admitting that he felt a "wee bit blue." this statement led to the revelation that the barman was similarly affected, and was engaged, at that moment, in the preparation of a famous antidote greatly in demand by sundry newsgatherers and night editors in park row. dennis watched him with interest and remarked that he set out two glasses, after the manner of those who are about to compound an effervescent. such, however, was not the case, and dennis was startled presently to see the barman, after filling both glasses with a decoction which caught the light from a dozen merry angles, push one of them in his direction with the companionable suggestion: "have one with me." only once before had dennis indulged in anything of a stimulating nature, and the effect upon his head the next morning had been sufficient to discourage its repetition, and he informed the barman of this disagreeable feature. "oh!" protested that insinuating mephisto as he held his glass to the light the better to concentrate its hypnotic gleam and sparkle upon the vacillating youth, "there is no headache in this; this is a man's medicine. get it down; it will do you good." persuaded by the example before him, duped by his depressions, and weary of his loneliness, dennis responded to the dubious suggestion with the guilty haste of one who has decided to let down the moral bars for a short but sufficient interval. palliated from its original rawness by the additions of the barman, the draught was without special bite or pungency in its passage down his throat, and dennis was aware of his indiscretion only by an increasing glow in the pit of his stomach and a disposition to credit the barman with a degree of amiability beyond that ordinarily manifested by this functionary. the potation, however, had done its work but partially; there remained the itch of something still to be desired, an elevation yet unattained, and dennis saw no other way up the sheer height than by an appeal to the barman to duplicate his initial effort. when this had joined its fluent fellows in their several midsts, dennis was inexperienced enough to accept, as a matter of course, the genial disposition toward the world in general which replaced the depression of the morning. a native eloquence, long disused, began to urge him to a sort of confused improvisation. his data was no longer morose. "holdin' on cud do annything," he assured the barman. "it isn't a bad wurrld, at all, if wan looks at it through grane glasses. "shure, i'm in a bit av a hole at prisint, but not too dape to crawl out of." then after a pause, to enable himself to "shake hands," so to speak, with the suddenly developed genial aspect of affairs, he informed the barman, with the philosophy of his potations, that "a laugh will always mend a kick, providin' th' kick ain't too hard." this pleased the barman, who responded in his characteristic fashion, and dennis, in acknowledgment, substituted the price of breakfast as fitting return of civilities. however, this was the climax. dennis could advance no farther. his bibulous friend, with apprehensive disapproval, offered a few diplomatic suggestions involving the retirement of the young man to his room, which the latter accepted with an unbalanced gravity that administered its reproof even through the callous epidermis of the barman. arrived at his room, dennis, influenced by his accelerated circulation, was convinced that the apartment was oppressively warm, and divested himself of his coat and waistcoat. in doing so he detached the dickey from his neck, and as it fell to the floor the curious tale contained in its predecessors appealed unmistakably to his enkindled imagination. oblivious of the campaign arranged for the day, heedless of the inner protest, dennis, with all the abandon of his condition, hastened to remove the oil paper from the rear of the dickey, and began a race with his moral lapse in a feverish perusal of the following. chapter iv when raikes returned to his room he seemed to himself like a sunset mocked by the adjacent horizon, with tantalizing suggestions for which it was reflectively responsible. with the proper inspiration, there is a degree of poetry in the worst of us. the knowledge that he would be compelled to restore the gem to its owner in the morning bestirred another comparison. this time his idealism was not so elevated. he likened it to a divorce from a vampire which had already digested his moral qualities. the sapphire exhausted him. the only parallel irritation was one which raikes inflicted upon himself now and then. this was on the occasions when he established himself in some unobtrusive portion of the bank and watched with greedy interest the impassive tellers handle immense sums of money with an impersonality which it was impossible for his avarice to comprehend. the thievery of his thoughts and the ravin of his envy would have provided interesting bases of speculation for the reflective magistrate, since, if, according to the metaphysician, thoughts are things, he committed crimes daily. had the sepoy, by entrusting the gem to the custody of this strange being, intended to harass his shriveled soul, he could not have adopted a more effective plan. the certainty of the sharp bargain which raikes could drive with such a commodity in certain localities, affected him with the exasperation which disturbs the lover who discovers in the eyes of his sweetheart the embrace to which he is welcome but from which he is restrained by the presence of her parent. the many forms of value to which it could be transformed by the alchemy of intelligent barter made distracting appeals. the facets danced their vivid vertigos into his brain. at last, starting to his feet with impatient resolution, he hurried to a button in the wall, which controlled the radiator valves. after a series of complicated movements, he succeeded in swinging aside the entire iron framework beneath it, revealing, directly in the rear, a considerable recess. in the center of this space a knob protruded surrounded by a combination lock, which, under raikes' familiar manipulation, disclosed a further cavity. with an expression not unsuggestive of the mien of the disconsolate relict who has just made her melancholy deposit in the vault, raikes placed the sapphire in this second recess, closed the combination door, replaced the swinging radiator, and prepared to retire for the remainder of the night. when sleep, if that unrestful and populous trance to which he finally succumbed can be so designated, came to him, the disorders of his wakeful hours were emphasized in his dreams. he had been haled to court; convicted without defense; sent headless to charon, and was obliged, on that account, to make a ventriloquial request for a passage across the styx; so that, in the morning, it was with genuine relief he returned the jewel to its owner and resumed his wonted meagerness of visage and useless deprivations. as the sepoy pocketed the gem he looked at raikes with a glance at once searching and derisive as he asked: "was i not right in calling it a marvel?" "aye!" returned raikes sourly, "marvel, indeed; but the miracle of it is that you have it back again. your trust in human nature would be sublime were it not so unsupported; it needs the tonic of loss. i hope this is not habitual?" "i will pay you the tribute of assuring you that it is not," replied the sepoy. "ah, ha!" returned raikes with a mirthless grin. "i am to accept the brief custody of this gem as a recognition of my personal integrity. i see, i see. well, i would appreciate the courtesy more if i could indorse its incaution. however," he added abruptly, "why did you end that extraordinary tale so inconclusively? i could almost suspect you of a design to arouse my curiosity as to what is to follow." "ah, you remember, then?" "why not?" asked raikes. "the narrative is singular enough, god knows, to make an impression, and sufficiently recent to be definite. i would not like to think that i could forget things so easily." "very well," said the sepoy. "come to my room at ten o'clock to-night; i am due elsewhere until then." with a promptness that attested his interest, raikes presented himself at the hour appointed, and his singular host again permitted him to enjoy a delegate smoke. "here!" he exclaimed abruptly, producing a strong magnifying glass, "here's a connoisseur whose revelations you may trust. examine these facets with its help," and again the sepoy placed the sapphire within reach of the covetous raikes, who promptly availed himself of the tantalizing privilege. waiting, apparently, until his auditor became absorbed in his contemplation of the gem, the sepoy at last began with the same even modulations which characterized his narrative at the outset: "no sooner had ram lal disappeared through the curtains than the curious apathy of the prince vanished and was replaced by a demeanor of perplexed concentration in the direction pursued by the merchant. "the prince had listened without comment or interruption during the recital of the narrator, his eyes fixed, the while, upon the brilliant. "he did not know of the weird gestures of the speaker, nor had he seen the wonderful transformation of the man. "consequently he was startled for the moment to contemplate the blank so recently filled by ram lal. "the sapphire, however, remained. that, at least, was real, and replacing it in the box, he proceeded, with a degree of absent preoccupation, to the courtyard, and presently found himself gazing aimlessly in the fountain basin. "curiously enough, it had not occurred to the prince to resent the assured attitude of the merchant, or to speculate upon the insinuating suggestions of complicity which the latter had managed to lodge in the consciousness of his august auditor. "nor did he feel outraged at the intrusion of the dangerous alternative proposed by the audacious ram lal. "he appeared to be seduced by the sapphire and fascinated by the recital. "slowly he retraced the byways of the strange episode until he resumed, with singular precision of memory, the words of the merchant, which explained the presence of the gem: "'i have observed the proprieties in making my request. it is a time-honored custom for the suppliant to signalize his appreciation of the importance of the favor he solicits.' "ah! a sudden illumination pervaded the mind of the prince. "the sapphire was a royal subsidy. "what favor could he grant in proportion to the value of such means of overture? "the question established another point of association; unconsciously he quoted again: "'to-day at sundown i shall expect my daughter. if she does not come to me then, o prince, a heaping handful of the precious stones you hold so dearly will be missing, and in their stead will be as many pebbles from the fountain in the courtyard.' "'pebbles for diamonds!' he repeated, and yet the proposition did not appeal to his cynical humor. there was menace in the suggestion, but his intolerant spirit did not resent it. "in a vague way he was more convinced than alarmed, and did not pause to puzzle over the anomaly, although reassured somewhat as he reflected upon the cunning safeguards to his treasury, whose solitary sesame was known to himself alone. "prince otondo, like other native rulers at this period, frightened at the mercenary reforms of the british in other sections, and instructed by the unhappy comparisons, had concentrated the whole of his fortune and considerable of his current revenues in jewels. "these were portable and could be concealed about his person in any emergency demanding a hasty abdication on his part. "to the shrewd ram lal the prince had entrusted the purchase of nearly all of this costly collection, contenting himself, for the present, with intelligent calculations as to the percentage of profit which had accrued to the merchant in these transactions. "'ah, well!' and with an impatient shrug of the shoulders, that was curiously devoid of its customary insolence, prince otondo dismissed these unfamiliar apprehensions and forbore to wonder at their strange intrusion upon his wonted complacency. "apparently, a more agreeable occasion of reflection presented itself, for a smile, half sinister, half genial, illumined the gloom of his fine countenance. as if in obedience to its suggestion, he turned abruptly from the fountain and re-entered the palace. "arrived at that portion of the structure set aside for his individual use, he hurried, with expectant, lithe agility, through an opening in the wall concealed hitherto by silken hangings, and entered upon a narrow passageway, which terminated in another undulating subterfuge of drapery. "pausing outside, the prince lightly touched a gong suspended from the ceiling and which replied with a solemn chime-like resonance. "in response, the curtains parted, and a native woman, pathetically ugly and servile, appeared and prostrated herself in abject salutation. "following the direction of his hand the cringing creature arose and hurried along the passageway just traversed by the prince, who, satisfied as to her departure, parted the curtains and entered a small ante-chamber, beyond which a sumptuously-appointed apartment extended. "at the extreme end, with a demeanor more suggestive of expectation than alarm or dejection, a young girl reclined upon a divan near the lattice-screened window. "advised of the approach of her distinguished visitor by an advance rendered as obvious as possible by the rustling sweep of the parted curtains and an unwonted emphasis of tread, which avoided the rugs and sought the tesselated floor for this purpose, the supple figure stood erect and in an attitude of questioning deference awaited whatever demonstration might follow this apparently not unexpected advent. "as she stood thus in an unconscious pose of virginal dignity, the girl seemed to express a subtle majesty, in which, at the moment, the prince was manifestly deficient. "a degree taller than her age would warrant, she appeared to the enamored gaze of the prince the ideal of symmetrical slenderness. "her figure, perfectly proportioned, and chastened, by the ardent rigors of the climate, of every fraction of superfluous flesh, appeared to bud and round for the sole purpose of concluding in exquisite tapers. "her eyes, large and luminous and harmoniously fringed with that placid length of lash usually associated with the sensuous, were saved from that suspicion by the innocent question and confiding abandon of her half-parted lips. "her hands, clasped at the moment before her, possessed the indescribable contour of refinement and high breeding, and manifested a degree of the tension of her present privileges by a closer interlace of the fingers than usual. "a robe of white, confined loosely to her waist by a vari-colored sash, which drooped gracefully to catch up the folds in front, clung softly to her figure in sylphid revelation of the matchless proportions it could never conceal. "'lal lu!' exclaimed the prince unevenly, his face reflecting the strife of deference and desire as he disengaged the clasped hands of the maiden and held them closely in his own, 'what is it to be, the vale of cashmere or the snows of himalaya?' "for a moment the girl gazed with disconcerting directness upon her ardent companion, as the warmth of his impulse deepened the dusk of his countenance and threaded the fine white of his eyes with ruddy suffusions. "'o prince!' she replied, veiling her eyes the while with tantalizing lashes and reflecting, with exquisite duplication, a degree of the color which burned in the cheeks of her visitor, 'other answer have i none save that i gave thee yesterday.' "with an impatient exclamation the prince released the hands he held in such vehement grasp, and stood, for a space, with his arms folded, directing upon the trembling beauty the while a gaze of vivid, glowing menace which was scarcely to be endured. "'ah!' he cried in a voice of husky contrast to his usual placid utterance, 'have you reflected, lal lu, how futile thy objections may be if i choose to make them so?' "with surprising calmness and a sweet dignity, which was not without its effect upon the prince, although it sharpened to the refinement of torture the keenness of his infatuation, lal lu replied: "'i have said, my lord.' "at this reply the prince, exasperated beyond further control, with ruthless, fervent abandon, caught the trembling lal lu in his arms and held her, palpitating, reproachful, in his savage embrace. "bewildered at the quickness of his action, lal lu reposed inertly within the passionate restraint of his sinewy arms, but the next instant, transformed into an indignant goddess, struggled, with surprising strength, from his clasp and held the mortified prince in chafing repulse by the chaste challenge of her flaming eyes. "'hear me, prince otondo!' she cried with unmistakable candor and disturbing incisiveness of speech: "'i love not save where i choose. "'of what avail is it to subdue this frail body? what is the joy of such a conquest? where the pleasure in an empty casket?' "abashed, astounded, the prince retreated a space and looked, with savage intentness, upon the beautiful girl, superb in her denunciation, enchanting in the rebellious dishevel of her hair, the indignant rebuke of her eyes. "some reflection of contriteness must have beamed its acknowledgment of the justice of her virtuous outburst in the glance which held her in its ardent fascination, for lal lu resumed, in a voice sensibly modulated and with a demeanor curiously softened: "'long have i known of thee, o prince! "'before all others have i placed thee. "'wonder not, then, that i resent the ignoble assumption that my regard may be compelled. "'my love is as royal as thine. "'i bestow it where i will; unasked, if its object pleaseth me. "'but i make no sign, o prince. "'in such a stress a maiden may not speak her mind.' "'peace, lal lu!' exclaimed the prince, who, during her initial reproaches and her subsequent explanations, had recovered his native dignity of carriage and elevation of demeanor; 'peace! never before have i hearkened to such speech as thine. "'all my life i have had but to ask, and what i craved was mine. "'my wish has been my command. "'hear, then, lal lu: henceforward thou art as safe with me as in thy father's home.' "'aye! what of him?' interrupted the maiden; 'what of my father, o prince?' "'all is well with him,' replied the prince, manifestly chagrined at the incautious introduction of this disturbing name and the filial solicitude it awakened. "'he has been assured of thy safety; of him will i speak later. but now, lal lu---- "'i acknowledge thy rebuke. i stand before thee, thy sovereign, thy suppliant. "'see!' he exclaimed, 'what i cannot demand, i entreat'; and with an indescribably fascinating tribute of surrender and yearning, this royal suitor awaited her reply. "leaning for support against a slender stand near-by, to which she communicated the trembling fervor which pulsed so warmly through every fiber of her being, the beautiful lal lu looked upon the fine countenance before her with a light in her eyes that dazzled with its subtle radiance. "'oh, lal lu!' cried the prince as he advanced toward the trembling maiden with eager precipitation. "'one moment, o prince!' exclaimed lal lu, extending a restraining hand. "'i know not what to say to thee; yet will i meet thy candor with equal frankness. yea, prince otondo, i love thee indeed. i feel no shame in the confession. i have loved thee always. i am----' "but the prince, after the fashion of lovers, made further speech impossible; and lal lu, with all the exquisite charm of womanly capitulation, threw her dusky arms about his neck and held his lips to hers in the only kiss beside her father's she had ever known. "for one delirious moment, and then, releasing herself, she stood before the prince, a very blushing majesty of love, and said: "'and now, o prince, i have told thee my secret. be thou equally generous and restore me to my father, and then come to me when thou desirest and i am thine." "concealing his impatience at this last suggestion, the prince, with wily indirection, said: "'it is too late to-day, lal lu. thy father will be here on the morrow; rest thyself until then,' and fearful lest the maiden would penetrate his purpose, he added: "'lal lu, i am compelled to leave thee for a space; i will send thy woman to thee. until to-morrow, then, adieu.' and fixing upon her a glance so ardent that she almost followed him in its fascination, the prince withdrew from her presence with a reluctance which was duplicated in the bosom of the bewildered girl, if not so unmistakably evinced. "as the prince retreated toward his apartments, the alarming alternative proposed by the merchant repeated itself with a sort of wordless insistence: "'unless lal lu shall be returned, a handful of my precious stones shall be missing. "'ah! "'in their place will be as many pebbles! "'impossible!' "and secure in his bedchamber, into which none might venture without ceremonious announcement, the prince hastened to a recess in the wall, where, in response to a pressure applied to a spot known only to himself, a cunningly devised panel shot back, revealing a gleaming, glittering mass of scintillating light and glamor. "'ah, ha!' he gloated, 'no pebbles yet'; and plunging his hands into the costly heap, he withdrew a motley of diamonds, sapphires, rubies and opals, and held them, with grudging avarice, to the regard of the declining sun. "'no pebbles yet,' he repeated, as he challenged the fires of the gems with the fever of his eyes, and sent mimic lightnings hither and thither by communicating the tremble of his hands and the incidence of the sunbeams to the glorious confusion of facet and hue; 'no pebbles yet.' "as prince otondo repeated this obvious reassurance, he replaced the gems, which seemed to quiver with lambent life, within the compartment, and withdrawing the shagreen case from his sash, he discharged the magnificent sapphire it contained upon the apex of the glittering heap, where it rested with a sort of insolent disproportion to the irradiant pyramid of brilliants beneath. "regarding the bewildering ensemble for a few moments of exulting ownership and familiar calculation, the prince closed the panel with the mien of paris making restitution of helen, and, turning aside, prepared to retire for the night. "the ceremony was simple and so promptly observed that ere the radiance had ceased its revel in his mind the prince found himself reclining upon his couch, unusually ready to succumb to the sleep which he had so often sought in vain. "the night was hot and stifling, and yet it seemed to the prince that he had only retired to rise the moment after, so profound had been his slumber and so quickly had daybreak arrived. "for a few moments he lay in that agreeable condition of semi-realization ere the visages of his wonted obligations had assumed the definition of their customary insistence, or the menace of a restrained remorse had reannounced itself, when suddenly, without introduction or sequence, the phrase 'pebbles for diamonds' slipped into his consciousness. "in a second he was alert and awake; the next instant he found himself at the panel, reaching tremulously for the concealed spring. "at last he found it; the panel shot back, and the prince, after one searching glance, stood transfixed and uttered a cry of wondering despair. "'the gleaming hoard still shot its varied lightnings. the royal sapphire still crowned its priceless apex. to his starting eyes his treasure was not a whit diminished, but directly in front, and at the base of the precious heap, lay as many as would make a heaping handful of pebbles." as the sepoy reached this startling climax in his recital, the even modulations of his voice ceased abruptly. raikes, missing the somnolent monotone, looked up quickly. the eyes of the sepoy were fixed upon him with a gleam in his glance not unlike that of the sapphire upon which the miser had been engaged during the whole of this singular narrative. "that is a weird tale," he said at last. "why do you pause at such a point? what is the conclusion?" "that is some distance away yet," replied the sepoy. "if you care to continue, i will resume the thread at this time to-morrow evening." "very well," answered raikes with some impatience, "i will be here. i must, at least, congratulate you upon your observance of the proprieties in tale-telling; you manage to pause at the proper places." "you are curious, then, to hear the rest?" "naturally," replied raikes, with the sour candor which distinguished him. "the situation you describe i can appreciate--the loser confronted with his loss--and i am to conjecture his attitude until to-morrow night. very well, i bid you good evening," and raikes, with a curt inclination of the head, which made a travesty of his intention to be courteous, vanished through the doorway. * * * * * (the continuation of this remarkable story will be found on dickey series b, which may be bought from almost any haberdasher.) * * * * * as dennis reached this announcement his head throbbed violently. he had raced so apace with the movement of the tale that he had not remarked, in his absorption, an unfamiliar congestion about the base of his brain. directly, however, he was convinced of its disagreeable presence when this abrupt conclusion, which he had come to expect at the end of each bosom, materialized to his irritated anticipation. he was no longer inclined to admire the calculating genius of the italicized phrase. a temperance lecture was aching its way through his head. his conscience seemed to have decided to reside in the pit of his stomach, and a sense of surrender and defeat humiliated him. his room looked cell-like. the arrow pointing to the fire-escape seemed full of menace. his face, reflected from the dingy glass, had never appeared so ugly and reproachful. he needed something to restore his confidence, but was happily unaware of the nature of the remedy his system demanded. it was his first offense. he raised the window for a breath of fresh air, and the roaring street called him. there was mockery and invitation in its hubbub. why not? a little exercise would bring him around to his point of moral departure. so, hastily adjusting the third chapter to his waistcoat and donning the balance of his garments, he fitted his hat to his head with thoughtful caution and hurried to the bustling thoroughfare. preoccupied by his gradually lessening disabilities, dennis did not remark that the course pursued by him had the house of the publisher as its terminus, until he stood directly before that august establishment. as the young irishman recognized his surroundings, it did not take him long to persuade himself, with native superstition, as he considered the unaware nature of his arrival, that providence had directed his footsteps thither, and, with the species of courage that can come from such a basis, he proceeded to the rearway, where he beheld the celt in whom his hopes were centered, berating the porters, with a mien which offered anything but encouragement to the anxious young man. however, he came forward tentatively, and found himself, presently, so much within the radius of the foreman's range of vision as to be compelled to accept, with enforced urbanity, the vituperation of the draymen, who objected to the amount of landscape he occupied with his bulk and eager personality. at last, when the foreman had bullied his lusty understudies into a certain degree of sullen system, and the drays began to move away with their mysterious burdens, dennis ventured to address him. greatly to his relief, the perturbed countenance of the latter softened perceptibly as he exclaimed: "ah, ha! an' it's there ye are?" "yes," replied dennis with solicitous abnegation. "well," returned the other, "roll up yer sleeves; yer job's a-waitin' fur ye." with an agility that betrayed the diplomacy of his countenance into ingenuous exultation, dennis followed the foreman into the warehouse, and the latter at once began his instructions as to the system of marking, and dennis mastered its simple mysteries with a quickness that was not only flattering to the discernment of his instructor but an indorsement of celtic adjustability in general. in the course of the morning dennis discovered that his predecessor had put him under obligations by prolonging his debauch, and that his arrival upon the scene had been most opportune in consequence. he was now assured of a position, whose only handicap was the prospect, delicately insinuated by the foreman for his consideration, of the possible state of mind of the previous incumbent when he realized that his niche had been filled, and it did not add to his cheerfulness when the foreman examined his biceps with an expert touch and remarked: "i guess that ye can take care of yerself." there was nothing belligerent about dennis, and he trusted that his predecessor would not regard him from that standpoint. in the meantime saturday arrived, and dennis, in possession of his proportion of the week's pay, hurried to the stag by way of baxter street. in this locality he began a search for series b of the dickies, and was finally successful, after a number of disappointments and a protracted hunt. with the courage of his recently acquired situation, dennis proposed to indulge in a little improvidence. he decided that he would follow the singular recital on the dickey backs and rip off a chapter at a time. after a night of fortifying slumber, dennis arose, breakfasted, and boarded an elevated train, which presently conveyed him to the vicinity of central park. here, after securing a seat to his fancy, he withdrew series b from the wrapper, detached bosom no. and began. chapter v when raikes had parted from the sepoy, a degree of his customary hardness and assurance was evident in his manner. he had been able to comment sagaciously upon the extraordinary narrative, and had appropriated as much of the sapphire as his greedy glance and covetous memory could bear away; but now that he pursued his way along the dimly lighted hallway which led to his apartment, a singularly thoughtful mood oppressed him. this phenomenon, due, in part, to the cessation of the drowsy cadences of the sepoy and the absence of the fascination and gleam of the sapphire, was relegated by raikes to the overtures of approaching drowsiness. and yet the startling episode which confronted prince otondo in the evening's instalment of this oriental complication recurred to his mind again and again. strangely, too, raikes did not comment upon the singular fact of the narrative itself. why should the sepoy take the trouble to relate it to him, and why should he, of all unconcerned and self-centered men, manifest such an unusual interest in a recital which lacked every practical feature and had nothing but the weird to commend it? if he asked himself these questions, it was with the impersonality of lethargy, for they were dismissed as readily as they presented themselves. with such sedative queries, which were gradually diminishing from fabric to ravel, raikes finally reached his room and, securely bolting the door, began to prepare to retire. this was not an elaborate proceeding. his outer garments removed, he had only to seek the seclusion of the bedclothes, clad in the remainder of his attire. in this manner he economized on the cost of a night-robe and the time it would consume to don and doff such a superfluity. at all events, if such was not his sordid reasoning, the promptness with which he fell asleep indicated that he did not propose to squander useless time in wakeful speculation upon the intangible nothings to which his recollection of the narrative began to fade. however, if raikes had succeeded in passing the boundaries of slumber, he had admitted, at the same time, extravagances of which he would never have been guilty in his wakeful hours, for he found himself so engaged in all sorts of uneasy shiftlessness and inconsiderate expenditure that when morning came and he awoke, as usual, with the sunrise, he resumed his customary identity, peevish and unrefreshed. for a moment he sat with his knees huddled to his chin, over which his eyes peered like vermin in the wainscoting, and then, urged by an impulse whose source he could not determine, he leaped with surprising agility to the floor and proceeded to the false radiator. for a short space of inexplicable indecision he stood with his hands resting upon the button which released the fastenings in the rear, an uneasy thoughtfulness converging the ugly wrinkles downward to the root of his nose and contracting his eyebrows with senile apprehension. suddenly his wonted decision asserted itself. he pressed the button and the radiator swung toward him; a few moments later the inner compartments responded to his manipulation, and the last door opened. apparently everything was as he had left it. to his rapid enumeration the quantity of the small bags, containing his beloved coin, remained undisturbed. but, upon nearer regard, one of them--that within easiest reach--seemed to betray, through its canvas sides, a variety of unusually sharp angles and definite lines. with a suffocating sensation of impending disaster, raikes grasped the bag. it pended from his tense grip with a frightful lightness. he caught up its neighbor for further confirmation. it responded with reassuring bulk and weight. but this one from which all specific gravity seemed to have departed--what did it contain? with trembling hands the terrified man unfastened the cord which bound it and inverted the bag over the table. instead of the sharp, musical collision and clink of metal, a sodden succession of thuds smote his ears. with a shriek of utter wonderment and alarm, raikes stood erect and petrified. his hands fell, with inert palsies, to his sides. his eyes seemed about to start from his head, for, looming dully to his aching gaze, in place of the coin he had so confidently hidden away, was a rayless, squalid heap of small, black coals. a moment he stood lean and limp; every particle of the fever which consumed him concentrated in his starting eyes, which turned, with savage inquiry, toward the fastenings of the door. the next instant, with a leap like that of a wild beast, he reached the threshold, examined the bolt with vivid glance and searching fingers, then raised his hand to his forehead with a gesture of utter distraction. nothing had been disturbed. even the check-pin which he had inserted over the bar for additional security was in place. the only other possible means of entrance was by a window at the other extreme of the room. but this was not to be considered, for it opened, with sheer precipitation, upon the unrelieved front of the house. the windows adjacent were removed at a distance which could afford no possible basis from which to reach the one from which raikes glared so grimly. moreover, the shutters had been clasped and the inner sash secured. the conclusion was inevitable. no one had entered the room during the night. it was impossible for a stranger to have access to the apartment during the day unobserved, and the recess behind the radiator was known to himself alone. nevertheless there was the absurd substitution. it was incredible! the secret repository was of his own construction. the room was secure against intrusion. and opposed to all this the incontrovertible proof of his loss, a catastrophe all the more agonizing since the logic of the situation obliged him to eliminate any one from suspicion. raikes had always considered a loss of this character the climax of malignant fate. he had never been able to contemplate it without the mortal shudder which usually communicates its chill to a loving parent confronted with the prospect of the departure of a dear one. the recess in the wall contained all that raikes held dear in the world; every spasm of fear, each contraction of the heart, always began and concluded with the button which moved its protecting bolts. but now a new element added its ugly emphasis; there was something supernatural about the episode. convinced of the impossibility of thievery in any of its ordinary forms, he was bewildered as to the inexplicable means of his present predicament. his sense of security was shaken. he promised himself to stand guard over his belongings jealously that day, and to make assurance doubly sure at night. in the meantime raikes decided to confide his misfortune to no one. there was a meager possibility that the guilty one might be misled by his silence; he had heard of such cases; he had known of the culprit offering condolences to the silent victim on the assumption that the latter had discussed his mishap with others. he would wait, and with raikes to determine was to do. with his obnoxious individuality rendered several degrees more unendurable by his catastrophe, if that was possible, raikes, having assumed that portion of his attire in which he had not slept, double-locked the door of his room from the outside with a brace of keys that, in all likelihood, had not their duplicates in existence, and proceeded to the dining-room, whither he had been preceded by his parchment of a sister. at once he began to rustle his exhausted sensibilities with an added menace, awakened by a manifest desire on the part of the famished woman to satisfy the cravings of an ungratified hunger with an extra help of bread and butter. as he looked upon the attenuated creature, with a morose reflection of his loss, the latter, with a rebellion which she could not control, selected with trembling fortitude a thick slice of bread, which she buttered liberally and began to devour with pathetic haste, despite the rebuking gleam of the rat eyes opposite, an episode which, added to his already perturbed mind, exasperated his brutal temper to the point of snarling remonstrance, which was fortunately denied its utterance by the opportune arrival of the sepoy, who smiled blandly upon the chill acknowledgment of the shriveled raikes. the sepoy, at the conclusion of a hearty repast, which the spinster witnessed with famished envy and raikes considered with ascetic disapproval, looked, with a scarcely concealed disdain, into the furtive, troubled eyes of the miser and said: "i will see you to-night?" "yes," replied raikes promptly. "i will be there." "very well; i will not return until the time appointed," said the sepoy. "i expect to show you a rarity." "another brilliant aggravation?" asked raikes. "ah!" laughed the sepoy, "is that your estimation of the sapphire?" "yes," returned raikes with acid frankness. "to be permitted to appropriate the gleam and the radiance; to comprehend the cunning of the facets; to appraise its magnificent bulk intelligently, and witness the careless possession by another of all these beatitudes, i think that constitutes an aggravation." "it has been known to degenerate into a temptation," continued the sepoy, reflecting the cynical humor of the other. "aye!" admitted raikes, "and has concluded in surrender." with this the strangely assorted trio left the table directly, the sepoy to his problematical business, the spinster to escape the reprimand foreshadowed in the eyes of her brother, and raikes to keep his treasures under malicious surveillance. all that day his diseased mind tortured itself with impossible theories and absurd speculations, until his attempts to explain the curious substitution degenerated into a perfect chaos of despair and bewilderment. with an impatience he could not explain, raikes at last presented himself at the apartment of the sepoy as the hour of ten was striking. he was greeted by the curious individual within with a demeanor which somehow offended raikes with the impression that his prompt eagerness was the subject of amused calculation. his irritation, however, was not permitted to develop, for no sooner had he seated himself in the chair indicated by his host than the latter placed upon the table, within easy reach of his harassed visitor, a small box of leather and directed him to press the spring. anticipating something of the nature of the contents of the case from the material of which it was made, raikes, forgetting for the moment the futility of the day's researches, pressed his bony thumb upon the spring, and at once the lid flew back like a protest, disclosing the most superb diamond it had ever been his misfortune to see and not possess. "ah!" he cried in an ecstasy of tantalized contemplation, "the glass, the glass! anything so precious must have had commensurate treatment. what color, what clarity, what bulk!" and as the unhappy creature yielded to that species of intoxication which even the grace of god seems unable to ameliorate, the sepoy, with the easy poise and balance of intonation and phrase which had served as such facile vehicles for the previous instalments, began: "when the bewildered prince realized the meaning of the worthless heap in the recess, and calculated, with familiar appraisement, the immense loss represented by the senseless substitution, he stood for a moment destitute of all dignity and as impotent as the meanest of his household. "his thin, fine lips, which usually held such firm partnership and divided his words with such cynical scission, relaxed separately into the inane lines of superstitious fear, and the luster of his restless eyes seemed to have degenerated into that surrounding dullness of sickly white which would have provided the impressionable lal lu with an easy fortitude to deny the approaches of this semi-potentate. "the next instant, like the doubled blade of toledo steel, the prince recoiled to his lithe stature, and the customary brightness of his eyes returned shadowed with a degree of crafty reflection. "one by one, lest a stray gem might be collected with the worthless débris, like the crew of ulysses clinging to the sheep of the cyclops, prince otondo removed the pebbles which intruded their sordid presence in this scintillant treasure-trove like a motley of base subjects in an assemblage of the nobility. "when the last of these worthless objects had been cleared from the recess, the prince closed the panel, and seating himself before the rayless heap, surrendered himself to moody reflection, like a disabled enthusiast confronted by his disillusions. "how did these pebbles reach this hiding place? "in asking himself the question, the prince had absolute assurance that it was impossible for any one to enter his sleeping-apartment without his knowledge. "the puzzled man also recollected, with a shudder, which he alone could explain, that he had taken radical means of making it impossible for the artisan who had contrived the hidden treasury to reveal its existence. "he was positive, too, when he had retired the night before, that his jewels were undisturbed. "why just this exchange of a handful? "for what reason had not double the quantity been removed? nay, why not all, since it was possible to abstract a portion? "at this question the eerie iteration of the merchant returned to his mind: "'pebbles for diamonds!' "at once the distasteful alternative upon which it was based recurred to him. "a quick radiation illumined his mind, and subsided to darkness as promptly. "ram lal! "it was he who had indicated the substitution. but the merchant could no more enter the room in which the prince was seated at this moment than the most abject menial in the palace. "still, the merchant had been able to predict the disaster. "some sort of association existed, but what it was, considered with the impracticability of unobserved entrance and exit, was beyond his comprehension. "the incredible condition existed. "in the light of its outrageous improbability, and the insuperable obstacles in the way of its accomplishment, the prince found himself compelled to dismiss every hypothesis. "still, he could subject ram lal to an investigation that would, at least, extort a confession as to his ability to allude to the episode in advance. "in the meantime, with true oriental craft, the prince determined to say nothing of his loss, and present an impassive demeanor to those by whom he was surrounded. "with this purpose the prince proceeded to the apartment beyond, and was about to strike the gong to summon the servant charged with the preparation of his morning repast, when his attention was attracted to a slip of folded paper fluttering from the edge of the table-top and held in place by a diminutive bronze buddha. "with the weird certainty that this beckoning paper was another unaccountable feature of the savage perplexity he was compelled to endure, the prince, approaching, grasped the folded sheet with eager, trembling hands and exposed its inner surface to his vivid glance. "'ah!' with a burning sensation about his eyes, a fever of harassed impatience in his brain, and a sense of suffocation and impotent rage, he read: * * * * * "'most illustrious! "'unless lal lu is returned to her father by nightfall, another handful of precious stones will be replaced by as many pebbles. "'and this to warn thee: "'the native troops at meerut are in revolt. "'they have shot the regimental officers, and have put to death every european they could find. "'they are now on their way to delhi to proclaim dahbur dhu, thy grandfather, sovereign of hindustan. "'the moghul is old. "'thou art next in succession.' * * * * * "there was no signature. "none was needed; the prince had preserved several specimens of that chirography at the bottom of various interesting bills of sale. "as this bizarre scion of an incredibly ancient régime read this extraordinary missive, with its exasperating reference to the restitution of lal lu, and considered the prompt realization of the threatened reprisal which had followed his first failure to comply with the request of ram lal, a sense of fear and futility possessed him. "with curious apathy, an unaccountable suggestion of impersonality, almost, he did not pause to consider the absence of the intolerant passion which his loss should have occasioned, or to wonder at his bewildered reception of this implication of further dispossession. "the prince appeared to be moving as in a spell; but as he concluded the remainder of the missive and remembered, at its inspiration, that he was, indeed, the grandson of the moghul and the heir-apparent of this pageant throne of delhi, a sensible degree of his customary cynical assurance returned. "hastening to the ante-room, the prince, with alert reanimation, questioned the stalwart official who stood without. "he indicated to his master that the missive had been left upon the outer sill of the threshold leading from the ante-room to the corridor which opened upon the courtyard. "beyond this nothing could be learned; but other and more absorbing information was conveyed to the prince. "he learned that several bodies of sepoys had already passed the palace, on the highway, in the direction of delhi. "startled at this rapid confirmation of the statement conveyed in the strange communication which he had just read, the prince rapidly reviewed the singular cause of the mutiny. "great britain had just supplied the native soldiery with the enfield rifle. "this weapon was rendered formidable by a new cartridge, which, in order that it might not bind in the barrel bore, was greased in england with the fat of beef or pork. "with incredible indifference to the prejudices of the sepoys, the military authorities at calcutta ordered the low-caste lascars to prepare the cartridges in a similar manner. "to this direct invitation disaster was not slow to respond. "the fat of pigs was sufficient to make a degenerate of a mohammedan; and to devour the flesh of cows converted a hindoo into a mussulman. "in this manner had tippu sultan enforced the faith of islam on hordes of brahmins, and with the abomination of pork had the afghans prevailed upon the hindoo sepoys, captured in the kabul war, to become mohammedans. "exasperated by the unconcealed contempt of the brahmins, the lascars, with an easily understood rancor, managed to convey the startling information to their detested superiors that the cartridges they bit in loading the new rifles were greased with the fat of cows, and that they were, in consequence, defiled, and their boasted caste supremacy was destroyed. "this revelation, so momentous to the hindoo, found its way first to barrackpore by reason of its nearness to calcutta. "at once an indescribable panic ensued, and in a marvelously short time every native regiment in bengal was confronted with the possibility of lost caste, and terrified at the consequent belief that the british government was making an attempt to anglicize them with beef as they had already attempted to do with beer. "the account of the greased cartridges, embellished as it speeded, traveled, with the rapidity which usually expedites evil rumor, along the ganges and jumna to benares, allahabad, agra, delhi and meerut, and the british authorities were confronted with a revolt which was to cost thousands of men and countless treasure. "as the prince reflected upon the fever of events, and calculated their possible consequence to himself, the ambition--often napping, seldom in slumber--which he secretly cherished, awoke to disturbing vividness. "his allowance was ample; his retinue, all things considered, impressive; and the kutub, although in a state of disrepair in certain portions, was still unmistakably a royal residence. but he was thoroughly weary of the massive pile, and increasingly exasperated at the interdict of delhi. "certain salacious possibilities within its walls still made their insidious appeals to him, and he had not forgotten the ceremonious deference accorded him in the household of the moghul. "at the kutub he had to contrive his own dissipations and excesses. "there was no need to be clandestine. "the very frankness of his privileges discouraged his imagination. there was no spice of jeopardy in them; no preludes of intrigue. "to relieve this surfeit, which is the worst of monotonies, eagerly would the prince have joined the revolting troops, detachments of which he could perceive from the walls of the kutub hastening along the sun-scorched highway to delhi. "but his semi-majesty was cautious. "it was characteristic of him that his mature reflections should frequently place his impulse under obligations; a condition that had resulted in many a salutary compromise with some proposed moral abandon. "should he show the slightest countenance to the native troops in the present emergency, the record of such an attitude would constitute anything but a passport to the continued consideration of the british government, upon whose sufferance he not only enjoyed his present magnificent residence, but the acknowledgment of his right of succession as well. "the prince was not yet inclined to believe that the sepoys could make headway against his detested patrons. "however, with his mind stimulated by the hazard of the prospect, this picturesque heir-apparent, who had assured himself, since his perusal of the unaccountably delivered missive, that ram lal had no intention of making his appearance that day, at least, returned to the apartment where his morning repast awaited him, which he dispatched with the preoccupied impersonality of a savant who consults his timepiece in order to determine the temperature. "advised of the fact that he had finished by a disposition to ignore his remaining privileges, the prince, as if to pursue the direction of the unseeing gaze which he projected into space, rose slowly, and with that moody deliberation which is so often the outward manifestation of an ignoble as well as an elevated determination, proceeded to the silken arras and disappeared from view between the folds. "quickly he traversed the passageway leading to the apartments of lal lu; and in response to a light touch upon the gong the same servile apparition emerged and vanished, with cringing obedience, down the passage. "with a gleam in his eyes, which might have caused a magistrate to reflect or a moralist to anticipate, that was both sinister and engaging, eager and speculative, the prince, with a gesture that was not without its impatient majesty and lithe impressiveness, swept aside the curtains which guarded the entrance to the small ante-room and stepped within." * * * * * as the sepoy reached this point of the narrative, arranged, perhaps, with shrewd malice to tantalize his eager listener, an expression of libidinous expectation and depraved absorption deepened upon the countenance of the latter, who, like an animal deprived of its prey, looked up suddenly as the narrator paused, with an exasperation which he made little attempt to conceal. "hell!" he muttered, "why do you pause? it is not late. this is an irritating trick of yours to leave off at the crucial juncture." "ha, ha!" laughed the sepoy mirthlessly. "you have attended me, then? well, i can't admit you with the prince until to-morrow evening. i have much to do ere i retire." "this is my dismissal, i presume," responded raikes sourly as he replaced the gem, from which he seemed unable to remove his thieving eyes. "here, take this damned thing; it has demoralized me," and placing the shagreen case, with its priceless contents, in the hands of the evilly-smiling sepoy, he disappeared through the doorway. arrived at the door which opened upon his room, raikes was assured, by the familiar response of the locks to the pressure of his extraordinary keys, that his precautions of a few hours before had been undisturbed. moreover, his sister, seated in her room in a chair so placed as to command a view of the doorway opposite, and looking more effaced than ever from the weary vigil which her heartless brother had imposed upon her during his absence, advised him of the customary isolation and depression which distinguished this barren household. within, raikes began to make himself secure for the night. he double-locked the door, placed the heavy bar in the iron shoulders, over which he inserted a stout iron pin. a brief investigation convinced him that it was out of the question to open the shutters from without. satisfied upon these points, raikes proceeded to the radiator, which for a trembling space of apprehension he forbore to open. however, since it was certainty he wanted, the valves shortly swung toward him, the inner door responded to the sesame of his touch, and the recess containing the tenets of his religion was exposed to view. with trembling hands, which indicated the latent fear which unnerved him, and eyes aching with anxiety, the wretched man examined bag after bag of his precious coin with the solicitude one sees manifested by parents whose children are rendered doubly dear by the taking away of one of their number. "ah!" with a sigh, the relief of which almost concluded in physical collapse, raikes was able to assure himself that his rapid inventory revealed no further loss. replacing his treasure with the indisposition he usually manifested to leave the vicinity of his hoard, the miser closed the various compartments with more than his accustomed certitude and began to prepare to respond to the lassitude of sleep which, for some unaccountable reason, was unusually insistent. with the easy partition of attire already noted, raikes presently found himself ready to tuck himself away for the night, which he did after rolling his bedstead directly in front of the false radiator. this unusual measure of precaution consummated, raikes, with the first sense of security he had felt for the last twenty-four hours, presently succumbed to a sleep remarkable for its quick approach and its subsequent soundness. until early dawn, with the relaxation which is commonly the reward of innocence, raikes slept away in unconscious travesty. and when at last he opened his eyes he was as alertly awake as he had been profoundly asleep. with a promptness due to his retiring forebodings, his habitual unrest and suspicion returned to him. he was as vitally alive to the disturbing conditions of the day before as if they had been the subjects of an all-night meditation. but the confidence of his bolts and bars, the recollection of his unusual measures of safety, reassured him somewhat. it was, therefore, with a degree of composure he approached the door and satisfied himself that the bar and the locks had been undisturbed. with equal assurance he rolled the bedstead from the radiator and pressed the button which operated the concealed spring, with a deliberation in which no suggestion of uneasiness appeared. a quick revolution or so and the inner recess was revealed. to his rapid accounting the quantity of bags was the same, and their relative positions, which he had so carefully arranged the night before, were undisturbed--but this one, that within easiest reach! what was it caused those sharp suggestions in its accustomed rotundity--those angular points? in a quiver the man was transformed. with a cry such as must have been forced from the jew of old, compelled by the rough levies of his time to part at once with his teeth and his treasure, raikes grasped the bag, which came away in his clutch with the agonizing lightness that had preceded his first loss. quickly he unfastened the mouth of the fateful packet and inverted it over the table. the next instant there rattled to view a soulless, sodden shower of lack-luster, heart-breaking coals. (to be continued on dickey no. , series b.) * * * * * "ah, ha!" exclaimed dennis, "an' it's there ye are again," as the familiar phrase at the bottom of bosom no. met his glance. but it did not exasperate him on this occasion, for the young man, true to his determination to be liberal with himself, had still bosoms no. and no. at his disposal. as he was about to separate no. from its duplicate, his eyes, glancing aimlessly about for the moment, caught sight of a trim female figure sitting not far away on a bench diagonally opposite. hovering near her, a man, of a species dennis had not seen before on the street corners of new york, seemed determined to intrude upon her attention. convinced of his purpose, the lady, for such she unmistakably appeared, rose from the seat as the fellow was about to raise his hat as a preliminary to further overtures, and sought another bench directly opposite the one from which dennis had been a witness to her apparent persecution. the intruder, however, refusing evidently to believe that the action of the lady had a personal application, deliberately walked past this new resting place and surveyed its occupant with insolent estimation. a short distance away his pace slackened; he was about to return. with genuine irish impulse, dennis, rising hurriedly, proceeded to the bench occupied by the disturbed lady, and, with a bow that was not deficient in grace and evident good intention, said: "excuse me, but say the wurrd, madam, and i'll see that you are troubled no more with that loafer." for an instant, with an expression of countenance that suggested a fear that the flight from one intrusion was but the introduction to another, the lady looked upon dennis with an astonishment that was partly the result of his picturesque contrasts of voice and visage. then, with fine intuition realizing, in the ingenuous face of the young irishman, the unmistakable evidence of kindly impulse, she said, with a modulation in which dennis was able to detect the accent of good breeding: "i thank you, sir; i am tired; that man annoys me; but i would rather move on than be the cause of a disturbance." "if you will permit me," responded dennis promptly, "i will sit beside you long enough to indicate that you have met a friend; then i think that he will move off." the lady looked at dennis with an uncertain smile, in which there was just enough restraint to urge the young man to add hastily: "an' when he is gone for good, i will go too." "oh, i was not thinking of that, i assure you!" the lady hastened to say. "that would be rather ungrateful on my part. i accept your suggestion. may i ask you to be seated?" and dennis promptly complied. as he had predicted, the fellow, who had witnessed the conversation, was compelled to accept its ostensible suggestion, and departed finally with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders and a tammany tilt of his hat over his eyebrows. in yielding to his gallant impulse, dennis was unaware of the fact that he held, with not exactly picturesque abandon, bosom no. in his right hand and the other two in his left, which gave him the appearance of having disposed, in some violent way, of the remainder of several shirts. awakened by the puzzled amusement depicted in the curious gaze with which the lady surveyed the various bosoms which he held, and encouraged by the impromptu nature of the entire episode, dennis, as he realized the spectacle which he presented, indulged himself in a frank laugh, in which his companion seemed inclined to join. the next moment he apologized, and, yielding to the obligation enforced by the situation, explained his possession of the dickey bosoms and the curious story which had gone before. as he proceeded with the candor of genuine enthusiasm, and related the incredible narrative in his rich, irish brogue, which affected his hearer, as it did every one else, with such singular sentiments in contrast with his remarkable countenance, all traces of punctilious restraint and artificial reticence vanished, and with the mien of one who proposes to extract all the entertainment possible from an undreamed-of experience, the lady urged dennis to continue. "i can't do that unless i read the balance from the dickey," said dennis. "would you mind?" "i should like it very much," replied the lady with gratifying readiness. "well, then," said dennis, "here goes," and with his musical voice, which was one of his most inviting characteristics, the young man, on the basis of all that had preceded the bosom from which he was about to read, and which he had narrated to his auditor with refreshing _verve_ and an ingenuousness whose vitalizing effect upon her sensibilities he was far from suspecting, began. chapter vi whoever has witnessed kean's superb delineation of the ruthless richard in the scene where, in the illusion of his dying agony, swordless, he continues to lunge and feint, may comprehend the frightful mental overturn which prompted raikes to sink inertly into a chair near the table, and with foam-flecked lips fall to counting, one by one, the miserable coals in the dull heap before him. a silly smile overspread his sharp features like an apologetic sunbeam intruding upon a bleak landscape. a gleam of shrewd transaction shone in his eyes. the clutch of unwonted acquisition contracted his hands. slowly he made partition of the large from the small coals; regretfully he acknowledged the presence of the lesser bits as, with a chuckle of greedy appreciation, he grouped the relative piles. "ha, ha! ha, ha! ha, ha!" what a laugh! what a frightful mockery of mirth! "ha, ha! ha, ha!" and raising both hands above his head he brought them down upon the table with the lax inertia of utter collapse, and fell forward upon his extended arms, his face buried in the squalid heap beneath. for a dreary hour he lay there without the twitch of a muscle, the well of a sigh. like a cyclop's eye the button at the bottom of the concave in the wall seemed to stare with wonder upon this unfamiliar raikes, who could thus permit the radiator to swing open so heedlessly, and the inner recess to expose its golden glut. suddenly there came a sharp rap upon the door, then a pause; but its quick reverberations were unheeded by the prostrate man. again the thuds were administered to the echoing panels, and still no response. "uncle, i say, uncle!" cried a man's voice. "uncle!" and the shout was followed by a vigorous kick upon the woodwork; "uncle! uncle!" at this last appeal raikes stirred uneasily, and as the assault was continued with still greater stress, he managed finally to stagger uncertainly to his feet. as he raised his head to listen to the clamor without, the meanness of his face, emphasized by the smudges of the coal in which it had so recently reposed, presented itself to the scandalized eye in the wall. the miserable creature depicted the last degree of absurdity, and yet the ugly pathos of it all would have moved to pity. "uncle, i say!" and at the sound of the voice, which he recognized as that of his lusty nephew, raikes, with a return of his accustomed intelligence, which had received its kindly repairs at the hands of nature during his brief coma, cried sharply: "well, well!" "ah!" exclaimed the voice outside with an unmistakable accent of relief in its tone as it added, with unlettered eagerness: "it's me--bob!" however, if his reawakened animation had revived his deadened spirit, it also restored the appreciation of his disaster, as, with a glance of vivid comprehension, he looked from the coal heap to the register, toward which he leaped with astonishing agility. in an instant the inner recess was secure; in another the radiator was replaced, and raikes, proceeding to the door, raised the bar, unlocked the catches and exclaimed, "enter!" as the breezy bob crossed the threshold, the question of his eyes was instantly transformed to an expression of utter astonishment as he beheld the extraordinary blend of soil and pallor upon the countenance of his uncle. "for the lord's sake!" he cried, "what ails your face?" and strongly tempted to laugh at the absurd spectacle, and as urgently impelled to restrain himself by the glittering eyes of the raging raikes, he added, by way of apology for his noisy intrusion: "we knew that you were in here, but could not make you hear us. you are almost two hours beyond your usual time." directly in the rear of the young man stood the spinster, who gazed with widened eyes and parted lips upon her brother's soiled visage. "well," snarled raikes, "i am all right, you see; now leave me until i get myself in shape to make an appearance." as the door closed behind the pair, raikes hurried to the mirror, and above the crack which extended, like a spasm, diagonally across its surface he beheld his bloodless cheeks and forehead, and below, the dry slit of his mouth and his chin spattered with black and white. as he witnessed the sorry sight, the unhappy man, unable for the moment to account for his plight, stood aghast, until his gaze, penetrating to the rear of his smudged physiognomy, beheld the reflection of the coal heaps upon the table. at once a savage grin distorted his features into the degree of ugliness not already accomplished by its dusky resting place of the hour previous. a grin that was scarcely human and almost diabolical, as if the miserable creature had caught sight of the shriveled soul peering through the chinks which imprisoned his rat eyes and found a malignant enjoyment in the contemplation of its contemptible littleness. from this debasing inspection raikes turned slowly to the washstand to remove the grime from his face, with an impersonal deliberation that was not only unnatural under the circumstances, but which awakened the eerie suggestion that he was expending his effort upon another than himself. from this moment he became strangely calm; the sharp decision of his lips was never so pronounced. a baleful, unwavering gleam distinguished his glance. he had evidently arrived at some determination, one that levied upon the last limit of his endurance. all that day the unhappy man sat in his room, sullen and pondering. the timid offers of nourishment made by his sister were either ignored or refused with such an ill grace that she finally forbore further overtures and left him to his morose reflections, to improve her opportunities of enjoying, unrebuked, the privileges of the table, until, by nightfall, an indigestion, which she welcomed on account of its occasion, disturbed her with its unfamiliar pangs. in response to his nephew's concern as to his condition raikes replied by saying: "i may have something to tell you by eleven o'clock to-night; will you be on hand?" "sure!" answered bob with breezy goodwill. from time to time raikes glanced at the clock. his last scrutiny had revealed the hour of nine. sixty interminable minutes more remained ere he could see the sepoy. slowly the leaden hands crawled over the indifferent face. at last the half hour struck. a strange impatience possessed him. perhaps the sepoy might begin a little earlier than usual. he could, at least, suggest such a courtesy by his precipitation; it was far better than this unendurable wait. with this anticipation he decided to proceed to the apartment of this singular narrator. after taking his usual precautions, which seemed more or less of a mockery in view of the succession of disasters which had overtaken him, and again establishing the spinster in a position where she could maintain an unobstructed view of the entrance to his room, raikes proceeded hurriedly along the various passageways, which finally concluded in his point of destination. he rapped gently upon the door, which he discovered to be slightly ajar. there was no response. his second attempt to attract attention was pronounced enough to urge the door aside and enable him to make a comprehensive survey of the interior. it was unoccupied; and of his last assault upon the panel the only recognition was a sullen echo in the hallway. about to retire, his glance fell upon the table in the center of the room. at once a sudden trembling seized him. a burning fever surged through his veins; an irresistible impulse overwhelmed; for there, in inconceivable negligence, lay the shagreen case which he had so reluctantly returned to its owner only the night before. and then--the malign agreement of his outward husk with his inner degradation was revealed. his eyes, already criminal, reflected the kaleidoscopic succession of temptation and surrender; desire and thievery. he scanned the passageway without in either direction. no one was in sight. a silence of respectable retirement prevailed that enabled him to hear his heartbeats almost, which surged along his veins to his ears and stifled the final gasp of the still, small voice within. the next instant, with a lithe animal leap of astonishing quickness, raikes, darting into the apartment, grasped the precious case and retreated as rapidly over the threshold. scarcely had the stealthy rogue vanished from the room when the door of a closet in the rear opened softly and revealed the sepoy. upon his face a smile, surely evil, otherwise inscrutable, appeared, as he proceeded to the chair by the table, turned down the light in the lamp a trifle, and abstracted from his waistcoat pocket a small red case, the contents of which he examined with absorbed attention. arrived at his room, raikes was elated to discover that he was not due at the sepoy's apartment until twenty minutes later. "what a providence!" he murmured. he would arrive late; he would make his approach as ostensible as possible; he would apologize for his tardiness. his alibi would be perfect. during these proposed depravities raikes had closed and fastened the door, seated himself at the table, and pressed the spring which detained the lid of the shagreen case. in a dazzling instant it flew open. "ah!" a very riot of irradiation and gleam met his eyes. here was rehabilitation! here was amendment! the diamond was a liberal equivalent for his losses. another glance at the clock revealed to him that he had exhausted ten minutes in his exultation. this left a balance of ten minutes for a compunction or two. apparently he did not realize his opportunity, for half of the remaining time was consumed in the intoxication of the facets and the glamor, the thrill of intelligent valuation; and the other half to a grim calculation as to the usury that might accrue after the account with his losses was balanced. these perjured figures were scarcely arranged to his satisfaction when the clock struck ten. the strokes seemed like as many separate accusations. "bah! what are they to me?" he asked himself. he had been robbed; he had found a way to restitution; a man's providence must measure to his necessities. to arrive at these conclusions put him five minutes in arrears. five more for a leisurely arrival would be ten; enough to apologize for; sufficient for his purposes. he consumed as much time as possible secreting the stone in the recess. that accomplished, raikes emerged from his room and proceeded down the hallway. when he reached the apartment occupied by the sepoy he breathed a sigh of relief. the door was closed. in response to his rap upon the panel, a voice which he recognized as that of the sepoy cried: "come in!" with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, where, with him, the only conscience he had was located, raikes complied with these instructions, and, closing the door softly, established himself, in his customary expectant attitude, in the chair indicated by his host. "i have been told," began the latter abruptly, "that there is a flaw in the sapphire." "what!" exclaimed raikes with genuine concern. two things he could comprehend: a loss and the abuse of property. the announcement of the sepoy awakened the same misgiving which commonly affected his mind at a suggestion of defective title. "yes," continued the sepoy; "it was pointed out to me. but i am not convinced, or it may be that i refuse to be. a man often elects to be blind when confronted with a suggestion of disaster. i want to be candid with myself. i require your assistance. while i continue the narrative, kindly see if you can discover any sign of blemish." raikes, only too willing to engage himself upon anything which would assist his attempt at outward poise, seized the glass offered him and began a close inspection of the gem, as the sepoy, with an indescribably insinuating modulation, resumed: * * * * * "as the prince advanced, lal lu, advised of his approach by the hasty exit of the waiting-woman and the soft alarm of the gong in the passageway, stood ready to receive him. "a slight flush suffused her cheeks, a brighter luster beamed from her eyes. "with a fervor which was evidently unembarrassed by any anticipation of denial, the prince approached the trembling lal lu, who seemed to his enamored glance unspeakably bewitching in the graceful attitude, of which she was thoroughly unconscious, which she had naturally assumed, and which gave unmistakable expression to the hope, trepidation and regard awakened by his presence. "and yet his eagerness was not reflected. "there was little in the demeanor of the beautiful girl that was responsive; no indication of the sweet surrender that doubly endears, and which makes such irresistible appeals for protection and sensitive understanding to a man worthy of the name; and what evidences of confusion she betrayed were rather those which commonly prelude the execution of unwelcome resolution; a suggestion of a lurking disposition to readmit the peri into paradise, restrained by a knowledge of conditions unfulfilled. "with the rapid interchange and subtle apprehension characteristic of a passion which has no definite assurances as to its right to monopolize the regard of the object of jealous consideration, the prince was compelled to acknowledge, in these vague suggestions, an intangible but no less real succession of barriers opposed to his ardent advances, and with a scarcely concealed and certainly undiplomatic irritation he paused before lal lu and demanded: "'what is it, lal lu? thou art not glad to see me. i expected a reception other than this.' "'my father?' demanded lal lu, ignoring the question and the yearning intonation of his address, each word of which was like a caress; 'my father, what of him?' "'ah!' muttered the prince with deepening choler at the disturbing conditions introduced by the name, and a gleam strangely suggestive of menace. 'why speak of him now? is not the present enough?' "lal lu gazed upon the speaker with astonishment. how could he so easily forget what he had said the day before? and with a scarcely perceptible tightening of her beautiful lips, she said: "'dost remember thy promise to give me news of him to-day?' "'i do,' replied the prince. 'i received word that he will not be here to-day.' "'who told thee so?' demanded lal lu. "'a writing so informed me.' "'is it with thee?' "'no,' replied the prince. 'it is in my cabinet. is not my word sufficient?' "to this lal lu did not reply, but searched his countenance with a scrutiny which he found it difficult to endure, as he cried with renewed animation: "'oh, lal lu, be not so cold! hearken! the native regiments of meerut are in revolt and on their way to delhi. "'it is their purpose to re-establish dahbur dhu, my grandfather, upon the throne of the moghuls. "'as thou knowest, i am next in succession, and dahbur dhu is feeble and decrepit. "'the british are not in sufficient force to withstand a combined attack. "'see, then, lal lu, what this means for me; what it means for thee.' "'oh!' repeated the girl with curious emphasis, 'what it means for thee, i know; but what it means for me'--and she paused with disconcerting deliberation as she added--'thou hast not said.' "'everything, my own!' exclaimed the prince with generous ardor--'everything! thou hast but to command and thy will is done.' "'everything?' re-echoed lal lu with a questioning stress which the prince could not ignore--'everything?' "'i have said,' replied the prince. "'am i then to be thy queen?' "for a moment, a vital moment, the prince hesitated, but brief as the pause, scarcely the durance of an eye-flash, lal lu saw it, and gazed upon the prince with a disconcerting directness as he added, with the haste we note in the accused who attempt to distract suspicion by the utterance of glib generalities: "'my queen! thou art always that!' "'hold, prince otondo!' exclaimed lal lu as the prince seemed about to surrender to an impulse to clasp her in his arms--'hold! thy answers suit me not. reply, then, to this: thy wife--am i to be thy wedded wife?' "an expression like that of a peevish child tantalized by obstacles intruded to enhance its appreciation of favor withheld brightened his eyes and sent sullen lines converging in his forehead. "his hands clenched and opened; a faint suggestion of disdain curled his thin lips; the amiable inclination of his figure was transformed to an erect intolerance--and lal lu was answered. "when the unfortunate girl could no longer doubt the unlovely evidence provided by the prince, and apprehended the humiliating significance of his hesitation, a majesty surer than his own, a presence superb in its elevation, encompassed her, and she gazed upon the perturbed man with an expression from which every trace of tenderness appeared to have vanished. "with an angry sweep of his arm, as if to banish with a peremptory gesture the kneeling envoys of compunction, manliness and nobility, the prince stepped forward. "'what is that?' at this moment the gong in the passageway responded to three measured strokes. "'confusion!' muttered the prince. 'what does this mean?' and turning abruptly, he hastened to the doorway, swept aside the curtains, and revealed the trembling figure of the wrinkled crone who had quitted the apartment at his entrance. "'what now?' cried the exasperated prince as he fixed his eyes, vivid with rage at the unwelcome interruption, upon the miserable creature. "in reply the woman raised her shriveled hand, with a gesture that was not without its weird impressiveness, and pointed to his apartments. "'speak!' he demanded with a modification of his intensity, which he perceived deprived the waiting-woman of the power of speech. "'a messenger,' she croaked, 'from the palace of the moghul; he must speak with thee at once.' "with one long glance of such concentrated determination that it caused the beautiful girl to tremble anew, the prince vanished through the portal and hastened along the passageway. "scarcely had he departed when the demeanor of the waiting-woman underwent a startling transformation. "an incredible degree of energy quickened in the recoil of her bent form to a disproportionate erectness of stature. "beneath level, unwavering lids, her eyes emitted gleams which had pierced the retreating figure with deadly viciousness had they been poniards. "the servile vanished, the abject; and she stood, the silent embodiment of evil, restrained purpose. "the next instant, with an angry gesture that was vaguely significant of future requital and present impotence, the vindictive creature swept aside the curtains and re-entered the room leading to the apartment occupied by lal lu. "as she approached the disturbed beauty, the tension in her mien relaxed, and she regarded the _distrait_ countenance before her with a glance that was anything but unfriendly, in so far as it was possible to determine the nature of the sentiment in hiding behind that austere visage. "directly she stood by the table which lal lu had interposed as a sort of barricade against advances of her impetuous lover, and with an attempt at a smile, which could as readily find acceptance as a repentant scowl, this singular being inserted her hand in the folds of the tunic which defended her parchment bosom, and produced from that barren demesne a folded missive, which she placed in the hands of the astonished lal lu. "with trembling haste she exposed the inner surface of the paper, and with a glad heart and filial trust read: "'be not afraid; relief is at hand.' "there was no signature; none was needed. "in a moment lal lu recognized her father's familiar chirography, and as she reflected upon his well-known sagacity and resourceful boldness, her hope and courage renewed their belated assurances. "'who gave you this?' she asked. "the waiting-woman, after a brief hesitation, in which inclination and restraint left their disturbing traces, replied: "'that i must not reveal.' "'at least,' insisted lal lu, whose quick glance had detected the irresolution of the instant preceding, 'at least, tell me this: was it my father?' "'no,' replied the other promptly. with a barely perceptible grin of amusement at this ingenuous betrayal of the author of the few words which had awakened such animation, she added: "'one sent by him, it may be.' "'true,' assented the girl. "'and now,' exclaimed the woman with a return of her vindictive aspect, which the harassed beauty, unaware of its inspiration, witnessed with vague misgiving and a futile attempt to associate herself with its ugly manifestation; 'and now, i would ask a question of you.' "'yes?' responded lal lu, perplexed at the baleful emphasis which preceded this announcement. "'well, then,' continued the woman with startling and uncompromising abruptness, 'am i wrong in thinking that you would defend your honor with your life?' "before the astonished lal lu could reply, or encouraged, it may be, by some subtle confirmation in the look which shot from the distended eyes of the young girl, the eccentric speaker, again inserting her hands in the folds of her tunic, withdrew a short, slender poniard, at sight of which lal lu recoiled. "'ha, ha!' laughed the withered creature mirthlessly as she gazed with unsmiling eyes upon the shrinking beauty. 'be not afraid; this weapon is intended for you, but not to your hurt.' "'what, then?' asked lal lu breathlessly, unable to adjust the peaceful assurance of the grim-visaged woman with the menace of the glittering blade. "'listen!' exclaimed the woman impressively: 'i know prince otondo of old; he meditates no good for you. were i in your place, i would receive his detested advances upon the point of this blade. your protestations he will not heed, but this'--and the speaker advanced the dagger with a savage gesture which caused a shudder to pervade the trembling frame of lal lu--'this is an argument he can understand.' "'oh,' cried the terrified girl, 'i could not!' "'you could not?' repeated the other with chilling emphasis. 'ha, ha! you could not! but you will submit to the advances of this monster! "'believe me, you are not the sole object of his regard. "'there have been others caged within these walls who have been less obdurate than you, or whose resistance has availed them nothing.' "'alas!' exclaimed lal lu with an inexpressibly melancholy accent, as she considered the empty pedestal from which her ideal had fallen, and recalled with a shudder the caress which she had permitted and bestowed in that fervid interview with the prince. 'can this be true?' "'aye!' exclaimed the woman with savage affirmation. 'do not doubt it. sooner than submit to the embraces of that wretch i would turn that weapon against myself.' "'oh!' exclaimed lal lu with a superb gesture and the light of unmistakable resolution in her eyes, 'that i can do; but the other----' and the poor girl trembled at the spectacle pictured in her mind. "'well,' exclaimed the woman, 'i will leave this dagger here; do as you will; i have done for you what i could,' and she turned to depart, unmindful, apparently, of lal lu's tremulous 'and i am grateful to you.' * * * * * "when the prince arrived at the apartment in which he accorded his audiences, if the attention he bestowed upon the meager assemblages which presented themselves occasionally can be dignified by that description, he found awaiting him a hindoo, whom he recognized at once, and whose presence invariably preceded the recital of important information. "to the degree that prince otondo had reason to suspect that his grandfather had certain of his servants subsidized at the kutub, he measured secretly by similar secret embassies at the delhi palace. "the egotistical old moghul, with a vanity which even his anomalous situation with the british had not impaired, wished to assure himself that he would be worthily succeeded, and the prince was equally solicitous concerning the advancing senility of the moghul. "in such bloodless intrigues this picturesque pair kept their servants engaged, until this germ of mutual distrust infected every dependent in the two households with that singular propensity to conspire which the studious historian of this mysterious country cannot have failed to record. "on this basis certain shrewd spirits among the british intruders at this period were able to discover more of the character of the people under their unwelcome rule, in a single establishment of native servants, than in the general observations of a hundred english households. "awaiting, therefore, the conclusion of the ceremonies of approach, upon which he always insisted and which were shortly to be rendered so absurd, the prince at last, calling the hindoo by name, demanded the occasion of his presence. "'it is an ill service, o prince,' replied the hindoo, 'which i am about to render you.' "'what, then?' exclaimed the prince. 'to the point, to the point!' "'your grandfather----' "'is dead?' inquired the prince with badly disguised eagerness. "'nay; worse.' "'proceed!' demanded the prince. 'what can be worse?' "'your grandfather,' replied the messenger, in evident haste to conclude a disagreeable task, 'has taken to himself a young wife.' "'ah!' cried the prince, startled into a degrading abandonment of his customary elevation of demeanor. 'the dotard, the imbecile! married? to whom?' "'a daughter of the house of nadis shah, rani rue.' "'i know her!' cried the prince savagely. 'implacable, ambitious, unscrupulous. what will she not attempt with that old driveller?' then, evidently impressed by something shadowed in the expression of his ill-omened mercury, he exclaimed: 'you have more to tell me?' "the hindoo bowed his head in perturbed affirmation. "'quickly, then!' demanded his august listener. "'the british forces have concentrated at the cantonment without the walls of delhi; a detachment is even now on the way to your palace, which they propose to seize and garrison.' "'ah!' murmured the prince, 'the freshet is turning to a deluge. is there more?' "'yes, o prince,' returned the hindoo; 'the british intend to hold you as a hostage for the safety of the english resident, who is a prisoner at the palace in delhi.' "'so!' exclaimed this royal reprobate as he reflected upon the picturesque possibilities to himself, in view of the sanguinary temptation which the helpless resident would present to the ambitious queen rani rue. 'how far in advance of the detachment are you?' "'about one hour's march.' "'this is short reckoning. you have hastened with leaden feet.' "'nay, your highness,' cried the hindoo, 'i came the instant i heard. there is still time to escape, and the way is known to you alone.' "'so be it,' returned the prince as an expression of savage determination compressed his thin lips and ignited baleful fires in his restless eyes. 'await me without; i will join you presently.' "as the hindoo turned to obey, the prince darted, with lithe haste, into the inner room and pressed the spring in the wall. "slowly the panel rolled aside and revealed the glittering pyramid of gems within. "from the depths, just in the rear of the priceless heap, he withdrew a sort of jacket, separated upon its upper edge into a series of openings similar to the partitions of a cartridge-belt. "into these, with a sort of clumsy trepidation, he began to pack the almost elusive portions of the gleaming mass of brilliants from the recess. "at the conclusion of fifteen vital minutes the prince had deposited the last of the gems in the receptacles of this curious jacket, and, if the reports of the hindoo were to be credited, the advancing british were that much nearer the kutub. "with desperate rapidity he disengaged the folds of the delicate cambric which covered the upper portion of his body, inserting the precious jacket beneath, and after adjusting it to his figure, strapped it securely in place and rearranged his attire into non-committal contours. "'and now,' he cried with an expression of savage determination, 'and now for the rarest gem of all!' and darting through the silken hangings which concealed his extreme of the passageway leading to the apartments of lal lu, he hastened along that dingy bypath and presently reached the threshold from which he had issued but a short time before with such little credit to himself. "without pausing to announce himself or consider the impropriety of his abrupt intrusion and its possible influence upon lal lu, the impetuous heir-apparent swept aside the curtains and rushed into the room. "startled at the rattling rings which held the hangings in place, and the impetuous swish of its folds, lal lu sprang to her feet and gazed with indignant rebuke upon the inconsiderate prince. "heedless of the unconcealed disdain of her glance and ignoring the presence of the furtive-eyed waiting-woman, he cried: "'lal lu, the time for further parley is past. the kutub is shortly to be attacked by the british. we must fly--come!' and the speaker advanced with unreflective haste to the side of the palpitating girl. "in an instant, however, his headlong progress was checked as lal lu, with a superb gesture, raised the gleaming dagger above her head and cried, encouraged by the lowering eyes of the evilly-expectant waiting-woman: 'with thee--never! i will die first!' "as the prince recoiled a step at sight of the flashing blade, lal lu, with contemptuous emphasis, exclaimed: 'be not afraid, prince otondo, this is not for thee. advance but a step and it will be but an empty casket that awaits thee!' "never had lal lu appeared so desirable in the eyes of this royal rogue, and never had he been more resolute to possess her. "with misleading quiet, therefore, he gazed upon the upraised hand which menaced the one unattained object of his desire. quickly he measured the distance between them. slowly he removed one foot behind the other. lightly he pressed the slipper's point upon the tessellated floor, and then with a leap of incredible quickness, he darted forward, caught the descending arm of lal lu in his grasp, and, with his disengaged hand, wrenched the dagger from her and threw it away from him into the center of the apartment. "but as rapidly as he had moved, the prince had not been able to prevent the incision which the dagger's point made in his wrist and from which a thin stream of blood issued. "'ah, ha, my beauty!' he cried as he released the struggling girl and retreated a step, the better to enjoy her discomfiture; 'ah, ha! i like thy spirit. i would not have thee mar the lovely casket which contains it. here!' he called to the waiting-woman, who had witnessed the episode and into whose quick eyes, which had detected the slight wound upon the wrist of the prince, there crept a strange, inexplicable expression of leering triumph, 'here, guard this maiden for a space. your life shall pay the penalty if aught befalls her in my absence. "'i shall return presently with the help i need to overcome such elevated objection'; and turning abruptly, the prince hastened toward the doorway, pausing a second to regain possession of the dagger which he had cast from him during the brief struggle. "'alas!' cried the unhappy girl, 'what shall i do? he has gone to get some of his creatures to help him in his evil purposes.' "for a moment a tense silence prevailed. "the next instant, with eerie, jubilant interruption, the waiting-woman made the very air shudder with a laugh of such shrill exultation and riotous abandon that lal lu, for a moment forgetful of her own extremity, gazed with unconcealed amazement and alarm upon the almost hysterical creature. "'ha, ha!' she raved; 'be not afraid, lal lu. this royal pest, this insolent prince, will trouble you no more; you will never see him again.' "'ha!' exclaimed lal lu. 'you seem strangely positive. what do you mean?' "'did you see that scratch which the point of your dagger made upon the wrist of the prince?' "'no,' replied lal lu, shrinking from the picture presented to her mind. "'well,' returned the grim-visaged woman with a return to her customary austerity, 'i did. the wound was slight; only a few easily subdued drops of blood followed; but, believe me, maiden, it will be sufficient.' "'what do you mean?' demanded lal lu. "'this,' returned the weird creature with repulsive, evil joy, which she made no attempt to disguise: 'the point of that dagger was steeped in the most deadly poison known in india. in twenty minutes, ha, ha! it is the prince who will be the empty casket.'" * * * * * as the sepoy reached this point in his narrative he paused with startling abruptness. raikes, no longer under the influence of the seductive cadences, looked up sharply. "well?" inquired the sepoy as he met the inquiring glance of his furtive auditor, "what of the flaw in the sapphire? can you trace the blemish?" "devil seize me!" exclaimed raikes, as he offered, by this apostrophe, an invitation which was certain, at no distant date, to be accepted. "devil seize me if i have thought of the sapphire!" and he began at once an apologetic inspection of the brilliant with the magnifying glass. "ha, ha!" laughed the sepoy. "i must congratulate myself upon my powers of narration." "aye!" replied raikes, as he continued his examination of the flaming bauble, "and also upon your irritating habit of concluding at the anxious moment. but see here," and he held the sapphire up to view; "i can see nothing wrong; possibly the light is bad. the searching glare of day is required to discover a blemish such as you speak of." "suppose you return to-morrow, then, directly after breakfast?" suggested the sepoy. "i want your judgment. i dare not trust my own; my blindness may be voluntary." "very well, then," assented raikes, who, now that he had nothing upon which to fasten his eyes, felt an easily comprehended uneasiness to leave the sepoy. "i will be here at that time"; and with his customary emotionless adieux the guilty creature slipped through the doorway and speeded like a shriveled shadow along the various passages. as he was about to enter his room he was hailed by his nephew. "uncle, you wanted to see me." "true," replied raikes, with a start of recollection, "i do; but suppose we postpone the interview until to-morrow." "very well," replied the young man easily, and raikes, entering his room, fastened the door with his usual elaborate precaution. his first movement was to disclose the interior of the recess containing his coin and his conscience. a rapid examination convinced him that no further depredations had been committed upon the former, and the latter he secreted in the pocket of his waistcoat along with the diamond, which flashed its unregarded rebuke into his eager eyes. at this juncture the singular drowsiness which had overtaken him so persistently in the past few days began to steep his dulling senses. warned by its approach, raikes began to put into execution a newly conceived plan of retiring for the night and effective vigil over his treasure-trove. hastily drawing a chair before the radiator, and placing directly in front of that the table, from which with a savage sweep of the arm he swept the dull heap of coals rattling to the floor, raikes established himself in the seat so provided and, leaning forward, awaited the final blandishments of the drowsiness which was not long in lulling him into that profound degree of slumber which is commonly supposed to be the reward of sound morals and christian resignation. (to be continued on dickey no. , series b.) * * * * * during the reading of this impossible helter-skelter of unrestrained imagination and composite style, the expression in the countenance of the listening woman had developed from its original sadness to an unmistakable geniality. the pensive droop of her lips, little by little, nestled away into a smiling seriousness, and when dennis, confronted with the habitual conclusion in italics, looked up with a grimace of recognition, his glance was met by a pair of kindly blue eyes, in which he believed he traced a charming suggestion of unaffected good fellowship. altogether unsuspected by himself, dennis, with his intent, intelligent countenance, and the contrasting vivacity of his rich, irish accent, had awakened an interest in the mind of his companion which months of adroit approach could not have achieved. his genuineness was unquestionable. his entire absorption in the story, his delightful and unconscious elimination of self, supplied this tired woman with elements of mental refreshment and genuine enjoyment which circumstances had compelled her to decide no longer existed. encouraged, therefore, by this unmistakable interest and the amiable attitude of attention which dennis, with characteristic ingenuousness, accepted as a tribute to the narrative, he exclaimed: "an' isn't it great, now? did you ever hear such a tale as that?" "i never did," was the smiling reply. "an' wasn't that raikes a div--a tight one, i mean?" "he was, indeed," assented the lady, as she reviewed this sordid character and the incidents surrounding him, and contrasted the tumult of phrase and situation with her genial addison and her placid irving. "an' would you like to hear the rest?" asked dennis, as he produced the remaining bosom of series b. "yes," replied the lady, "i believe i would. but just a moment before you begin," and regarding this oblivious young man with an expression in which a degree of speculation still lingered to tantalize its suggestion of frank indorsement, she hazarded: "you have not lived in new york long?" wondering at the acuteness of this observation, dennis responded by according to her the exact time of his brief residence. "ah!" exclaimed the lady, "i thought so." "may i ask," inquired dennis, wondering if, like the visitor from the bucolic district, he supplied unconscious data in his appearance for classification, "may i ask how you are able to tell that i'm here for a short time only?" "well," returned his companion with a degree of hesitation exquisitely refined as it shadowed through her fine countenance, and which she presently conquered as she replied to his question with that shade of frankness which, in the well-bred, can never be mistaken for anything else: "it requires about a year's residence in this bedlam to replace the genuine with the artificial; i see no evidence of such an unhappy transformation in you." "oh, i see," responded dennis. "an' you never will, either." "i am almost prepared to believe that," answered the lady with a reassuring cordiality which somehow indicated to this young man that she had already become convinced of more than she was willing to acknowledge. "you may do so entirely," said dennis simply. "now, one question more," continued his companion, "and do not consider me inquisitive, since i may have something to suggest to your advantage if your reply is satisfactory. what is your business?" dennis blushed. "my business?" he repeated with a droll accent and an amusing grimace; and then, encouraged by the friendly invitation and subtle encouragement in the manner of his sweet-faced listener, with a straightforward recital which the lady had expected from him, and which advanced him several leagues in her estimation, dennis recounted his experiences from the time of his arrival up to the present moment. "it isn't much," he concluded apologetically, "not anywhere as interesting as the dickey back; but it's all there is, an' it's true, every word." "it is more than you suspect," dissented his hearer. "you have enabled me to come to a decision, at least, and may help me to solve a vexed problem. in the meantime, let us finish the story. while you are reading my mind will clear; i will make my suggestion when you conclude." wondering, and yet with a prompt confidence which conveyed an agreeable flattery which the cleverest diplomacy could not have achieved, dennis, holding his absurd medium at a level which permitted him to receive the stimulation of a sympathetic glance now and then, began. chapter vii considering the unaccustomed position in which raikes had placed himself in arranging to retire the night before, he awoke with considerable astonishment to the realization that he had passed a night of undisturbed slumber. aside from a slight disposition to stretch his lean limbs unduly, and a feeling of insecurity attending his first efforts to stand, he was not aware of any inconvenience from his singular siesta. at last, after having re-established his creaking equilibrium and resumed his accustomed furtive regard of things, he was suddenly reminded by the shifted position of the furniture of the purpose of this makeshift barricade. at once the shuddering dread which had attended his recent visits to the secret recess returned with numbing chills and sinking spirit. he advanced his bony hand, gnarled and mean with useless abstemiousness and miserable abnegations, and revolved the button in the concave. in response, the false register swung back; in another tense moment the inner space was revealed, and his treasury laid bare. for an instant, in the manner of an apprehensive child who postpones as long as possible some unwelcome confirmation, raikes closed his eyes, and when he opened them again they rested, with unerring precision, upon a bag somewhat detached from the others, which protruded at its sides with those frightful points and angles with which he had become so unhappily familiar of late. with a smothered cry he sprang forward, gripped the bag in a trembling, faltering clutch, and dropped it with a groan to the floor, where it fell with a heart-breaking, distracting lightness, which, nevertheless, smote like a mighty weight upon his bursting heart. "my god!" he cried, "this is incredible!" and the miserable creature stood for a moment with an appalling vacancy shadowing in his countenance, which was illumed for one fitful moment with a ray of hope as he inserted his hand in his waistcoat pocket to assure himself that the diamond which he had placed in that receptacle the night before at least was safe. the diamond--ah, yes! there was still some consolation in that. its value still maintained a close proportion to his loss. if there was no gain there was, at least, a sort of evil restitution. but his exploring fingers found only an empty pocket. in a palsy of fear, and with the demeanor of one who feels the first twinge of a mortal affliction and awaits in fearful silence the grewsome confirmation of another, he stood without sound or motion, his set, staring eyes directed with unseeing intensity upon the vacant air. the next instant, with feverish animation and impotent apprehension, five writhing fingers leaped from their futile search, like scotched reptiles, into the opposite pocket and withdrew the two useless keys with which he fastened his abortive latch on the door. and then, with a frightful glitter in his eyes, an ugly ooze about his bloodless lips, a flickering effort of his shriveled fingers to adjust themselves to some ribald rhythm, raikes began to sing, with the dry rasp and ancient husk of a galvanized sphinx: "and her name it was dinah, scarce sixteen years old; she'd a very large fortune in greenbacks and gold. sing turi-li-luri---- ha, ha! ha, ha!" and supporting himself along the wall he made his way slowly to the threshold, unfastened the locks, removed the heavy bar, opened the door, and cried out in a voice that was not human, that shuddered its way along the chill passage through the shrinking air: "robert--robert!" and then, reeling, stumbling toward a near-by chair, he fell ere he could reach it, in utter collapse to the floor, and lay there--shriveled, grotesque, in no way pathetic, in all points contemptible, as his nephew, in response to his uncle's unearthly summons, rushed into the room, followed by the wide-eyed spinster. for three days during the week that followed raikes lay oblivious to the considerations of loss or gain. the utmost of the young medical attendant, who had been selected on the basis of the small charges incident to a beginning practice, had failed to restore the emaciated man to his suspended consciousness, until, toward the morning of the fourth day, the spinster, who sat near-by in weary vigil, was startled to behold the dull eyes of her brother fastened upon her with the faraway, questioning look of one returning from the confines of the nether to the sharp realities of existence. "rodman?" she inquired with anxious interrogation. in response the thin lips of the sufferer moved slowly. approaching the bed, his sister, leaning over the unfortunate raikes, heard him articulate with difficulty "water!" supporting his head with one hand, the spinster supplied his feebly-sighed request, and when the last difficult swallow conveyed the refreshing draught along his fevered throat, she restored his head to the pillow and awaited developments. as she sat at the bedside in an attitude of fearful expectation, it was evident that some transformation, more wholesome than subtle, had manifested itself in the mien and physique of his nurse. a large degree of her pitiful attenuity had vanished; a legible vestige of placid well-being seemed to have replaced the hunger of her eyes; there was a vague, unsubstantial promise of possible comeliness in the restoration of her cheeks. aware of these changes herself, and fearful lest her brother's sharp eyes would discover them, the spinster recalled, with a sort of troubled gratification, the occasion of the improvement. undisturbed by the rebuking glances of the abstemious raikes, and secretly abetted by the amused sepoy, the poor woman had enjoyed the privileges of the table with a relish and surrender which had begun to result in the manner indicated. for several days previous to the catastrophe which had concluded in the prostration of her brother, the spinster had supplied the cravings of her appetite with a gusto that was a revelation to her, and which would have evoked a profound rebuke from the wretched creature on the bed. it was therefore with secret misgiving and a qualified delight she heard her brother at last call feebly: "sarah!" in answer to the exhausted interrogation in his utterance of the name, his sister hastened to recount to him the incident of his collapse and his subsequent unconsciousness. little by little his intelligence began to resume its abandoned functions, and at last he recalled the whole evil situation. "where's robert?" he said. "i want him." "i will send him to you," exclaimed his sister, and she hastened from the room. "well, uncle!" exclaimed robert as he entered with a cheerfulness he was far from feeling as he witnessed that emaciated countenance; "better, i see." "i congratulate you upon your imagination," replied raikes, with a feeble attempt at his customary incivility; "but lock the door and listen to me carefully." these instructions complied with, robert seated himself in the chair just vacated by the spinster, which provided his uncle an unobstructed view of the embonpoint and general aspect of well-being which were so obnoxious to the singular man on the bed. "in the first place," resumed raikes weakly, "move the bed around so that i can see the register in the wall." the wondering robert did as he was ordered. "take hold of the button that moves the valves and pull it toward you." robert followed these instructions minutely, and to his astonishment and the miser's consternation the radiator itself swung away from the wall. "what!" cried the startled invalid as he beheld this confirmation of his fear that he had neglected to spring the catch that held the radiator on the occasion of the mishap which resulted in his confinement to the bed, "look within. is the inner compartment closed?" "no!" replied robert. "my god!" groaned raikes as he realized that his treasury had been thus unguarded during his illness. "tell me how many bags there are." robert removed them one by one, and deposited them on the table. as the miser followed the movements of his nephew with anxious notation, a sigh of unutterable relief welled from the innermost depths of his bosom. the bags had been untouched! there was no further loss, and the clinking weight assured him that his nocturnal visitor had made no more of his gross substitutions. "listen, robert," said raikes with laborious amiability, as his astonished nephew seated himself near the bedside, "it has been my purpose to conceal this hiding place from any living soul, but i find that i have not succeeded. "some one has made three visits to that recess and helped himself to as many bags of coin." robert, remembering his uncle's well-known secrecy and the unusual precautions taken by him to secure his room from intrusion, looked his incredulity, which stimulated raikes into exclaiming: "ah, but you do not know how incredible it is. wait until you hear all. you will wonder what human agency could penetrate these locks, open the doors of this hiding place, extract the plunder, restore the locks to their original condition, and re-issue into the passageway without disturbing the latches or the crossbar. my losses are supernatural. now follow me carefully and confess that you have not heard anything so ghastly, so unreal as what i am about to relate." as raikes proceeded in his narrative, his nephew was at first inclined to receive these weird confidences as features of the unhappy man's condition, but as the latter progressed, with a constantly increasing degree of his customary emotionless lucidity, his sincerity became apparent. "and now," concluded raikes, "what have you to say to all this? is it not worthy of a poe or a maupassant? i tell you, i must have some explanation of this mystery or i shall go mad." during this singular recital the young man's mind, stimulated by the eerie perplexities and the unhappy dénouement, had been busy. it was not difficult to convince himself of the futility of any of his own speculations; the nearness of the calamity affected him, in a degree, as it did the withered invalid. he had a sound brain, nourished by a well sustained body; his intelligence was apt and rapid, but these unheard-of complications demanded a morbid analysis of which he was incapable. on this basis, however, as his uncle had proceeded, robert had been able to develop a suggestion; he could offer that, at least. in reply, therefore, to the feverish questions of his uncle, the young man said: "in so far as i am able to see, your disasters have narrowed your range of discernment. they are too recent; they affect you too nearly. under such conditions we take counsel of our prejudices instead of our judgment. your thoughts are apt to return to the central feature of your loss. it is not natural to expect one to dismiss such a consideration in order to make way for others which might help you in your search. "on my part, the incident is new and stimulating, but the ideas it awakens lead to nothing. however, i should not regard the case as impossible until i had tried at least one means of solution." "what is that?" demanded raikes, diverted, if not convinced, by the sensible observations of his nephew. "you have heard of gratz?" inquired robert. "of the secret service?" "yes." "ah!" cried the old man; "to submit the case to him means another in the secret, with little prospect of advantage." "i am not so sure about that," returned robert. "do you recall the dupont mystery?" raikes nodded. "well," continued robert, "you must also remember the belmont scandal. gratz certainly let daylight into that." "ah," cried raikes, "i do not like your suggestions; they encourage me and alarm me at the same time. think of the cost." irritated at the intrusion of this frugal proviso at this juncture, robert exclaimed with some warmth: "yes, but think, also, how insignificant that would be if he discovered the thief and recovered the money." "if--if----" repeated raikes with impatience. "and i can say this," continued robert: "it is the ambition of gratz to be appointed chief of the bureau to which he belongs. whatever can be placed to his credit in the meantime will serve as an additional reason for his advancement. "i believe that he would be more persuaded to undertake the case with this prospect in view than for a mercenary reason." "but," interrupted raikes, "can you get him?" "i think i can answer for that," replied robert. "i know him very well. if you will consent to leave the matter in my hands, i will attend to gratz." "well," exclaimed raikes, as robert concluded, "have it your own way; anything is better than this killing suspense. i do not believe that i could endure a repetition of the incidents of the last few nights. but return the bags before you go, and shut the radiator; it will lock in closing." when robert at last reached the dining-room he discovered his aunt at the table, seated opposite the sepoy. instructing the spinster to resume her vigil until his return, robert proceeded to his own table, and from that point of observation occupied himself, during the next twenty minutes, partly with his breakfast and partly in regarding this illy-assorted duet. the sepoy was as gravely urbane as ever; his browns and blacks intermingled harmoniously; his eyes were bright; his teeth still suggestive of restrained sarcasm in their dull, red sheaths, as, with grave courtesy, he made himself agreeable to his companion by abetting her newly-awakened appetite with recommendations of the steak and eulogies of the butter. the spinster was no longer ravenous; the advantages she had enjoyed during the absence of her domestic argus had made her cravings more equable, and she accepted the edible suggestions of the sepoy with an approach to placid satisfaction that hinted at the imminence of repletion. this disposition to make the most of her privileges, with what composure she could assume, would have added the basis of a serious relapse on the part of the invalid could he have witnessed the phenomenon. it was remarkable how promptly the poor creature evinced the effects of her nourishment. beginning, as already indicated, with a logical indigestion, she progressed to the point of a possible filling out of the crevices of her countenance, and her eyes certainly had lost the expression of appeal characteristic of the mendicant in the doorway. all this, minutely noted by her watchful nephew, was thoroughly enjoyed with a sort of chuckling collusion and vicarious gratification. on her return to the invalid she was requested by him to provide whatever nourishment was needed, and then to leave him alone for a couple of hours. these instructions fulfilled, the spinster sought the retirement of her room, surrendered herself to the enjoyment of reminiscent digestion, and raikes began to pull himself together. his method was characteristic. on the basis that he could not afford to enjoy himself like any normally constituted being, he assured his mind that he could not submit to the expense of illness. according to his rigid logic, sickness was more the result of indulgence than self-denial. he proposed to have the credit of his abnegations. therefore he directed his perverse will to the contemplation of the rational aspect of his condition, and presently had managed to convince himself that if he did not entertain the belief of suffering, this untoward condition would cease to exist. as this singular being combatted all that was unwelcome to this point of view, the grim lines tightened about the corners of his mouth, the deep fissures in his forehead established a communication with the obstinate wrinkles at the root of his nose, and by noon he was well on his way to the mastery of his indisposition, and by nightfall he scandalized the young medical attendant by standing up to receive him. extending to himself a chuckling tribute of his resolution, he received the incredulity of his nephew as additional indorsement when the latter made his appearance that evening, accompanied by the colorless negation of a man whom he could scarcely persuade himself to believe was the celebrated gratz. however, no more ideal countenance could have been created for the purposes to which it was applied by its owner. pallid, expressionless, vacant, it was as nearly a canvas upon which to delineate almost anything in the range of emotion as it was possible for a visage of flesh and blood to be. as to the details of features, these were altogether subordinate, and as devoid of physiognomical meaning as the dull integument which encompassed them. it had about the same amount of character as a bald baby. one received the impression that a seismic disturbance might awaken some show of emotion, but design--never. and yet, behind that pale disguise, between sleepy, level lids, two points of concentrated fire and ceaseless animation gleamed their startling significance to any one able to comprehend. in stature he was adjusted to his visage. his frame was lean enough to repudiate the incredible agility and recuperative strength it housed, and his carriage was consistently "out of plumb." altogether it was an identity that would have been overlooked in any gathering, and was almost nondescript enough to establish an eligibility to the most exclusive function. this unpromising ensemble, however, was not misleading to raikes, who had looked up quickly at the first appearance of the detective, and had seen the sharp, penetrating glance with which gratz had for an instant surveyed the apartment. moreover, the very leanness of the famous official appealed to him. here, at least, were none of the obnoxious evidences of repletion which he viewed with such disapprobation in his sturdier nephew. the man's attire, too, commended him to the starved graces of his spare host. it was as characterless as it was possible for fabric to be, and considered with his meager physique and vacant physiognomy, was a fitting complement to both; an adjustment of component detail too consistent to have been the needless aspect it was designed to present. with a voice in which the character had been trained away as surely as the charity from the opinions of the social élite, this descendant of lecocq accosted his patron, and with business-like brevity indicated that he was already familiar with the situation as outlined by robert, and if mr. raikes would consent to reply to a few questions it would facilitate matters. his hearer indicated that he was entirely at the disposal of the detective. with characteristic concentration, therefore, gratz began: "do you suspect anybody in particular?" "no." "that is singular," commented gratz. "may i ask why? under such circumstances the mind generally proceeds in some unhappy direction." "not in this instance," returned raikes. "before i suspect any one, i must assign to him supernatural powers, almost. i will have to explain how it is possible for any one to enter this room, penetrate that recess, make the substitution, and retire, leaving the door in the same condition, precisely as left by me the night before." "that is the point," replied gratz. then, after a moment's reflection, he inquired: "am i at liberty to nose around this room?" "help yourself," answered raikes. with this assent, gratz hurried to the window, examined the sash, considered the sheer depths immediately below, its lack of vicinity to other windows, and last, the strong fastenings, to disturb which would involve a degree of rasp and wrench sufficient to disturb the slumbers of a rip van winkle. with a countenance as impassive as ever, he returned to raikes and said: "now for the hiding place." with a grimace of reluctant acquiescence, raikes, closely regarded by the detective, proceeded to the button in the concave, which he moved with slow manipulation for the edification of the alert watcher, who witnessed, without comment, the displacement of the register and the subsequent revelation of the inner compartment. "remove the bags." at the conclusion of this labor, this impenetrable being produced a small rod of steel from one of his pockets, one end of which concluded in a round knob. with this he proceeded to rap the walls of the inner recess, a proceeding of which raikes inquired the purpose. "i want to ascertain," replied gratz, "if there is any vacancy on the other side." "i could have saved you all that trouble," replied raikes. "this is a false radiator, the real flue is on the other side of the room. "the rear of this small safe backs up against nearly two feet of solid brickwork. "exactly behind that is a room occupied by one no more burglarious than a dressmaker's apprentice." "thank you," replied gratz. "your information is helpful, but i am never satisfied to rely upon description when investigation is possible. "whatever deductions i make from this examination i do not want disturbed, so all the doubts they dissipate are not likely to intrude upon my calculations again." after a few further taps, in which raikes could see no better purpose than to retire from an embarrassing position with some show of satisfied motive, gratz directed that the bags be returned. for the next few minutes he busied himself with the locks, upon which he experimented with the extraordinary keys which raikes had given him. he shot the bolts backward and forward; noted the stout bar and the precautions for keeping it in place, and then resumed the seat near the table. after a few moments he said: "tell me what has occurred to you between sunrise and sunset during the last three days." raikes recounted his usual round of petty detail, which had no possible bearing upon the problem. when he had concluded this meager résumé, gratz continued: "now tell me about the nights." raikes complied with a statement of his careful precautions; the watch of his sister upon the doorway during his absence, and his visits to the room of the sepoy. "the sepoy?" inquired gratz. "why do you call him that?" "on account of his swarthy complexion, his bright eyes, and his general alien aspect," replied robert. "describe him to me as carefully as you can," said gratz. when robert had concluded his brief delineation, raikes hastened to inquire: "why do you ask about him so particularly? he could no more enter my room, under the conditions i have described to you, than you could." "i realize that," admitted the detective, "but i gather from what you have just said that you visit this sepoy, as you call him, with some degree of regularity. may i ask if you have business transactions with him?" "i have not," replied raikes. then, in response to the unchanging look of inquiry in the countenance of the detective, he added: "the sepoy has been telling me an extraordinary story. it has been too elaborate to confine to one sitting, and my purpose in re-visiting him was to get at the conclusion. it is most interesting, and apparently interminable." "would you object to relating it to me?" inquired gratz. "heavens!" cried raikes, aghast at the prospect of the extended effort which this would impose upon him. "is it necessary?" "i would not be surprised," replied gratz. "at any rate, if your story is more mysterious than the predicament which confronts us, it must be worth hearing." with an ill grace, after making the elaborate arrangements which usually precede a protracted campaign, raikes hastened to comply with the request of the detective. as he proceeded, he was startled to note, now that he made his first conscious effort to review the weird recital of the sepoy, just how vividly the incidents presented themselves. aside from the phraseology, he recounted, in precise order, the incredible incidents, and by the time he had reached the climax in the first division of his effort his hearers were interested enough to hasten through a light meal, which, at the suggestion of gratz, had been sent to the room they occupied. with something of the calculation of the sepoy, or remembering, perhaps, the effect which his abrupt terminations had upon him, raikes contrived his irritating pauses with remorseless enjoyment and the ostensible purpose of stimulating his sorely taxed energies with draughts of brandy and water. in this way raikes consumed the time until the hour of eleven, which enabled him to develop the narrative to the point at which the sepoy had concluded. "and now," exclaimed raikes with unmistakable relief, as he signified that his hearers were in possession of all he knew, "and now will you kindly tell me what you expect to gain by this tedious task you have imposed upon me?" gratz did not reply at once, but after a few moments of reflection, he asked, apparently ignoring the question of the narrator: "will you give me the keys of this building you occupy, and indicate to me the means of rummaging about the other building on the opposite side of the wall?" "if it is necessary," replied raikes with grudging assent. "why else should i make the request?" suggested gratz with emotionless directness of speech and a momentary gleam of the eyes. "true!" responded raikes. "now," exclaimed gratz, when the various keys were placed in his hand, "you can sleep in peace to-night, and bolt your doors with all the assurance in the world, for i guarantee that your property will be undisturbed." then turning to robert, he said: "i want you to guide me for a short while, and as soon as i get my bearings you can retire." at this the two bade the thoroughly exhausted raikes good-night and departed from the room, which the miser hastily secured with his usual precautions. without, robert soon discovered that his services were no longer required, and at the suggestion of the detective he retired, after indicating to this curious official that when he had concluded his investigations he would find a cot in his room which he was at liberty to occupy. as dawn began to make its appearance on the ensuing morning, robert was disturbed by a curious dream. he appeared to be alone upon a fragile raft in the midst of a destructive sea. bit by bit the hastily joined structure upon which he rode the waters so insecurely began to disintegrate, until but one scarcely sufficing plank remained. to this, however, he clung with rapidly failing strength, shouting at intervals with what vim remained, in an attempt to attract the attention of the keepers of the light, not far away. but with devilish perversity, an immense fog-horn sent forth a heavy blast seaward precisely at the moments he raised his voice. no matter how far apart or how near he planned the intervals, he was bound to coincide with the deafening horn. at last in despair he desisted in his efforts, and the monster horn, with hoarse mockery, continued its grewsome noises at dismal intervals, until one, more stentorian than the others, caused the very tempest to hush, and robert awoke to discover gratz the cause of his fictitious misery, sleeping upon the cot near the foot of his bed, emitting a series of snores which had managed to communicate their odious telepathy to his slumbering consciousness. as this singular being lay there in the relaxation and undisguise to which the most diplomatic must submit at times, his countenance, so impassive in his wakeful hours, depicted singular lines of determination. an expression of tense anxiety contracted his features; resolution held the thin lips in rigid partnership; there was a hint of purpose in the solitary wrinkle which corrugated his forehead; the general aspect was impressive, its suggestion indefatigable. in this paradoxical fashion, the emotions, concealed during the day, revealed themselves at night. what in others would have concluded in a vacant mien and colorless repose, in him expressed all that he was so sedulous to conceal. scarcely had robert placed his feet upon the floor when gratz opened his eyes, awakened partly by the sounds of rising and partly by his tumult of snores, and in an instant the flaccid mask descended over his face, and gratz was his apathetic self again. "well?" inquired robert. "you have said it," replied gratz; "it is well." "you have succeeded, then?" demanded robert breathlessly. "i believe so; but do not question me further just now. i want to see your uncle before i go." a few moments later the two presented themselves before the closed door leading to the apartment occupied by raikes, whom they fancied they could hear stirring about within. in answer to their raps, he opened the door and they entered. "what news?" demanded raikes. "the best, i hope; but i will not communicate it to you until to-morrow morning." "ah!" exclaimed raikes with manifest disappointment. "but," continued gratz, as he noted the expression on the face of the other, "at that time i fancy that i shall not only have solved the mystery but i will also secure the thief." "do you know him, then?" asked raikes. "you are wrong," replied gratz. "unless i am seriously mistaken, there are two." "two!" repeated raikes incredulously. "yes--but listen: i am anxious to hear the conclusion of that remarkable story you began last night." "but," objected raikes, "i have already told you all i know." "i am aware of that," answered the detective, "but your friend, the sepoy, will doubtless oblige you with the balance. arrange with him at breakfast-time for a continuation. i will return either to-night or to-morrow morning to hear it." "but----" began raikes. "do not refuse to do as i ask," urged gratz impressively. "it may be useful; i'm inclined to think it will." "very well," answered raikes. "i will do as you suggest." "and," continued gratz, "i need not assure you that if a living soul learns of my presence here last night, i can do nothing for you." "i understand," said raikes. "and i," added robert. with this gratz departed, and raikes prepared to make his appearance in the dining-room. advised of the intention of her brother to breakfast at the table, the spinster had hastened to precede him, and by the time raikes presented himself she had managed to bestow a couple of furtive biscuits in her pocket, and had devoured another couple, lavishly buttered, accompanied by a fairly liberal cut of beefsteak. consequently, when raikes conveyed his customary intimation that she was at liberty to begin, the spinster obediently proceeded to add a moderate breakfast to the one she had already enjoyed. trembling lest her brother would remark the developing suggestions of well-being which had resulted from her recent regimen, she welcomed with genuine relief the advent of the sepoy, to whom raikes transferred his speculative glance. "well!" exclaimed the sepoy, "you have had quite a siege, i hear." "i have," replied raikes shortly; then added with a sort of grim humor: "my physician has recommended a little diversion, and i have just thought of a simple way of following his advice." "what is that?" asked the sepoy. "i would like to present myself at the usual hour and hear the conclusion of the story, for i judge, from the predicament of prince otondo, that the end is not far off." "ah, you remember?" exclaimed the sepoy. "decidedly!" replied raikes. "very well, then," returned the other. "come at ten and i will gather the tangled threads together." during the balance of that day raikes devoted his powers of concentration to the consummation of the treatment to which he had subjected himself, and this, together with the prospect of the recovery of his property, resulted in a condition which made the visits of the astonished physician no longer necessary. with an eagerness intensified to a childish impatience, almost, by the vague suggestions of gratz that the story would be personally interesting, and exhausting his mind with futile speculations as to the manner of its application to the unnatural conditions which distressed him so, raikes at last concluded his contemplation of the clock, and promptly upon the stroke of ten, hastened from his room and hurried to the apartment occupied by the sepoy. seating himself in the chair indicated by his host, he shortly found that he was unable to avoid recalling his recent guilty appropriation of the diamond, and a degree of confusion, which he could not entirely disguise, manifested itself in his difficulty of adjusting his eyes to the inscrutable gaze of the sepoy. on this occasion the narrator, as hitherto, did not provide his auditor with a brilliant to look upon during the progress of the story--an omission that was radiantly repaired by the two lambent gems in the eyes of the former. upon these the shifting gaze of the restless listener finally fastened itself with a fascination which he found it impossible to resist, and the sepoy, with all the modulated lights and shadows of ardor, animation, lethargy, somnolence, peace, with which he complemented his sedative phrases, began: (_the conclusion of this interesting tale will be found on bosom no. , dickey series c_.) as dennis looked up from his reading, a pair of eyes of unclouded blue, vivid with interest and altogether friendly, met his animated glance. with alert intuition his sweet-faced auditor believed that she discovered a shadow of vexation in the ingenuous countenance of the reader. "what is it?" she asked. to dennis, in his absorption, it seemed impossible that the question could refer to anything else than the habitual disability at the end of each chapter, and he answered promptly: "'tis the way the dickey ends--to be concluded in series c--an' it's me here an' series c in baxter street, so i can't read the rest; it's too bad, so it is." "so it is," repeated the lady softly, with a dexterous parody of his concluding words, but with a subtle intimation in her manner that she did not consider the inconvenient termination such a misfortune, after all, and that it somehow suggested an alternative that was not displeasing. "do you want to hear the rest?" asked dennis frankly. "i do, indeed," replied his companion with an adroitly conveyed insinuation of disappointed expectation that seemed to place the responsibility of measuring to this agreeable emergency entirely upon dennis. the same degree of sensitiveness which leaves an irishman so open to offense, enables him, with equal celerity, to comprehend a hint, and dennis, when he realized that the lady understood that the continuation of the tale involved a subsequent reading, exclaimed, with a delicious paraphrase of sancho panza: "god bless the man who first invented '_continued in our next!_'" presently the one certain that her telepathy had not miscarried, and the other equally convinced that his reception of the message was accredited to him, the conversation was given an abrupt direction by an apparently alien question: "do you know anything about flowers?" asked his companion. "only the difference between a rose and a cauliflower," replied dennis with a twinkle in his eye, to which the lady responded with a shade of disappointment. "an' why flowers?" asked dennis. "listen!" answered the lady with a slight return of her original sadness. "eleven months ago i was left a widow. "my husband's estate consisted of a moderate amount of life insurance, a prosperous business, and no debts. "he was a florist. "the establishment is located in the heart of a very fashionable district. "there has scarcely been a function of the élite in this section which my husband has not supplied with floral decorations. "his taste was exquisite, and his taste was his undoing, for he added refinement to refinement until he began to lose sight of the practical side of existence. "by degrees he became as attenuated as some of the tendrils he cultivated with such absorption, and as frail as an orchid. "the intrusion of a pronounced scent was sufficient to induce a serious nervous disturbance, and he could no more endure disproportionate and sharp distinctions of color than a lapidary could tolerate a serious unevenness of facets. "i was compelled to paper his room with a delicate shade of lavender. "the furniture was stained a light buff, and the upholstering was a delicate cretonne livened by exquisite tracings of wisteria. "the carpet was light blue, surrounded by a border of deeper blue, lightly emphasized by suggestions of trailing arbutus. "despite all this," continued the lady sadly as she paused to enjoy an intentness of interest on the part of the bewildered dennis, so profound that the dickey backs had been permitted to fall unregarded to the ground, and their printed extravagances, by contrast with this unusual recital, relegated to the most prosaic of occurrences, "despite all these precautions, the most carefully guarded recesses are not entirely secure. "for one day an elaborately protected package arrived during my absence, and my husband opened it. "at once a pungent, overpowering sweetness filled the air, and the very surfeit of its fragrance threw my husband into a convulsion of delight which ended in a stupor so replete that we were able only to restore the poor man to consciousness by hypodermics of--what was to him a most violent stimulant--cambric tea." dennis looked his astonishment at these accumulating refinements, and in the pause that followed the narration of this last episode he inquired, with the appreciative hesitation of one who is reluctant to advance lest he destroy the dew-gemmed tracery of a fragile spider's web. "an' what kind of flowers did all this?" "cape jessamine," replied the lady; "and we were never able to discover who sent them. "his physicians claimed that his disorder was paralleled by similar disturbances instanced in pathological records, but that the contributing causes were different and that my husband's particular debility was not induced by his devotion to flowers but aggravated by it. "to further complicate matters, the physician assured me that to deprive the invalid of his floral diversions would be to remove his remaining impulse to continued existence. "he went on to say that he had reached the limit of his skill, and that nothing further was to be done than to surround the sufferer with placid considerations and neutral odors, and intimated that he disliked to contemplate the possible result of a second contact with cape jessamine. "in a short time it became evident that i possessed merely the essence of a husband, and one day, as he wafted--that's the word, for his step seemed to be almost devoid of specific gravity--so i repeat, one day, as he wafted to the room in which he usually experimented with his floral attenuations, i happened to be engaged in the dwelling adjoining the conservatory and into which it opened. "presently, my duties concluded, i proceeded in the direction taken by my husband. "as i advanced i grew momently conscious of a ravishing fragrance which seemed to pervade and invite the consciousness to all varieties of agreeable surrender. "ah!--in a moment i recognized this pungent delight: cape jessamine! "aware of the consequences to him should he inhale anything so transporting, i hastened forward. "the fragrance grew stronger as i hurried on. it seemed to envelop every delicate, fainting scent in the conservatory, and as i placed my hand upon the door-latch leading to the section where i was positive my husband would be found, i knew that i had traced the occasion to its source. "in another second i had opened the door, and there, a few feet away, lay my unfortunate husband. "i hurried to his side. "his countenance, which exhibited that singular placidity which sometimes comes with death, was as serene as a lily, and gave no evidence of the convulsion that must have ensued. "he was dead. "all about him, distributed with devilish malignity and criminal intent, were various clusters of the flowers that had transported him, literally." "my god!" exclaimed dennis. "what a situation!" "wasn't it?" exclaimed the widow. "it almost equals the story on the dickeys." "equals!" exclaimed dennis with profound conviction. "i don't know that i care to read the balance of the story after this. do you know the guilty party?" "i think so," answered the widow; "but you can judge for yourself as i proceed. "now follow me closely." there was no need of this advice, for dennis would not have missed a word for the world, and gazed upon the sweet-faced narrator with a sort of superstitious admiration as she continued: "since his death the patronage is larger than ever. "i now find myself confronted with what is equivalent to an embarrassment of riches on the one hand, and a famine of intelligent help on the other." at this statement dennis attempted not to appear too deeply interested. "i employ a manager, the one we have always had, who desires to become a partner in the business; but his proposition is handicapped by the character of the consideration he is willing to offer for such an interest. "in other words, he considers that a proposal of marriage is an equivalent for any financial objection i may suggest." despite his efforts, dennis looked troubled. the lady smiled and continued: "i received this proposition two months since. its suddenness surprised a plan which i have been perfecting for a long time. "in order to avoid any interruption to my purposes, i permitted the manager to believe that i was impressed with his offer, but desired a little time for consideration." "an' true, now," asked dennis with genuine irish impulse, "an' true, now, were you?" the lady smiled again. "wait," she urged, "you shall see. "i have never trusted this man. he is not only personally obnoxious to me, but i fear that i cannot rely upon his business integrity. "little by little, i have gathered together the threads of the business, and i now have a strong legal grip upon the situation, which enables me to decline this alliance with no possible jeopardy to the property. "but one consideration restrains me: i need a man of enterprise and address to succeed him. and now," she added with a simple, business-like directness, "i have a suggestion to offer: "you ransack baxter street to-morrow for dickey series c, and come with it to this address," and she placed a small card in his hand. "we can reach the end of the story, in which i am exceedingly interested, and when we have set our minds at rest on that point, i will give myself the pleasure of listening to whatever recommendations you may offer as to your fitness to take the place of the retiring management." "oh!" exclaimed dennis as he went through an absurd pantomime of punching himself, "an' is it awake you are, dennis muldoon?" at this the lady, with a cordial smile, indicated that the interview was at an end, and as she turned to depart, said: "you will come, then, to-morrow night?" and dennis, hat in hand, with an unmistakable deference of attitude and demeanor, cheerily responded with a query that required no further answer than a rosy acknowledgment: "will a duck swim?" chapter viii on the succeeding morning it seemed to the foreman of the shipping department of the publishers that his new marker did not manifest the same enthusiasm for his work which had distinguished his earlier efforts. it looked to him as if dennis handled his paint-brush with the mien of one who considered his occupation a diversion rather than a means of livelihood. as the day advanced and dennis located an "e" in the spot designed for an "i," and concluded an address with detroit in place of duluth, the foreman was more than ever convinced that something was wrong, and asked the young man if he was not feeling well. "sure!" exclaimed dennis, a degree too cheerily, the foreman thought, in view of his delinquencies with the brush, "sure; but why do you ask?" "well," returned the foreman, "iv'ry thing's wid you this mornin' but yure head," and he pointed out several blunders which dennis had made. "sure, an' i'm sorry for that," he said with blushing contriteness; "it will not happen again." the foreman, however, had told the truth only in part, for dennis had left not only his head behind him, but a considerable portion of his heart. all day he continued to think about the sweet-faced woman who had listened with such gratifying attention to the story, and more than once, in his agreeable preoccupation, had he noted an impulse to substitute the address she had provided for the one demanded by the shipping invoices. "to-night at eight," he repeated to himself over and over, like the refrain of a popular ballad, invariably concluding, by way of chorus: "oh, i'll be there; oh, i'll be there." therefore, as soon as his day's duties were over, dennis speeded to baxter street in search of dickey series c. after a foray in a half dozen separate establishments, where neckties, collars and all the accessories were offered in place of what he required, he succeeded at last in securing the missing series. at the stag he was so full of emotion and anticipation that there was little room for such a substantial consideration as supper, so, dismissing that he proceeded to his room, and after indulging in the luxury of one of the few genuine shirts which remained to him, he anticipated his appointment a half hour by boarding the elevated, which carried him shortly to a point within three blocks of his destination. in order that he might not appear too anxious or come into a premature collision with social usage, dennis obliged himself to walk slowly in the vicinity indicated by the address. the general aspect of his immediate surroundings looked promising and offered a comfortable assurance that his visit would not introduce him to a disappointment. at last, from the opposite side of the street, he was able to measure, with an approving glance, a prepossessing dwelling of four stories and a mansard. the front was of brown stone and differed but little from its neighbors, but to dennis it seemed that it possessed an identity which was largely the recollection of the lingering presence of its owner. directly alongside, a large conservatory extended rearward an indefinite length. the glittering front was picturesque with clusters of ingeniously disposed electric lights within, which revealed to advantage a mass of varied plants and flowers in prosperous abundance. charmed by the glow and color, and stimulated by the dancing lights, dennis presented himself "on the minute" before the door of the adjacent dwelling. in response to his ring, a trim, bright-eyed maid appeared, who, accepting his name in place of his card with an amiable lack of surprise, instructed him to enter, which he did, with alert, observing eyes. although dennis was not much of a judge of the elaborate surroundings in which he found himself, he figured it out that the business of a florist must be a profitable one, and speculated, with wondering calculation, upon the length of time and the degree of application demanded to enable him to possess similar advantages. acting upon the parting instructions of the widow, dennis had already canvassed his eligible points and was prepared to give an account of himself that was little short of eulogy. at this juncture in his reflections the hangings at the parlor entrance parted with a musical swish that was suggestive of feminine approach, and the widow advanced into the room, with one slender hand extended in cordial informality. if this woman had seemed charming to him in the park, she was certainly bewitching now. the street costume in which she had first appeared was replaced by a gown of some clinging white fabric, which shimmered the light with a thousand blending radiations and fitted to every movement and contour like an embrace conscious of its privileges. a delicate collar of filmy lace surrounded her neck like the intricate etchings of frost upon frost, and this was fastened with a solitary pearl as chaste as the exquisite skin with which it managed to offer only the faintest contrast. her head, crowned with a wavy nimbus of titian auburn, was superbly set upon her fine, symmetrical shoulders. as she flashed upon the vision of this palpitating young man through the parting curtains, like a dramatic climax or the goddess of reward, or denunciation, she seemed to dennis, whose mythology was centralized from that moment, like another aphrodite churned into lovely being by the sea. at the entrance of this beautiful woman dennis had risen to his feet, and stood for a moment, offering, with his helpless silence, a compliment whose genuineness she thoroughly enjoyed. when at last his tongue resumed its function, dennis, like many another with even more self-possession and experience, uttered just the words which were intended for concealment, as he stammered: "an' it's no wonder, at all, at all." the exclamation, however, was barely above a whisper, and it was only by following the motion of his lips and a shrewd intuition as to the rest which enabled the widow to realize what he had uttered, as she asked, smiling to note that the young man had neglected to release her hand: "and what is it that is no wonder?" at this question, dennis, deserted for the moment by his customary adroitness, was unable to do anything else than respond, without evasion or subterfuge: "well, i was thinkin' it's no wonder the manager wanted to go into the business." "ah!" laughed the widow with genuine enjoyment and a sensible realization of the spirit which urged his exclamation and its explanation, "that is irish, i am sure"; and with that dennis began to feel more at home, although still subdued by the accumulation of practical beatitudes. "tell me," he said, when each was agreeably established, dennis upon a comfortable divan and his listener in a chair which supplied its fascinating occupant with a sort of solicitous support, which dennis assured himself would be poetry realized if he could be permitted to share, "tell me, shall i recite my abilities first or read the story?" "suppose," suggested his hearer, "we hear the story first and reserve your catalogue as a climax, like the dessert after the banquet." "all right!" assented dennis, as he produced a circular bundle, from which he extracted his absurd medium. "one moment," suggested his hearer, as she arranged an electric cluster in a manner that enabled her to witness every alternation of expression in that mobile countenance--"now." withdrawing his gaze from the sweet face of his auditor with a reluctance sufficiently marked to advance him several leagues further in her good graces, dennis, directing his attention to the closely-printed dickey, began, with racy irish emphasis, as follows: * * * * * "with a bound the prince swept aside the curtains and reached his room. "advancing to the gong, which was suspended by silken cords near the divan, he struck it sharply several times. "there was no response. "he repeated his summons with the added vigor of his irritation at the delay. "only the sullen echo answered. "with impatient incredulity the prince was about to hasten to the ante-room in which his faithful sepoy had always been found, when a strange trembling seized his limbs. "a confusion obscured his mind; his sight grew dim. "alarmed at this unusual sensation, the prince asserted himself against its depressing influence with all his customary resolution, and was finally able to reach the ante-room. "it was deserted! "he hastened to the passageway outside. "not a soul was visible; an unearthly stillness prevailed. "'ah!' he cried with sudden realization, 'my messenger has been too liberal with his news; they have heard of the british advance.' "thirty vital minutes had passed, and away in the dim distance an animated spot of red and gleam began to emerge. "again that inexplicable numbness and alarming physical weakness. "with trembling hands he supported himself along the walls and finally reached the apartment in which he held his mimic court. "a burning thirst began to parch his lips and throat; he hastened to the carafe in which the water for his use was usually held. "it was empty. "'ah!' the prince groaned aloud; the veins of his forehead knotted; a sharp, strained look appeared in his eyes, and he shivered with a mortal chill. "a stinging, sharp surge attracted his attention to his right wrist. "it was swollen beyond its usual size, and a bluish discoloration surrounded the livid line where the dagger point had penetrated. "he placed his hands together and noted their disproportion, considered the wounded arm, and then--he remembered. "'the dagger!' he gasped, and a new horror charged his bloodshot eyes as he recalled the devilish craft employed by the natives to envenom their weapons. "'poisoned! and by lal lu!' "at this thought the malignant light of a fearful determination illumed his features and revealed their frightful distortion. "'i shall not--go--alone!' he sighed, and repossessing himself of the fatal dagger, which he had cast upon the table on entering the room, he rose from the chair, looked with fearful purpose upon the curtains which disguised the entrance to the secret passageway from which he had emerged but a short time before, took one step forward, and then fell inertly on to the couch from which he had risen in the excitement of his malignant impulse. "'ha!' the faint sound of an alien air smote his ears. "'the bagpipes!' he muttered; 'the scots, the hellish highlanders.' "nearer and nearer the lively air was borne to him. "his raging pulse thrummed through his palpitating veins a rhythmic, mocking accompaniment to the swelling music. "his frame stiffened and stretched as though subjected to the distortion of the ancient rack. "the agony was unendurable. with a final conscious effort he reached for the poisoned weapon to bring his sufferings to a summary conclusion, but his failing will could no longer vitalize his palsied arm, and with a gasp that seemed to rend his tortured body, to the weird orchestration of that refrain which was destined in the near future to herald such joy at lucknow, 'the campbells are coming, hi-ay, hi-ay!' the spirit of prince otondo returned to him who gave it, to be put into what repair was possible for such a proposition. "as the last writhing rigor ceased to convulse his frame, the prince lurched forward, and his body collapsed into an attitude not unlike that of one engaged in some dejecting reflection. "by a singular nervous caprice he had raised his hands to his face, which he had clutched in his agony, and his elbows rested upon the table in grewsome support of his head. "this ghastly calm, however, of which he was the center, was to be interrupted. "a trumpet blast sounded without the gate; a clamor of voices filled the air. "the bagpipes, in anticipation of some show of resistance, had ceased their stirring strains; within, the silence of an ambuscade prevailed. "suddenly, through the unguarded entrance rushed a body of red-coated soldiers; but their advance was unopposed; the courtyard was abandoned. "one danger alone remained--an attack from within. but there was none to receive the detested intruders but the pulseless master, from whom all majesty had departed. "over the grounds they swarmed, through the doors, along the passageways. "abreast of the leading officer appeared the turbaned head and white-robed figure of ram lal. "as the two entered the apartment and gazed upon its silent occupant, with the same impulse both came to a standstill, impressed by the unnatural attitude and the chill undemonstration of the richly-clad figure. "'it is the prince!' cried ram lal. "at once the officer turned to command the curious detachment which had followed them to remain without, and placing a sergeant on guard in the ante-room, he resumed his investigation of the dead man. "he had not seen the quick approach of ram lal, nor the rapid movement of his searching hand. "it was over in an instant, but in that instant ram lal had assured himself of the presence of the precious jacket beneath the cambric folds. "'he is dead!' he cried to the officer, as the latter approached to discover some reason for this shocking sight. "'he is still warm,' exclaimed the other, as he placed his hand, with careless familiarity, upon the cheek of the prince. "'let us see,' he continued, 'if his heart still beats.' "as the officer knelt in order to accommodate his head to the leaning position of the body, ram lal stood as one transfixed. "his hand crept slowly to the dagger upon the table, which he grasped with an expression of desperate determination as the officer placed his ear close to the riches concealed beneath the tunic of the prince. "kneeling thus, with scarcely a hand-breadth between him and wealth such as he had never dared to dream of, with the menacing figure of the merchant directly above him, prepared to strike at the least indication of suspicion of the jacket and its priceless contents, the pair presented a striking tableau of the sardonic jest in which fate sometimes indulges in providing such nearness of opportunity and such a threat to its embrace. "'there is something thick about the body!' exclaimed the kneeling officer. "ram lal crept nearer. "'yes,' he replied with a stifled voice, as he shot a quick glance toward the curtained doorway, on the other side of which the sergeant was posted, 'yes, the prince was of a phthisical tendency. "'he was compelled to protect himself against inequalities of temperature.' "at this instant the quick eye of the merchant detected the livid scratch on the dead man's arm. 'ha!' he cried, with an intonation which caused the officer to forego his examination for the moment and regard the merchant attentively. "'here!' cried the latter, pointing to the discolored and swollen wrist, 'here! there is no need to look for further sign of life; his heart will beat no more. this dagger has been inserted in the poison sac of the cobra--and here is the result!' "as the officer rose to regard the wound, and understood its significance, he shuddered and looked upon the hapless heir-apparent with a sort of bluff compassion, but he made no further attempt to pursue his investigations, and ram lal was spared one sanguinary entry upon the book of his recording angel. "'at least,' said the officer, as if in continuation of some unexpressed idea, 'let us do ourselves the honor of disposing the prince upon his bed'; and ram lal supporting the head and shoulders and the officer grasping the feet, they carried the stiffened form to the bed. "'may i ask the privilege,' said ram lal, 'of composing the features and the body of the prince?' "'surely,' replied the officer, as he bestowed a departing glance upon this last descendant of the long line of moghuls with a degree of deference that was the result of his military training and his own subjection to discipline, 'surely he is sadly in need of such a service.' "for his arms, although disengaged somewhat by their efforts, and the clutch of the distorted fingers, though not so distended, still pointed upward in a sort of eerie, rigid salutation to the subdued watchers. "the eyes, too, which but a short time before had been so vivid with the contentions of restraint and desire, stared with a ghastly lack of speculation. "as the officer turned to leave ram lal undisturbed in the performance of this last duty to the dead, the merchant, presently assured that he would be free from intrusion for a time sufficient for his ostensible purposes, approached the body, tore aside the delicate fabric, which covered the breast, and with surprising dexterity released the fastenings which held the jacket to the body, wrenched it away with desperate haste, and in an incredibly short time had secured this treasure-trove around his own loins beneath the folds of his linen. "then, with a grin of malignant triumph, he murmured: 'this is more speedy, o prince, than pebbles for diamonds--and now for lal lu.' "with this the merchant darted to the hangings from which the prince had issued with such desperate purpose, cast them ruthlessly aside, hurried along the passageway, shouting as he speeded: 'lal lu--lal lu!' "a joyful cry responded. "'here, father, here!' and lal lu, who had recognized her father's call, rushed toward the entrance just as the merchant crossed its threshold, and in a moment she was enfolded in his protecting embrace." * * * * * "is that all?" asked raikes as the sepoy paused. "isn't it enough?" laughed the narrator. "the villain punished, the righteous rewarded, the maiden rescued. it seems to me that all the proprieties are preserved." "true," assented raikes. "you are to be congratulated upon your consistency. but as usual your art is a bit too refined. you still discontinue with a question unsolved." "name it," replied the sepoy; "perhaps i can clear up the difficulty at once." "well," returned raikes, "there is all that wealth concealed about the person of ram lal; i am interested to know if he retained it, to what use he put it. if it is inconsistent in your narrative to reply to these questions, waive your formalities for once." "why not?" laughed the sepoy. "still, i can only approximate to your request. there was a report that ram lal and his daughter disappeared shortly after the raid upon the kutub. "it is also said that a dealer in precious stones opened an establishment on the strand in london, and that his description corresponded in so many points with that of ram lal that it is safe to infer that the twain are identical." "that is better," sighed raikes. "i will assume that the report is correct since it relieves my mind on one point, at any rate. however, there is one question more: can you tell me how that substitution was made?" "pebbles for diamonds?" "yes." "to do so requires another story, which i cannot tell you to-night," replied the sepoy. "how about to-morrow evening?" "if that's the only way?" queried raikes. "it is," the sepoy assured him. "i will be here, then," said raikes, "but i must leave you now; i will see you at breakfast-time." with this raikes departed and made his way along the dim passages to his room. arrived at this point, and taking his customary precautions for the night, raikes prepared to retire. since the process involved such little attention to detail in its almost aboriginal readiness, it was not long before raikes was tucked away in his uneasy rest. possibly a half hour later a series of labored snores announced his successful escape from the disturbing realities of the day and his stentorian entrance upon more fictitious complications. just across the hallway, in the room occupied by his nephew, conditions were more animated, for robert, giving his admiring and somewhat incredulous attention to the alert gratz, sat with his eyes bright with the acknowledgment of the purport of the speaker. just a trace of excitement appeared in the manner of the detective. he had witnessed the return of the sleepy raikes to his room, and was relieved to be able to assure himself that the miser was altogether unaware of his presence. gratz was about to provide himself with the confirmation of a theory which he dared not discuss in advance. the possibilities of failure were numerous enough to provide him with the element of fascination, and its bizarre unfamiliarity piqued his imagination. if he was not mistaken in his calculations, he would be in possession, before morning, of some interesting data which would make a startling addition to the criminal records to which his past activities had contributed. the suggestion which stimulated him was the last which would occur to a wholly sensible man and the first which would be likely to present itself to a genius for speculation and morbid analysis. consequently silence upon these somewhat abstruse reasonings was his safeguard against ridicule in the event of failure. however, he had intimated to robert that events would transpire during the night which would be illuminative, but he could not be persuaded to indicate to the curious youth just what to expect. whatever was to occur, robert was assured that he would witness; in fact, he would be a necessary feature to the mysterious plans of the detective. stimulated, therefore, by these occult hints and the lively prospect they introduced, the young man developed a clandestine emotion of weird anticipation, which he readily accredited to an unsuspected fitness for intrigue. gratz, in the meantime, having primed the young enthusiast, maintained an irritating silence, and when an hour had passed in this spiritless fashion robert was electrified by the solitary word "now!" from the lips of the enigmatical gratz. unable to comprehend the significance of the subdued exclamation, robert nevertheless followed the detective with confiding docility, and the pair hastened down a flight of stairs which conducted them to the main hallway. from this gratz proceeded to a door directly beneath the stairway which they had just traversed, and which opened upon another short series of steps that concluded in the cellar. descending these, the two hastened along the chill floor and presently paused by the main coal-bin in which the widow stored her fuel. with an impressive injunction to silence, gratz indicated the course which robert was expected to pursue, and in the recess created by a flight of disused stairs the two secreted themselves. it was pitch dark. neither of the watchers could see the other, and communication was only maintained by the reassuring pressure of the hand of the detective upon the arm of the excited robert. at last the latter ventured to inquire in a whisper what it was that gratz expected to discover. "the solution of the puzzle," replied the other in the same tone. "the thief?" asked robert. "no, the accessory," was the reply; "but do not ask any further questions; you will be treated to the surprise of your life in a little while, unless i am much mistaken." scarcely had the detective uttered these words when the faint click of a door-latch was borne to their ears from the direction of the stairway they had just descended. the next moment a dim ray of light flickered into the darkness, and a figure vaguely shadowed its grotesque disproportion on the walls just behind as it crept, with cautious lightness, step by step down the stairs. at last it reached the floor and moved in the direction of the bin. the light, which was furnished by a candle, was raised in the air at about the height of a man's face, and directly behind it a man's face appeared. "great heavens!" whispered robert as the strange figure advanced, "it is uncle!" "steady, now!" whispered the detective; "not a word or you will ruin everything." revealed by the weird light, the miserable countenance of the miser had never looked so contemptible. the sputtering flame seemed to have the power to betray all the miserly emotions and mean parsimonies usually concealed behind its starved pallor. the lips had fallen inanely apart with an absurd look of silly wonder. the eyes were wide open and stared directly ahead with the most unnatural expression or lack of it that robert had ever beheld in the visage of mortal man. even the detective, accustomed as he was to all sorts of uncommon spectacles, could not repress a slight disposition to shudder. one bony hand grasped the candlestick, and the other held some sort of round object, to which robert directed his attention. by the sudden motion he made the detective knew that the young man had discovered what this object was, and pressed his arm warningly. _it was one of the canvas bags from the recess in the wall._ just before the opening of the bin his uncle paused, like a speculative phantom, as if to consider its next doleful move. his entire countenance, upon nearer view, like the canvas which the painter has roughly outlined, was suggestive of anything, according to the fancy of the beholder. upon this spiritless blank robert depicted, with a morbid genius and the stimulation of his unnatural surroundings, all that was reminiscent of his uncle's littleness. but this uneasy transit from the room upstairs to the bin below, the vacant, irresponsible ensemble, the inscrutable determination to fulfill some strange obligation, enforced by what influence or moral unrest he could not tell, culminated in the mind of the young man in the only possible explanation: his uncle was engaged in the unaware execution of some fixed idea. he was responding to an uncontrollable, secret impulse, and robert, guiding himself by the touch of his hand in order to locate his lips as close to the ear of the detective as he might, whispered with conviction: "somnambulist!" "no," replied gratz--"worse; be silent." amazed and wondering what could possibly be worse, and rummaging through the garret of all his unusual experiences, robert could find nothing to correspond to this inexplicable phenomenon; and it was with a sort of superstitious distraction that he beheld his uncle discard his transient hesitation and proceed with ghostly purpose to the opening of the bin. advancing, raikes placed the candle upon the bed of coals and began to unfasten the cord which secured the mouth of the bag which he carried. robert had never beheld anything so ghastly as his uncle's eyes, intent but unseeing; nor so frightful as his motions, direct but unintelligent, like those of a midnight marionette controlled by invisible strings. in a few moments his efforts were successful, and the incredulous robert beheld his uncle invert his precious burden and send a clinking, intrinsic shower of coin to the floor. apparently this familiar sound had penetrated in some degree to his inner consciousness. an expression of vague uneasiness, of troubled irresolution, clouded his eyes, but this semi-intellection and its transient phasis subsided to his original apathy as, with a sigh of helpless impersonality, he began to collect, with a silly, childish selection, as if to balance, by the size of the individual coals, the proportion of the discharged gold, handfuls of these dusky diamonds and substitute the sordid heaps in the bag. this weird absurdity concluded, raikes, repossessing himself of the candle, turned wearily and retraced the path of his ghostly journey. in a little while his shuffling footfalls had concluded with the doorway at the top of the cellar stairs, the latch was heard to click into place, and all was still. "now," whispered gratz with concentrated emphasis, "not a word--not a sound from this moment. we have seen the accessory, now for the principal." in reply robert pressed his hand upon the arm of the detective to indicate that his instructions were understood and would be obeyed, and in a silence through which he felt that his heart-throbs must certainly be audible, the watchers awaited developments. the obscurity and silence which prevailed, and the vault-like chill and dampness, harmonized so fully with the unnatural spectacle which he had just witnessed, and the grim expectation of something untoward still to come, that robert was prepared to reconsider his views of the earlier portion of the evening as to his fitness for secret investigation and criminal analysis. he no longer felt the exultation of this association with relentless and cunning pursuit, and began to wonder how any normal human being could adopt a profession which embraced all these cheerless handicaps when there were so many occupations into which a little sunlight and geniality penetrated now and then. he had about decided that such industry was the manifestation of a disease, and that his silent companion was a desperate incurable, when his diagnosis was suddenly interrupted. the detective pressed the shoulders of his companion, communicating a slight impulse toward the opposite end of the cellar, and robert, in obedience to its intimation, turned and beheld an approaching light. it had the unreal appearance of a detached eye of some malignant cyclops, glancing in a ghastly, bodiless way, from object to object, and concentrating itself at last in a definite course along the floor. to witness the approach of this stealthy, gleam, without visible means of support or guidance, caused the young man's flesh to creep and his heart to throb almost to the point of suffocation. if it requires experience to become a successful narrator, robert was certainly in a way to accumulate a budget of startling data. nothing, hitherto, in his life could explain the marvel, but gratz, with trained certainty, knew that he gazed upon the disk of a dark lantern which, exposing all else to view, shielded, with its distracting flash, the object of this midnight quest. with an assurance that indicated a definite purpose, the figure at last stood within the door of the coal bin. at once the searching gleam began to dance hither and thither upon the floor, and finally, with unerring pause, fell directly upon the heap of glittering coin. "ah!" exclaimed a voice. in its concentrated emphasis there was the unmistakable accent of certitude, of expectation gratified. the next instant the light was placed upon the floor with a tilt that sent its rays upon the treasure, and the unknown began to collect the gold with oblivious haste and bestow it in some receptacle near-by. suddenly robert felt his companion move forward noiselessly, at the same time he recognized the intimation of a detaining hand; and then he stood alone. scarcely had he adjusted himself to these startling conditions when he heard a sharp, metallic snap, and beheld a sudden flood of light directed upon the kneeling figure. there was a cry of desperate amazement, the quick clink of scattering coin, and the next instant a wild, rage-distorted face shot into view. "my god!" cried robert. it was the sepoy! "hands up!" commanded a voice which the young man recognized as that of gratz; "hands up, or you are a dead man. there are five bullets in reserve for you if you budge from where you stand." with an imprecation that was charged with malignant venom, the sepoy looked upon the gleaming barrel of a pistol which was advancing into the light, recognized his helplessness, and with snarling obedience elevated his arms in the air. "robert!" called gratz. the young man, trembling, hurried to the opening. "get behind me," directed gratz; "put your hand in my coat pocket; you'll find a pair of bracelets there for our friend here." with shaking hands robert followed these sharply delivered instructions, and withdrew a set of handcuffs, gaping at the fastenings to receive a pair of guilty wrists. "now move around to the rear of this gentleman," continued the relentless gratz, "and snap them on his wrists." somehow robert managed to obey these commands. he reached to the uplifted hands of the sepoy, embraced his wrists with the handcuffs, and closed them with a snap. (to be continued on bosom no. , series c.) unknown to himself, dennis, stimulated by the lively succession of incidents, had spurred his enunciation in a racy adjustment to these animated conditions. his eyes appeared to have appropriated the sparkle which had intensified the glance of the sepoy of whom he had just read, and when he arrived at the familiar legend at the bottom of the bosom, his expression, vivid with all these communicated emotions, was duplicated in the sweet, absorbed face of his bewitching listener, who, in order the better to follow his rapid utterance, leaned, with the exquisite intoxication of her presence, in rapt nearness to the reader. consequently, when dennis looked up from his reading, he was transported along the highway of a sympathetic glance into deeps of dazzling blue. for a moment he abandoned himself to the enchanting witchery with the dreamful enjoyment of the voluptuary inhaling the odors of a scented bath. he seemed to be on the best of terms with some well-disposed harlequin. scarcely had the excitement of one series of events developed to its climax when he was whisked to another. his providence was working overtime in his behalf, and being at heart sound and genuine, the weight of his obligations to all these auspices warned him not to be too prodigal with his privileges; so, with an effort, the stress of which communicated some of its rigors to his countenance, he closed his eyes for one ascetic moment and came bravely to earth again. suspecting something of the nature of his confusion, as a lovely woman will, and secretly applauding his undemonstrative deference, which, in the cynical atmosphere to which she was habituated, came to her like a refreshing zephyr, the widow asked him with an engaging smile of encouragement: "of what were you thinking, mr. muldoon?" "mr. muldoon!" he repeated to himself with an endeavor to reflect the intonation of personal distinction which issued so entrancingly from the cupid's bow of a mouth. he had not been so ceremoniously addressed since he knew not when, and never realized that his homely name had such music in it. "oh!" he thought, "if she would only say 'dennis,' it would be like grand opera." "why," replied dennis with simple frankness. "i was thinking, for one thing--for one thing"--but encouraged by her smiling invitation he stammered--"how beautiful you are!" and added to himself, or it looked as though he might express his sentiments that way: "there, you've done it!" "ah!" exclaimed his companion, with a rosy enjoyment of this unstudied situation and frank appreciation, "and what was the other?" "i don't know how to tell you the other," answered dennis. then with an unreflective inspiration: "did you ever read about launcelot and guinevere?" "ye-yes," was the apprehensive answer. "well," continued dennis with a naïve remembrance only of the chivalry of this idyllic indiscretion, "when i look at you i can understand how a knight could battle for a queen." there was silence for a moment, but in the interval the lady did not laugh, though her eyes were bright as she said: "you are a strange boy." "oh!" cried dennis, "tell me, have i offended? i would not do that for the world." "i am sure of that," replied the widow, "and i believe that you mean what you say." "oh, i do, i do!" exclaimed dennis impulsively; then, with a realization of the thin surface over which he was making such rapid strides despite the danger signals of conventionality, and with a diplomacy born of his native good sense, he glided, with cheerful celtic sagacity, to safer footing by asking abruptly: "may i recommend myself"--as if he had not already done so--"for the position you offer?" "ah!" exclaimed the widow, from whom no alternation of his mobile countenance seemed to escape, "it is your turn now; i must not receive all the honors." "well," replied dennis, altogether aware of the graceful courtesy of this exquisite woman, and constituted by nature, if not by past association, to accord it due appreciation, "well, there isn't much to say, but here's my outfit: "i am sorry to have to begin badly. i don't know anything about flowers. i can't tell you, even, the difference between a shamrock and a clover." "all that can be easily remedied," his listener reassured him; "but proceed." "but there's one thing i'm sure about," continued dennis. "you can rely upon me, an' that's better." "it is, indeed," answered the widow. "i am anxious to do the best i can for myself," resumed dennis. "i have just one way of doing it, and that is to do the best i can for others." "that is real business principle," exclaimed his companion, "and very rare. what else?" "i guess that's about all," answered dennis, "an' it don't sound so very much, does it?" "more than you think," answered the widow. "now listen to me: "i need such service as i hope from you very much. would you like to come and help me here?" "oh!" cried dennis. "i am answered," responded his companion, "when can you come?" "at once!" cried dennis--"or no, wait a bit; that wouldn't be fair to my present employer. but i can tell him to look out for somebody else right away; surely he can fill my place within a week. suppose i say next monday?" "very well, that will suit," answered the widow; "but you have not asked me what your salary will be." dennis blushed, and his blush was appreciated. to enjoy the genial inspiration of such an association would be a perquisite which, other things being only approximately even, would repair any possible shortage. "will twenty dollars a week and your board satisfy you for the present?" dennis held his breath and pictured the contrast. his present employment brought him just ten dollars and the association of a barkeeper--would it satisfy him? however, he managed to say, without too great a show of emotion: "it is more than i expected." "well, then, that point is settled," said the widow with a brisk business air, which provided such a sharp contrast to her delightful womanly qualities and caused dennis to wonder at the graceful alternation of the one with the other. "now as to board: in the rear of the conservatory is a suite of rooms as cozy as any young man could wish. at the end of the week i expect to have them vacated. "they are occupied just now by the manager, but he has already been notified through my attorney, and all will be in readiness for you by next monday. "it has been somewhat difficult to make him comprehend my purpose; it is so different from what he expected. he is incautious enough to demand a reason." "there is one," ventured dennis boldly, "if i may venture to suggest it." "surely!" replied the widow, remarking dennis curiously. "well," replied the young man as he recalled the astonishing array of details surrounding the death of the æsthetic proprietor, "just enclose him a note with two words in it." "and those?" queried the widow as dennis paused. "cape jessamine." for a space dennis feared that he had offended. a shade of depression darkened the lovely features before him, but his companion looked into his apprehensive eyes reassuringly as she said: "you have penetration." his momentary embarrassment, however, introduced another perturbation, for in glancing away for an instant to reassemble himself, so to speak, his eyes fell upon the clock, which at that very moment chimed the hour of eleven. this was startling! dennis was familiar enough with social usage, or, at least, had the practical good sense to realize that he had exceeded the limits of good taste by an hour, and began to make disconcerted preparations for departure. perceiving his embarrassment, his companion relieved him with genial tact by asking: "and what about bosom no. ? i want to hear the rest of that story." "ah!" exclaimed dennis, brightening, "when shall it be?" "how will wednesday evening suit?" suggested the widow. and dennis, with a mien which plainly indicated that he considered the time represented in the space that must elapse between the delightful present and the evening appointed embodied his views of a brief eternity, assured the widow that he would be on hand, and added: "i will not read a line until then." "leave the story here, then, and i will put it away until you make your appearance. i promise, too, that i will not read it in the meantime," and the widow received the remaining bosoms from dennis with an extravagant show of gravity, which caused them both to laugh, in view of its absurd occasion, as she bestowed them in a music rack and turned to conduct him to the entrance. "good-by!" she said, and once more extended her hand, which dennis received with an unmistakable indication of his appreciation of the exceptional favor. "good-by!" he responded as he prepared to descend the steps, "good-by!" and added to himself, with a fervor which conveyed some intimation of his sentiments if it did not suggest his words: "an' may the saints preserve you!" chapter ix when dennis retired for the night at the stag, his transit from his room, which had never seemed so contracted as now, to the land of nod was somewhat delayed by reason of the exhilarating conditions through which he had just passed. toward midnight, however, his pulse had resumed its normal, and the young man, reaching his drowsy destination at last, began a series of the most surprising horticultural experiments until, what with orchids as big as a barrel, and geraniums which could be reached only by a ladder, he had converted the silvery strand of the dreamful domain into a forest of atrocious color and floral monstrosity. awakening on the succeeding morning, dennis, accepting the sense of general lassitude which oppressed him as an indication of the arduous nature of his efforts in his dreams, began to prepare for the activities of the day. on this occasion he was compelled to attire himself in the shirt which he had worn on the occasion of his visit the evening before, since his remaining bosoms, along with his heart, were in the possession of the beautiful widow. but the extravagance of such indulgence did not alarm him now. under the circumstances, what did a shirt more or less matter? was he not about to be admitted into paradise and receive twenty dollars per week besides? "shirt, ha!" he exclaimed with a touch of celtic wit; "it's a robe of white i want." however, he compromised on a new necktie, and almost ventured the length of patent leathers. stimulated by the prospect of all this beatitude, dennis proceeded to the dining-room and revived the spirit of the discouraged waiter by ordering a liberal breakfast. at the conclusion of the meal he further celebrated his disposition to mortgage providence by the bestowal of a gratuity moderate enough to renew the waiter's original unflattering estimation. had his father witnessed this imprudence he would have been prepared to believe that dennis was under the influence of a danseuse, and the proportions of the breakfast could only have indicated a determination to commit suicide by repletion. on his way to the street dennis paused to inform the barman of his intended departure. as an indication of his sentiments at this announcement, the barman, who was engaged in the mixture of a mysterious decoction, said, as he poured an amber-colored fluid into the glass: "this wan is fur grief at the goin', an' this wan"--pouring from another bottle--"is fur good luck when ye git there," and he pushed the mixture toward dennis. but the young irishman, remembering his recent experience, declined with thanks. "no?" queried the barman. "well, an' that's not a bad idea at all. it's the right sthart fur a bad day an' a bad sthart fur a right wan. 'tis th' divil's own way av showin' wan's sintimints." then, reaching for the glass, he added: "i'll do th' honors fur th' two av us"; and with the singular tendency, so often noted under such circumstances, to swallow with haste that which it required such trouble to prepare, the barman bolted the contents of the glass and looked his appreciation through moist eyes. as dennis neared the establishment of his employer, he recalled his obligation. he must begin the day by informing the foreman of his changed intentions. he disliked the idea of the possible friction involved in the performance of this disagreeable duty, but there seemed to be no other way out of the dilemma. his announcement, however, was to be less embarrassing than he anticipated. his providence was about to take a short nap. as he approached the foreman, he discovered that individual, several degrees less breezy than usual, engaged in an animated conversation with a young man whose prevailing expression was so penitential that dennis, with prompt celtic intuition, decided that he was gazing upon his predecessor in office. he was assured of this by the glance of belligerent appraisement with which the young fellow surveyed him from head to foot, in response to some suggestive indication from the foreman. he seemed, to the apprehensive eyes of dennis, to be calculating his chances in the event of a physical contest. and this recalled what the foreman had said about his biceps. "you want to see me?" queried the latter with an expression in which the sunshine seemed overdue. "yes," answered dennis as his employer stepped aside to hear what he had to say. as dennis proceeded the look of perplexity which he had noted upon the face of his listener seemed to give way to one of unmistakable relief, and when dennis had stated his case he exclaimed: "shure, now, it's an aisy way out av a bad muss, so it is. here, phil!" he shouted, turning to the young fellow in the background, who had witnessed this brief interview with scowling interest, "here, you two can t'row th' gloves down an' shake; muldoon here wants to hand yure job back to ye." at this announcement, the disfavor in the countenance of the other disappeared and was replaced by an expression which indicated that he regarded such liberality as something in the nature of a freak. some evidences of his debauch still clung to him. his eyes were moist and heavy-lidded; his lips dry and tremulous, and the hand which he extended to dennis shook somewhat. "come, now!" exclaimed the foreman, "that's well over"; and addressing the one he called phil he added: "now get to work." dennis looked his astonishment. he had not calculated upon such a prompt acceptance of his resignation. he felt that he presented an absurd appearance, and that the foreman did not appear to his usual bluff advantage. "come this way," said the latter to dennis, who followed him into his office with a strange sinking at heart. "i did not mean to hand over everything right off!" exclaimed dennis. "well," replied the foreman, "phil's wife came here early this mornin' an' put up a few tears, an' phil made all sorts av promises; an' you have no children an' he has, an--oh, the divil!" cried the foreman, weary of the series of explanations in which he was getting involved. "i can't kape th' two av ye, an' phil there is an ould hand at th' paint-pot." "then," cried dennis, "you mean that i must leave at once?" "that's about th' size of it." "why," exclaimed dennis, indignant at this injustice, "i tried to be fair with you, and you haven't----" "here," interrupted the foreman, in evident haste to conclude a disagreeable interview; "there's no use talking about it, it's got to be done"; and turning to a drawer in the desk he extracted monday's pay and placed it in the young man's hand. at that moment a burly porter filled up the doorway. "what is it?" asked the foreman, glad of the interruption, as he hastened, with unnecessary and suspicious promptness, to attend to the wants of the intruder. in a little while dennis realized that he waited in vain for the return of the foreman, and that, in so far as he was concerned, he was out of a job. dennis had been, at various times in his life, subjected to some rugged experiences, but could not recall any treatment quite so heartless as this. it upset all his calculations. he must exist somehow between the unhappy realities of the present and the blissful expectations of the approaching monday. he recalled, with the self-accusation of a repentant prodigal, his needlessly elaborate breakfast, the extravagance of the necktie. his return led him past the cheap amusement district of the bowery. never had their tawdry invitations seemed so alluring. by that singular perversity which opens up every suggestion of riotous expenditure to destitution, the poor fellow felt inclined to indulge himself regardless. an obese nymph pictured in the foam of a beer sign, apparently elaborated with a whitewash brush and finished in the throes of an epileptic fit, solicited a share of his patronage. long rows of slot machines offered all sorts of libidinous suggestions in placards, which proposed to debauch his morals for a penny a sight. and with absurd propriety a vender of shoddy jewels presented the chance of his lifetime in bizarre decoration. but somehow dennis reached broadway at last, and faced the unpleasant prospect of the next few days with despairing calculation. as dennis looked up and down this busy thoroughfare, with its thousands speeding oppositely in preoccupied interest, as if all that was vital and worthy was to be found at either extreme of its splendid distances, he paused for a moment to account his meager finances. he found that he possessed just four one-dollar bills and about eighty cents in small change. since he was compelled to pay a half dollar each night in advance for his lodgings, a little over two dollars would remain to him. with rigid economy and almost miserly abstemiousness this sum would suffice for his meals, unless he developed a mania for delmonico's, and for his carfare, provided he did not venture outside the possibilities of the elevated. as he was about to return his resources to his pocket there was a rattle and clamor up the street, and looking in that direction he beheld a glittering engine, drawn by a splendid team of white horses, speed along with plunging dash and portent rumble. along the sidewalk directly in his rear the usual mob of men and boys who have nothing more to do apparently than to attend fires and scramble with a morbid curiosity to behold the misery of some victim of accident, ran in scuffling uproar. with a pathetic realization of his own idleness, dennis turned to join the speeding throng, when suddenly he became aware of a desperate clutch at his hand, heard the rattle of scattering change at his feet, and felt the bills which he held slip away from his grasp and disappear in the rush. it was over in a second. apparently no one noticed him or his loss. he was as abandoned as the unfortunate marooned by rushing waters; as unheeded as a lame lamb in the multitude of the flock. not a head turned, and by the time he realized precisely what had happened and prepared to give chase to the thief, a score of other men and boys formed an unconscious barricade between the unfortunate boy and the rogue. his suddenly created interest in the fire vanished and was replaced by the despair of his own disaster. the nap of his providence was developing into a sound slumber, and since this deity never gets up before noon dennis had still two hours of despair before him. and what despair! of his pitiful hoard of a few moments since only a few dimes and nickels remained. and just across the street was the third national bank with barrels of them. the whimsies of the contrast almost amused him; but there was not enough of the tapley about him to detect its humor. again he counted his resources. fifty-eight cents! he could lodge to-night, at any rate, and dine on one of those sidewalk pretzels. "the darkest hour is just before the dawn." dennis tried to cheer himself with this reflection, but the only dawn upon which he could calculate was five days off. in vain the poor fellow adjured his brains for some homely suggestion, some meager inspiration. nothing responded but his destitution, like the echo of a groan; and through such mental straits he arrived, at last, at the stag. he decided that he would do nothing radical until the following day. he could afford a night's rest, at least, and that might revive his numbed faculties. as he reached the office he glanced at the proprietor. could he persuade that cynical-visaged individual to trust him until he received his first week's pay? would he be credited if he related his prospects? as a measure in this assurance, would not the proprietor feel justified in calling upon the widow for indorsement of the statement of the young man? this would never do. he could not endure the humiliation of such a revelation. the poor fellow got little encouragement from the face of the proprietor. this was suspicious and hard. it had scarcely the perfunctory smile of the professional boniface. the prospect of having to address that forbidding ensemble was disheartening. suddenly his reflections were interrupted. the proprietor waved a beckoning hand to him. dennis hurried to the desk. "a letter for you," said the proprietor, as he placed in the young man's hand an envelope addressed in a handwriting which he recognized at once. "'dennis muldoon'; yes, that's mine," and hastening to an unoccupied seat in a remote portion of the office, dennis hastily opened the envelope and withdrew a short letter, and--ye gods! was it possible?--a postal order for twenty-five dollars. philadelphia. dear dennis: it's a hard row you have to hoe, i'm a-think-in', and it's a bad spot you have to hoe it in. i know new york of old, and it's a lonesome place for a poor lad. i send you the week's wages due you, and an extry five to come back with in case your dreams don't come true. i've got over my mad, my boy, and i'll be glad to see you. run over annyhow; it's a dull place without you. the mother misses you bad. come saturday if you can; i've got a business proposition i want to make. tell me how you're getting on, annyway. the old man. "oh, ho!" cried dennis. his providence was wide awake now, had made its toilet, and was ready for business. for a long while dennis sat with the letter in his hand, gazing, with unseeing eyes, upon its eccentric chirography. his exultation had not fully materialized. to grope in the valley of despair one moment and skip along the summit of beatitude the next was a little too much for immediate comprehension. somewhat in the manner of the metaphysician, he was inclined to believe, since his misfortune was no longer a reality, that his prosperity might be equally immaterial, and in unaware corroboration he made a minute tear in the edge of the postal order to establish its tangibility. in the evening, influenced perhaps by his comparative weal, dennis decided that he would purchase a ticket to the olympus, and climbing the rear approach to that elevation, found himself seated shortly with the gallery gods, viewing with uncritical contrasts the relative merits of the clown, the harlequin and the columbine. between the acts his roving glance found a sudden destination and his elation went into abrupt decline, for seated in one of the boxes, her glass surveying the house in all sorts of disconcerting directions, sat the beautiful widow. instinctively dennis crouched into his seat. fortunately he was able by thus collapsing within himself, to escape the radius of her vision, which was interrupted by the railing extending around the balcony. it would never do to be discovered in his present situation. the elevation was degrading, and dennis understood the unhappy paradox. it emphasized the social distinctions too much, and caused the distance from where he sat to the placid beauty below to appear immeasurable. but this was not the least of his perturbations. near the widow a gentleman sat, solicitous, engaging, persistent. a certain air of distinction rendered doubly obnoxious the assumption of proprietorship which dennis believed he remarked, and while the young man was able to comfort himself with the discovery that his bewitching companion devoted more attention to the stage and the house than to her escort, still, as dennis contemplated the faultless attire of the gentleman in the box and contrasted it with his own modest apparel, he felt unaccountably depressed. all this was revealed by the furtive glances which the young irishman ventured over the gallery rail. a strange foreboding overwhelmed him. the bewildering tinsel of the stage no longer diverted, and he would have been astonished to analyze the reason why. as the last curtain fell and dennis was no longer able to adjust his gloomy contemplation to incongruous orchestration, he hastened from the theater, scrambled down the precipitate stairs and hastened to the stag. it was midnight before he slept, and scarcely morning when he awoke. he dressed himself like an automaton, and breakfasted like an anchorite. he left the hotel without his personal knowledge, and traversed half the length of broadway without volition. his mind was making the visit in advance of the appointed time, and his torpid body alone observed the social usages. by noon the patent leathers were a reality; by six-thirty he had assumed a clean shirt and his new necktie. when the clock struck seven he hastened to the elevated; a half hour later found him parading the street opposite the conservatory, and at eight he arrived with a promptness which, persistently observed, commends a young man to a junior partnership. when the widow finally presented herself, dennis was more than ever convinced, by the richness of her attire, that the business must be in a flourishing condition. for some unknown reason the beautiful woman was dressed entirely in black with the exception of some exquisite traceries in white about her throat and wrists. had his life depended upon it dennis could never have described the fabric of her gown. he only knew that it was distinguished by a sort of subdued sheen; that it rustled with an entrancing swish and suggestion of femininity as she moved, and that it was adjusted to her shapely figure as though her delightful personality had been moulded into it. a slim wonder of a white hand was extended to him, a bright smile illumed her bewildering eyes and bent the cupid bow of her lips into a curve which sent an intangible arrow into the young man's heart as she said with musical simplicity: "i am glad to see you." to this dennis made no direct reply. his eyes gleamed their idealized eloquence, however; his attitude presented unmistakable shades of deference, and to save himself further revelation he collapsed into the chair indicated by his hostess. apparently the widow extracted the same enjoyment from these ingenuous acknowledgments as ever, for she did not immediately resume the conversation. fortunately, dennis assembled himself, so to speak, and realized his psychological moment. "shure," he said as he became aware of his involuntary self-revelations, "'shure, an' you would know that i am glad to see you if i was deaf and dumb." the widow laughed heartily at this, as she replied: "i'm afraid that you have kissed the blarney stone, mr. muldoon." having no response for this, dennis substituted: "i saw you at the theater last night," and a palpable degree of joy left his countenance at the announcement. "ah!" exclaimed the widow, regarding him curiously. "where were you?" "in th' lobby," replied dennis unblushingly. "what did you think of the performance?" asked his companion after a moment. dennis looked her directly in the eyes with the light of inspiration in his glance as he said: "i did not see it." the widow gazed at the young man for one searching moment, reddened slightly, and, rising, proceeded to the music rack, from which she extracted bosoms nos. and . "suppose we read the story," was her reply. as the widow extended the bosoms toward him, dennis could not avoid the thought which had presented itself to him on the day before, that this woman had not only two bosoms of his in her possession, but his heart as well; and a certain degree of the animation of this reflection found its way into his eyes. "well," inquired this observing woman, "what is it?" dennis flushed as he replied: "i'll tell you by-and-by," and added: "will you do me a great favor?" "what is it?" she asked. "why," answered dennis, "i would like to hear you read bosom no. ." "why?" "well," replied the young man, with a sincerity that was unmistakable, "i think it would sound like a song then." "very well," she assented, "let me have it"; and with a voice that reflected, to this young man's ears, at least, at one moment the rippling of silver brooks, the trill of woodbirds, the sigh of zephyrs scented with daffodils, and the next the full, round resonance of an animated day in june, she read: * * * * * "now!" exclaimed gratz as the familiar click assured him that the handcuffs were in place, "now you can lower your hands and come over here." as the sepoy advanced into the light, gratz instructed robert to pick up the remaining coins and restore them to the bag. during all this time the sepoy had not uttered a word, but his fierce eyes, which stared with savage intentness in the direction of the disk of light, from the rear of which issued that implacable voice, were vital with rage and impotent menace. as he gazed thus with his distorted countenance concentrated into a look of bitter speculation in his futile attempt to discover by whom he was addressed in this tone of insolent authority, there was something frightful in the quest and uncertainty of the disturbed features. an unnatural luster, partly the reflection of his somber eyes and partly from the tawny hue of his saturnine visage, added an inexpressible degree of malignant rancor to his expression. his hands, which he was compelled by the manacles to hold directly in front of him in an absurd travesty of penitential clasp, gripped each other in his consuming resentment until the tendons of his wrist stood out with the tense distinction of whipcords. while robert was engaged in restoring the coins to the bag, the only sound came from the derisive click and fall of the gold-pieces as they chinked their mockery into the ears of the raging prisoner. as the last coin joined its fellows a neighboring clock chimed the hour of two. "good!" exclaimed gratz; "there is time to settle this business before morning"; and turning to the sepoy he added: "i will trouble you to precede me to your room." there was something unreal in the silence which the sepoy still maintained and the enforced apathy with which he proceeded to obey these instructions, and robert, unaccustomed to such episodes as this, in which he was a contributing factor, was more affected than if he had witnessed some violent demonstration or listened to a raging vituperation. the transit of the trio from the cellar to the apartment of the sepoy was effected without attracting further regard, and the balance of the boarders slept away in snoring oblivion and provided another instance of the frail partition which separates the violent from the placid. arrived at the room of their swarthy prisoner, gratz provided the uncomfortable robert with the relief he required by instructing him to hasten to his uncle and summon him to the scene, and to avoid giving him any of the details of what had transpired. glad to escape the depression of the gloomy vicinity, and the unabashed directness of the sepoy's glance, the young man hurried away. if the terrible concentration which the sepoy resumed, with his luminous eyes upon the countenance of the detective, affected the latter, there was certainly no such evidence. it was as dull and lifeless as ever; the eyelids had fallen to their accustomed suggestion of ambush, and it seemed scarcely possible that the sharp directions of a few moments since could issue from such flaccid lips, and so much determination could dominate such an insignificant figure. apparently exasperated by the undemonstration of this negative aspect, the sepoy was near the limit of his repression. the lines about his lips relaxed somewhat, the pupils of his eyes reduced their staring diameter, and his head was inclined forward a trifle. gratz concluded that his companion had decided to speak. he was not mistaken. "can i be spared the humiliation of meeting that old dotard you have sent for?" "i do not see how," replied gratz. "what do you gain by it?" asked the sepoy. "i cannot tell that in advance; possibly nothing," replied gratz. "that is likely," replied the sepoy quietly. "we shall see," exclaimed the detective. "i am working out a theory; i need the assistance of all concerned." "look at me!" exclaimed the sepoy abruptly. "i will credit you with being something of a physiognomist. do you see any evidences of determination in my face?" "and if i do?" queried gratz. "only this," was the reply: "no matter what your object may be, i will oppose it with all the resolution and dexterity at my command, if you conduct your inquiries as you contemplate." in reply gratz offered an exasperating shrug of the shoulders. "there is no mystery to be solved," he said. "i have no further facts to discover; i know that you have managed to secure three separate bags of coin from raikes, and i am aware of your process." "if you know all this," replied the other with curious calmness, "why do you----" the question was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. "now!" exclaimed gratz, as if with sudden determination, "i will try to grant your request in part. retire into your bedchamber, leave the door open, and listen. "i will place raikes and his nephew where they cannot see you, but i will sit here where i can note your slightest move." the sepoy arose hastily and entered the bedchamber, seating himself according to the direction of the detective. at that moment there was a knock upon the door. in answer to the salutation of the detective raikes and his nephew entered. seating themselves in the chairs indicated, they awaited with intense curiosity the proceedings of this enigmatical man. noting the alert questioning in the eyes of the young man, and the half-awakened inquiry in the sordid countenance of raikes, gratz, in order to prevent the intrusion of any disturbing remark upon his present purpose, said impressively: "i must ask you both to listen without interruption. when i want you to speak i will question you"; and fastening his strange eyes upon the blinking raikes, he added: "now we will proceed. "you have lost four bags of coin." "three!" corrected raikes, despite his instructions to silence. "pardon me," continued gratz, "and please do not interrupt. i said four--and here is the fourth," and he pointed to the bag upon the table. the miser's jaw dropped helplessly, and he stared at the bag with a superstitious terror. "but," continued gratz, "what seems so incredible to you is merely the logical outcome of a cunningly established sequence," and the speaker shot an incredibly quick glance at the silent figure in the adjoining room. "now attend me closely. "during the last few evenings you have heard some very curious narratives." raikes nodded with gloomy corroboration. "a series of well-arranged events have introduced a startling episode--the substitution of pebbles for diamonds." again raikes nodded. "at this point in the narrative the first instalment concludes. am i right?" "yes," answered raikes. "then," continued gratz, "you went directly to your room; you retired. in the morning you are prompted, with more than your usual eagerness, to open your private safe." "right!" exclaimed raikes in indorsement of this relentless résumé. "you find the locks undisturbed; the contents apparently as you left them on retiring. some difference in the conformity of one of the bags urges a nearer examination. you discover that this indicates a difference in the contents. you grasp it; it comes away in your hands with startling lightness. you discharge its deposit upon the table--a shower of coals follows." "yes, yes!" stammered raikes with impatient eagerness. "well, you are convinced, by an examination of the fastenings of the door, an inspection of the window, that no human being could have effected an entrance from either direction. "the next evening is a repetition of the history of the night before. "the strange indian narrative, another gem to examine--an additional loss on the succeeding morning." raikes nodded savagely. "on the following night the same unhappy series of events occur, followed by the loss of the third bag." "but why all this again?" inquired raikes. "that concerns me," exclaimed the detective with another rapid glance at the undemonstrative figure in the next room. "you must follow my instructions or you will conclude as badly as you have begun. now," continued gratz, "it is incredible to me that, with the astuteness with which you are credited, that having such a good standpoint to begin with, you did not proceed upon that basis." "i?" questioned the astonished raikes. "what standpoint had i?" "elimination," replied gratz. "several puzzling possibilities were retired permanently. "recall the details as we have enumerated them: an impossible door; the window equally out of the question; the substitution of the coals for the coin. "it is very simple. the outside agency unfeasible, we must look within. there is but one conclusion----" "and that?" interrupted raikes. "an accessory." "ah!" cried raikes, "unthinkable!" "not at all," replied gratz; "there was an accessory--yourself!" at this announcement raikes seemed about to collapse into his original helplessness. the facts of his losses were extraordinary enough, but this was too much. but gratz hurried on, explained the unconscious visits of his astounded hearer to the cellar, and all that followed. "then," exclaimed raikes, when he had concluded, "i have been the victim of hypnotic suggestion." "precisely!" replied gratz. "the story was merely the medium of transmission, and through this weird conduit the story-teller conveyed his instructions to your subconsciousness." "but," demanded raikes, "why this substitution of coals? it strikes me that a scheme so clever as all this would scarcely be jeopardized by such an absurdity." "that contingency," answered gratz, "was never intended. in your condition of mind, having discharged the coin upon the floor of the bin, a mental idiosyncrasy of years insisted upon recognition. "in some inexplicable way you retained enough of your mental identity to preserve some manifestation of the law of equivalents. in other words, having parted with something, you demanded something in return. "with as much deliberation, therefore, as you manifested in contributing to your loss, you attempted to reimburse yourself by filling the bag with coal. "in some occult way you assured yourself that you were engaged in a transaction where one commodity took the place of another. "to this freak of mentality the idea of the pebbles in the story being substituted for the diamonds contributed; and what was intended by the narrator as a consistency of detail, to be explained later on, made an unforeseen appeal to your native cupidity and provided me with a very satisfactory clue. "moreover, the narrator assisted himself by allowing you to contemplate some brilliants--a sapphire, a diamond. "in such demonstrations a centralizing object is an almost indispensable adjunct; and putting the two together, the stories, the brilliants, it is not difficult to see that you have received your instructions in the manner indicated, and obeyed them with unexpected consistency." for a moment there was silence, which was sharply disturbed by an unexpected and apparently unsuggested query from gratz. "were you ever," he asked, looking directly at raikes, "in this apartment during the absence of its occupant?" "no!" stammered raikes, apparently very much astonished at the question. "you lie!" raikes and his nephew sprang to their feet, their eyes bulging in the direction of the bedroom. in the doorway stood the sepoy. "you lie!" he repeated, "you miserable husk, you! you were here one evening in my absence, or, at least, what you supposed was my absence," and raising his manacled hands the speaker pointed to the closet. "i was there," he said. "ah--ah!" faltered raikes chokingly. "and now," continued the sepoy, "let us get to the end of this business. it ought to be a simple proceeding. you want three missing bags of gold; they will be forthcoming on one condition." "and what is that?" cried raikes, beginning to withdraw into himself as if he expected a sharp bargain. "that you leave the details of the transaction in the hands of this gentleman," answered the sepoy, pointing to gratz. "you had better consent," he added as he analyzed the hesitation of the startled raikes, "or i shall describe, with photographic minuteness, all that occurred in the few short moments of your visit." raikes regarded gratz helplessly. during all this conversation the detective had been doing some rapid thinking and had decided upon his course, so nodding to raikes, he said: "leave the matter to me; i will restore your coin to you in the morning. see that neither of you leaves the house until then, or speak to a soul before i see you." whatever objections may have been forming in the mind of the miser were quickly dissipated by a look from the sepoy, and without another word raikes and his nephew departed. "well," inquired gratz, when the two were again alone, "what have you to say to me that you do not want raikes to hear?" "you will know shortly," replied the sepoy after a few moments of reflection, with his eyes directed upon the handcuffs. "i do not have to resort to your elaborate reasoning to discover the nature of your profession. these," holding up his hands, "are unmistakable." "yes," answered gratz drily, "they require no trope or metaphor to illustrate their application." "however," continued the sepoy, "i have just listened to the deductions of an unusual acumen for analysis along abstract lines." gratz bowed his acknowledgments. "that is simple," he said, "when there is such a liberal supply of data." "true," responded the sepoy. "that was an oversight on my part. still, your constructive application, too, is no less convincing." "but to what does all this lead?" inquired gratz with a degree of impatience. "suppose we admit that there is an exquisite balance maintained between my analysis and my synthesis, and have done with it. you have some appeal to make to one or both of these faculties." "your penetration is the peer of your reasoning. listen: will you do me the favor of assuming that your comprehensive résumé of a few moments ago is all i care to hear on the subject?" asked the sepoy. "i understand," replied gratz. "very well, then," continued the sepoy. "i will extend to you the courtesy of offering no denial to anything you have said." "that," laughed gratz, "is the height of affability, under the circumstances; but proceed." "good!" responded the sepoy. "i have a suggestion to make. it is understood, in the first place, that raikes is to recover his coin; on that point he will be fully satisfied. but there still remains the recognition of your services to him; you will have more difficulty in convincing him of his obligation than you had in persuading me of your acumen." "ah!" murmured gratz; "it is coming." "are you any judge of brilliants?" inquired the sepoy abruptly. "somewhat," answered gratz; "i have seen a few in my time." "well," continued the sepoy, "kindly put your hand in my right vest pocket and withdraw a small case of shagreen which you will find there." gratz obeyed. "now," continued the sepoy, "press the spring." as gratz complied with this instruction, the lid of the shagreen case flew open and revealed the superb sapphire which had radiated such insidious depravity into the mind of the miser. "what do you think of that?" inquired the sepoy. for a moment or so gratz did not reply. the mastery of its cutting, its magnificent bulk, its unrivaled purity overwhelmed him. "i have never seen one like it," he said finally, "if it is genuine." "oh, you need not doubt it!" exclaimed the sepoy, "or, if you do, you can assure yourself on that point. now follow me. six bags of raikes' coin could not buy that." "you set its value high," suggested gratz. "naturally; its like does not exist. money has never been able to purchase it. there is just one consideration i can accept for it." "and that?" inquired gratz as the sepoy paused. "a lapse of memory," replied the sepoy. "a lapse of memory!" repeated gratz. "yes. unlock these handcuffs and forget that you have done so." a sudden irradiation seemed to shoot from the gem. it was the impulse communicated by the trembling hand of the detective, who, either to conceal the flush that was gradually transforming his pallid face, or from his reluctance to remove his gaze, continued to hold the brilliant in much the same oblivious regard as that bestowed upon it by the unhappy raikes. gratz was having the struggle of his life. the veins fretted through his temples with frightful distinction; his forehead was moist with a profuse perspiration; his breath labored with intermittent entrance and egress. his well-known apathy, his exasperating negation of demeanor, where were they now? gradually, however, in the manner of disheartened stragglers whipped again into the firing line, there shadowed in his expression evidences of moral recovery which the sepoy did not like. the professional instincts of the detective, reinspired by his better nature, were making some very obvious appeals. the éclat of this singular case beckoned. he seemed to brace himself morally and physically as he leaned back in his chair and again looked at his desperate companion. at once the sepoy, upon whom no vestige of this mental tumult was lost, again restored the ebbing temptation to its flood by exclaiming: "here is a more convincing reason still," and raising his hands to his breast, in order to give the detective easier access to the point designated beneath his arms, he said: "reach into the pocket on the left." for a moment gratz hesitated. if he had found the first subsidy difficult to refuse, how might he resist the second, or, he added to himself, with a sort of usurious exaltation, the depravity of the two combined? curiosity, too, without which no detective is truly fit for his calling, moved him, so with the impatient impulse we so often witness when rectitude is about to subject itself to the persuasions of the evil one for the ostensible purpose of combating them and the private determination to yield, gratz extended a trembling hand toward the sepoy, who had drawn himself to the extreme limit of his sinewy height, the better to accommodate his figure to the intent search of the detective, and then---- just as gratz managed to insert his trembling fingers over the edge of the pocket rim, a pair of tense, sinewy hands shot upward and with incredible dexterity encircled the throat of the detective. the surprise was complete. the hands of the unfortunate man flew out wildly, grasping at nothing, and the next instant closed upon the wrists of the sepoy. but the recoil was too late. the frightful grasp concentrated its deadly pressure. the livid face of the detective grew purple. his eyes seemed about to bulge from their sockets. his grip relaxed from the wrists of his antagonist, and then all vigor seemed to vanish from his body, and he sank inertly to the floor. as the malignant sepoy bestowed the stiffening body upon the carpet, he released his horrible clutch upon the detective's throat, and, despite his manacles, began with desperate agility to search the silent man's waistcoat pockets. from one futile quest his implacable hands leaped to another, the length of chain which held the two handcuffs together rattling an eerie accompaniment to his eagerness. at last he withdrew a tiny key. grasping the precious bit of steel in his right hand the sepoy inserted it in the latch-hole of the left manacle; a quick turn, and the steel clasp relaxed its obnoxious embrace. it was but the work of a second to repeat these operations on his right arm, and the sepoy was free. "ha!" the breath seemed to whistle from his lungs with one sharp, exulting impulse. he stretched his superb figure to its utmost, and with the smile of a re-embodied lucifer restored the sapphire to its case. for a brief space he gazed upon the man extended upon the floor, and then, urged by some devilish impulse, if one might judge from the expression of his countenance, he knelt by the prostrate body and placed his ear to the pulseless breast. the next instant, stimulated, apparently, by some unexpected endorsement of a vague possibility, he was upon his feet and had darted to a small cabinet near-by. his hasty foray among its drawers was rewarded with a small bottle, the stopper of which he removed. with a quick motion of the head to escape the full force of the pungent odor of ammonia which issued, the sepoy returned to the unfortunate gratz, and wetting the tip of his handkerchief with a few drops from the vial, he passed it gently to and fro under the nostrils of the detective. repeating these maneuvers several times, the sepoy believed that he remarked a faint twitching of the eyelids. at this manifestation he seized a sheet of paper and directed a mimic breeze upon the drawn face. again he attempted an enforced inhalation of the strong odor, this time from the bottle itself. the result was startling. there was a scarcely perceptible attempt to turn the head; a spasmodic throb in the throat. renewing his efforts with the paper, the sepoy, encouraged by what he saw, placed his arms beneath the body and lifted it to a semi-reclining attitude, so that it rested, with a tilt forward, against a chair-arm. from the table the evilly-smiling man took the handcuffs, and grasping the unresisting arms of the unfortunate gratz, bent them with cruel force until the hands met behind the gradually stiffening back. there was a sharp click, and the next instant the manacles embraced the wrists of the detective. again the sepoy placed the bottle so that a concentration of the stinging odor, which by now permeated the atmosphere of the entire room, could attack the sensitive nasal membranes more directly, and unmistakable evidences of imminent reanimation quickened the twitching features. again he lifted the uneasy figure and placed it upon the reclining chair, into which it collapsed helplessly with a nerveless huddle. a few minutes more of alternate fan and bottle resulted in the opening of the eyes and the utterance of a choking gasp. assured now, the sepoy rushed to the bedroom, threw aside the coverlets and possessed himself of one of the sheets. with the aid of his pocket-knife he ripped this into several lengths, with which he returned to the rapidly reviving gratz. in his grim struggle for reanimation the firm lines about the mouth of the unfortunate man had finally relaxed, and into this ugly opening the sepoy inserted a strip of the sheet and secured it in a rigid knot behind the neck of his victim. with a few dexterous turns and knots he bound the body to the chair with the remaining lengths of linen, and hastening to the washstand grasped a water pitcher and deluged the face of the now thoroughly awakened gratz. from the look in his eyes it was evident that his senses had not only fully returned, but that he was perfectly aware of the changed conditions and their relative humiliations. for a moment an expression vaguely suggestive of admiration shadowed through the slightly flushed countenance, and the next instant it returned to its customary apathy, from which it was not again disturbed during the bitter ordeal to which the helpless gratz was subjected. "and now," exclaimed the sepoy with a frightful grin of malice, "i trust that your senses are sufficiently restored to receive a farewell suggestion or two. you will notice," he went on with evil emphasis, "that i say 'farewell suggestions,' for i assure you that you will never set eyes on me again. "a little previous to the change which resulted in your present predicament, i extended to you the courtesy of all sorts of tribute to your acumen. "now--note my liberality--i do not insist upon a reciprocal indorsement of my dexterity, since i see"--pointing to the gag which he had inserted in the mouth of the detective--"since i see, with deep regret, that you have an impediment in your speech. "i excuse you in advance. "still, i cannot resist the temptation of chiding your indifference to such a brilliant argument as this," and the sepoy caused the sapphire to scintillate its mocking rebuke into the eyes of the wretched gratz. "i must also improve the occasion by calling your attention to the reprimand offered by your plight to your curiosity, for you see to what a pass it has brought you. "however, since it would be a malice of which i am incapable not to gratify it, i will show you what it was i had in reserve," and the sepoy produced the small shagreen case with which raikes had been on such questionable terms of familiarity, and pressing back the lid revealed the splendid diamond to the still impassive gratz. with a continuation of his elaborate courtesy and his purposely stilted phrasing, the sepoy said: "if the sapphire was argument, this was certainly conviction. the moral barrier which could withstand the assault of the first, must, unquestionably, have yielded to the insidious attack of the second. "but since you have managed to place yourself beyond the reach of such considerations, i will be compelled to discontinue my futile eloquence and leave you to your more mature reflections. "observe!" he continued, as he replaced the sapphire in the case and restored the latter to the right-hand pocket of his waistcoat, "i place the argument in this repository"; and treating the diamond in like manner, he deposited that in the left-hand pocket and added: "and place the conviction on this side. "it is not often that one is the embodiment of _belles-lettres_, having such details of logic so easily within reach." during all this travesty of demeanor and phrase, with its tantalizing mockery and its crafty insinuation, gratz had betrayed no emotion whatever, nor did his eyes lose one whit of their usual placidity as he beheld the sepoy, with a sort of lithe, animal rapidity, produce a small traveling-case from the wardrobe and return with it to the bag of coin on the table. "you see," continued the sepoy as he was about to deposit the bag in the case, "i have left room for this. i anticipated its addition to my paraphernalia and made preparations accordingly. "notice how neatly it fits in. and now i offer you my sympathy for the miscarriage of your plans. "this, to a man of sentiment and enterprise, is always obnoxious. i feel myself indebted to you for some exceedingly intelligent mental processes, and, believe me, i part with you with a feeling so nearly resembling regret that i will not do you the discourtesy of doubting that the sentiment is genuine. "i leave you to make explanations to your clients in whatsoever way you may see fit. i salute you!" and the next instant the sepoy had slipped through the doorway into the hall, along which he hurried until he reached the main entrance of the house. to make his way through this into the vestibule and thence into the street was the work of the next few moments, and with a grin of malicious triumph he descended the steps which led to the pave. scarcely had his feet touched the ground when a man from either side of the stone balustrade stepped out, and each grasped an arm of the scowling sepoy. "a moment, please!" exclaimed one of the men, as he snapped back the shield of a small lantern he carried and directed its searching light into the distorted countenance. "ah!" exclaimed his captor to the fellow on the other side of the prisoner, "this is the chap, tom." "now, mister, you can walk back. not a word; you may be all right and we may be all wrong; it can soon be settled in there." "one question, please," begged the sepoy. "who are you? by what right do you detain me?" "one at a time, mister," replied the man with the lantern. "there's a man inside who can answer these questions for you." a sudden light penetrated the mind of the sepoy. "ah!" he exclaimed, "i understand." "that's good, mister; it will save a deal of explanation." "these men, then," muttered the sepoy to himself, "are the subordinates of the detective within." at that moment the moon slipped out from behind a mask of cloud and silhouetted the three. by its light the prisoner examined the grim countenances before him. "surely," he decided, "there is nothing in these features to indicate a strenuous moral objection to the bribery of the contents of my traveling-case," and at the thought of the absurd discrepancy between his present predicament and the cynical altitudes of a short time since, and as he considered the humiliation awaiting him when he was compelled once more to face the detective, he decided to venture on another attempt to purchase his freedom. with this thought he was about to place the case he carried on the ground, when one of the men, remarking his movement and mistaking its purpose, cried: "here; none of that!" "but," expostulated the sepoy, "you do not----" "shut up!" replied the fellow coarsely. "come inside and show us where you have left the chief. you here, the boss in there--something's wrong." with a muttered curse, and urged by no ceremonious hands, the sepoy reascended the steps. having in his haste to escape neglected to latch the doors, the raging sepoy had no difficulty in conducting his captors along the hallway to his room. in a few moments this strangely assorted trio reached the apartment in which the sepoy had but a short time before disported himself, so to speak, with such waspish reprisal, and delivered such a farrago of ridicule and cynicism upon the defenseless head of the silent figure bound to the chair. at sight of this extraordinary spectacle the two understrappers came to a standstill and looked upon the sepoy with a species of respect. never before had they beheld their chief in such a predicament; the means of its accomplishment must have been amazingly clever, and the agent himself somewhat of a marvel. however, while one of the men stood guard over the sepoy, with a renewal of his watchfulness awakened by what he saw, the other proceeded to unfasten the gag and remove the strips which bound the unfortunate gratz. after a pause of inscrutable regard of the sepoy, who, despite the embarrassing dénouement, managed to maintain a fair degree of composure, gratz, addressing the man who had released him, said: "you will find the key of these handcuffs on the table yonder." obedient to the direction of the detective's glance, the man proceeded to the table, found the object of his quest, and inserting it in the handcuffs detached them from the hands of the still impassive gratz. "now," continued the latter calmly, "i will transfer these ornaments to that gentleman. secure him precisely as you found me, with the exception of the gag." presently this was done. at this, turning to his subordinates, the detective said: "leave me with this gentleman for a while; i will call you in case of need." as the pair passed through the doorway, gratz, with no intimation of triumph or exultation in his manner, addressed the unhappy sepoy, with an emphasis, however, which implied that he had not forgotten the experience to which he had been subjected. "and _now_ what have you to say?" the sepoy looked his questioner directly in the eyes, with a glance that was subtle in its insinuation and eloquent of collusive suggestion, and replied: "the sapphire is still in my right waistcoat pocket, and the diamond in the left." the end as the beautiful reader reached this singular conclusion, which came with an abruptness that indicated the decrepit imagination of the author and his overworked vocabulary, she looked up from the absurd vehicle of all this hectic style and incident and beheld in the eyes of her auditor a suggestion of the light that is indigenous to neither land nor sea. to dennis, who had in his composition the material of a poet, if not the finish, the melodious intonations of the widow had seemed like the incongruous orchestration of birds in the treetops to some minor tragedy among the denizens of the underbrush. her elocution was exquisite and provided the bizarre narrative with a refinement which contrasted with its crudities, like valenciennes lace on a background of calico. "well," she said smilingly, after she had subjected his ingenuous glance to the rapid analysis of her intuition, with a satisfaction which it startled her to recognize, "what do you think of it?" "is that the end?" asked dennis. "yes, it is the end." with a shade of emphasis, intended by dennis to indicate that the words of the reply of the widow were suggestive of other finalities which he did not like to consider, he said: "that is no end; it looks to me as though the author has struck his limits." "no," objected the widow, "i fancy that he has left the subject open so that the reader can solve the riddle in his own way." "there is no riddle!" exclaimed dennis. "no?" inquired the widow; "and that splendid sapphire, that magnificent diamond to tempt the detective?" "they will not tempt him," said dennis with simple conviction and a degree of feeling that might lead one to suppose that he was an indispensable element in the situation. "he will recollect his professional pride; he will remember that he is a man." "oh!" exclaimed the widow with an indescribable intonation. "don't you think that i am right?" asked dennis. "yes," replied his companion with a pronounced emphasis on the personal pronoun which followed, "yes, _you_ are right"; and as she considered the frank revelation of character in his reply and contrasted it with the possible disclosures of similar situations among the majority of men she knew, she added: "i am glad that we have read the story." [transcriber's note: the original text does not observe the normal convention of placing quotation marks at the beginnings of paragraphs within a multiple-paragraph quotation. this idiosyncrasy has been preserved in this e-text. archaic spellings have been preserved, but obvious printer errors have been corrected. in the untranslated italian passage in day , story , the original is missing the accents, which have been added using an italian edition of _decameron_ (milan: mursia, ) as a guide. john payne's translation of _the decameron_ was originally published in a private printing for the villon society, london, . the american edition from which this e-text was prepared is undated.] _the_ _decameron_ _of_ _giovanni boccaccio_ _translated by_ _john payne_ [illustration] walter j. black, inc. madison avenue new york, n.y. printed in the united states of america _contents_ proem. day the first the first story. _master ciappelletto dupeth a holy friar with a false confession and dieth; and having been in his lifetime the worst of men, he is, after his death, reputed a saint and called saint ciappelletto_ the second story. _abraham the jew, at the instigation of jehannot de chevigné, goeth to the court of rome and seeing the depravity of the clergy, returneth to paris and there becometh a christian_ the third story. _melchizedek the jew, with a story of three rings, escapeth a parlous snare set for him by saladin_ the fourth story. _a monk, having fallen into a sin deserving of very grievous punishment, adroitly reproaching the same fault to his abbot, quitteth himself of the penalty_ the fifth story. _the marchioness of monferrato, with a dinner of hens and certain sprightly words, curbeth the extravagant passion of the king of france_ the sixth story. _an honest man, with a chance pleasantry, putteth to shame the perverse hypocrisy of the religious orders_ the seventh story. _bergamino, with a story of primasso and the abbot of cluny, courteously rebuketh a fit of parsimony newly come to messer cane della scala_ the eighth story. _guglielmo borsiere with some quaint words rebuketh the niggardliness of messer ermino de' grimaldi_ the ninth story. _the king of cyprus, touched to the quick by a gascon lady, from a mean-spirited prince becometh a man of worth and valiance_ the tenth story. _master alberto of bologna civilly putteth a lady to the blush who thought to have shamed him of being enamoured of her_ day the second the first story. _martellino feigneth himself a cripple and maketh believe to wax whole upon the body of st. arrigo. his imposture being discovered, he is beaten and being after taken [for a thief,] goeth in peril of being hanged by the neck, but ultimately escapeth_ the second story. _rinaldo d'asti, having been robbed, maketh his way to castel guglielmo, where he is hospitably entertained by a widow lady and having made good his loss, returneth to his own house, safe and sound_ the third story. _three young men squander their substance and become poor; but a nephew of theirs, returning home in desperation, falleth in with an abbot and findeth him to be the king's daughter of england, who taketh him to husband and maketh good all his uncles' losses, restoring them to good estate_ the fourth story. _landolfo ruffolo, grown poor, turneth corsair and being taken by the genoese, is wrecked at sea, but saveth himself upon a coffer full of jewels of price and being entertained in corfu by a woman, returneth home rich_ the fifth story. _andreuccio of perugia, coming to naples to buy horses, is in one night overtaken with three grievous accidents, but escapeth them all and returneth home with a ruby_ the sixth story. _madam beritola, having lost her two sons, is found on a desert island with two kids and goeth thence into lunigiana, where one of her sons, taking service with the lord of the country, lieth with his daughter and is cast into prison. sicily after rebelling against king charles and the youth being recognized by his mother, he espouseth his lord's daughter, and his brother being likewise found, they are all three restored to high estate_ the seventh story. _the soldan of babylon sendeth a daughter of his to be married to the king of algarve, and she, by divers chances, in the space of four years cometh to the hands of nine men in various places. ultimately, being restored to her father for a maid, she goeth to the king of algarve to wife, as first she did_ the eighth story. _the count of antwerp, being falsely accused, goeth into exile and leaveth his two children in different places in england, whither, after awhile, returning in disguise and finding them in good case, he taketh service as a horseboy in the service of the king of france and being approved innocent, is restored to his former estate_ the ninth story. _bernabo of genoa, duped by ambrogiuolo, loseth his good and commandeth that his innocent wife be put to death. she escapeth and serveth the soldan in a man's habit. here she lighteth upon the deceiver of her husband and bringeth the latter to alexandria, where, her traducer being punished, she resumeth woman's apparel and returneth to genoa with her husband, rich_ the tenth story. _paganino of monaco stealeth away the wife of messer ricciardo di chinzica, who, learning where she is, goeth thither and making friends with paganino, demandeth her again of him. the latter concedeth her to him, an she will; but she refuseth to return with him and messer ricciardo dying, she becometh the wife of paganino_ day the third the first story. _masetto of lamporecchio feigneth himself dumb and becometh gardener to a convent of women, who all flock to lie with him_ the second story. _a horsekeeper lieth with the wife of king agilulf, who, becoming aware thereof, without word said, findeth him out and polleth him; but the polled man polleth all his fellows on like wise and so escapeth ill hap_ the third story. _under colour of confession and of exceeding niceness of conscience, a lady, being enamoured of a young man, bringeth a grave friar, without his misdoubting him thereof, to afford a means of giving entire effect to her pleasure_ the fourth story. _dom felice teacheth fra puccio how he may become beatified by performing a certain penance of his fashion, which the other doth, and dom felice meanwhile leadeth a merry life of it with the good man's wife_ the fifth story. _ricciardo, surnamed il zima, giveth messer francesco vergellesi a palfrey of his and hath therefor his leave to speak with his wife. she keeping silence, he in her person replieth unto himself, and the effect after ensueth in accordance with his answer_ the sixth story. _ricciardo minutolo, being enamoured of the wife of filippello fighinolfi and knowing her jealousy of her husband, contriveth, by representing that filippello was on the ensuing day to be with his own wife in a bagnio, to bring her to the latter place, where, thinking to be with her husband, she findeth that she hath abidden with ricciardo_ the seventh story. _tedaldo elisei, having fallen out with his mistress, departeth florence and returning thither, after awhile, in a pilgrim's favour, speaketh with the lady and maketh her cognisant of her error; after which he delivereth her husband, who had been convicted of murdering him, from death and reconciling him with his brethren, thenceforward discreetly enjoyeth himself with his mistress_ the eighth story. _ferondo, having swallowed a certain powder, is entombed for dead and being taken forth of the sepulchre by the abbot, who enjoyeth his wife the while, is put in prison and given to believe that he is in purgatory; after which, being raised up again, he reareth for his own a child begotten of the abbot on his wife_ the ninth story. _gillette de narbonne recovereth the king of france of a fistula and demandeth for her husband bertrand de roussillon, who marrieth her against his will and betaketh him for despite to florence, where, he paying court to a young lady, gillette, in the person of the latter, lieth with him and hath by him two sons; wherefore after, holding her dear, he entertaineth her for his wife_ the tenth story. _alibech, turning hermit, is taught by rustico, a monk, to put the devil in hell, and being after brought away thence, becometh neerbale his wife_ day the fourth the first story. _tancred, prince of salerno, slayeth his daughter's lover and sendeth her his heart in a bowl of gold; whereupon, pouring poisoned water over it, she drinketh thereof and dieth_ the second story. _fra alberto giveth a lady to believe that the angel gabriel is enamoured of her and in his shape lieth with her sundry times; after which, for fear of her kinsmen, he casteth himself forth of her window into the canal and taketh refuge in the house of a poor man, who on the morrow carrieth him, in the guise of a wild man of the woods, to the piazza, where, being recognized, he is taken by his brethren and put in prison_ the third story. _three young men love three sisters and flee with them into crete, where the eldest sister for jealousy slayeth her lover. the second, yielding herself to the duke of crete, saveth her sister from death, whereupon her own lover slayeth her and fleeth with the eldest sister. meanwhile the third lover and the youngest sister are accused of the new murder and being taken, confess it; then, for fear of death, they corrupt their keepers with money and flee to rhodes, where they die in poverty_ the fourth story. _gerbino, against the plighted faith of his grandfather, king guglielmo of sicily, attacketh a ship of the king of tunis, to carry off a daughter of his, who being put to death of those on board, he slayeth these latter and is after himself beheaded_ the fifth story. _lisabetta's brothers slay her lover, who appeareth to her in a dream and showeth her where he is buried, whereupon she privily disinterreth his head and setteth it in a pot of basil. thereover making moan a great while every day, her brothers take it from her and she for grief dieth a little thereafterward_ the sixth story. _andrevuola loveth gabriotto and recounteth to him a dream she hath had, whereupon he telleth her one of his own and presently dieth suddenly in her arms. what while she and a waiting woman of hers bear him to his own house, they are taken by the officers of justice and carried before the provost, to whom she discovereth how the case standeth. the provost would fain force her, but she suffereth it not and her father, coming to hear of the matter, procureth her to be set at liberty, she being found innocent; whereupon, altogether refusing to abide longer in the world, she becometh a nun_ the seventh story. _simona loveth pasquino and they being together in a garden, the latter rubbeth a leaf of sage against his teeth and dieth. she, being taken and thinking to show the judge how her lover died, rubbeth one of the same leaves against her teeth and dieth on like wise_ the eighth story. _girolamo loveth salvestra and being constrained by his mother's prayers to go to paris, returneth and findeth his mistress married; whereupon he entereth her house by stealth and dieth by her side; and he being carried to a church, salvestra dieth beside him_ the ninth story. _sir guillaume de roussillon giveth his wife to eat the heart of sir guillaume de guardestaing by him slain and loved of her, which she after coming to know, casteth herself from a high casement to the ground and dying, is buried with her lover_ the tenth story. _a physician's wife putteth her lover for dead in a chest, which two usurers carry off to their own house, gallant and all. the latter, who is but drugged, cometh presently to himself and being discovered, is taken for a thief; but the lady's maid avoucheth to the seignory that she herself had put him into the chest stolen by the two usurers, whereby he escapeth the gallows and the thieves are amerced in certain monies_ day the fifth the first story. _cimon, loving, waxeth wise and carrieth off to sea iphigenia his mistress. being cast into prison at rhodes, he is delivered thence by lysimachus and in concert with him carrieth off iphigenia and cassandra on their wedding-day, with whom the twain flee into crete, where the two ladies become their wives and whence they are presently all four recalled home_ the second story. _costanza loveth martuccio gomito and hearing that he is dead, embarketh for despair alone in a boat, which is carried by the wind to susa. finding her lover alive at tunis, she discovereth herself to him and he, being great in favour with the king for counsels given, espouseth her and returneth rich with her to lipari_ the third story. _pietro boccamazza, fleeing with agnolella, falleth among thieves; the girl escapeth through a wood and is led [by fortune] to a castle, whilst pietro is taken by the thieves, but presently, escaping from their hands, winneth, after divers adventures, to the castle where his mistress is and espousing her, returneth with her to rome_ the fourth story. _ricciardo manardi, being found by messer lizio da valbona with his daughter, espouseth her and abideth in peace with her father_ the fifth story. _guidotto da cremona leaveth to giacomino da pavia a daughter of his and dieth. giannole di severino and minghino di mingole fall in love with the girl at faenza and come to blows on her account. ultimately she is proved to be giannole's sister and is given to minghino to wife_ the sixth story. _gianni di procida being found with a young lady, whom he loved and who had been given to king frederick of sicily, is bound with her to a stake to be burnt; but, being recognized by ruggieri dell' oria, escapeth and becometh her husband_ the seventh story. _teodoro, being enamoured of violante, daughter of messer amerigo his lord, getteth her with child and is condemned to be hanged; but, being recognized and delivered by his father, as they are leading him to the gallows, scourging him the while, he taketh violante to wife_ the eighth story. _nastagio degli onesti, falling in love with a lady of the traversari family, spendeth his substance, without being beloved in return, and betaking himself, at the instance of his kinsfolk, to chiassi, he there seeth a horseman give chase to a damsel and slay her and cause her to be devoured of two dogs. therewithal he biddeth his kinsfolk and the lady whom he loveth to a dinner, where his mistress seeth the same damsel torn in pieces and fearing a like fate, taketh nastagio to husband_ the ninth story. _federigo degli alberighi loveth and is not loved. he wasteth his substance in prodigal hospitality till there is left him but one sole falcon, which, having nought else, he giveth his mistress to eat, on her coming to his house; and she, learning this, changeth her mind and taking him to husband, maketh him rich again_ the tenth story. _pietro di vinciolo goeth to sup abroad, whereupon his wife letteth fetch her a youth to keep her company, and her husband returning, unlooked for, she hideth her gallant under a hen-coop. pietro telleth her how there had been found in the house of one arcolano, with whom he was to have supped, a young man brought in by his wife, and she blameth the latter. presently, an ass, by mischance, setteth foot on the fingers of him who is under the coop and he roareth out, whereupon pietro runneth thither and espying him, discovereth his wife's unfaith, but ultimately cometh to an accord with her for his own lewd ends_ day the sixth the first story. _a gentleman engageth to madam oretta to carry her a-horseback with a story, but, telling it disorderly, is prayed by her to set her down again_ the second story. _cisti the baker with a word of his fashion maketh messer geri spina sensible of an indiscreet request of his_ the third story. _madam nonna de' pulci, with a ready retort to a not altogether seemly pleasantry, imposeth silence on the bishop of florence_ the fourth story. _chichibio, cook to currado gianfigliazzi, with a ready word spoken to save himself, turneth his master's anger into laughter and escapeth the punishment threatened him by the latter_ the fifth story. _messer forese da rabatta and master giotto the painter coming from mugello, each jestingly rallieth the other on his scurvy favour_ the sixth story. _michele scalza proveth to certain young men that the cadgers of florence are the best gentlemen of the world or the maremma and winneth a supper_ the seventh story. _madam filippa, being found by her husband with a lover of hers and brought to justice, delivereth herself with a prompt and pleasant answer and causeth modify the statute_ the eighth story. _fresco exhorteth his niece not to mirror herself in the glass if, as she saith, it irketh her to see disagreeable folk_ the ninth story. _guido cavalcanti with a pithy speech courteously flouteth certain florentine gentlemen who had taken him by surprise_ the tenth story. _fra cipolla promiseth certain country folk to show them one of the angel gabriel's feathers and finding coals in place thereof, avoucheth these latter to be of those which roasted st. lawrence_ day the seventh the first story. _gianni lotteringhi heareth knock at his door by night and awakeneth his wife, who giveth him to believe that it is a phantom; whereupon they go to exorcise it with a certain orison and the knocking ceaseth_ the second story. _peronella hideth a lover of hers in a vat, upon her husband's unlooked for return, and hearing from the latter that he hath sold the vat, avoucheth herself to have sold it to one who is presently therewithin, to see if it be sound; whereupon the gallant, jumping out of the vat, causeth the husband scrape it out for him and after carry it home to his house_ the third story. _fra rinaldo lieth with his gossip and being found of her husband closeted with her in her chamber, they give him to believe that he was in act to conjure worms from his godson_ the fourth story. _tofano one night shutteth his wife out of doors, who, availing not to re-enter by dint of entreaties, feigneth to cast herself into a well and casteth therein a great stone. tofano cometh forth of the house and runneth thither, whereupon she slippeth in and locking him out, bawleth reproaches at him from the window_ the fifth story. _a jealous husband, in the guise of a priest, confesseth his wife, who giveth him to believe that she loveth a priest, who cometh to her every night; and whilst the husband secretly keepeth watch at the door for the latter, the lady bringeth in a lover of hers by the roof and lieth with him_ the sixth story. _madam isabella, being in company with leonetto her lover, is visited by one messer lambertuccio, of whom she is beloved; her husband returning, [unexpected,] she sendeth lambertuccio forth of the house, whinger in hand, and the husband after escorteth leonetto home_ the seventh story. _lodovico discovereth to madam beatrice the love he beareth her, whereupon she sendeth egano her husband into the garden, in her own favour, and lieth meanwhile with lodovico, who, presently arising, goeth and cudgelleth egano in the garden_ the eighth story. _a man waxeth jealous of his wife, who bindeth a piece of packthread to her great toe anights, so she may have notice of her lover's coming. one night her husband becometh aware of this device and what while he pursueth the lover, the lady putteth another woman to bed in her room. this latter the husband beateth and cutteth off her hair, then fetcheth his wife's brothers, who, finding his story [seemingly] untrue, give him hard words_ the ninth story. _lydia, wife of nicostratus, loveth pyrrhus, who, so he may believe it, requireth of her three things, all which she doth. moreover, she solaceth herself with him in the presence of nicostratus and maketh the latter believe that that which he hath seen is not real_ the tenth story. _two siennese love a lady, who is gossip to one of them; the latter dieth and returning to his companion, according to premise made him, relateth to him how folk fare in the other world_ day the eighth the first story. _gulfardo borroweth of guasparruolo certain monies, for which he hath agreed with his wife that he shall lie with her, and accordingly giveth them to her; then, in her presence, he telleth guasparruolo that he gave them to her, and she confesseth it to be true_ the second story. _the parish priest of varlungo lieth with mistress belcolore and leaveth her a cloak of his in pledge; then, borrowing a mortar of her, he sendeth it back to her, demanding in return the cloak left by way of token, which the good woman grudgingly giveth him back_ the third story. _calandrino, bruno and buffalmacco go coasting along the mugnone in search of the heliotrope and calandrino thinketh to have found it. accordingly he returneth home, laden with stones, and his wife chideth him; whereupon, flying out into a rage, he beateth her and recounteth to his companions that which they know better than he_ the fourth story. _the rector of fiesole loveth a widow lady, but is not loved by her and thinking to lie with her, lieth with a serving-wench of hers, whilst the lady's brothers cause the bishop find him in this case_ the fifth story. _three young men pull the breeches off a marchegan judge in florence, what while he is on the bench, administering justice_ the sixth story. _bruno and buffalmacco, having stolen a pig from calandrino, make him try the ordeal with ginger boluses and sack and give him (instead of the ginger) two dogballs compounded with aloes, whereby it appeareth that he himself hath had the pig and they make him pay blackmail, and he would not have them tell his wife_ the seventh story. _a scholar loveth a widow lady, who, being enamoured of another, causeth him spend one winter's night in the snow awaiting her, and he after contriveth, by his sleight, to have her abide naked, all one mid-july day, on the summit of a tower, exposed to flies and gads and sun_ the eighth story. _two men consorting together, one lieth with the wife of his comrade, who, becoming aware thereof, doth with her on such wise that the other is shut up in a chest, upon which he lieth with his wife, he being inside the while_ the ninth story. _master simone the physician, having been induced by bruno and buffalmacco to repair to a certain place by night, there to be made a member of a company, that goeth a-roving, is cast by buffalmacco into a trench full of ordure and there left_ the tenth story. _a certain woman of sicily artfully despoileth a merchant of that which he had brought to palermo; but he, making believe to have returned thither with much greater plenty of merchandise than before, borroweth money of her and leaveth her water and tow in payment_ day the ninth the first story. _madam francesca, being courted of one rinuccio palermini and one alessandro chiarmontesi and loving neither the one nor the other, adroitly riddeth herself of both by causing one enter for dead into a sepulchre and the other bring him forth thereof for dead, on such wise that they cannot avail to accomplish the condition imposed_ the second story. _an abbess, arising in haste and in the dark to find one of her nuns, who had been denounced to her, in bed with her lover and, thinking to cover her head with her coif, donneth instead thereof the breeches of a priest who is abed with her; the which the accused nun observing and making her aware thereof, she is acquitted and hath leisure to be with her lover_ the third story. _master simone, at the instance of bruno and buffalmacco and nello, maketh calandrino believe that he is with child; wherefore he giveth them capons and money for medicines and recovereth without bringing forth_ the fourth story. _cecco fortarrigo gameth away at buonconvento all his good and the monies of cecco angiolieri [his master;] moreover, running after the latter, in his shirt, and avouching that he hath robbed him, he causeth him be taken of the countryfolk; then, donning angiolieri's clothes and mounting his palfrey, he maketh off and leaveth the other in his shirt_ the fifth story. _calandrino falleth in love with a wench and bruno writeth him a talisman, wherewith when he toucheth her, she goeth with him; and his wife finding them together, there betideth him grievous trouble and annoy_ the sixth story. _two young gentlemen lodge the night with an innkeeper, whereof one goeth to lie with the host's daughter, whilst his wife unwittingly coucheth with the other; after which he who lay with the girl getteth him to bed with her father and telleth him all, thinking to bespeak his comrade. therewithal they come to words, but the wife, perceiving her mistake, entereth her daughter's bed and thence with certain words appeaseth everything_ the seventh story. _talano di molese dreameth that a wolf mangleth all his wife's neck and face and biddeth her beware thereof; but she payeth no heed to his warning and it befalleth her even as he had dreamed_ the eighth story. _biondello cheateth ciacco of a dinner, whereof the other craftily avengeth himself, procuring him to be shamefully beaten_ the ninth story. _two young men seek counsel of solomon, one how he may be loved and the other how he may amend his froward wife, and in answer he biddeth the one love and the other get him to goosebridge_ the tenth story. _dom gianni, at the instance of his gossip pietro, performeth a conjuration for the purpose of causing the latter's wife to become a mare; but, whenas he cometh to put on the tail, pietro marreth the whole conjuration, saying that he will not have a tail_ day the tenth the first story. _a knight in the king's service of spain thinking himself ill guerdoned, the king by very certain proof showeth him that this is not his fault, but that of his own perverse fortune, and after largesseth him magnificently_ the second story. _ghino di tacco taketh the abbot of cluny and having cured him of the stomach-complaint, letteth him go; whereupon the abbot, returning to the court of rome, reconcileth him with pope boniface and maketh him a prior of the hospitallers_ the third story. _mithridanes, envying nathan his hospitality and generosity and going to kill him, falleth in with himself, without knowing him, and is by him instructed of the course he shall take to accomplish his purpose; by means whereof he findeth him, as he himself had ordered it, in a coppice and recognizing him, is ashamed and becometh his friend_ the fourth story. _messer gentile de' carisendi, coming from modona, taketh forth of the sepulchre a lady whom he loveth and who hath been buried for dead. the lady, restored to life, beareth a male child and messer gentile restoreth her and her son to niccoluccio caccianimico, her husband_ the fifth story. _madam dianora requireth of messer ansaldo a garden as fair in january as in may, and he by binding himself [to pay a great sum of money] to a nigromancer, giveth it to her. her husband granteth her leave to do messer ansaldo's pleasure, but he, hearing of the former's generosity, absolveth her of her promise, whereupon the nigromancer, in his turn, acquitteth messer ansaldo of his bond, without willing aught of his_ the sixth story. _king charles the old, the victorious, falleth enamoured of a young girl, but after, ashamed of his fond thought, honourably marrieth both her and her sister_ the seventh story. _king pedro of arragon, coming to know the fervent love borne him by lisa, comforteth the lovesick maid and presently marrieth her to a noble young gentleman; then, kissing her on the brow, he ever after avoucheth himself her knight_ the eighth story. _sophronia, thinking to marry gisippus, becometh the wife of titus quintius fulvus and with him betaketh herself to rome, whither gisippus cometh in poor case and conceiving himself slighted of titus, declareth, so he may die, to have slain a man. titus, recognizing him, to save him, avoucheth himself to have done the deed, and the true murderer, seeing this, discovereth himself; whereupon they are all three liberated by octavianus and titus, giving gisippus his sister to wife, hath all his good in common with him_ the ninth story. _saladin, in the disguise of a merchant, is honourably entertained by messer torello d'istria, who, presently undertaking the [third] crusade, appointeth his wife a term for her marrying again. he is taken [by the saracens] and cometh, by his skill in training hawks, under the notice of the soldan, who knoweth him again and discovering himself to him, entreateth him with the utmost honour. then, torello falling sick for languishment, he is by magical art transported in one night [from alexandria] to pavia, where, being recognized by his wife at the bride-feast held for her marrying again, he returneth with her to his own house_ the tenth story. _the marquess of saluzzo, constrained by the prayers of his vassals to marry, but determined to do it after his own fashion, taketh to wife the daughter of a peasant and hath of her two children, whom he maketh believe to her to put to death; after which, feigning to be grown weary of her and to have taken another wife, he letteth bring his own daughter home to his house, as she were his new bride, and turneth his wife away in her shift; but, finding her patient under everything, he fetcheth her home again, dearer than ever, and showing her her children grown great, honoureth and letteth honour her as marchioness_ conclusion of the author here beginneth the book called decameron and surnamed prince galahalt wherein are contained an hundred stories in ten days told by seven ladies and three young men proem a kindly thing it is to have compassion of the afflicted and albeit it well beseemeth every one, yet of those is it more particularly required who have erst had need of comfort and have found it in any, amongst whom, if ever any had need thereof or held it dear or took pleasure therein aforetimes, certes, i am one of these. for that, having from my first youth unto this present been beyond measure inflamed with a very high and noble passion (higher and nobler, perchance, than might appear, were i to relate it, to sort with my low estate) albeit by persons of discretion who had intelligence thereof i was commended therefor and accounted so much the more worth, natheless a passing sore travail it was to me to bear it, not, certes, by reason of the cruelty of the beloved lady, but because of the exceeding ardour begotten in my breast of an ill-ordered appetite, for which, for that it suffered me not to stand content at any reasonable bounds, caused me ofttimes feel more chagrin than i had occasion for. in this my affliction the pleasant discourse of a certain friend of mine and his admirable consolations afforded me such refreshment that i firmly believe of these it came that i died not. but, as it pleased him who, being himself infinite, hath for immutable law appointed unto all things mundane that they shall have an end, my love,--beyond every other fervent and which nor stress of reasoning nor counsel, no, nor yet manifest shame nor peril that might ensue thereof, had availed either to break or to bend,--of its own motion, in process of time, on such wise abated that of itself at this present it hath left me only that pleasance which it is used to afford unto whoso adventureth himself not too far in the navigation of its profounder oceans; by reason whereof, all chagrin being done away, i feel it grown delightsome, whereas it used to be grievous. yet, albeit the pain hath ceased, not, therefore, is the memory fled of the benefits whilom received and the kindnesses bestowed on me by those to whom, of the goodwill they bore me, my troubles were grievous; nor, as i deem, will it ever pass away, save for death. and for that gratitude, to my thinking, is, among the other virtues, especially commendable and its contrary blameworthy, i have, that i may not appear ungrateful, bethought myself, now that i can call myself free, to endeavour, in that little which is possible to me, to afford some relief, in requital of that which i received aforetime,--if not to those who succoured me and who, belike, by reason of their good sense or of their fortune, have no occasion therefor,--to those, at least, who stand in need thereof. and albeit my support, or rather i should say my comfort, may be and indeed is of little enough avail to the afflicted, natheless meseemeth it should rather be proffered whereas the need appeareth greater, as well because it will there do more service as for that it will still be there the liefer had. and who will deny that this [comfort], whatsoever [worth] it be, it behoveth much more to give unto lovesick ladies than unto men? for that these within their tender bosoms, fearful and shamefast, hold hid the fires of love (which those who have proved know how much more puissance they have than those which are manifest), and constrained by the wishes, the pleasures, the commandments of fathers, mothers, brothers and husbands, abide most time enmewed in the narrow compass of their chambers and sitting in a manner idle, willing and willing not in one breath, revolve in themselves various thoughts which it is not possible should still be merry. by reason whereof if there arise in their minds any melancholy, bred of ardent desire, needs must it with grievous annoy abide therein, except it be done away by new discourse; more by token that they are far less strong than men to endure. with men in love it happeneth not on this wise, as we may manifestly see. they, if any melancholy or heaviness of thought oppress them, have many means of easing it or doing it away, for that to them, an they have a mind thereto, there lacketh not commodity of going about hearing and seeing many things, fowling, hunting, fishing, riding, gaming and trafficking; each of which means hath, altogether or in part, power to draw the mind unto itself and to divert it from troublous thought, at least for some space of time, whereafter, one way or another, either solacement superveneth or else the annoy groweth less. wherefore, to the end that the unright of fortune may by me in part be amended, which, where there is the less strength to endure, as we see it in delicate ladies, hath there been the more niggard of support, i purpose, for the succour and solace of ladies in love (unto others[ ] the needle and the spindle and the reel suffice) to recount an hundred stories or fables or parables or histories or whatever you like to style them, in ten days' time related by an honourable company of seven ladies and three young men made in the days of the late deadly pestilence, together with sundry canzonets sung by the aforesaid ladies for their diversion. in these stories will be found love-chances,[ ] both gladsome and grievous, and other accidents of fortune befallen as well in times present as in days of old, whereof the ladies aforesaid, who shall read them, may at once take solace from the delectable things therein shown forth and useful counsel, inasmuch as they may learn thereby what is to be eschewed and what is on like wise to be ensued,--the which methinketh cannot betide without cease of chagrin. if it happen thus (as god grant it may) let them render thanks therefor to love, who, by loosing me from his bonds, hath vouchsafed me the power of applying myself to the service of their pleasures. [footnote : _i.e._ those not in love.] [footnote : syn. adventures (_casi_).] _day the first_ here beginneth the first day of the decameron wherein (after demonstration made by the author of the manner in which it came to pass that the persons who are hereinafter presented foregathered for the purpose of devising together) under the governance of pampinea is discoursed of that which is most agreeable unto each as often, most gracious ladies, as, taking thought in myself, i mind me how very pitiful you are all by nature, so often do i recognize that this present work will, to your thinking, have a grievous and a weariful beginning, inasmuch as the dolorous remembrance of the late pestiferous mortality, which it beareth on its forefront, is universally irksome to all who saw or otherwise knew it. but i would not therefore have this affright you from reading further, as if in the reading you were still to fare among sighs and tears. let this grisly beginning be none other to you than is to wayfarers a rugged and steep mountain, beyond which is situate a most fair and delightful plain, which latter cometh so much the pleasanter to them as the greater was the hardship of the ascent and the descent; for, like as dolour occupieth the extreme of gladness, even so are miseries determined by imminent joyance. this brief annoy (i say brief, inasmuch as it is contained in few pages) is straightway succeeded by the pleasance and delight which i have already promised you and which, belike, were it not aforesaid, might not be looked for from such a beginning. and in truth, could i fairly have availed to bring you to my desire otherwise than by so rugged a path as this will be i had gladly done it; but being in a manner constrained thereto, for that, without this reminiscence of our past miseries, it might not be shown what was the occasion of the coming about of the things that will hereafter be read, i have brought myself to write them.[ ] [footnote : _i.e._ the few pages of which he speaks above.] i say, then, that the years [of the era] of the fruitful incarnation of the son of god had attained to the number of one thousand three hundred and forty-eight, when into the notable city of florence, fair over every other of italy, there came the death-dealing pestilence, which, through the operation of the heavenly bodies or of our own iniquitous dealings, being sent down upon mankind for our correction by the just wrath of god, had some years before appeared in the parts of the east and after having bereft these latter of an innumerable number of inhabitants, extending without cease from one place to another, had now unhappily spread towards the west. and thereagainst no wisdom availing nor human foresight (whereby the city was purged of many impurities by officers deputed to that end and it was forbidden unto any sick person to enter therein and many were the counsels given[ ] for the preservation of health) nor yet humble supplications, not once but many times both in ordered processions and on other wise made unto god by devout persons,--about the coming in of the spring of the aforesaid year, it began on horrible and miraculous wise to show forth its dolorous effects. yet not as it had done in the east, where, if any bled at the nose, it was a manifest sign of inevitable death; nay, but in men and women alike there appeared, at the beginning of the malady, certain swellings, either on the groin or under the armpits, whereof some waxed of the bigness of a common apple, others like unto an egg, some more and some less, and these the vulgar named plague-boils. from these two parts the aforesaid death-bearing plague-boils proceeded, in brief space, to appear and come indifferently in every part of the body; wherefrom, after awhile, the fashion of the contagion began to change into black or livid blotches, which showed themselves in many [first] on the arms and about the thighs and [after spread to] every other part of the person, in some large and sparse and in others small and thick-sown; and like as the plague-boils had been first (and yet were) a very certain token of coming death, even so were these for every one to whom they came. [footnote : syn. provisions made or means taken (_consigli dati_). boccaccio constantly uses _consiglio_ in this latter sense.] to the cure of these maladies nor counsel[ ] of physician nor virtue of any medicine appeared to avail or profit aught; on the contrary,--whether it was that the nature of the infection suffered it not or that the ignorance of the physicians (of whom, over and above the men of art, the number, both men and women, who had never had any teaching of medicine, was become exceeding great,) availed not to know whence it arose and consequently took not due measures thereagainst,--not only did few recover thereof, but well nigh all died within the third day from the appearance of the aforesaid signs, this sooner and that later, and for the most part without fever or other accident.[ ] and this pestilence was the more virulent for that, by communication with those who were sick thereof, it gat hold upon the sound, no otherwise than fire upon things dry or greasy, whenas they are brought very near thereunto. nay, the mischief was yet greater; for that not only did converse and consortion with the sick give to the sound infection of cause of common death, but the mere touching of the clothes or of whatsoever other thing had been touched or used of the sick appeared of itself to communicate the malady to the toucher. a marvellous thing to hear is that which i have to tell and one which, had it not been seen of many men's eyes and of mine own, i had scarce dared credit, much less set down in writing, though i had heard it from one worthy of belief. i say, then, that of such efficience was the nature of the pestilence in question in communicating itself from one to another, that, not only did it pass from man to man, but this, which is much more, it many times visibly did;--to wit, a thing which had pertained to a man sick or dead of the aforesaid sickness, being touched by an animal foreign to the human species, not only infected this latter with the plague, but in a very brief space of time killed it. of this mine own eyes (as hath a little before been said) had one day, among others, experience on this wise; to wit, that the rags of a poor man, who had died of the plague, being cast out into the public way, two hogs came up to them and having first, after their wont, rooted amain among them with their snouts, took them in their mouths and tossed them about their jaws; then, in a little while, after turning round and round, they both, as if they had taken poison, fell down dead upon the rags with which they had in an ill hour intermeddled. [footnote : syn. help, remedy.] [footnote : _accidente_, what a modern physician would call "complication." "symptom" does not express the whole meaning of the italian word.] from these things and many others like unto them or yet stranger divers fears and conceits were begotten in those who abode alive, which well nigh all tended to a very barbarous conclusion, namely, to shun and flee from the sick and all that pertained to them, and thus doing, each thought to secure immunity for himself. some there were who conceived that to live moderately and keep oneself from all excess was the best defence against such a danger; wherefore, making up their company, they lived removed from every other and shut themselves up in those houses where none had been sick and where living was best; and there, using very temperately of the most delicate viands and the finest wines and eschewing all incontinence, they abode with music and such other diversions as they might have, never suffering themselves to speak with any nor choosing to hear any news from without of death or sick folk. others, inclining to the contrary opinion, maintained that to carouse and make merry and go about singing and frolicking and satisfy the appetite in everything possible and laugh and scoff at whatsoever befell was a very certain remedy for such an ill. that which they said they put in practice as best they might, going about day and night, now to this tavern, now to that, drinking without stint or measure; and on this wise they did yet more freely in other folk's houses, so but they scented there aught that liked or tempted them, as they might lightly do, for that every one--as he were to live no longer--had abandoned all care of his possessions, as of himself, wherefore the most part of the houses were become common good and strangers used them, whenas they happened upon them, like as the very owner might have done; and with all this bestial preoccupation, they still shunned the sick to the best of their power. in this sore affliction and misery of our city, the reverend authority of the laws, both human and divine, was all in a manner dissolved and fallen into decay, for [lack of] the ministers and executors thereof, who, like other men, were all either dead or sick or else left so destitute of followers that they were unable to exercise any office, wherefore every one had license to do whatsoever pleased him. many others held a middle course between the two aforesaid, not straitening themselves so exactly in the matter of diet as the first neither allowing themselves such license in drinking and other debauchery as the second, but using things in sufficiency, according to their appetites; nor did they seclude themselves, but went about, carrying in their hands, some flowers, some odoriferous herbs and other some divers kinds of spiceries,[ ] which they set often to their noses, accounting it an excellent thing to fortify the brain with such odours, more by token that the air seemed all heavy and attainted with the stench of the dead bodies and that of the sick and of the remedies used. [footnote : _i.e._ aromatic drugs.] some were of a more barbarous, though, peradventure, a surer way of thinking, avouching that there was no remedy against pestilences better than--no, nor any so good as--to flee before them; wherefore, moved by this reasoning and recking of nought but themselves, very many, both men and women, abandoned their own city, their own houses and homes, their kinsfolk and possessions, and sought the country seats of others, or, at the least, their own, as if the wrath of god, being moved to punish the iniquity of mankind, would not proceed to do so wheresoever they might be, but would content itself with afflicting those only who were found within the walls of their city, or as if they were persuaded that no person was to remain therein and that its last hour was come. and albeit these, who opined thus variously, died not all, yet neither did they all escape; nay, many of each way of thinking and in every place sickened of the plague and languished on all sides, well nigh abandoned, having themselves, what while they were whole, set the example to those who abode in health. indeed, leaving be that townsman avoided townsman and that well nigh no neighbour took thought unto other and that kinsfolk seldom or never visited one another and held no converse together save from afar, this tribulation had stricken such terror to the hearts of all, men and women alike, that brother forsook brother, uncle nephew and sister brother and oftentimes wife husband; nay (what is yet more extraordinary and well nigh incredible) fathers and mothers refused to visit or tend their very children, as they had not been theirs. by reason whereof there remained unto those (and the number of them, both males and females, was incalculable) who fell sick, none other succour than that which they owed either to the charity of friends (and of these there were few) or the greed of servants, who tended them, allured by high and extravagant wage; albeit, for all this, these latter were not grown many, and those men and women of mean understanding and for the most part unused to such offices, who served for well nigh nought but to reach things called for by the sick or to note when they died; and in the doing of these services many of them perished with their gain. of this abandonment of the sick by neighbours, kinsfolk and friends and of the scarcity of servants arose an usage before well nigh unheard, to wit, that no woman, how fair or lovesome or well-born soever she might be, once fallen sick, recked aught of having a man to tend her, whatever he might be, or young or old, and without any shame discovered to him every part of her body, no otherwise than she would have done to a woman, so but the necessity of her sickness required it; the which belike, in those who recovered, was the occasion of lesser modesty in time to come. moreover, there ensued of this abandonment the death of many who peradventure, had they been succoured, would have escaped alive; wherefore, as well for the lack of the opportune services which the sick availed not to have as for the virulence of the plague, such was the multitude of those who died in the city by day and by night that it was an astonishment to hear tell thereof, much more to see it; and thence, as it were of necessity, there sprang up among those who abode alive things contrary to the pristine manners of the townsfolk. it was then (even as we yet see it used) a custom that the kinswomen and she-neighbours of the dead should assemble in his house and there condole with those who more nearly pertained unto him, whilst his neighbours and many other citizens foregathered with his next of kin before his house, whither, according to the dead man's quality, came the clergy, and he with funeral pomp of chants and candles was borne on the shoulders of his peers to the church chosen by himself before his death; which usages, after the virulence of the plague began to increase, were either altogether or for the most part laid aside, and other and strange customs sprang up in their stead. for that, not only did folk die without having a multitude of women about them, but many there were who departed this life without witness and few indeed were they to whom the pious plaints and bitter tears of their kinsfolk were vouchsafed; nay, in lieu of these things there obtained, for the most part, laughter and jests and gibes and feasting and merrymaking in company; which usance women, laying aside womanly pitifulness, had right well learned for their own safety. few, again, were they whose bodies were accompanied to the church by more than half a score or a dozen of their neighbours, and of these no worshipful and illustrious citizens, but a sort of blood-suckers, sprung from the dregs of the people, who styled themselves _pickmen_[ ] and did such offices for hire, shouldered the bier and bore it with hurried steps, not to that church which the dead man had chosen before his death, but most times to the nearest, behind five or six[ ] priests, with little light[ ] and whiles none at all, which latter, with the aid of the said pickmen, thrust him into what grave soever they first found unoccupied, without troubling themselves with too long or too formal a service. [footnote : _i.e._ gravediggers (_becchini_).] [footnote : lit. _four_ or six. this is the equivalent italian idiom.] [footnote : _i.e._ but few tapers.] the condition of the common people (and belike, in great part, of the middle class also) was yet more pitiable to behold, for that these, for the most part retained by hope[ ] or poverty in their houses and abiding in their own quarters, sickened by the thousand daily and being altogether untended and unsuccoured, died well nigh all without recourse. many breathed their last in the open street, whilst other many, for all they died in their houses, made it known to the neighbours that they were dead rather by the stench of their rotting bodies than otherwise; and of these and others who died all about the whole city was full. for the most part one same usance was observed by the neighbours, moved more by fear lest the corruption of the dead bodies should imperil themselves than by any charity they had for the departed; to wit, that either with their own hands or with the aid of certain bearers, whenas they might have any, they brought the bodies of those who had died forth of their houses and laid them before their doors, where, especially in the morning, those who went about might see corpses without number; then they fetched biers and some, in default thereof, they laid upon some board or other. nor was it only one bier that carried two or three corpses, nor did this happen but once; nay, many might have been counted which contained husband and wife, two or three brothers, father and son or the like. and an infinite number of times it befell that, two priests going with one cross for some one, three or four biers, borne by bearers, ranged themselves behind the latter,[ ] and whereas the priests thought to have but one dead man to bury, they had six or eight, and whiles more. nor therefore were the dead honoured with aught of tears or candles or funeral train; nay, the thing was come to such a pass that folk recked no more of men that died than nowadays they would of goats; whereby it very manifestly appeared that that which the natural course of things had not availed, by dint of small and infrequent harms, to teach the wise to endure with patience, the very greatness of their ills had brought even the simple to expect and make no account of. the consecrated ground sufficing not to the burial of the vast multitude of corpses aforesaid, which daily and well nigh hourly came carried in crowds to every church,--especially if it were sought to give each his own place, according to ancient usance,--there were made throughout the churchyards, after every other part was full, vast trenches, wherein those who came after were laid by the hundred and being heaped up therein by layers, as goods are stowed aboard ship, were covered with a little earth, till such time as they reached the top of the trench. [footnote : _i.e._ expectation of gain from acting as tenders of the sick, gravediggers, etc. the word _speranza_ is, however, constantly used by dante and his follower boccaccio in the contrary sense of "fear," and may be so meant in the present instance.] [footnote : _i.e._ the cross.] moreover,--not to go longer searching out and recalling every particular of our past miseries, as they befell throughout the city,--i say that, whilst so sinister a time prevailed in the latter, on no wise therefor was the surrounding country spared, wherein, (letting be the castles,[ ] which in their littleness[ ] were like unto the city,) throughout the scattered villages and in the fields, the poor and miserable husbandmen and their families, without succour of physician or aid of servitor, died, not like men, but well nigh like beasts, by the ways or in their tillages or about the houses, indifferently by day and night. by reason whereof, growing lax like the townsfolk in their manners and customs, they recked not of any thing or business of theirs; nay, all, as if they looked for death that very day, studied with all their wit, not to help to maturity the future produce of their cattle and their fields and the fruits of their own past toils, but to consume those which were ready to hand. thus it came to pass that the oxen, the asses, the sheep, the goats, the swine, the fowls, nay, the very dogs, so faithful to mankind, being driven forth of their own houses, went straying at their pleasure about the fields, where the very corn was abandoned, without being cut, much less gathered in; and many, well nigh like reasonable creatures, after grazing all day, returned at night, glutted, to their houses, without the constraint of any herdsman. [footnote : _i.e._ walled burghs.] [footnote : _i.e._ in miniature.] to leave the country and return to the city, what more can be said save that such and so great was the cruelty of heaven (and in part, peradventure, that of men) that, between march and the following july, what with the virulence of that pestiferous sickness and the number of sick folk ill tended or forsaken in their need, through the fearfulness of those who were whole, it is believed for certain that upward of an hundred thousand human beings perished within the walls of the city of florence, which, peradventure, before the advent of that death-dealing calamity, had not been accounted to hold so many? alas, how many great palaces, how many goodly houses, how many noble mansions, once full of families, of lords and of ladies, abode empty even to the meanest servant! how many memorable families, how many ample heritages, how many famous fortunes were seen to remain without lawful heir! how many valiant men, how many fair ladies, how many sprightly youths, whom, not others only, but galen, hippocrates or Æsculapius themselves would have judged most hale, breakfasted in the morning with their kinsfolk, comrades and friends and that same night supped with their ancestors in the other world! i am myself weary of going wandering so long among such miseries; wherefore, purposing henceforth to leave such part thereof as i can fitly, i say that,--our city being at this pass, well nigh void of inhabitants,--it chanced (as i afterward heard from a person worthy of credit) that there foregathered in the venerable church of santa maria novella, one tuesday morning when there was well nigh none else there, seven young ladies, all knit one to another by friendship or neighbourhood or kinship, who had heard divine service in mourning attire, as sorted with such a season. not one of them had passed her eight-and-twentieth year nor was less than eighteen years old, and each was discreet and of noble blood, fair of favour and well-mannered and full of honest sprightliness. the names of these ladies i would in proper terms set out, did not just cause forbid me, to wit, that i would not have it possible that, in time to come, any of them should take shame by reason of the things hereinafter related as being told or hearkened by them, the laws of disport being nowadays somewhat straitened, which at that time, for the reasons above shown, were of the largest, not only for persons of their years, but for those of a much riper age; nor yet would i give occasion to the envious, who are still ready to carp at every praiseworthy life, on anywise to disparage the fair fame of these honourable ladies with unseemly talk. wherefore, so that which each saith may hereafterward be apprehended without confusion, i purpose to denominate them by names altogether or in part sorting with each one's quality.[ ] the first of them and her of ripest age i shall call pampinea, the second fiammetta, the third filomena and the fourth emilia. to the fifth we will give the name of lauretta, to the sixth that of neifile and the last, not without cause, we will style elisa.[ ] these, then, not drawn of any set purpose, but foregathering by chance in a corner of the church, having seated themselves in a ring, after divers sighs, let be the saying of paternosters and fell to devising with one another many and various things of the nature of the time. after awhile, the others being silent, pampinea proceeded to speak thus: [footnote : or character (_qualità_).] [footnote : i know of no explanation of these names by the commentators, who seem, indeed, after the manner of their kind, to have generally confined themselves to the elaborate illustration and elucidation (or rather, alas! too often, obscuration) of passages already perfectly plain, leaving the difficult passages for the most part untouched. the following is the best i can make of them. _pampinea_ appears to be formed from the greek [greek: pan], all, and [greek: pinuô], i advise, admonish or inform, and to mean all-advising or admonishing, which would agree well enough with the character of pampinea, who is represented as the eldest and sagest of the female personages of the decameron and as taking the lead in everything. _fiammetta_ is the name by which boccaccio designates his mistress, the princess maria of naples (the lady for whom he cherished "the very high and noble passion" of which he speaks in his proem), in his earlier opuscule, the "elégia di madonna fiammetta," describing, in her name, the torments of separation from the beloved. in this work he speaks of himself under the name of pamfilo (gr. [greek: pan], all, and [greek: phileô], i love, _i.e._ the all-loving or the passionate lover), and it is probable, therefore, that under these names he intended to introduce his royal ladylove and himself in the present work. _filomena_ (italian form of philomela, a nightingale, greek [greek: philos] loving, and [greek: melos], melody, song, _i.e._ song-loving) is perhaps so styled for her love of music, and _emilia's_ character, as it appears in the course of the work, justifies the derivation of her name from the greek [greek: aimylios], pleasing, engaging in manners and behaviour, cajoling. _lauretta_ boccaccio probably intends us to look upon as a learned lady, if, as we may suppose, her name is a corruption of _laureata_, laurel-crowned; whilst _neifile's_ name (greek [greek: neios] [[greek: neos]] new, and [greek: phileô], i love, _i.e._ novelty-loving) stamps her as being of a somewhat curious disposition, eager "to tell or to hear some new thing." the name _elisa_ is not so easily to be explained as the others; possibly it was intended by the author as a reminiscence of dido, to whom the name (which is by some authorities explained to mean "godlike," from a hebrew root) is said to have been given "quòd plurima supra animi muliebris fortitudinem gesserit." it does not, however, appear that there was in elisa's character or life anything to justify the implied comparison.] "dear my ladies, you may, like myself, have many times heard that whoso honestly useth his right doth no one wrong; and it is the natural right of every one who is born here below to succour, keep and defend his own life as best he may, and in so far is this allowed that it hath happened whiles that, for the preservation thereof, men have been slain without any fault. if this much be conceded of the laws, which have in view the well-being of all mortals, how much more is it lawful for us and whatsoever other, without offence unto any, to take such means as we may for the preservation of our lives? as often as i consider our fashions of this morning and those of many other mornings past and bethink me what and what manner discourses are ours, i feel, and you likewise must feel, that each of us is in fear for herself. nor do i anywise wonder at this; but i wonder exceedingly, considering that we all have a woman's wit, that we take no steps to provide ourselves against that which each of us justly feareth. we abide here, to my seeming, no otherwise than as if we would or should be witness of how many dead bodies are brought hither for burial or to hearken if the friars of the place, whose number is come well nigh to nought, chant their offices at the due hours or by our apparel to show forth unto whosoever appeareth here the nature and extent of our distresses. if we depart hence, we either see dead bodies or sick persons carried about or those, whom for their misdeeds the authority of the public laws whilere condemned to exile, overrun the whole place with unseemly excesses, as if scoffing at the laws, for that they know the executors thereof to be either dead or sick; whilst the dregs of our city, fattened with our blood, style themselves _pickmen_ and ruffle it everywhere in mockery of us, riding and running all about and flouting us with our distresses in ribald songs. we hear nothing here but 'such an one is dead' or 'such an one is at the point of death'; and were there any to make them, we should hear dolorous lamentations on all sides. and if we return to our houses, i know not if it is with you as with me, but, for my part, when i find none left therein of a great household, save my serving-maid, i wax fearful and feel every hair of my body stand on end; and wherever i go or abide about the house, meseemeth i see the shades of those who are departed and who wear not those countenances that i was used to see, but terrify me with a horrid aspect, i know not whence newly come to them. by reason of these things i feel myself alike ill at ease here and abroad and at home, more by token that meseemeth none, who hath, as we have, the power and whither to go, is left here, other than ourselves; or if any such there be, i have many a time both heard and perceived that, without making any distinction between things lawful and unlawful, so but appetite move them, whether alone or in company, both day and night, they do that which affordeth them most delight. nor is it the laity alone who do thus; nay, even those who are shut in the monasteries, persuading themselves that what befitteth and is lawful to others alike sortable and unforbidden unto them,[ ] have broken the laws of obedience and giving themselves to carnal delights, thinking thus to escape, are grown lewd and dissolute. if thus, then, it be, as is manifestly to be seen, what do we here? what look we for? what dream we? why are we more sluggish and slower to provide for our safety than all the rest of the townsfolk? deem we ourselves of less price than others, or do we hold our life to be bounden in our bodies with a stronger chain than is theirs and that therefore we need reck nothing of aught that hath power to harm it? we err, we are deceived; what folly is ours, if we think thus! as often as we choose to call to mind the number and quality of the youths and ladies overborne of this cruel pestilence, we may see a most manifest proof thereof. [footnote : this phrase may also be read "persuading themselves that that (_i.e._ their breach of the laws of obedience, etc.) beseemeth them and is forbidden only to others" (_faccendosi a credere che quello a lor si convenga e non si disdica che all' altre_); but the reading in the text appears more in harmony with the general sense and is indeed indicated by the punctuation of the giunta edition of , which i generally follow in case of doubt.] wherefore, in order that we may not, through wilfulness or nonchalance, fall into that wherefrom we may, peradventure, an we but will, by some means or other escape, i know not if it seem to you as it doth to me, but methinketh it were excellently well done that we, such as we are, depart this city, as many have done before us, and eschewing, as we would death, the dishonourable example of others, betake ourselves quietly to our places in the country, whereof each of us hath great plenty, and there take such diversion, such delight and such pleasance as we may, without anywise overpassing the bounds of reason. there may we hear the small birds sing, there may we see the hills and plains clad all in green and the fields full of corn wave even as doth the sea; there may we see trees, a thousand sorts, and there is the face of heaven more open to view, the which, angered against us though it be, nevertheless denieth not unto us its eternal beauties, far goodlier to look upon than the empty walls of our city. moreover, there is the air far fresher[ ] and there at this season is more plenty of that which behoveth unto life and less is the sum of annoys, for that, albeit the husbandmen die there, even as do the townsfolk here, the displeasance is there the less, insomuch as houses and inhabitants are rarer than in the city. [footnote : syn. cooler.] here, on the other hand, if i deem aright, we abandon no one; nay, we may far rather say with truth that we ourselves are abandoned, seeing that our kinsfolk, either dying or fleeing from death, have left us alone in this great tribulation, as it were we pertained not unto them. no blame can therefore befall the ensuing of this counsel; nay, dolour and chagrin and belike death may betide us, an we ensue it not. wherefore, an it please you, methinketh we should do well to take our maids and letting follow after us with the necessary gear, sojourn to-day in this place and to-morrow in that, taking such pleasance and diversion as the season may afford, and on this wise abide till such time (an we be not earlier overtaken of death) as we shall see what issue heaven reserveth unto these things. and i would remind you that it is no more forbidden unto us honourably to depart than it is unto many others of our sex to abide in dishonour." the other ladies, having hearkened to pampinea, not only commended her counsel, but, eager to follow it, had already begun to devise more particularly among themselves of the manner, as if, arising from their session there, they were to set off out of hand. but filomena, who was exceeding discreet, said, "ladies, albeit that which pampinea allegeth is excellently well said, yet is there no occasion for running, as meseemeth you would do. remember that we are all women and none of us is child enough not to know how [little] reasonable women are among themselves and how [ill], without some man's guidance, they know how to order themselves. we are fickle, wilful, suspicious, faint-hearted and timorous, for which reasons i misdoubt me sore, an we take not some other guidance than our own, that our company will be far too soon dissolved and with less honour to ourselves than were seemly; wherefore we should do well to provide ourselves, ere we begin." "verily," answered elisa, "men are the head of women, and without their ordinance seldom cometh any emprise of ours to good end; but how may we come by these men? there is none of us but knoweth that of her kinsmen the most part are dead and those who abide alive are all gone fleeing that which we seek to flee, in divers companies, some here and some there, without our knowing where, and to invite strangers would not be seemly, seeing that, if we would endeavour after our welfare, it behoveth us find a means of so ordering ourselves that, wherever we go for diversion and repose, scandal nor annoy may ensue thereof." whilst such discourse was toward between the ladies, behold, there entered the church three young men,--yet not so young that the age of the youngest of them was less than five-and-twenty years,--in whom neither the perversity of the time nor loss of friends and kinsfolk, no, nor fear for themselves had availed to cool, much less to quench, the fire of love. of these one was called pamfilo,[ ] another filostrato[ ] and the third dioneo,[ ] all very agreeable and well-bred, and they went seeking, for their supreme solace, in such a perturbation of things, to see their mistresses, who, as it chanced, were all three among the seven aforesaid; whilst certain of the other ladies were near kinswomen of one or other of the young men. [footnote : see ante, p. , note.] [footnote : _filostrato_, greek [greek: philos], loving, and [greek: stratos], army, _met._ strife, war, _i.e._ one who loves strife. this name appears to be a reminiscence of boccaccio's poem (_il filostrato_, well known through its translation by chaucer and the senechal d'anjou) upon the subject of the loves of troilus and cressida and to be in this instance used by him as a synonym for an unhappy lover, whom no rebuffs, no treachery can divert from his ill-starred passion. such a lover may well be said to be in love with strife, and that the filostrato of the decameron sufficiently answers to this description we learn later on from his own lips.] [footnote : _dioneo_, a name probably coined from the greek [greek: diônê], one of the _agnomina_ of venus (properly her mother's name) and intended to denote the amorous temperament of his personage, to which, indeed, the erotic character of most of the stories told by him bears sufficient witness.] no sooner had their eyes fallen on the ladies than they were themselves espied of them; whereupon quoth pampinea, smiling, "see, fortune is favourable to our beginnings and hath thrown in our way young men of worth and discretion, who will gladly be to us both guides and servitors, an we disdain not to accept of them in that capacity." but neifile, whose face was grown all vermeil for shamefastness, for that it was she who was beloved of one of the young men, said, "for god's sake, pampinea, look what thou sayest! i acknowledge most frankly that there can be nought but all good said of which one soever of them and i hold them sufficient unto a much greater thing than this, even as i opine that they would bear, not only ourselves, but far fairer and nobler dames than we, good and honourable company. but, for that it is a very manifest thing that they are enamoured of certain of us who are here, i fear lest, without our fault or theirs, scandal and blame ensue thereof, if we carry them with us." quoth filomena, "that skilleth nought; so but i live honestly and conscience prick me not of aught, let who will speak to the contrary; god and the truth will take up arms for me. wherefore, if they be disposed to come, verily we may say with pampinea that fortune is favourable to our going." the other ladies, hearing her speak thus absolutely, not only held their peace, but all with one accord agreed that the young men should be called and acquainted with their project and bidden to be pleased bear them company in their expedition. accordingly, without more words, pampinea, who was knit by kinship to one of them, rising to her feet, made for the three young men, who stood fast, looking upon them, and saluting them with a cheerful countenance, discovered to them their intent and prayed them, on behalf of herself and her companions, that they would be pleased to bear them company in a pure and brotherly spirit. the young men at the first thought themselves bantered, but, seeing that the lady spoke in good earnest, they made answer joyfully that they were ready, and without losing time about the matter, forthright took order for that which they had to do against departure. on the following morning, wednesday to wit, towards break of day, having let orderly make ready all things needful and despatched them in advance whereas they purposed to go,[ ] the ladies, with certain of their waiting-women, and the three young men, with as many of their serving-men, departing florence, set out upon their way; nor had they gone more than two short miles from the city, when they came to the place fore-appointed of them, which was situate on a little hill, somewhat withdrawn on every side from the high way and full of various shrubs and plants, all green of leafage and pleasant to behold. on the summit of this hill was a palace, with a goodly and great courtyard in its midst and galleries[ ] and saloons and bedchambers, each in itself most fair and adorned and notable with jocund paintings, with lawns and grassplots round about and wonder-goodly gardens and wells of very cold water and cellars full of wines of price, things more apt unto curious drinkers than unto sober and modest ladies. the new comers, to their no little pleasure, found the place all swept and the beds made in the chambers and every thing full of such flowers as might be had at that season and strewn with rushes. [footnote : _e prima mandato là dove_, etc. this passage is obscure and may be read to mean "and having first despatched [a messenger] (or sent [word]) whereas," etc. i think, however, that _mandato_ is a copyist's error for _mandata_, in which case the meaning would be as in the text.] [footnote : or balconies (_loggie_).] as soon as they had seated themselves, dioneo, who was the merriest springald in the world and full of quips and cranks, said, "ladies, your wit, rather than our foresight, hath guided us hither, and i know not what you purpose to do with your cares; as for my own, i left them within the city gates, whenas i issued thence with you awhile agone; wherefore, do you either address yourselves to make merry and laugh and sing together with me (in so far, i mean, as pertaineth to your dignity) or give me leave to go back for my cares and abide in the afflicted city." whereto pampinea, no otherwise than as if in like manner she had banished all her own cares, answered blithely, "dioneo, thou sayst well; it behoveth us live merrily, nor hath any other occasion caused us flee from yonder miseries. but, for that things which are without measure may not long endure, i, who began the discourse wherethrough this so goodly company came to be made, taking thought for the continuance of our gladness, hold it of necessity that we appoint some one to be principal among us, whom we may honour and obey as chief and whose especial care it shall be to dispose us to live joyously. and in order that each in turn may prove the burden of solicitude, together with the pleasure of headship; and that, the chief being thus drawn, in turn, from one and the other sex, there may be no cause for jealousy, as might happen, were any excluded from the sovranty, i say that unto each be attributed the burden and the honour for one day. let who is to be our first chief be at the election of us all. for who shall follow, be it he or she whom it shall please the governor of the day to appoint, whenas the hour of vespers draweth near, and let each in turn, at his or her discretion, order and dispose of the place and manner wherein we are to live, for such time as his or her seignory shall endure." pampinea's words pleased mightily, and with one voice they elected her chief of the first day; whereupon filomena, running nimbly to a laurel-tree--for that she had many a time heard speak of the honour due to the leaves of this plant and how worship-worth they made whoso was deservedly crowned withal--and plucking divers sprays therefrom, made her thereof a goodly and honourable wreath, which, being set upon her head, was thenceforth, what while their company lasted, a manifest sign unto every other of the royal office and seignory. pampinea, being made queen, commanded that every one should be silent; then, calling the serving-men of the three young gentlemen and her own and the other ladies' women, who were four in number, before herself and all being silent, she spoke thus: "in order that i may set you a first example, by which, proceeding from good to better, our company may live and last in order and pleasance and without reproach so long as it is agreeable to us, i constitute, firstly, parmeno, dioneo's servant, my seneschal and commit unto him the care and ordinance of all our household and [especially] that which pertaineth to the service of the saloon. sirisco, pamfilo's servant, i will shall be our purveyor and treasurer and ensue the commandments of parmeno. tindaro shall look to the service of filostrato and the other two gentlemen in their bed chambers, what time the others, being occupied about their respective offices, cannot attend thereto. misia, my woman, and filomena's licisca shall still abide in the kitchen and there diligently prepare such viands as shall be appointed them of parmeno. lauretta's chimera and fiammetta's stratilia it is our pleasure shall occupy themselves with the ordinance of the ladies' chambers and the cleanliness of the places where we shall abide; and we will and command all and several, as they hold our favour dear, to have a care that, whithersoever they go or whencesoever they return and whatsoever they hear or see, they bring us from without no news other than joyous." these orders summarily given and commended of all, pampinea, rising blithely to her feet, said, "here be gardens, here be meadows, here be store of other delectable places, wherein let each go a-pleasuring at will; and when tierce[ ] soundeth, let all be here, so we may eat in the cool." [footnote : _i.e._ nine o'clock a.m. boccaccio's habit of measuring time by the canonical hours has been a sore stumbling-block to the ordinary english and french translator, who is generally terribly at sea as to his meaning, inclining to render _tierce_ three, _sexte_ six o'clock and _none_ noon and making shots of the same wild kind at the other hours. the monasterial rule (which before the general introduction of clocks was commonly followed by the mediæval public in the computation of time) divided the twenty-four hours of the day and night into seven parts (six of three hours each and one of six), the inception of which was denoted by the sound of the bells that summoned the clergy to the performance of the seven canonical offices _i.e._ _matins_ at a.m., _prime_ at a.m., _tierce_ at a.m., _sexte_ or noonsong at noon, _none_ at p.m., _vespers_ or evensong at p.m. and _complines_ or nightsong at p.m., and at the same time served the laity as a clock.] the merry company, being thus dismissed by the new queen, went straying with slow steps, young men and fair ladies together, about a garden, devising blithely and diverting themselves with weaving goodly garlands of various leaves and carolling amorously. after they had abidden there such time as had been appointed them of the queen, they returned to the house, where they found that parmeno had made a diligent beginning with his office, for that, entering a saloon on the ground floor, they saw there the tables laid with the whitest of cloths and beakers that seemed of silver and everything covered with the flowers of the broom; whereupon, having washed their hands, they all, by command of the queen, seated themselves according to parmeno's ordinance. then came viands delicately drest and choicest wines were proffered and the three serving-men, without more, quietly tended the tables. all, being gladdened by these things, for that they were fair and orderly done, ate joyously and with store of merry talk, and the tables being cleared away,[ ] the queen bade bring instruments of music, for that all the ladies knew how to dance, as also the young men, and some of them could both play and sing excellent well. accordingly, by her commandment, dioneo took a lute and fiammetta a viol and began softly to sound a dance; whereupon the queen and the other ladies, together with the other two young men, having sent the serving-men to eat, struck up a round and began with a slow pace to dance a brawl; which ended, they fell to singing quaint and merry ditties. on this wise they abode till it seemed to the queen time to go to sleep,[ ] and she accordingly dismissed them all; whereupon the young men retired to their chambers, which were withdrawn from the ladies' lodging, and finding them with the beds well made and as full of flowers as the saloon, put off their clothes and betook themselves to rest, whilst the ladies, on their part, did likewise. [footnote : the table of boccaccio's time was a mere board upon trestles, which when not in actual use, was stowed away, for room's sake, against the wall.] [footnote : _i.e._ to take the siesta or midday nap common in hot countries.] none[ ] had not long sounded when the queen, arising, made all the other ladies arise, and on like wise the three young men, alleging overmuch sleep to be harmful by day; and so they betook themselves to a little meadow, where the grass grew green and high nor there had the sun power on any side. there, feeling the waftings of a gentle breeze, they all, as their queen willed it, seated themselves in a ring on the green grass; while she bespoke them thus, "as ye see, the sun is high and the heat great, nor is aught heard save the crickets yonder among the olives; wherefore it were doubtless folly to go anywhither at this present. here is the sojourn fair and cool, and here, as you see, are chess and tables,[ ] and each can divert himself as is most to his mind. but, an my counsel be followed in this, we shall pass away this sultry part of the day, not in gaming,--wherein the mind of one of the players must of necessity be troubled, without any great pleasure of the other or of those who look on,--but in telling stories, which, one telling, may afford diversion to all the company who hearken; nor shall we have made an end of telling each his story but the sun will have declined and the heat be abated, and we can then go a-pleasuring whereas it may be most agreeable to us. wherefore, if this that i say please you, (for i am disposed to follow your pleasure therein,) let us do it; and if it please you not, let each until the hour of vespers do what most liketh him." ladies and men alike all approved the story-telling, whereupon, "then," said the queen, "since this pleaseth you, i will that this first day each be free to tell of such matters as are most to his liking." then, turning to pamfilo, who sat on her right hand, she smilingly bade him give beginning to the story-telling with one of his; and he, hearing the commandment, forthright began thus, whilst all gave ear to him. [footnote : _i.e._ three o'clock p.m.] [footnote : _i.e._ backgammon.] the first story [day the first] master ciappelletto dupeth a holy friar with a false confession and dieth; and having been in his lifetime the worst of men, he is, after his death, reputed a saint and called saint ciappelletto. "it is a seemly thing, dearest ladies, that whatsoever a man doth, he give it beginning from the holy and admirable name of him who is the maker of all things. wherefore, it behoving me, as the first, to give commencement to our story-telling, i purpose to begin with one of his marvels, to the end that, this being heard, our hope in him, as in a thing immutable, may be confirmed and his name be ever praised of us. it is manifest that, like as things temporal are all transitory and mortal, even so both within and without are they full of annoy and anguish and travail and subject to infinite perils, against which it is indubitable that we, who live enmingled therein and who are indeed part and parcel thereof, might avail neither to endure nor to defend ourselves, except god's especial grace lent us strength and foresight; which latter, it is not to be believed, descendeth unto us and upon us by any merit of our own, but of the proper motion of his own benignity and the efficacy of the prayers of those who were mortals even as we are and having diligently ensued his commandments, what while they were on life, are now with him become eternal and blessed and unto whom we,--belike not daring to address ourselves unto the proper presence of so august a judge,--proffer our petitions of the things which we deem needful unto ourselves, as unto advocates[ ] informed by experience of our frailty. and this more we discern in him, full as he is of compassionate liberality towards us, that, whereas it chanceth whiles (the keenness of mortal eyes availing not in any wise to penetrate the secrets of the divine intent), that we peradventure, beguiled by report, make such an one our advocate unto his majesty, who is outcast from his presence with an eternal banishment,--nevertheless he, from whom nothing is hidden, having regard rather to the purity of the suppliant's intent than to his ignorance or to the reprobate estate of him whose intercession be invoketh, giveth ear unto those who pray unto the latter, as if he were in very deed blessed in his aspect. the which will manifestly appear from the story which i purpose to relate; i say manifestly, ensuing, not the judgment of god, but that of men. [footnote : or procurators.] it is told, then, that musciatto franzesi,[ ] being from a very rich and considerable merchant in france become a knight and it behoving him thereupon go into tuscany with messire charles sansterre,[ ] brother to the king of france,[ ] who had been required and bidden thither by pope boniface,[ ] found his affairs in one part and another sore embroiled, (as those of merchants most times are,) and was unable lightly or promptly to disentangle them; wherefore he bethought himself to commit them unto divers persons and made shift for all, save only he abode in doubt whom he might leave sufficient to the recovery of the credits he had given to certain burgundians. the cause of his doubt was that he knew the burgundians to be litigious, quarrelsome fellows, ill-conditioned and disloyal, and could not call one to mind, in whom he might put any trust, curst enough to cope with their perversity. after long consideration of the matter, there came to his memory a certain master ciapperello da prato, who came often to his house in paris and whom, for that he was little of person and mighty nice in his dress, the french, knowing not what cepparello[ ] meant and thinking it be the same with cappello, to wit, in their vernacular, chaplet, called him, not cappello, but ciappelletto,[ ] and accordingly as ciappelletto he was known everywhere, whilst few knew him for master ciapperello. [footnote : a florentine merchant settled in france; he had great influence over philippe le bel and made use of the royal favour to enrich himself by means of monopolies granted at the expense of his compatriots.] [footnote : charles, comte de valois et d'alençon.] [footnote : philippe le bel, a.d. - .] [footnote : the eighth.] [footnote : sic. _cepparello_ means a log or stump. ciapperello is apparently a dialectic variant of the same word.] [footnote : diminutive of cappello. this passage is obscure and most likely corrupt. boccaccio probably meant to write "hat" instead of "chaplet" (_ghirlanda_), as the meaning of _cappello_, chaplet (diminutive of old english _chapel_, a hat,) being the meaning of _ciappelletto_ (properly _cappelletto_).] now this said ciappelletto was of this manner life, that, being a scrivener, he thought very great shame whenas any of his instrument was found (and indeed he drew few such) other than false; whilst of the latter[ ] he would have drawn as many as might be required of him and these with a better will by way of gift than any other for a great wage. false witness he bore with especial delight, required or not required, and the greatest regard being in those times paid to oaths in france, as he recked nothing of forswearing himself, he knavishly gained all the suits concerning which he was called upon to tell the truth upon his faith. he took inordinate pleasure and was mighty diligent in stirring up troubles and enmities and scandals between friends and kinsfolk and whomsoever else, and the greater the mischiefs he saw ensue thereof, the more he rejoiced. if bidden to manslaughter or whatsoever other naughty deed, he went about it with a will, without ever saying nay thereto; and many a time of his proper choice he had been known to wound men and do them to death with his own hand. he was a terrible blasphemer of god and the saints, and that for every trifle, being the most choleric man alive. to church he went never and all the sacraments thereof he flouted in abominable terms, as things of no account; whilst, on the other hand, he was still fain to haunt and use taverns and other lewd places. of women he was as fond as dogs of the stick; but in the contrary he delighted more than any filthy fellow alive. he robbed and pillaged with as much conscience as a godly man would make oblation to god; he was a very glutton and a great wine bibber, insomuch that bytimes it wrought him shameful mischief, and to boot, he was a notorious gamester and a caster of cogged dice. but why should i enlarge in so many words? he was belike the worst man that ever was born.[ ] his wickedness had long been upheld by the power and interest of messer musciatto, who had many a time safeguarded him as well from private persons, to whom he often did a mischief, as from the law, against which he was a perpetual offender. [footnote : _i.e._ false instruments.] [footnote : a "twopence-coloured" sketch of an impossible villain, drawn with a crudeness unusual in boccaccio.] this master ciappelletto then, coming to musciatto's mind, the latter, who was very well acquainted with his way of life, bethought himself that he should be such an one as the perversity of the burgundians required and accordingly, sending for him, he bespoke him thus: 'master ciappelletto, i am, as thou knowest, about altogether to withdraw hence, and having to do, amongst others, with certain burgundians, men full of guile, i know none whom i may leave to recover my due from them more fitting than thyself, more by token that thou dost nothing at this present; wherefore, an thou wilt undertake this, i will e'en procure thee the favour of the court and give thee such part as shall be meet of that which thou shalt recover.' don ciappelletto, who was then out of employ and ill provided with the goods of the world, seeing him who had long been his stay and his refuge about to depart thence, lost no time in deliberation, but, as of necessity constrained, replied that he would well. they being come to an accord, musciatto departed and ciappelletto, having gotten his patron's procuration and letters commendatory from the king, betook himself into burgundy, where well nigh none knew him, and there, contrary to his nature, began courteously and blandly to seek to get in his payments and do that wherefor he was come thither, as if reserving choler and violence for a last resort. dealing thus and lodging in the house of two florentines, brothers, who there lent at usance and who entertained him with great honour for the love of messer musciatto, it chanced that he fell sick, whereupon the two brothers promptly fetched physicians and servants to tend him and furnished him with all that behoved unto the recovery of his health. but every succour was in vain, for that, by the physicians' report, the good man, who was now old and had lived disorderly, grew daily worse, as one who had a mortal sickness; wherefore the two brothers were sore concerned and one day, being pretty near the chamber where he lay sick, they began to take counsel together, saying one to the other, 'how shall we do with yonder fellow? we have a sorry bargain on our hands of his affair, for that to send him forth of our house, thus sick, were a sore reproach to us and a manifest sign of little wit on our part, if the folk, who have seen us first receive him and after let tend and medicine him with such solicitude, should now see him suddenly put out of our house, sick unto death as he is, without it being possible for him to have done aught that should displease us. on the other hand, he hath been so wicked a man that he will never consent to confess or take any sacrament of the church; and he dying without confession, no church will receive his body; nay, he will be cast into a ditch, like a dog. again, even if he do confess, his sins are so many and so horrible that the like will come of it, for that there is nor priest nor friar who can or will absolve him thereof; wherefore, being unshriven, he will still be cast into the ditches. should it happen thus, the people of the city, as well on account of our trade, which appeareth to them most iniquitous and of which they missay all day, as of their itch to plunder us, seeing this, will rise up in riot and cry out, "these lombard dogs, whom the church refuseth to receive, are to be suffered here no longer";--and they will run to our houses and despoil us not only of our good, but may be of our lives, to boot; wherefore in any case it will go ill with us, if yonder fellow die.' master ciappelletto, who, as we have said, lay near the place where the two brothers were in discourse, being quick of hearing, as is most times the case with the sick, heard what they said of him and calling them to him, bespoke them thus: 'i will not have you anywise misdoubt of me nor fear to take any hurt by me. i have heard what you say of me and am well assured that it would happen even as you say, should matters pass as you expect; but it shall go otherwise. i have in my lifetime done god the lord so many an affront that it will make neither more nor less, an i do him yet another at the point of death; wherefore do you make shift to bring me the holiest and worthiest friar you may avail to have, if any such there be,[ ] and leave the rest to me, for that i will assuredly order your affairs and mine own on such wise that all shall go well and you shall have good cause to be satisfied.' [footnote : _i.e._ if there be such a thing as a holy and worthy friar.] the two brothers, albeit they conceived no great hope of this, nevertheless betook themselves to a brotherhood of monks and demanded some holy and learned man to hear the confession of a lombard who lay sick in their house. there was given them a venerable brother of holy and good life and a past master in holy writ, a very reverend man, for whom all the townsfolk had a very great and special regard, and they carried him to their house; where, coming to the chamber where master ciappelletto lay and seating himself by his side, he began first tenderly to comfort him and after asked him how long it was since he had confessed last; whereto master ciappelletto, who had never confessed in his life, answered, 'father, it hath been my usance to confess every week once at the least and often more; it is true that, since i fell sick, to wit, these eight days past, i have not confessed, such is the annoy that my sickness hath given me.' quoth the friar, 'my son, thou hast done well and so must thou do henceforward. i see, since thou confessest so often, that i shall be at little pains either of hearing or questioning.' 'sir,' answered master ciappelletto, 'say not so; i have never confessed so much nor so often but i would still fain make a general confession of all my sins that i could call to mind from the day of my birth to that of my confession; wherefore i pray you, good my father, question me as punctually of everything, nay, everything, as if i had never confessed; and consider me not because i am sick, for that i had far liefer displease this my flesh than, in consulting its ease, do aught that might be the perdition of my soul, which my saviour redeemed with his precious blood.' these words much pleased the holy man and seemed to him to argue a well-disposed mind; wherefore, after he had much commended master ciappelletto for that his usance, he asked him if he had ever sinned by way of lust with any woman. 'father,' replied master ciappelletto, sighing, 'on this point i am ashamed to tell you the truth, fearing to sin by way of vainglory.' quoth the friar, 'speak in all security, for never did one sin by telling the truth, whether in confession or otherwise.' 'then,' said master ciappelletto, 'since you certify me of this, i will tell you; i am yet a virgin, even as i came forth of my mother's body.' 'o blessed be thou of god!' cried the monk. 'how well hast thou done! and doing thus, thou hast the more deserved, inasmuch as, an thou wouldst, thou hadst more leisure to do the contrary than we and whatsoever others are limited by any rule.' after this he asked him if he had ever offended against god in the sin of gluttony; whereto master ciappelletto answered, sighing, ay had he, and that many a time; for that, albeit, over and above the lenten fasts that are yearly observed of the devout, he had been wont to fast on bread and water three days at the least in every week,--he had oftentimes (and especially whenas he had endured any fatigue, either praying or going a-pilgrimage) drunken the water with as much appetite and as keen a relish as great drinkers do wine. and many a time he had longed to have such homely salads of potherbs as women make when they go into the country; and whiles eating had given him more pleasure than himseemed it should do to one who fasteth for devotion, as did he. 'my son,' said the friar, 'these sins are natural and very slight and i would not therefore have thee burden thy conscience withal more than behoveth. it happeneth to every man, how devout soever he be, that, after long fasting, meat seemeth good to him, and after travail, drink.' 'alack, father mine,' rejoined ciappelletto, 'tell me not this to comfort me; you must know i know that things done for the service of god should be done sincerely and with an ungrudging mind; and whoso doth otherwise sinneth.' quoth the friar, exceeding well pleased, 'i am content that thou shouldst thus apprehend it and thy pure and good conscience therein pleaseth me exceedingly. but, tell me, hast thou sinned by way of avarice, desiring more than befitted or withholding that which it behoved thee not to withhold?' 'father mine,' replied ciappelletto, 'i would not have you look to my being in the house of these usurers; i have nought to do here; nay, i came hither to admonish and chasten them and turn them from this their abominable way of gain; and methinketh i should have made shift to do so, had not god thus visited me. but you must know that i was left a rich man by my father, of whose good, when he was dead, i bestowed the most part in alms, and after, to sustain my life and that i might be able to succour christ's poor, i have done my little traffickings, and in these i have desired to gain; but still with god's poor have i shared that which i gained, converting my own half to my occasion and giving them the other, and in this so well hath my creator prospered me that my affairs have still gone from good to better.' 'well hast thou done,' said the friar; 'but hast thou often been angered?' 'oh,' cried master ciappelletto, 'that i must tell you i have very often been! and who could keep himself therefrom, seeing men do unseemly things all day long, keeping not the commandments of god neither fearing his judgment? many times a day i had liefer been dead than alive, seeing young men follow after vanities and hearing them curse and forswear themselves, haunting the taverns, visiting not the churches and ensuing rather the ways of the world than that of god.' 'my son,' said the friar, 'this is a righteous anger, nor for my part might i enjoin thee any penance therefor. but hath anger at any time availed to move thee to do any manslaughter or to bespeak any one unseemly or do any other unright?' 'alack, sir,' answered the sick man, 'you, who seem to me a man of god, how can you say such words? had i ever had the least thought of doing any one of the things whereof you speak, think you i believe that god would so long have forborne me? these be the doings of outlaws and men of nought, whereof i never saw any but i said still, "go, may god amend thee!"' then said the friar, 'now tell me, my son (blessed be thou of god), hast thou never borne false witness against any or missaid of another, or taken others' good, without leave of him to whom it pertained?' 'ay, indeed, sir,' replied master ciappelletto; 'i have missaid of others; for that i had a neighbour aforetime, who, with the greatest unright in the world, did nought but beat his wife, insomuch that i once spoke ill of him to her kinsfolk, so great was the compassion that overcame me for the poor woman, whom he used as god alone can tell, whenassoever he had drunken overmuch.' quoth the friar, 'thou tellest me thou hast been a merchant. hast thou never cheated any one, as merchants do whiles!' 'i' faith, yes, sir,' answered master ciappelletto; 'but i know not whom, except it were a certain man, who once brought me monies which he owed me for cloth i had sold him and which i threw into a chest, without counting. a good month after, i found that they were four farthings more than they should have been; wherefore, not seeing him again and having kept them by me a full year, that i might restore them to him, i gave them away in alms.' quoth the friar, 'this was a small matter, and thou didst well to deal with it as thou didst.' then he questioned him of many other things, of all which he answered after the same fashion, and the holy father offering to proceed to absolution, master ciappelletto said, 'sir, i have yet sundry sins that i have not told you.' the friar asked him what they were, and he answered, 'i mind me that one saturday, after none, i caused my servant sweep out the house and had not that reverence for the lord's holy day which it behoved me have.' 'oh,' said the friar, 'that is a light matter, my son.' 'nay,' rejoined master ciappelletto, 'call it not a light matter, for that the lord's day is greatly to be honoured, seeing that on such a day our lord rose from the dead.' then said the friar, 'well, hast thou done aught else?' 'ay, sir,' answered master ciappelletto; 'once, unthinking what i did, i spat in the church of god.' thereupon the friar fell a-smiling, and said, 'my son, that is no thing to be recked of; we who are of the clergy, we spit there all day long.' 'and you do very ill,' rejoined master ciappelletto; 'for that there is nought which it so straitly behoveth to keep clean as the holy temple wherein is rendered sacrifice to god.' brief, he told him great plenty of such like things and presently fell a-sighing and after weeping sore, as he knew full well to do, whenas he would. quoth the holy friar, 'what aileth thee, my son?' 'alas, sir,' replied master ciappelletto, 'i have one sin left, whereof i never yet confessed me, such shame have i to tell it; and every time i call it to mind, i weep, even as you see, and meseemeth very certain that god will never pardon it me.' 'go to, son,' rejoined the friar; 'what is this thou sayest? if all the sins that were ever wrought or are yet to be wrought of all mankind, what while the world endureth, were all in one man and he repented him thereof and were contrite therefor, as i see thee, such is the mercy and loving-kindness of god that, upon confession, he would freely pardon them to him. wherefore do thou tell it in all assurance.' quoth master ciappelletto, still weeping sore, 'alack, father mine, mine is too great a sin, and i can scarce believe that it will ever be forgiven me of god, except your prayers strive for me.' then said the friar, 'tell it me in all assurance, for i promise thee to pray god for thee.' master ciappelletto, however, still wept and said nought; but, after he had thus held the friar a great while in suspense, he heaved a deep sigh and said, 'father mine, since you promise me to pray god for me, i will e'en tell it you. know, then, that, when i was little, i once cursed my mother.' so saying, he fell again to weeping sore. 'o my son,' quoth the friar, 'seemeth this to thee so heinous a sin? why, men blaspheme god all day long and he freely pardoneth whoso repenteth him of having blasphemed him; and deemest thou not he will pardon thee this? weep not, but comfort thyself; for, certes, wert thou one of those who set him on the cross, he would pardon thee, in favour of such contrition as i see in thee.' 'alack, father mine, what say you?' replied ciappelletto. 'my kind mother, who bore me nine months in her body, day and night, and carried me on her neck an hundred times and more, i did passing ill to curse her and it was an exceeding great sin; and except you pray god for me, it will not be forgiven me.' the friar, then, seeing that master ciappelletto had no more to say, gave him absolution and bestowed on him his benison, holding him a very holy man and devoutly believing all that he had told him to be true. and who would not have believed it, hearing a man at the point of death speak thus? then, after all this, he said to him, 'master ciappelletto, with god's help you will speedily be whole; but, should it come to pass that god call your blessed and well-disposed soul to himself, would it please you that your body be buried in our convent?' 'ay, would it, sir,' replied master ciappelletto. 'nay, i would fain no be buried otherwhere, since you have promised to pray god for me; more by token that i have ever had a special regard for your order. wherefore i pray you that whenas you return to your lodging, you must cause bring me that most veritable body of christ, which you consecrate a-mornings upon the altar, for that, with your leave, i purpose (all unworthy as i am) to take it and after, holy and extreme unction, to the intent that, if i have lived as a sinner, i may at the least die like a christian.' the good friar replied that it pleased him much and that he said well and promised to see it presently brought him; and so was it done. meanwhile, the two brothers, misdoubting them sore lest master ciappelletto should play them false, had posted themselves behind a wainscot, that divided the chamber where he lay from another, and listening, easily heard and apprehended that which he said to the friar and had whiles so great a mind to laugh, hearing the things which he confessed to having done, that they were like to burst and said, one to other, 'what manner of man is this, whom neither old age nor sickness nor fear of death, whereunto he seeth himself near, nor yet of god, before whose judgment-seat he looketh to be ere long, have availed to turn from his wickedness nor hinder him from choosing to die as he hath lived?' however, seeing that he had so spoken that he should be admitted to burial in a church, they recked nought of the rest. master ciappelletto presently took the sacrament and, growing rapidly worse, received extreme unction, and a little after evensong of the day he had made his fine confession, he died; whereupon the two brothers, having, of his proper monies, taken order for his honourable burial, sent to the convent to acquaint the friars therewith, bidding them come thither that night to hold vigil, according to usance, and fetch away the body in the morning, and meanwhile made ready all that was needful thereunto. the holy friar, who had shriven him, hearing that he had departed this life, betook himself to the prior of the convent and, letting ring to chapter, gave out to the brethren therein assembled that master ciappelletto had been a holy man, according to that which he had gathered from his confession, and persuaded them to receive his body with the utmost reverence and devotion, in the hope that god should show forth many miracles through him. to this the prior and brethren credulously consented and that same evening, coming all whereas master ciappelletto lay dead, they held high and solemn vigil over him and on the morrow, clad all in albs and copes, book in hand and crosses before them, they went, chanting the while, for his body and brought it with the utmost pomp and solemnity to their church, followed by well nigh all the people of the city, men and women. as soon as they had set the body down in the church, the holy friar, who had confessed him, mounted the pulpit and fell a-preaching marvellous things of the dead man and of his life, his fasts, his virginity, his simplicity and innocence and sanctity, recounting, amongst other things, that which he had confessed to him as his greatest sin and how he had hardly availed to persuade him that god would forgive it him; thence passing on to reprove the folk who hearkened, 'and you, accursed that you are,' quoth he, 'for every waif of straw that stirreth between your feet, you blaspheme god and the virgin and all the host of heaven.' moreover, he told them many other things of his loyalty and purity of heart; brief, with his speech, whereto entire faith was yielded of the people of the city, he so established the dead man in the reverent consideration of all who were present that, no sooner was the service at an end, than they all with the utmost eagerness flocked to kiss his hands and feet and the clothes were torn off his back, he holding himself blessed who might avail to have never so little thereof; and needs must they leave him thus all that day, so he might be seen and visited of all. the following night he was honourably buried in a marble tomb in one of the chapels of the church and on the morrow the folk began incontinent to come and burn candles and offer up prayers and make vows to him and hang images of wax[ ] at his shrine, according to the promise made. nay, on such wise waxed the frame of his sanctity and men's devotion to him that there was scarce any who, being in adversity, would vow himself to another saint than him; and they styled and yet style him saint ciappelletto and avouch that god through him hath wrought many miracles and yet worketh, them every day for whoso devoutly commendeth himself unto him. [footnote : _i.e._ ex voto.] thus, then, lived and died master cepperello[ ] da prato and became a saint, as you have heard; nor would i deny it to be possible that he is beatified in god's presence, for that, albeit his life was wicked and perverse, he may at his last extremity have shown such contrition that peradventure god had mercy on him and received him into his kingdom; but, for that this is hidden from us, i reason according to that which, is apparent and say that he should rather be in the hands of the devil in perdition than in paradise. and if so it be, we may know from this how great is god's loving-kindness towards us, which, having regard not to our error, but to the purity of our faith, whenas we thus make an enemy (deeming him a friend) of his our intermediary, giveth ear unto us, even as if we had recourse unto one truly holy, as intercessor for his favour. wherefore, to the end that by his grace we may be preserved safe and sound in this present adversity and in this so joyous company, let us, magnifying his name, in which we have begun our diversion, and holding him in reverence, commend ourselves to him in our necessities, well assured of being heard." and with this he was silent. [footnote : it will be noted that this is boccaccio's third variant of his hero's name (the others being ciapperello and cepparello) and the edition of furnishes us with a fourth and a fifth form _i.e._ ciepparello and ciepperello.] the second story [day the first] abraham the jew, at the instigation of jehannot de chevignÉ, goeth to the court of rome and seeing the depravity of the clergy, returneth to paris and there becometh a christian pamfilo's story was in part laughed at and altogether commended by the ladies, and it being come to its end, after being diligently hearkened, the queen bade neifile, who sat next him, ensue the ordinance of the commenced diversion by telling one[ ] of her fashion. neifile, who was distinguished no less by courteous manners than by beauty, answered blithely that she would well and began on this wise: "pamfilo hath shown us in his story that god's benignness regardeth not our errors, when they proceed from that which is beyond our ken; and i, in mine, purpose to show you how this same benignness,--patiently suffering the defaults of those who, being especially bounden both with words and deeds to bear true witness thereof[ ] yet practise the contrary,--exhibiteth unto us an infallible proof of itself, to the intent that we may, with the more constancy of mind, ensue that which we believe. [footnote : _i.e._ a story.] [footnote : _i.e._ of god's benignness.] as i have heard tell, gracious ladies, there was once in paris a great merchant and a very loyal and upright man, whose name was jehannot de chevigné and who was of great traffic in silks and stuffs. he had particular friendship for a very rich jew called abraham, who was also a merchant and a very honest and trusty man, and seeing the latter's worth and loyalty, it began to irk him sore that the soul of so worthy and discreet and good a man should go to perdition for default of faith; wherefore he fell to beseeching him on friendly wise leave the errors of the jewish faith and turn to the christian verity, which he might see still wax and prosper, as being holy and good, whereas his own faith, on the contrary, was manifestly on the wane and dwindling to nought. the jew made answer that he held no faith holy or good save only the jewish, that in this latter he was born and therein meant to live and die, nor should aught ever make him remove therefrom. jehannot for all that desisted not from him, but some days after returned to the attack with similar words, showing him, on rude enough wise (for that merchants for the most part can no better), for what reasons our religion is better than the jewish; and albeit the jew was a past master in their law, nevertheless, whether it was the great friendship he bore jehannot that moved him or peradventure words wrought it that the holy ghost put into the good simple man's mouth, the latter's arguments began greatly to please him; but yet, persisting in his own belief, he would not suffer himself to be converted. like as he abode obstinate, even so jehannot never gave over importuning him, till at last the jew, overcome by such continual insistence, said, 'look you, jehannot, thou wouldst have me become a christian and i am disposed to do it; insomuch, indeed, that i mean, in the first place, to go to rome and there see him who, thou sayest, is god's vicar upon earth and consider his manners and fashions and likewise those of his chief brethren.[ ] if these appear to me such that i may, by them, as well as by your words, apprehend that your faith is better than mine, even as thou hast studied to show me, i will do as i have said; and if it be not so, i will remain a jew as i am.' [footnote : lit. cardinal brethren (_fratelli cardinali_).] when jehannot heard this, he was beyond measure chagrined and said in himself, 'i have lost my pains, which meseemed i had right well bestowed, thinking to have converted this man; for that, an he go to the court of rome and see the lewd and wicked life of the clergy, not only will he never become a christian, but, were he already a christian, he would infallibly turn jew again.' then, turning to abraham, he said to him, 'alack, my friend, why wilt thou undertake this travail and so great a charge as it will be to thee to go from here to rome? more by token that, both by sea and by land, the road is full of perils for a rich man such as thou art. thinkest thou not to find here who shall give thee baptism? or, if peradventure thou have any doubts concerning the faith which i have propounded to thee, where are there greater doctors and men more learned in the matter than are here or better able to resolve thee of that which thou wilt know or ask? wherefore, to my thinking, this thy going is superfluous. bethink thee that the prelates there are even such as those thou mayst have seen here, and indeed so much the better as they are nearer unto the chief pastor. wherefore, an thou wilt be counselled by me, thou wilt reserve this travail unto another time against some jubilee or other, whereunto it may be i will bear thee company.' to this the jew made answer, 'i doubt not, jehannot, but it is as thou tellest me; but, to sum up many words in one, i am altogether determined, an thou wouldst have me do that whereof thou hast so instantly besought me, to go thither; else will i never do aught thereof.' jehannot, seeing his determination, said, 'go and good luck go with thee!' and inwardly assured that he would never become a christian, when once he should have seen the court of rome, but availing[ ] nothing in the matter, he desisted. [footnote : lit. losing (_perdendo_), but this is probably some copyist's mistake for _podendo_, the old form of _potendo_, availing.] the jew mounted to horse and as quickliest he might betook himself to the court of rome, he was honourably entertained of his brethren, and there abiding, without telling any the reason of his coming, he began diligently to enquire into the manners and fashions of the pope and cardinals and other prelates and of all the members of his court, and what with that which he himself noted, being a mighty quick-witted man, and that which he gathered from others, he found all, from the highest to the lowest, most shamefully given to the sin of lust, and that not only in the way of nature, but after the sodomitical fashion, without any restraint of remorse or shamefastness, insomuch that the interest of courtezans and catamites was of no small avail there in obtaining any considerable thing. moreover, he manifestly perceived them to be universally gluttons, wine-bibbers, drunkards and slaves to their bellies, brute-beast fashion, more than to aught else after lust. and looking farther, he saw them all covetous and greedy after money, insomuch that human, nay, christian blood, no less than things sacred, whatsoever they might be, whether pertaining to the sacrifices of the altar or to the benefices of the church, they sold and bought indifferently for a price, making a greater traffic and having more brokers thereof than folk at paris of silks and stuffs or what not else. manifest simony they had christened 'procuration' and gluttony 'sustentation,' as if god apprehended not,--let be the meaning of words but,--the intention of depraved minds and would suffer himself, after the fashion of men, to be duped by the names of things. all this, together with much else which must be left unsaid, was supremely displeasing to the jew, who was a sober and modest man, and himseeming he had seen enough, he determined to return to paris and did so. as soon as jehannot knew of his return, he betook himself to him, hoping nothing less than that he should become a christian, and they greeted each other with the utmost joy. then, after abraham had rested some days, jehannot asked him how himseemed of the holy father and of the cardinals and others of his court. whereto the jew promptly answered, 'meseemeth, god give them ill one and all! and i say this for that, if i was able to observe aright, no piety, no devoutness, no good work or example of life or otherwhat did i see there in any who was a churchman; nay, but lust, covetise, gluttony and the like and worse (if worse can be) meseemed to be there in such favour with all that i hold it for a forgingplace of things diabolical rather than divine. and as far as i can judge, meseemeth your chief pastor and consequently all the others endeavour with all diligence and all their wit and every art to bring to nought and banish from the world the christian religion, whereas they should be its foundation and support. and for that i see that this whereafter they strive cometh not to pass, but that your religion continually increaseth and waxeth still brighter and more glorious, meseemeth i manifestly discern that the holy spirit is verily the foundation and support thereof, as of that which is true and holy over any other. wherefore, whereas, aforetime i abode obdurate and insensible to thine exhortations and would not be persuaded to embrace thy faith, i now tell thee frankly that for nothing in the world would i forbear to become a christian. let us, then, to church and there have me baptized, according to the rite and ordinance of your holy faith.' jehannot, who looked for a directly contrary conclusion to this, was the joyfullest man that might be, when he heard him speak thus, and repairing with him to our lady's church of paris, required the clergy there to give abraham baptism. they, hearing that the jew himself demanded it, straightway proceeded to baptize him, whilst jehannot raised him from the sacred font[ ] and named him giovanni. after this, he had him thoroughly lessoned by men of great worth and learning in the tenets of our holy faith, which he speedily apprehended and thenceforward was a good man and a worthy and one of a devout life." [footnote : _i.e._ stood sponsor for him.] the third story [day the first] melchizedek the jew, with a story of three rings, escapeth a parlous snare set for him by saladin neifile having made an end of her story, which was commended of all, filomena, by the queen's good pleasure, proceeded to speak thus: "the story told by neifile bringeth to my mind a parlous case the once betided a jew; and for that, it having already been excellent well spoken both of god and of the verity of our faith, it should not henceforth be forbidden us to descend to the doings of mankind and the events that have befallen them, i will now proceed to relate to you the case aforesaid, which having heard, you will peradventure become more wary in answering the questions that may be put to you. you must know, lovesome[ ] companions[ ] mine, that, like as folly ofttimes draweth folk forth of happy estate and casteth them into the utmost misery, even so doth good sense extricate the wise man from the greatest perils and place him in assurance and tranquillity. how true it is that folly bringeth many an one from fair estate unto misery is seen by multitude of examples, with the recounting whereof we have no present concern, considering that a thousand instances thereof do every day manifestly appear to us; but that good sense is a cause of solacement i will, as i promised, briefly show you by a little story. [footnote : lit. amorous (_amorose_), but boccaccio frequently uses _amoroso_, _vago_, and other adjectives, which are now understood in an active or transitive sense only, in their ancient passive or intransitive sense of lovesome, desirable, etc.] [footnote : _compagne_, _i.e._ she-companions. filomena is addressing the female part of the company.] saladin,--whose valour was such that not only from a man of little account it made him soldan of babylon, but gained him many victories over kings saracen and christian,--having in divers wars and in the exercise of his extraordinary munificences expended his whole treasure and having an urgent occasion for a good sum of money nor seeing whence he might avail to have it as promptly as it behoved him, called to mind a rich jew, by name melchizedek, who lent at usance in alexandria, and bethought himself that this latter had the wherewithal to oblige him, and he would; but he was so miserly that he would never have done it of his freewill and saladin was loath to use force with him; wherefore, need constraining him, he set his every wit awork to find a means how the jew might be brought to serve him in this and presently concluded to do him a violence coloured by some show of reason. accordingly he sent for melchizedek and receiving him familiarly, seated him by himself, then said to him, 'honest man, i have understood from divers persons that thou art a very learned man and deeply versed in matters of divinity; wherefore i would fain know of thee whether of the three laws thou reputest the true, the jewish, the saracen or the christian.' the jew, who was in truth a man of learning and understanding, perceived but too well that saladin looked to entrap him in words, so he might fasten a quarrel on him, and bethought himself that he could not praise any of the three more than the others without giving him the occasion he sought. accordingly, sharpening his wits, as became one who felt himself in need of an answer by which he might not be taken at a vantage, there speedily occurred to him that which it behoved him reply and he said, 'my lord, the question that you propound to me is a nice one and to acquaint you with that which i think of the matter, it behoveth me tell you a little story, which you shall hear. an i mistake not, i mind me to have many a time heard tell that there was once a great man and a rich, who among other very precious jewels in his treasury, had a very goodly and costly ring, whereunto being minded, for its worth and beauty, to do honour and wishing to leave it in perpetuity to his descendants, he declared that whichsoever of his sons should, at his death, be found in possession thereof, by his bequest unto him, should be recognized as his heir and be held of all the others in honour and reverence as chief and head. he to whom the ring was left by him held a like course with his own descendants and did even as his father had done. in brief the ring passed from hand to hand, through many generations, and came at last into the possession of a man who had three goodly and virtuous sons, all very obedient to their father wherefore he loved them all three alike. the young men, knowing the usance of the ring, each for himself, desiring to be the most honoured among his folk, as best he might, besought his father, who was now an old man, to leave him the ring, whenas he came to die. the worthy man, who loved them all alike and knew not himself how to choose to which he had liefer leave the ring, bethought himself, having promised it to each, to seek to satisfy all three and privily let make by a good craftsman other two rings, which were so like unto the first that he himself scarce knew which was the true. when he came to die, he secretly gave each one of his sons his ring, wherefore each of them, seeking after their father's death, to occupy the inheritance and the honour and denying it to the others, produced his ring, in witness of his right, and the three rings being found so like unto one another that the true might not be known, the question which was the father's very heir abode pending and yet pendeth. and so say i to you, my lord, of the three laws to the three peoples given of god the father, whereof you question me; each people deemeth itself to have his inheritance, his true law and his commandments; but of which in very deed hath them, even as of the rings, the question yet pendeth.' saladin perceived that the jew had excellently well contrived to escape the snare which he had spread before his feet; wherefore he concluded to discover to him his need and see if he were willing to serve him; and so accordingly he did, confessing to him that which he had it in mind to do, had he not answered him on such discreet wise. the jew freely furnished him with all that he required, and the soldan after satisfied him in full; moreover, he gave him very great gifts and still had him to friend and maintained him about his own person in high and honourable estate." the fourth story [day the first] a monk, having fallen into a sin deserving of very grievous punishment, adroitly reproaching the same fault to his abbot, quitteth himself of the penalty filomena, having despatched her story, was now silent, whereupon dioneo, who sat next her, knowing already, by the ordinance begun, that it fell to his turn to tell, proceeded, without awaiting farther commandment from the queen, to speak on this wise: "lovesome ladies, if i have rightly apprehended the intention of you all, we are here to divert ourselves with story-telling; wherefore, so but it be not done contrary to this our purpose, i hold it lawful unto each (even as our queen told us a while agone) to tell such story as he deemeth may afford most entertainment. accordingly having heard how, by the good counsels of jehannot de chevigné, abraham had his soul saved and how melchizedek, by his good sense, defended his riches from saladin's ambushes, i purpose, without looking for reprehension from you, briefly to relate with what address a monk delivered his body from a very grievous punishment. there was in lunigiana, a country not very far hence, a monastery whilere more abounding in sanctity and monks than it is nowadays, and therein, among others, was a young monk, whose vigour and lustiness neither fasts nor vigils availed to mortify. it chanced one day, towards noontide, when all the other monks slept, that, as he went all alone round about the convent,[ ] which stood in a very solitary place, he espied a very well-favoured lass, belike some husbandman's daughter of the country, who went about the fields culling certain herbs, and no sooner had he set eyes on her than he was violently assailed by carnal appetite. wherefore, accosting her, he entered into parley with her and so led on from one thing to another that he came to an accord with her and brought her to his cell, unperceived of any; but whilst, carried away by overmuch ardour, he disported himself with her less cautiously than was prudent, it chanced that the abbot arose from sleep and softly passing by the monk's cell, heard the racket that the twain made together; whereupon he came stealthily up to the door to listen, that he might the better recognize the voices, and manifestly perceiving that there was a woman in the cell, was at first minded to cause open to him, but after bethought himself to hold another course in the matter and, returning to his chamber, awaited the monk's coming forth. [footnote : lit. his church (_sua chiesa_); but the context seems to indicate that the monastery itself is meant.] the latter, all taken up as he was with the wench and his exceeding pleasure and delight in her company, was none the less on his guard and himseeming he heard some scuffling of feet in the dormitory, he set his eye to a crevice and plainly saw the abbot stand hearkening unto him; whereby he understood but too well that the latter must have gotten wind of the wench's presence in his cell and knowing that sore punishment would ensue to him thereof, he was beyond measure chagrined. however, without discovering aught of his concern to the girl, he hastily revolved many things in himself, seeking to find some means of escape, and presently hit upon a rare device, which went straight to the mark he aimed at. accordingly, making a show of thinking he had abidden long enough with the damsel, he said to her, 'i must go cast about for a means how thou mayest win forth hence, without being seen; wherefore do thou abide quietly until my return.' then, going forth and locking the cell door on her, he betook himself straight to the abbot's chamber and presenting him with the key, according as each monk did, whenas he went abroad, said to him, with a good countenance, 'sir, i was unable to make an end this morning of bringing off all the faggots i had cut; wherefore with your leave i will presently go to the wood and fetch them away.' the abbot, deeming the monk unaware that he had been seen of him, was glad of such an opportunity to inform himself more fully of the offence committed by him and accordingly took the key and gave him the leave he sought. then, as soon as he saw him gone, he fell to considering which he should rather do, whether open his cell in the presence of all the other monks and cause them to see his default, so they might after have no occasion to murmur against himself, whenas he should punish the offender, or seek first to learn from the girl herself how the thing had passed; and bethinking himself that she might perchance be the wife or daughter of such a man that he would be loath to have done her the shame of showing her to all the monks, he determined first to see her and after come to a conclusion; wherefore, betaking himself to the cell, he opened it and, entering, shut the door after him. the girl, seeing the abbot enter, was all aghast and fell a-weeping for fear of shame; but my lord abbot, casting his eyes upon her and seeing her young and handsome, old as he was, suddenly felt the pricks of the flesh no less importunate than his young monk had done and fell a-saying in himself, 'marry, why should i not take somewhat of pleasure, whenas i may, more by token that displeasance and annoy are still at hand, whenever i have a mind to them? this is a handsome wench and is here unknown of any in the world. if i can bring her to do my pleasure, i know not why i should not do it. who will know it? no one will ever know it and a sin that's hidden is half forgiven. maybe this chance will never occur again. i hold it great sense to avail ourselves of a good, whenas god the lord sendeth us thereof.' so saying and having altogether changed purpose from that wherewith he came, he drew near to the girl and began gently to comfort her, praying her not to weep, and passing from one word to another, he ended by discovering to her his desire. the girl, who was neither iron nor adamant, readily enough lent herself to the pleasure of the abbot, who, after he had clipped and kissed her again and again, mounted upon the monk's pallet and having belike regard to the grave burden of his dignity and the girl's tender age and fearful of irking her for overmuch heaviness, bestrode not her breast, but set her upon his own and so a great while disported himself with her. meanwhile, the monk, who had only made believe to go to the wood and had hidden himself in the dormitory, was altogether reassured, whenas he saw the abbot enter his cell alone, doubting not but his device should have effect, and when he saw him lock the door from within, he held it for certain. accordingly, coming forth of his hiding-place, he stealthily betook himself to a crevice, through which he both heard and saw all that the abbot did and said. when it seemed to the latter that he had tarried long enough with the damsel, he locked her in the cell and returned to his own chamber, whence, after awhile, he heard the monk stirring and deeming him returned from the wood, thought to rebuke him severely and cast him into prison, so himself might alone possess the prey he had gotten; wherefore, sending for him, he very grievously rebuked him and with a stern countenance and commanded that he should be put in prison. the monk very readily answered, 'sir, i have not yet pertained long enough to the order of st. benedict to have been able to learn every particular thereof, and you had not yet shown me that monks should make of women a means of mortification,[ ] as of fasts and vigils; but, now that you have shown it me, i promise you, so you will pardon me this default, never again to offend therein, but still to do as i have seen you do.' the abbot, who was a quick-witted man, readily understood that the monk not only knew more than himself, but had seen what he did; wherefore, his conscience pricking him for his own default, he was ashamed to inflict on the monk a punishment which he himself had merited even as he. accordingly, pardoning him and charging him keep silence of that which he had seen, they privily put the girl out of doors and it is believed that they caused her return thither more than once thereafterward." [footnote : lit. a pressure or oppression (_priemere_, hod. _premere_, to press or oppress, indicative used as a noun). the monk of course refers to the posture in which he had seen the abbot have to do with the girl, pretending to believe that he placed her on his own breast (instead of mounting on hers) out of a sentiment of humility and a desire to mortify his flesh _ipsâ in voluptate_.] the fifth story [day the first] the marchioness of monferrato, with a dinner of hens and certain sprightly words, curbeth the extravagant passion of the king of france the story told by dioneo at first pricked the hearts of the listening ladies with somewhat of shamefastness, whereof a modest redness appearing in their faces gave token; but after, looking one at other and being scarce able to keep their countenance, they listened, laughing in their sleeves. the end thereof being come, after they had gently chidden him, giving him to understand that such tales were not fit to be told among ladies, the queen, turning to fiammetta, who sat next him on the grass, bade her follow on the ordinance. accordingly, she began with a good grace and a cheerful countenance, "it hath occurred to my mind, fair my ladies,--at once because it pleaseth me that we have entered upon showing by stories how great is the efficacy of prompt and goodly answers and because, like as in men it is great good sense to seek still to love a lady of higher lineage than themselves,[ ] so in women it is great discretion to know how to keep themselves from being taken with the love of men of greater condition than they,--to set forth to you, in the story which it falleth to me to tell, how both with deeds and words a noble lady guarded herself against this and diverted another therefrom. [footnote : an evident allusion to boccaccio's passion for the princess maria, _i.e._ fiammetta herself.] the marquis of monferrato, a man of high worth and gonfalonier[ ] of the church, had passed beyond seas on the occasion of a general crusade undertaken by the christians, arms in hand, and it being one day discoursed of his merit at the court of king phillippe le borgne,[ ] who was then making ready to depart france upon the same crusade, it was avouched by a gentleman present that there was not under the stars a couple to match with the marquis and his lady, for that, even as he was renowned among knights for every virtue, so was she the fairest and noblest of all the ladies in the world. these words took such hold upon the mind of the king of france that, without having seen the marchioness, he fell of a sudden ardently in love with her and determined to take ship for the crusade, on which he was to go, no otherwhere than at genoa, in order that, journeying thither by land, he might have an honourable occasion of visiting the marchioness, doubting not but that, the marquis being absent, he might avail to give effect to his desire. [footnote : or standard-bearer.] [footnote : _i.e._ the one-eyed (syn. le myope, the short-sighted, the italian word [_il bornio_] having both meanings), _i.e._ philip ii. of france, better known as philip augustus.] as he had bethought himself, so he put his thought into execution; for, having sent forward all his power, he set out, attended only by some few gentlemen, and coming within a day's journey of the marquis's domains, despatched a vauntcourier to bid the lady expect him the following morning to dinner. the marchioness, who was well advised and discreet, replied blithely that in this he did her the greatest of favours and that he would be welcome and after bethought herself what this might mean that such a king should come to visit her in her husband's absence, nor was she deceived in the conclusion to which she came, to wit, that the report of her beauty drew him thither. nevertheless, like a brave lady as she was, she determined to receive him with honour and summoning to her counsels sundry gentlemen of those who remained there, with their help, she let provide for everything needful. the ordinance of the repast and of the viands she reserved to herself alone and having forthright caused collect as many hens as were in the country, she bade her cooks dress various dishes of these alone for the royal table. the king came at the appointed time and was received by the lady with great honour and rejoicing. when he beheld her, she seemed to him fair and noble and well-bred beyond that which he had conceived from the courtier's words, whereat he marvelled exceedingly and commended her amain, waxing so much the hotter in his desire as he found the lady overpassing his foregone conceit of her. after he had taken somewhat of rest in chambers adorned to the utmost with all that pertaineth to the entertainment of such a king, the dinner hour being come, the king and the marchioness seated themselves at one table, whilst the rest, according to their quality, were honourably entertained at others. the king, being served with many dishes in succession, as well as with wines of the best and costliest, and to boot gazing with delight the while upon the lovely marchioness, was mightily pleased with his entertainment; but, after awhile, as the viands followed one upon another, he began somewhat to marvel, perceiving that, for all the diversity of the dishes, they were nevertheless of nought other than hens, and this although he knew the part where he was to be such as should abound in game of various kinds and although he had, by advising the lady in advance of his coming, given her time to send a-hunting. however, much as he might marvel at this, he chose not to take occasion of engaging her in parley thereof, otherwise than in the matter of her hens, and accordingly, turning to her with a merry air, 'madam,' quoth he, 'are hens only born in these parts, without ever a cock?' the marchioness, who understood the king's question excellent well, herseeming god had vouchsafed her, according to her wish, an opportune occasion of discovering her mind, turned to him and answered boldly, 'nay, my lord; but women, albeit in apparel and dignities they may differ somewhat from others, are natheless all of the same fashion here as elsewhere.' the king, hearing this, right well apprehended the meaning of the banquet of hens and the virtue hidden in her speech and perceived that words would be wasted upon such a lady and that violence was out of the question; wherefore, even as he had ill-advisedly taken fire for her, so now it behoved him sagely, for his own honour's sake, stifle his ill-conceived passion. accordingly, without making any more words with her, for fear of her replies, he dined, out of all hope; and the meal ended, thanking her for the honourable entertainment he had received from her and commending her to god, he set out for genoa, so by his prompt departure he might make amends for his unseemly visit." the sixth story [day the first] an honest man, with a chance pleasantry, putteth to shame the perverse hypocrisy of the religious orders emilia, who sat next after fiammetta,--the courage of the marchioness and the quaint rebuke administered by her to the king of france having been commended of all the ladies,--began, by the queen's pleasure, boldly to speak as follows: "i also, i will not keep silence of a biting reproof given by an honest layman to a covetous monk with a speech no less laughable than commendable. there was, then, dear lasses, no great while agone, in our city, a minor friar and inquisitor of heretical pravity, who, for all he studied hard to appear a devout and tender lover of the christian religion, as do they all, was no less diligent in enquiring of who had a well-filled purse than of whom he might find wanting in the things of the faith. thanks to this his diligence, he lit by chance upon a good simple man, richer, by far in coin than in wit, who, of no lack of religion, but speaking thoughtlessly and belike overheated with wine or excess of mirth, chanced one day to say to a company of his friends that he had a wine so good that christ himself might drink thereof. this being reported to the inquisitor and he understanding that the man's means were large and his purse well filled, ran in a violent hurry _cum gladiis et fustibus_[ ] to clap up a right grievous suit against him, looking not for an amendment of misbelief in the defendant, but for the filling of his own hand with florins to ensue thereof (as indeed it did,) and causing him to be cited, asked him if that which had been alleged against him were true. [footnote : _i.e._ with sword and whips, a technical term of ecclesiastical procedure, about equivalent to our "with the strong arm of the law."] the good man replied that it was and told him how it chanced; whereupon quoth the most holy inquisitor, who was a devotee of st. john goldenbeard,[ ] 'then hast thou made christ a wine-bibber and curious in wines of choice, as if he were cinciglione[ ] or what not other of your drunken sots and tavern-haunters; and now thou speakest lowly and wouldst feign this to be a very light matter! it is not as thou deemest; thou hast merited the fire therefor, an we were minded to deal with thee as we ought.' with these and many other words he bespoke him, with as menacing a countenance as if the poor wretch had been epicurus denying the immortality of the soul, and in brief so terrified him that the good simple soul, by means of certain intermediaries, let grease his palm with a good dose of st. john goldenmouth's ointment[ ] (the which is a sovereign remedy for the pestilential covetise of the clergy and especially of the minor brethren, who dare not touch money), so he should deal mercifully with him. [footnote : _i.e._ a lover of money.] [footnote : a notorious drinker of the time.] [footnote : _i.e._ money.] this unguent, being of great virtue (albeit galen speaketh not thereof in any part of his medicines), wrought to such purpose that the fire denounced against him was by favour commuted into [the wearing, by way of penance, of] a cross, and to make the finer banner, as he were to go a crusading beyond seas, the inquisitor imposed it him yellow upon black. moreover, whenas he had gotten the money, he detained him about himself some days, enjoining him, by way of penance, hear a mass every morning at santa croce and present himself before him at dinner-time, and after that he might do what most pleased him the rest of the day; all which he diligently performed. one morning, amongst others, it chanced that at the mass he heard a gospel, wherein these words were chanted, 'for every one ye shall receive an hundred and shall possess eternal life.'[ ] this he laid fast up in his memory and according to the commandment given him, presented him at the eating hour before the inquisitor, whom he found at dinner. the friar asked him if he had heard mass that morning, whereto he promptly answered, 'ay have i, sir.' quoth the inquisitor, 'heardest thou aught therein whereof thou doubtest or would question?' 'certes,' replied the good man, 'i doubt not of aught that i heard, but do firmly believe all to be true. i did indeed hear something which caused and yet causeth me have the greatest compassion of you and your brother friars, bethinking me of the ill case wherein you will find yourselves over yonder in the next life.' 'and what was it that moved thee to such compassion of us?' asked the inquisitor. 'sir,' answered the other, 'it was that verse of the evangel, which saith, "for every one ye shall receive an hundred." 'that is true,' rejoined the inquisitor; 'but why did these words move thee thus?' 'sir,' replied the good man, 'i will tell you. since i have been used to resort hither, i have seen give out every day to a multitude of poor folk now one and now two vast great cauldrons of broth, which had been taken away from before yourself and the other brethren of this convent, as superfluous; wherefore, if for each one of these cauldrons of broth there be rendered you an hundred in the world to come, you will have so much thereof that you will assuredly all be drowned therein.' [footnote : "and every one that hath forsaken houses or brethren or sisters or father or mother or wife or children or lands for my name's sake shall receive an hundredfold and shall inherit everlasting life."--matthew xix. . boccaccio has garbled the passage for the sake of his point.] all who were at the inquisitor's table fell a-laughing; but the latter, feeling the hit at the broth-swilling[ ] hypocrisy of himself and his brethren, was mightily incensed, and but that he had gotten blame for that which he had already done, he would have saddled him with another prosecution, for that with a laughable speech he had rebuked him and his brother good-for-noughts; wherefore, of his despite, he bade him thenceforward do what most pleased him and not come before him again." [footnote : syn. gluttonous (_brodajuola_).] the seventh story [day the first] bergamino, with a story of primasso and the abbot of cluny, courteously rebuketh a fit of parsimony newly come to messer cane della scala emilia's pleasantness and her story moved the queen and all the rest to laugh and applaud the rare conceit of this new-fangled crusader. then, after the laughter had subsided and all were silent again, filostrato, whose turn it was to tell, began to speak on this wise: "it is a fine thing, noble ladies, to hit a mark that never stirreth; but it is well-nigh miraculous if, when some unwonted thing appeareth of a sudden, it be forthright stricken of an archer. the lewd and filthy life of the clergy, in many things as it were a constant mark for malice, giveth without much difficulty occasion to all who have a mind to speak of, to gird at and rebuke it; wherefore, albeit the worthy man, who pierced the inquisitor to the quick touching the hypocritical charity of the friars, who give to the poor that which it should behove them cast to the swine or throw away, did well, i hold him much more to be commended of whom, the foregoing tale moving me thereto, i am to speak and who with a quaint story rebuked messer cane della scala, a magnificent nobleman, of a sudden and unaccustomed niggardliness newly appeared in him, figuring, in the person of another, that which he purposed to say to him concerning themselves; the which was on this wise. as very manifest renown proclaimeth well nigh throughout the whole world, messer cane della scala, to whom in many things fortune was favourable, was one of the most notable and most magnificent gentlemen that have been known in italy since the days of the emperor frederick the second. being minded to make a notable and wonder-goodly entertainment in verona, whereunto many folk should have come from divers parts and especially men of art[ ] of all kinds, he of a sudden (whatever might have been the cause) withdrew therefrom and having in a measure requited those who were come thither, dismissed them all, save only one, bergamino by name, a man ready of speech and accomplished beyond the credence of whoso had not heard him, who, having received neither largesse nor dismissal, abode behind, in the hope that his stay might prove to his future advantage. but messer cane had taken it into his mind that what thing soever he might give him were far worse bestowed than if it had been thrown into the fire, nor of this did he bespeak him or let tell him aught. [footnote : _i.e._ gleemen, minstrels, story-tellers, jugglers and the like, lit. men of court (_uomini di corte_).] bergamino, after some days, finding himself neither called upon nor required unto aught that pertained to his craft and wasting his substance, to boot, in the hostelry with his horses and his servants, began to be sore concerned, but waited yet, himseeming he would not do well to depart. now he had brought with him three goodly and rich suits of apparel, which had been given him of other noblemen, that he might make a brave appearance at the festival, and his host pressing for payment, he gave one thereof to him. after this, tarrying yet longer, it behoved him give the host the second suit, an he would abide longer with him, and withal he began to live upon the third, resolved to abide in expectation so long as this should last and then depart. whilst he thus fed upon the third suit, he chanced one day, messer cane being at dinner, to present himself before him with a rueful countenance, and messer cane, seeing this, more by way of rallying him than of intent to divert himself with any of his speech, said to him, 'what aileth thee, bergamino, to stand thus disconsolate? tell us somewhat.'[ ] whereupon bergamino, without a moment's hesitation, forthright, as if he had long considered it, related the following story to the purpose of his own affairs. [footnote : _dinne alcuna cosa._ if we take the affix _ne_ (thereof, of it), in its other meaning (as dative of _noi_, we), of "to us," this phrase will read "tell somewhat thereof," _i.e._ of the cause of thy melancholy.] 'my lord,' said he, 'you must know that primasso was a very learned grammarian[ ] and a skilful and ready verse-maker above all others, which things rendered him so notable and so famous that, albeit he might not everywhere be known by sight, there was well nigh none who knew him not by name and by report. it chanced that, finding himself once at paris in poor case, as indeed he abode most times, for that worth is[ ] little prized of those who can most,[ ] he heard speak of the abbot of cluny, who is believed to be, barring the pope, the richest prelate of his revenues that the church of god possesseth, and of him he heard tell marvellous and magnificent things, in that he still held open house nor were meat and drink ever denied to any who went whereas he might be, so but he sought it what time the abbot was at meat. primasso, hearing this and being one who delighted in looking upon men of worth and nobility, determined to go see the magnificence of this abbot and enquired how near he then abode to paris. it was answered him that he was then at a place of his maybe half a dozen miles thence; wherefore primasso thought to be there at dinner-time, by starting in the morning betimes. [footnote : _i.e._ latinist.] [footnote : lit. was (_era_); but as boccaccio puts "can" (_possono_) in the present tense we must either read _è_ and _possono_ or _era_ and _potevano_. the first reading seems the more probable.] [footnote : _i.e._ have most power or means of requiting it.] accordingly, he enquired the way, but, finding none bound thither, he feared lest he might go astray by mischance and happen on a part where there might be no victual so readily to be found; wherefore, in order that, if this should betide, he might not suffer for lack of food, he bethought himself to carry with him three cakes of bread, judging that water (albeit it was little to his taste) he should find everywhere. the bread he put in his bosom and setting out, was fortunate enough to reach the abbot's residence before the eating-hour. he entered and went spying all about and seeing the great multitude of tables set and the mighty preparations making in the kitchen and what not else provided against dinner, said in himself, "of a truth this abbot is as magnificent as folk say." after he had abidden awhile intent upon these things, the abbot's seneschal, eating-time being come, bade bring water for the hands; which being done, he seated each man at table, and it chanced that primasso was set right over against the door of the chamber, whence the abbot should come forth into the eating-hall. now it was the usance in that house that neither wine nor bread nor aught else of meat or drink should ever be set on the tables, except the abbot were first came to sit at his own table. accordingly, the seneschal, having set the tables, let tell the abbot that, whenas it pleased him, the meat was ready. the abbot let open the chamber-door, that he might pass into the saloon, and looking before him as he came, as chance would have it, the first who met his eyes was primasso, who was very ill accoutred and whom he knew not by sight. when he saw him, incontinent there came into his mind an ill thought and one that had never yet been there, and he said in himself, "see to whom i give my substance to eat!" then, turning back, he bade shut the chamber-door and enquired of those who were about him if any knew yonder losel who sat at table over against his chamber-door; but all answered no. meanwhile primasso, who had a mind to eat, having come a journey and being unused to fast, waited awhile and seeing that the abbot came not, pulled out of his bosom one of the three cakes of bread he had brought with him and fell to eating. the abbot, after he had waited awhile, bade one of his serving-men look if primasso were gone, and the man answered, "no, my lord; nay, he eateth bread, which it seemeth he hath brought with him." quoth the abbot, "well, let him eat of his own, an he have thereof; for of ours he shall not eat to-day." now he would fain have had primasso depart of his own motion, himseeming it were not well done to turn him away; but the latter, having eaten one cake of bread and the abbot coming not, began upon the second; the which was likewise reported to the abbot, who had caused look if he were gone. at last, the abbot still tarrying, primasso, having eaten the second cake, began upon the third, and this again was reported to the abbot, who fell a-pondering in himself and saying, "alack, what new maggot is this that is come into my head to-day? what avarice! what despite! and for whom? this many a year have i given my substance to eat to whosoever had a mind thereto, without regarding if he were gentle or simple, poor or rich, merchant or huckster, and have seen it with mine own eyes squandered by a multitude of ribald knaves; nor ever yet came there to my mind the thought that hath entered into me for yonder man. of a surety avarice cannot have assailed me for a man of little account; needs must this who seemeth to me a losel be some great matter, since my soul hath thus repugned to do him honour." so saying, he desired to know who he was and finding that it was primasso, whom he had long known by report for a man of merit, come thither to see with his own eyes that which he had heard of his magnificence, was ashamed and eager to make him amends, studied in many ways to do him honour. moreover, after eating, he caused clothe him sumptuously, as befitted his quality, and giving him money and a palfrey, left it to his own choice to go or stay; whereupon primasso, well pleased with his entertainment, rendered him the best thanks in his power and returned on horseback to paris, whence he had set out afoot. messer cane, who was a gentleman of understanding, right well apprehended bergamino's meaning, without further exposition, and said to him, smiling, 'bergamino, thou hast very aptly set forth to me thy wrongs and merit and my niggardliness, as well as that which thou wouldst have of me; and in good sooth, never, save now on thine account, have i been assailed of parsimony; but i will drive it away with that same stick which thou thyself hast shown me.' then, letting pay bergamino's host and clothing himself most sumptuously in a suit of his own apparel, he gave him money and a palfrey and committed to his choice for the nonce to go or stay." the eighth story [day the first] guglielmo borsiere with some quaint words rebuketh the niggardliness of messer ermino de' grimaldi next filostrato sat lauretta, who, after she had heard bergamino's address commended, perceiving that it behoved her tell somewhat, began, without awaiting any commandment, blithely to speak thus: "the foregoing story, dear companions,[ ] bringeth me in mind to tell how an honest minstrel on like wise and not without fruit rebuked the covetise of a very rich merchant, the which, albeit in effect it resembleth the last story, should not therefore be less agreeable to you, considering that good came thereof in the end. [footnote : fem.] there was, then, in genoa, a good while agone, a gentleman called messer ermino de' grimaldi, who (according to general belief) far overpassed in wealth of lands and monies the riches of whatsoever other richest citizen was then known in italy; and like as he excelled all other italians in wealth, even so in avarice and sordidness he outwent beyond compare every other miser and curmudgeon in the world; for not only did he keep a strait purse in the matter of hospitality, but, contrary to the general usance of the genoese, who are wont to dress sumptuously, he suffered the greatest privations in things necessary to his own person, no less than in meat and in drink, rather than be at any expense; by reason whereof the surname de' grimaldi had fallen away from him and he was deservedly called of all only messer ermino avarizia. it chanced that, whilst, by dint of spending not, he multiplied his wealth, there came to genoa a worthy minstrel,[ ] both well-bred and well-spoken, by name guglielmo borsiere, a man no whit like those[ ] of the present day, who (to the no small reproach of the corrupt and blameworthy usances of those[ ] who nowadays would fain be called and reputed gentlefolk and seigniors) are rather to be styled asses, reared in all the beastliness and depravity of the basest of mankind, than [minstrels, bred] in the courts [of kings and princes]. in those times it used to be a minstrel's office and his wont to expend his pains in negotiating treaties of peace, where feuds or despites had befallen between noblemen, or transacting marriages, alliances and friendships, in solacing the minds of the weary and diverting courts with quaint and pleasant sayings, ay, and with sharp reproofs, father-like, rebuking the misdeeds of the froward,--and this for slight enough reward; but nowadays they study to spend their time in hawking evil reports from one to another, in sowing discord, in speaking naughtiness and obscenity and (what is worse) doing them in all men's presence, in imputing evil doings, lewdnesses and knaveries, true or false, one to other, and in prompting men of condition with treacherous allurements to base and shameful actions; and he is most cherished and honoured and most munificently entertained and rewarded of the sorry unmannerly noblemen of our time who saith and doth the most abominable words and deeds; a sore and shameful reproach to the present age and a very manifest proof that the virtues have departed this lower world and left us wretched mortals to wallow in the slough of the vices. [footnote : _uomo di corte._ this word has been another grievous stumbling block to the french and english translators of boccaccio, who render it literally "courtier." the reader need hardly be reminded that the minstrel of the middle ages was commonly jester, gleeman and story-teller all in one and in these several capacities was allowed the utmost license of speech. he was generally attached to the court of some king or sovereign prince, but, in default of some such permanent appointment, passed his time in visiting the courts and mansions of princes and men of wealth and liberty, where his talents were likely to be appreciated and rewarded; hence the name _uomo di corte_, "man of court" (not "courtier," which is _cortigiano_).] [footnote : _i.e._ those minstrels.] [footnote : _i.e._ the noblemen their patrons.] but to return to my story, from which a just indignation hath carried me somewhat farther astray than i purposed,--i say that the aforesaid guglielmo was honoured by all the gentlemen of genoa and gladly seen of them, and having sojourned some days in the city and hearing many tales of messer ermino's avarice and sordidness, he desired to see him. messer ermino having already heard how worthy a man was this guglielmo borsiere and having yet, all miser as he was, some tincture of gentle breeding, received him with very amicable words and blithe aspect and entered with him into many and various discourses. devising thus, he carried him, together with other genoese who were in his company, into a fine new house of his which he had lately built and after having shown it all to him, said, 'pray, messer guglielmo, you who have seen and heard many things, can you tell me of something that was never yet seen, which i may have depictured in the saloon of this my house?' guglielmo, hearing this his preposterous question, answered, 'sir, i doubt me i cannot undertake to tell you of aught that was never yet seen, except it were sneezings or the like; but, an it like you, i will tell you of somewhat which me thinketh you never yet beheld.' quoth messer ermino, not looking for such an answer as he got, 'i pray you tell me what it is.' whereto guglielmo promptly replied, 'cause liberality to be here depictured.' when messer ermino heard this speech, there took him incontinent such a shame that it availed in a manner to change his disposition altogether to the contrary of that which it had been and he said, 'messer guglielmo, i will have it here depictured after such a fashion that neither you nor any other shall ever again have cause to tell me that i have never seen nor known it.' and from that time forth (such was the virtue of guglielmo's words) he was the most liberal and the most courteous gentleman of his day in genoa and he who most hospitably entreated both strangers and citizens." the ninth story [day the first] the king of cyprus, touched to the quick by a gascon lady, from a mean-spirited prince becometh a man of worth and valiance the queen's last commandment rested with elisa, who, without awaiting it, began all blithely, "young ladies, it hath often chanced that what all manner reproofs and many pains[ ] bestowed upon a man have not availed to bring about in him hath been effected by a word more often spoken at hazard than of purpose aforethought. this is very well shown in the story related by lauretta and i, in my turn, purpose to prove to you the same thing by means of another and a very short one; for that, since good things may still serve, they should be received with a mind attent, whoever be the sayer thereof. [footnote : syn. penalties, punishments (_pene_).] i say, then, that in the days of the first king of cyprus, after the conquest of the holy land by godefroi de bouillon, it chanced that a gentlewoman of gascony went on a pilgrimage to the holy sepulchre and returning thence, came to cyprus, where she was shamefully abused of certain lewd fellows; whereof having complained, without getting any satisfaction, she thought to appeal to the king for redress, but was told that she would lose her pains, for that he was of so abject a composition and so little of worth that, far from justifying others of their wrongs, he endured with shameful pusillanimity innumerable affronts offered to himself, insomuch that whose had any grudge [against him] was wont to vent his despite by doing him some shame or insult. the lady, hearing this and despairing of redress, bethought herself, by way of some small solacement of her chagrin, to seek to rebuke the king's pusillanimity; wherefore, presenting herself in tears before him, she said to him, 'my lord, i come not into thy presence for any redress that i expect of the wrong that hath been done me; but in satisfaction thereof, i prithee teach me how thou dost to suffer those affronts which i understand are offered unto thyself, so haply i may learn of thee patiently to endure mine own, the which god knoweth, an i might, i would gladly bestow on thee, since thou art so excellent a supporter thereof.' the king, who till then had been sluggish and supine, awoke as if from sleep and beginning with the wrong done to the lady, which he cruelly avenged, thenceforth became a very rigorous prosecutor of all who committed aught against the honour of his crown." the tenth story [day the first] master alberto of bologna civilly putteth a lady to the blush who thought to have shamed him of being enamoured of her elisa being now silent, the last burden of the story-telling rested with the queen, who, with womanly grace beginning to speak, said, "noble damsels, like as in the lucid nights the stars are the ornament of the sky and as in spring-time the flowers of the green meadows, even so are commendable manners and pleasing discourse adorned by witty sallies, which latter, for that they are brief, are yet more beseeming to women than to men, inasmuch as much and long speech, whenas it may be dispensed with, is straitlier forbidden unto women than to men, albeit nowadays there are few or no women left who understand a sprightly saying or, if they understand it, know how to answer it, to the general shame be it said of ourselves and of all women alive. for that virtue,[ ] which was erst in the minds of the women of times past, those of our day have diverted to the adornment of the body, and she on whose back are to be seen the most motley garments and the most gaudily laced and garded and garnished with the greatest plenty of fringes and purflings and broidery deemeth herself worthy to be held of far more account than her fellows and to be honoured above them, considering not that, were it a question of who should load her back and shoulders with bravery, an ass would carry much more thereof than any of them nor would therefore be honoured for more than an ass. [footnote : _virtù_, in the old roman sense of strength, vigour, energy.] i blush to avow it, for that i cannot say aught against other women but i say it against myself; these women that are so laced and purfled and painted and parti-coloured abide either mute and senseless, like marble statues, or, an they be questioned, answer after such a fashion that it were far better to have kept silence. and they would have you believe that their unableness to converse among ladies and men of parts proceedeth from purity of mind, and to their witlessness they give the name of modesty, as if forsooth no woman were modest but she who talketh with her chamberwoman or her laundress or her bake-wench; the which had nature willed, as they would have it believed, she had assuredly limited unto them their prattle on other wise. it is true that in this, as in other things, it behoveth to have regard to time and place and with whom one talketh; for that it chanceth bytimes that women or men, thinking with some pleasantry or other to put another to the blush and not having well measured their own powers with those of the latter, find that confusion, which they thought to cast upon another, recoil upon themselves. wherefore, so you may know how to keep yourselves and that, to boot, you may not serve as a text for the proverb which is current everywhere, to wit, that women in everything still take the worst, i would have you learn a lesson from the last of to-day's stories, which falleth to me to tell, to the intent that, even as you are by nobility of mind distinguished from other women, so likewise you may show yourselves no less removed from them by excellence of manners. it is not many years since there lived (and belike yet liveth) at bologna a very great and famous physician, known by manifest renown to well nigh all the world. his name was master alberto and such was the vivacity of his spirit that, albeit he was an old man of hard upon seventy years of age and well nigh all natural heat had departed his body, he scrupled not to expose himself to the flames of love; for that, having seen at an entertainment a very beautiful widow lady, called, as some say, madam malgherida[ ] de' ghisolieri, and being vastly taken with her, he received into his mature bosom, no otherwise than if he had been a young gallant, the amorous fire, insomuch that himseemed he rested not well by night, except the day foregone he had looked upon the delicate and lovesome countenance of the fair lady. wherefore he fell to passing continually before her house, now afoot and now on horseback, as the occasion served him, insomuch that she and many other ladies got wind of the cause of his constant passings to and fro and oftentimes made merry among themselves to see a man thus ripe of years and wit in love, as if they deemed that that most pleasant passion of love took root and flourished only in the silly minds of the young and not otherwhere. [footnote : old form of margherita.] what while he continued to pass back and forth, it chanced one holiday that, the lady being seated with many others before her door and espying master alberto making towards them from afar, they one and all took counsel together to entertain him and do him honour and after to rally him on that his passion. accordingly, they all rose to receive him and inviting him [to enter,] carried him into a shady courtyard, whither they let bring the choicest of wines and sweetmeats and presently enquired of him, in very civil and pleasant terms, how it might be that he was fallen enamoured of that fair lady, knowing her to be loved of many handsome, young and sprightly gentlemen. the physician, finding himself thus courteously attacked, put on a blithe countenance and answered, 'madam, that i love should be no marvel to any understanding person, and especially that i love yourself, for that you deserve it; and albeit old men are by operation of nature bereft of the vigour that behoveth unto amorous exercises, yet not for all that are they bereft of the will nor of the wit to apprehend that which is worthy to be loved; nay, this latter is naturally the better valued of them, inasmuch as they have more knowledge and experience than the young. as for the hope that moveth me, who am an old man, to love you who are courted of many young gallants, it is on this wise: i have been many a time where i have seen ladies lunch and eat lupins and leeks. now, although in the leek no part is good, yet is the head[ ] thereof less hurtful and more agreeable to the taste; but you ladies, moved by a perverse appetite, commonly hold the head in your hand and munch the leaves, which are not only naught, but of an ill savour. how know i, madam, but you do the like in the election of your lovers? in which case, i should be the one chosen of you and the others would be turned away.' [footnote : _i.e._ the base or eatable part of the stem.] the gentlewoman and her companions were somewhat abashed and said, 'doctor, you have right well and courteously chastised our presumptuous emprise; algates, your love is dear to me, as should be that of a man of worth and learning; wherefore, you may in all assurance command me, as your creature, of your every pleasure, saving only mine honour.' the physician, rising with his companions, thanked the lady and taking leave of her with laughter and merriment, departed thence. thus the lady, looking not whom she rallied and thinking to discomfit another, was herself discomfited; wherefrom, an you be wise, you will diligently guard yourselves." * * * * * the sun had begun to decline towards the evening, and the heat was in great part abated, when the stories of the young ladies and of the three young men came to an end; whereupon quoth the queen blithesomely, "henceforth, dear companions, there remaineth nought more to do in the matter of my governance for the present day, save to give you a new queen, who shall, according to her judgment, order her life and ours, for that[ ] which is to come, unto honest pleasance. and albeit the day may be held to endure from now until nightfall, yet,--for that whoso taketh not somewhat of time in advance cannot, meseemeth, so well provide for the future and in order that what the new queen shall deem needful for the morrow may be prepared,--methinketh the ensuing days should commence at this hour. wherefore, in reverence of him unto whom all things live and for our own solacement, filomena, a right discreet damsel, shall, as queen, govern our kingdom for the coming day." so saying, she rose to her feet and putting off the laurel-wreath, set it reverently on the head of filomena, whom first herself and after all the other ladies and the young men likewise saluted as queen, cheerfully submitting themselves to her governance. [footnote : _i.e._ that day.] filomena blushed somewhat to find herself invested with the queendom, but, calling to mind the words a little before spoken by pampinea,[ ]--in order that she might not appear witless, she resumed her assurance and in the first place confirmed all the offices given by pampinea; then, having declared that they should abide whereas they were, she appointed that which was to do against the ensuing morning, as well as for that night's supper, and after proceeded to speak thus: [footnote : see ante, p. .] "dearest companions, albeit pampinea, more of her courtesy than for any worth of mine, hath made me queen of you all, i am not therefore disposed to follow my judgment alone in the manner of our living, but yours together with mine; and that you may know that which meseemeth is to do and consequently at your pleasure add thereto or abate thereof, i purpose briefly to declare it to you. if i have well noted the course this day held by pampinea, meseemeth i have found it alike praiseworthy and delectable; wherefore till such time as, for overlong continuance or other reason, it grow irksome to us, i judge it not to be changed. order, then, being taken for [the continuance of] that which we have already begun to do, we will, arising hence, go awhile a-pleasuring, and whenas the sun shall be for going under, we will sup in the cool of the evening, and after sundry canzonets and other pastimes, we shall do well to betake ourselves to sleep. to-morrow, rising in the cool of the morning, we will on like wise go somewhither a-pleasuring, as shall be most agreeable to every one; and as we have done to-day, we will at the due hour come back to eat; after which we will dance and when we arise from sleep, as to-day we have done, we will return hither to our story-telling, wherein meseemeth a very great measure to consist alike of pleasance and of profit. moreover, that which pampinea had indeed no opportunity of doing, by reason of her late election to the governance, i purpose now to enter upon, to wit, to limit within some bound that whereof we are to tell and to declare it[ ] to you beforehand, so each of you may have leisure to think of some goodly story to relate upon the theme proposed, the which, an it please you, shall be on this wise; namely, seeing that since the beginning of the world men have been and will be, until the end thereof, bandied about by various shifts of fortune, each shall be holden to tell of those who after being baffled by divers chances have won at last to a joyful issue beyond their hope." [footnote : _i.e._ the terms of the limitation aforesaid.] ladies and men alike all commended this ordinance and declared themselves ready to ensue it. only dioneo, the others all being silent, said, "madam, as all the rest have said, so say i, to wit that the ordinance given by you is exceeding pleasant and commendable; but of especial favour i crave you a boon, which i would have confirmed to me for such time as our company shall endure, to wit, that i may not be constrained by this your law to tell a story upon the given theme, an it like me not, but shall be free to tell that which shall most please me. and that none may think i seek this favour as one who hath not stories, in hand, from this time forth i am content to be still the last to tell." the queen,--who knew him for a merry man and a gamesome and was well assured that he asked this but that he might cheer the company with some laughable story, whenas they should be weary of discoursing,--with the others' consent, cheerfully accorded him the favour he sought. then, arising from session, with slow steps they took their way towards a rill of very clear water, that ran down from a little hill, amid great rocks and green herbage, into a valley overshaded with many trees and there, going about in the water, bare-armed and shoeless, they fell to taking various diversions among themselves, till supper-time drew near, when they returned to the palace and there supped merrily. supper ended, the queen called for instruments of music and bade lauretta lead up a dance, whilst emilia sang a song, to the accompaniment of dioneo's lute. accordingly, lauretta promptly set up a dance and led it off, whilst emilia amorously warbled the following song: i burn for mine own charms with such a fire, methinketh that i ne'er of other love shall reck or have desire. whene'er i mirror me, i see therein[ ] that good which still contenteth heart and spright; nor fortune new nor thought of old can win to dispossess me of such dear delight. what other object, then, could fill my sight, enough of pleasance e'er to kindle in my breast a new desire? this good flees not, what time soe'er i'm fain afresh to view it for my solacement; nay, at my pleasure, ever and again with such a grace it doth itself present speech cannot tell it nor its full intent be known of mortal e'er, except indeed he burn with like desire. and i, grown more enamoured every hour, the straitlier fixed mine eyes upon it be, give all myself and yield me to its power, e'en tasting now of that it promised me, and greater joyance yet i hope to see, of such a strain as ne'er was proven here below of love-desire. [footnote : _i.e._ in the mirrored presentment of her own beauty.] lauretta having thus made an end of her ballad,[ ]--in the burden of which all had blithely joined, albeit the words thereof gave some much matter for thought,--divers other rounds were danced and a part of the short night being now spent, it pleased the queen to give an end to the first day; wherefore, letting kindle the flambeaux, she commanded that all should betake themselves to rest until the ensuing morning, and all, accordingly, returning to their several chambers, did so. [footnote : _ballatella_, lit. little dancing song or song made to be sung as an accompaniment to a dance (from _ballare_, to dance). this is the origin of our word ballad.] here endeth the first day of the decameron _day the second_ here beginneth the second day of the decameron wherein under the governance of filomena is discoursed of those who after being baffled by divers chances have won at last to a joyful issue beyond their hope the sun had already everywhere brought on the new day with its light and the birds, carolling blithely among the green branches, bore witness thereof unto the ear with their merry songs, when the ladies and the three young men, arising all, entered the gardens and pressing the dewy grass with slow step, went wandering hither and thither, weaving goodly garlands and disporting themselves, a great while. and like as they had done the day foregone, even so did they at present; to wit, having eaten in the cool and danced awhile, they betook them to repose and arising thence after none, came all, by command of their queen, into the fresh meadows, where they seated themselves round about her. then she, who was fair of favour and exceeding pleasant of aspect, having sat awhile, crowned with her laurel wreath, and looked all her company in the face, bade neifile give beginning to the day's stories by telling one of her fashion; whereupon the latter, without making any excuse, blithely began to speak thus: the first story [day the second] martellino feigneth himself a cripple and maketh believe to wax whole upon the body of st. arrigo. his imposture being discovered, he is beaten and being after taken [for a thief,] goeth in peril of being hanged by the neck, but ultimately escapeth "it chanceth oft, dearest ladies, that he who studieth to befool others, and especially in things reverend, findeth himself with nothing for his pains but flouts and whiles cometh not off scathless. wherefore, that i may obey the queen's commandment and give beginning to the appointed theme with a story of mine, i purpose to relate to you that which, first misfortunately and after happily, beyond his every thought, betided a townsman of ours. no great while agone there was at treviso a german called arrigo, who, being a poor man, served whoso required him to carry burdens for hire; and withal he was held of all a man of very holy and good life. wherefore, be it true or untrue, when he died, it befell, according to that which the trevisans avouch, that, in the hour of his death, the bells of the great church of treviso began to ring, without being pulled of any. the people of the city, accounting this a miracle, proclaimed this arrigo a saint and running all to the house where he lay, bore his body, for that of a saint, to the cathedral, whither they fell to bringing the halt, the impotent and the blind and others afflicted with whatsoever defect or infirmity, as if they should all be made whole by the touch of the body. in the midst of this great turmoil and concourse of folk, it chanced that there arrived at treviso three of our townsmen, whereof one was called stecchi, another martellino and the third marchese, men who visited the courts of princes and lords and diverted the beholders by travestying themselves and counterfeiting whatsoever other man with rare motions and grimaces. never having been there before and seeing all the folk run, they marvelled and hearing the cause, were for going to see what was toward; wherefore they laid up their baggage at an inn and marchese said, 'we would fain go look upon this saint; but, for my part, i see not how we may avail to win thither, for that i understand the cathedral place is full of german and other men-at-arms, whom the lord of this city hath stationed there, so no riot may betide; more by token that they say the church is so full of folk that well nigh none else might enter there.' 'let not that hinder you,' quoth martellino, who was all agog to see the show; 'i warrant you i will find a means of winning to the holy body.' 'how so?' asked marchese, and martellino answered, 'i will tell thee. i will counterfeit myself a cripple and thou on one side and stecchi on the other shall go upholding me, as it were i could not walk of myself, making as if you would fain bring me to the saint, so he may heal me. there will be none but, seeing us, will make way for us and let us pass.' the device pleased marchese and stecchi and they went forth of the inn without delay, all three. whenas they came to a solitary place, martellino writhed his hands and fingers and arms and legs and eke his mouth and eyes and all his visnomy on such wise that it was a frightful thing to look upon, nor was there any saw him but would have avouched him to be verily all fordone and palsied of his person. marchese and stecchi, taking him up, counterfeited as he was, made straight for the church, with a show of the utmost compunction, humbly beseeching all who came in their way for the love of god to make room for them, the which was lightly yielded them. brief, every one gazing on them and crying well nigh all, 'make way! make way!' they came whereas saint arrigo's body lay and martellino was forthright taken up by certain gentlemen who stood around and laid upon the body, so he might thereby regain the benefit of health. martellino, having lain awhile, whilst all the folk were on the stretch to see what should come of him, began, as right well he knew how, to make a show of opening first one finger, then a hand and after putting forth an arm and so at last coming to stretch himself out altogether. which when the people saw, they set up such an outcry in praise of saint arrigo as would have drowned the very thunder. now, as chance would have it, there was therenigh a certain florentine, who knew martellino very well, but had not recognized him, counterfeited as he was, whenas he was brought thither. however, when he saw him grown straight again, he knew him and straightway fell a-laughing and saying, 'god confound him! who that saw him come had not deemed him palsied in good earnest?' his words were overheard of sundry trevisans, who asked him incontinent, 'how! was he not palsied?' 'god forbid!' answered the florentine. 'he hath ever been as straight as any one of us; but he knoweth better than any man in the world how to play off tricks of this kind and counterfeit what shape soever he will.' when the others heard this, there needed nothing farther; but they pushed forward by main force and fell a-crying out and saying, 'seize yonder traitor and scoffer at god and his saints, who, being whole of his body, hath come hither, in the guise of a cripple, to make mock of us and of our saint!' so saying, they laid hold of martellino and pulled him down from the place where he lay. then, taking him by the hair of his head and tearing all the clothes off his back, they fell upon him with cuffs and kicks; nor himseemed was there a man in the place but ran to do likewise. martellino roared out, 'mercy, for god's sake!' and fended himself as best he might, but to no avail; for the crowd redoubled upon him momently. stecchi and marchese, seeing this, began to say one to the other that things stood ill, but, fearing for themselves, dared not come to his aid; nay, they cried out with the rest to put him to death, bethinking them the while how they might avail to fetch him out of the hands of the people, who would certainly have slain him, but for a means promptly taken by marchese; to wit, all the officers of the seignory being without the church, he betook himself as quickliest he might, to him who commanded for the provost and said, 'help, for god's sake! there is a lewd fellow within who hath cut my purse, with a good hundred gold florins. i pray you take him, so i may have mine own again.' hearing this, a round dozen of sergeants ran straightway whereas the wretched martellino was being carded without a comb and having with the greatest pains in the world broken through the crowd, dragged him out of the people's hands, all bruised and tumbled as he was, and haled him off to the palace, whither many followed him who held themselves affronted of him and hearing that he had been taken for a cutpurse and themseeming they had no better occasion[ ] of doing him an ill turn,[ ] began each on like wise to say that he had cut his purse. the provost's judge, who was a crabbed, ill-conditioned fellow, hearing this, forthright took him apart and began to examine him of the matter; but martellino answered jestingly, as if he made light of his arrest; whereat the judge, incensed, caused truss him up and give him two or three good bouts of the strappado, with intent to make him confess that which they laid to his charge, so he might after have him strung up by the neck. [footnote : or pretext (_titolo_).] [footnote : or "having him punished," lit. "causing give him ill luck" (_fargli dar la mala ventura_). this passage, like so many others of the decameron, is ambiguous and may also be read "themseeming none other had a juster title to do him an ill turn."] when he was let down again, the judge asked him once more if that were true which the folk avouched against him, and martellino, seeing that it availed him not to deny, answered, 'my lord, i am ready to confess the truth to you; but first make each who accuseth me say when and where i cut his purse, and i will tell you what i did and what not.' quoth the judge, 'i will well,' and calling some of his accusers, put the question to them; whereupon one said that he had cut his purse eight, another six and a third four days agone, whilst some said that very day. martellino, hearing this, said, 'my lord, these all lie in their throats and i can give you this proof that i tell you the truth, inasmuch as would god it were as sure that i had never come hither as it is that i was never in this place till a few hours agone; and as soon as i arrived, i went, of my ill fortune, to see yonder holy body in the church, where i was carded as you may see; and that this i say is true, the prince's officer who keepeth the register of strangers can certify you, he and his book, as also can my host. if, therefore, you find it as i tell you, i beseech you torture me not neither put me to death at the instance of these wicked, men.' whilst things were at this pass, marchese and stecchi, hearing that the judge of the provostry was proceeding rigorously against martellino and had already given him the strappado, were sore affeared and said in themselves, 'we have gone the wrong way to work; we have brought him forth of the frying-pan and cast him into the fire.' wherefore they went with all diligence in quest of their host and having found him, related to him how the case stood. he laughed and carried them to one sandro agolanti, who abode in treviso and had great interest with the prince, and telling him everything in order, joined with them in beseeching him to occupy himself with martellino's affairs. sandro, after many a laugh, repaired to the prince and prevailed upon him to send for martellino. the prince's messengers found martellino still in his shirt before the judge, all confounded and sore adread, for that the judge would hear nothing in his excuse; nay, having, by chance, some spite against the people of florence, he was altogether determined to hang him by the neck and would on no wise render him up to the prince till such time as he was constrained thereto in his despite. martellino, being brought before the lord of the city and having told him everything in order, besought him, by way of special favour, to let him go about his business, for that, until he should be in florence again, it would still seem to him he had the rope about his neck. the prince laughed heartily at his mischance and let give each of the three a suit of apparel, wherewith they returned home safe and sound, having, beyond all their hope, escaped so great a peril." the second story [day the second] rinaldo d'asti, having been robbed, maketh his way to castel guglielmo, where he is hospitably entertained by a widow lady and having made good his loss, returneth to his own house, safe and sound the ladies laughed immoderately at martellino's misfortunes narrated by neifile, as did also the young men and especially filostrato, whom, for that he sat next neifile, the queen bade follow her in story-telling. accordingly he began without delay, "fair ladies, needs must i tell you a story[ ] of things catholic,[ ] in part mingled with misadventures and love-matters, which belike will not be other than profitable to hear, especially to those who are wayfarers in the perilous lands of love, wherein whoso hath not said st. julian his paternoster is oftentimes ill lodged, for all he have a good bed. [footnote : lit. a story striveth in (draweth) me to be told or to tell itself (_a raccontarsi mi tira una novella_).] [footnote : _i.e._ religious matters (_cose cattoliche_).] in the days, then, of the marquis azzo of ferrara, there came a merchant called rinaldo d'asti to bologna on his occasions, which having despatched and returning homeward, it chanced that, as he issued forth of ferrara and rode towards verona, he fell in with certain folk who seemed merchants, but were in truth highwaymen and men of lewd life and condition, with whom he unwarily joined company and entered into discourse. they, seeing him to be a merchant and judging him to have monies about him, took counsel together to rob him, at the first opportunity that should offer; wherefore, that he might take no suspicion, they went devising with him, like decent peaceable folk, of things honest and seemly and of loyalty, ordering themselves toward him, in so far as they knew and could, with respect and complaisance, so that he deemed himself in great luck to have met with them, for that he was alone with a serving-man of his on horseback. thus faring on and passing from one thing to another, as it chanceth in discourse, they presently fell to talking of the orisons that men offer up to god, and one of the highwaymen, who were three in number, said to rinaldo, 'and you, fair sir, what orison do you use to say on a journey?' whereto he answered, 'sooth to say, i am but a plain man and little versed in these matters and have few orisons in hand; i live after the old fashion and let a couple of shillings pass for four-and-twenty pence.[ ] nevertheless, i have still been wont, when on a journey, to say of a morning, what time i come forth of the inn, a pater and an ave for the soul of st. julian's father and mother, after which i pray god and the saint to grant me a good lodging for the ensuing night. many a time in my day have i, in the course of my journeyings, been in great perils, from all of which i have escaped and have still found myself at night, to boot, in a place of safety and well lodged. wherefore i firmly believe that st. julian, in whose honour i say it, hath gotten me this favour of god; nor meseemeth should i fare well by day nor come to good harbourage at night, except i had said it in the morning.' 'and did you say it[ ] this morning?' asked he who had put the question to him. 'ay did i,' answered rinaldo; whereupon quoth the other in himself, knowing well how the thing was to go, 'may it stand thee in stead![ ] for, an no hindrance betide us, methinketh thou art e'en like to lodge ill.' then, to rinaldo, 'i likewise,' quoth he, 'have travelled much and have never said this orison, albeit i have heard it greatly commended, nor ever hath it befallen me to lodge other than well; and this evening maybe you shall chance to see which will lodge the better, you who have said it or i who have not. true, i use, instead thereof, the _dirupisti_ or the _intemerata_ or the _de profundis_, the which, according to that which a grandmother of mine used to tell me, are of singular virtue.' [footnote : _i.e._ take things by the first intention, without seeking to refine upon them, or, in english popular phrase, "i do not pretend to see farther through a stone wall than my neighbours."] [footnote : _i.e._ the aforesaid orison.] [footnote : or "'twill have been opportunely done of thee."] discoursing thus of various matters and faring on their way, on the look out the while for time and place apt unto their knavish purpose, they came, late in the day, to a place a little beyond castel guglielmo, where, at the fording of a river, the three rogues, seeing the hour advanced and the spot solitary and close shut in, fell upon rinaldo and robbed him of money, clothes and horse. then, leaving him afoot and in his shirt, they departed, saying, 'go see if thy st. julian will give thee a good lodging this night, even as ours[ ] will assuredly do for us.' and passing the stream, they went their ways. rinaldo's servant, seeing him attacked, like a cowardly knave as he was, did nought to help him, but turning his horse's head, never drew bridle till he came to castel guglielmo and entering the town, took up his lodging there, without giving himself farther concern. [footnote : _i.e._ our patron saint.] rinaldo, left in his shirt and barefoot, it being very cold and snowing hard, knew not what to do and seeing the night already at hand, looked about him, trembling and chattering the while with his teeth, if there were any shelter to be seen therenigh, where he might pass the night, so he should not perish of cold; but, seeing none, for that a little before there had been war in those parts and everything had been burnt, set off at a run, spurred by the cold, towards castel guglielmo, knowing not withal if his servant were fled thither or otherwise and thinking that, so he might but avail to enter therein, god would send him some relief. but darkness overtook him near a mile from the town, wherefore he arrived there so late that, the gates being shut and the draw-bridges raised, he could get no admission. thereupon, despairing and disconsolate, he looked about, weeping, for a place where he might shelter, so at the least it should not snow upon him, and chancing to espy a house that projected somewhat beyond the walls of the town, he determined to go bide thereunder till day. accordingly, betaking himself thither, he found there a door, albeit it was shut, and gathering at foot thereof somewhat of straw that was therenigh, he laid himself down there, tristful and woebegone, complaining sore to st. julian and saying that this was not of the faith he had in him. however, the saint had not lost sight of him and was not long in providing him with a good lodging. there was in the town a widow lady, as fair of favour as any woman living, whom the marquis azzo loved as his life and there kept at his disposition, and she abode in that same house, beneath the projection whereof rinaldo had taken shelter. now, as chance would have it, the marquis had come to the town that day, thinking to lie the night with her, and had privily let make ready in her house a bath and a sumptuous supper. everything being ready and nought awaited by the lady but the coming of the marquis, it chanced that there came a serving-man to the gate, who brought him news, which obliged him to take horse forthright; wherefore, sending to tell his mistress not to expect him, he departed in haste. the lady, somewhat disconsolate at this, knowing not what to do, determined to enter the bath prepared for the marquis and after sup and go to bed. accordingly she entered the bath, which was near the door, against which the wretched merchant was crouched without the city-wall; wherefore she, being therein, heard the weeping and trembling kept up by rinaldo, who seemed as he were grown a stork,[ ] and calling her maid, said to her, 'go up and look over the wall who is at the postern-foot and what he doth there.' the maid went thither and aided by the clearness of the air, saw rinaldo in his shirt and barefoot, sitting there, as hath been said, and trembling sore; whereupon she asked him who he was. he told her, as briefliest he might, who he was and how and why he was there, trembling the while on such wise that he could scarce form the words, and after fell to beseeching her piteously not to leave him there all night to perish of cold, [but to succour him,] an it might be. the maid was moved to pity of him and returning to her mistress, told her all. the lady, on like wise taking compassion on him and remembering that she had the key of the door aforesaid, which served whiles for the privy entrances of the marquis, said, 'go softly and open to him; here is this supper and none to eat it and we have commodity enough for his lodging.' [footnote : _i.e._ whose teeth chattered as it were the clapping of a stork's beak.] the maid, having greatly commended her mistress for this her humanity, went and opening to rinaldo, brought him in; whereupon the lady, seeing him well nigh palsied with cold, said to him, 'quick, good man, enter this bath, which is yet warm.' rinaldo, without awaiting farther invitation, gladly obeyed and was so recomforted with the warmth of the bath that himseemed he was come back from death to life. the lady let fetch him a suit of clothes that had pertained to her husband, then lately dead, which when he had donned, they seemed made to his measure, and whilst awaiting what she should command him, he fell to thanking god and st. julian for that they had delivered him from the scurvy night he had in prospect and had, as he deemed, brought him to good harbourage. presently, the lady, being somewhat rested,[ ] let make a great fire in her dining-hall and betaking herself thither, asked how it was with the poor man; whereto the maid answered, 'madam, he hath clad himself and is a handsome man and appeareth a person of good condition and very well-mannered.' quoth the lady, 'go, call him and bid him come to the fire and sup, for i know he is fasting.' accordingly, rinaldo entered the hall and seeing the gentlewoman, who appeared to him a lady of quality, saluted her respectfully and rendered her the best thanks in his power for the kindness done him. the lady, having seen and heard him and finding him even as her maid had said, received him graciously and making him sit familiarly with her by the fire, questioned him of the chance that had brought him thither; whereupon he related everything to her in order. now she had heard somewhat of this at the time of his servant's coming into the town, wherefore she gave entire belief to all he said and told him, in turn, what she knew of his servant and how he might lightly find him again on the morrow. then, the table being laid, rinaldo, at the lady's instance, washed his hands and sat down with her to supper. now he was tall of his person and comely and pleasant of favour and very engaging and agreeable of manners and a man in the prime of life; wherefore the lady had several times cast her eyes on him and found him much to her liking, and her desires being already aroused for the marquis, who was to have come to lie with her, she had taken a mind to him. accordingly, after supper, whenas they were risen from table, she took counsel with her maid whether herseemed she would do well, the marquis having left her in the lurch, to use the good which fortune had sent her. the maid, seeing her mistress's drift, encouraged her as best she might to ensue it; whereupon the lady, returning to the fireside, where she had left rinaldo alone, fell to gazing amorously upon him and said to him, 'how now, rinaldo, why bide you thus melancholy? think you you cannot be requited the loss of a horse and of some small matter of clothes? take comfort and be of good cheer; you are in your own house. nay, i will e'en tell you more, that, seeing you with those clothes on your back, which were my late husband's, and meseeming you were himself, there hath taken me belike an hundred times to-night a longing to embrace you and kiss you: and but that i feared to displease you, i had certainly done it.' [footnote : _i.e._ after her bath.] rinaldo, who was no simpleton, hearing these words and seeing the lady's eyes sparkle, advanced towards her with open arms, saying, 'madam, considering that i owe it to you to say that i am now alive and having regard to that from which you delivered me, it were great unmannerliness in me, did i not study to do everything that may be agreeable to you; wherefore do you embrace me and kiss me to your heart's content, and i will kiss and clip you more than willingly.' there needed no more words. the lady, who was all afire with amorous longing, straightway threw herself into his arms and after she had strained him desirefully to her bosom and bussed him a thousand times and had of him been kissed as often, they went off to her chamber, and there without delay betaking themselves to bed, they fully and many a time, before the day should come, satisfied their desires one of the other. whenas the day began to appear, they arose,--it being her pleasure, so the thing might not be suspected of any,--and she, having given him some sorry clothes and a purse full of money and shown him how he should go about to enter the town and find his servant, put him forth at the postern whereby he had entered, praying him keep the matter secret. as soon as it was broad day and the gates were opened, he entered the town, feigning to come from afar, and found his servant. therewithal he donned the clothes that were in the saddle-bags and was about to mount the man's horse and depart, when, as by a miracle, it befell that the three highwaymen, who had robbed him overnight, having been a little after taken for some other misdeed of them committed, were brought into the town and on their confession, his horse and clothes and money were restored to him, nor did he lose aught save a pair of garters, with which the robbers knew not what they had done. rinaldo accordingly gave thanks to god and st. julian and taking horse, returned home, safe and sound, leaving the three rogues to go kick on the morrow against the wind."[ ] [footnote : _i.e._ to be hanged or, in the equivalent english idiom, to dance upon nothing.] the third story [day the second] three young men squander their substance and become poor; but a nephew of theirs, returning home in desperation, falleth in with an abbot and findeth him to be the king's daughter of england, who taketh him to husband and maketh good all his uncles' losses, restoring them to good estate the adventures of rinaldo d'asti were hearkened with admiration and his devoutness commended by the ladies, who returned thanks to god and st. julian for that they had succoured him in his utmost need. nor yet (though this was said half aside) was the lady reputed foolish, who had known how to take the good god had sent her in her own house. but, whilst they discoursed, laughing in their sleeves, of the pleasant night she had had, pampinea, seeing herself beside filostrato and deeming, as indeed it befell, that the next turn would rest with her, began to collect her thoughts and take counsel with herself what she should say; after which, having received the queen's commandment, she proceeded to speak thus, no less resolutely than blithely, "noble ladies, the more it is discoursed of the doings of fortune, the more, to whoso is fain to consider her dealings aright, remaineth to be said thereof; and at this none should marvel, an he consider advisedly that all the things, which we foolishly style ours, are in her hands and are consequently, according to her hidden ordinance, transmuted by her without cease from one to another and back again, without any method known unto us. wherefore, albeit this truth is conclusively demonstrated in everything and all day long and hath already been shown forth in divers of the foregoing stories, nevertheless, since it is our queen's pleasure that we discourse upon this theme, i will, not belike without profit for the listeners, add to the stories aforesaid one of my own, which methinketh should please. there was once in our city a gentleman, by name messer tedaldo, who, as some will have it, was of the lamberti family, albeit others avouch that he was of the agolanti, arguing more, belike, from the craft after followed by his sons,[ ] which was like unto that which the agolanti have ever practised and yet practise, than from aught else. but, leaving be of which of these two houses he was, i say that he was, in his time, a very rich gentleman and had three sons, whereof the eldest was named lamberto, the second tedaldo and the third agolante, all handsome and sprightly youths, the eldest of whom had not reached his eighteenth year when it befell that the aforesaid messer tedaldo died very rich and left all his possessions, both moveable and immoveable, to them, as his legitimate heirs. the young men, seeing themselves left very rich both in lands and monies, began to spend without check or reserve or other governance than that of their own pleasure, keeping a vast household and many and goodly horses and dogs and hawks, still holding open house and giving largesse and making tilts and tournaments and doing not only that which pertaineth unto men of condition, but all, to boot, that it occurred to their youthful appetite to will. [footnote : _i.e._ usury? see post. one of the commentators ridiculously suggests that they were needlemakers, from _ago_, a needle.] they had not long led this manner of life before the treasure left by their father melted away and their revenues alone sufficing not unto their current expenses, they proceeded to sell and mortgage their estates, and selling one to-day and another to-morrow, they found themselves well nigh to nought, without perceiving it, and poverty opened their eyes, which wealth had kept closed. whereupon lamberto, one day, calling the other two, reminded them how great had been their father's magnificence and how great their own and setting before them what wealth had been theirs and the poverty to which they were come through their inordinate expenditure, exhorted them, as best he knew, ere their distress should become more apparent, to sell what little was left them and get them gone, together with himself. they did as he counselled them and departing florence, without leavetaking or ceremony, stayed not till they came to england, where, taking a little house in london and spending very little, they addressed themselves with the utmost diligence to lend money at usance. in this fortune was so favourable to them that in a few years they amassed a vast sum of money, wherewith, returning to florence, one after another, they bought back great part of their estates and purchased others to boot and took unto themselves wives. nevertheless, they still continued to lend money in england and sent thither, to look to their affairs, a young man, a nephew of theirs, alessandro by name, whilst themselves all three at florence, for all they were become fathers of families, forgetting to what a pass inordinate expenditure had aforetime brought them, began to spend more extravagantly than ever and were high in credit with all the merchants, who trusted them for any sum of money, however great. the monies remitted them by alessandro, who had fallen to lending to the barons upon their castles and other their possessions, which brought him great profit, helped them for some years to support these expenses; but, presently, what while the three brothers spent thus freely and lacking money, borrowed, still reckoning with all assurance upon england, it chanced that, contrary to all expectation, there broke out war in england between the king and his son, through which the whole island was divided into two parties, some holding with the one and some with the other; and by reason thereof all the barons' castles were taken from alessandro nor was there any other source of revenue that answered him aught. hoping that from day to day peace should be made between father and son and consequently everything restored to him, both interest and capital, alessandro departed not the island and the three brothers in florence no wise abated their extravagant expenditure, borrowing more and more every day. but, when, after several years, no effect was seen to follow upon their expectation, the three brothers not only lost their credit, but, their creditors seeking to be paid their due, they were suddenly arrested and their possessions sufficing not unto payment, they abode in prison for the residue, whilst their wives and little ones betook themselves, some into the country, some hither and some thither, in very ill plight, unknowing what to expect but misery for the rest of their lives. meanwhile, alessandro, after waiting several years in england for peace, seeing that it came not and himseeming that not only was his tarrying there in vain, but that he went in danger of his life, determined to return to italy. accordingly, he set out all alone and as chance would have it, coming out of bruges, he saw an abbot of white friars likewise issuing thence, accompanied by many monks and with a numerous household and a great baggage-train in his van. after him came two old knights, kinsmen of the king, whom alessandro accosted as acquaintances and was gladly admitted into their company. as he journeyed with them, he asked them softly who were the monks that rode in front with so great a train and whither they were bound; and one of them answered, 'he who rideth yonder is a young gentleman of our kindred, who hath been newly elected abbot of one of the most considerable abbeys of england, and for that he is younger than is suffered by the laws for such a dignity, we go with him to rome to obtain of the holy father that he dispense him of his defect of overmuch youthfulness and confirm him in the dignity aforesaid; but this must not be spoken of with any.' the new abbot, faring on thus, now in advance of his retinue and now in their rear, as daily we see it happen with noblemen on a journey, chanced by the way to see near him alessandro, who was a young man exceedingly goodly of person and favour, well-bred, agreeable and fair of fashion as any might be, and who at first sight pleased him marvellously, as nought had ever done, and calling him to his side, fell a-discoursing pleasantly with him, asking him who he was and whence he came and whither he was bound; whereupon alessandro frankly discovered to him his whole case and satisfied his questions, offering himself to his service in what little he might. the abbot, hearing his goodly and well-ordered speech, took more particular note of his manners and inwardly judging him to be a man of gentle breeding, for all his business had been mean, grew yet more enamoured of his pleasantness and full of compassion for his mishaps, comforted him on very friendly wise, bidding him be of good hope, for that, an he were a man of worth, god would yet replace him in that estate whence fortune had cast him down, nay, in a yet higher. moreover, he prayed him, since he was bound for tuscany, that it would please him bear him company, inasmuch as himself was likewise on the way thitherward; whereupon alessandro returned him thanks for his encouragement and declared himself ready to his every commandment. the abbot, in whose breast new feelings had been aroused by the sight of alessandro, continuing his journey, it chanced that, after some days, they came to a village not overwell furnished with hostelries, and the abbot having a mind to pass the night there, alessandro caused him alight at the house of an innkeeper, who was his familiar acquaintance, and let prepare him his sleeping-chamber in the least incommodious place of the house; and being now, like an expert man as he was, grown well nigh a master of the household to the abbot, he lodged all his company, as best he might, about the village, some here and some there. after the abbot had supped, the night being now well advanced and every one gone to bed, alessandro asked the host where he himself could lie; whereto he answered, 'in truth, i know not; thou seest that every place is full and i and my household must needs sleep upon the benches. algates, in the abbot's chamber there be certain grain-sacks, whereto i can bring thee and spread thee thereon some small matter of bed, and there, an it please thee, thou shalt lie this night, as best thou mayst.' quoth alessandro, 'how shall i go into the abbot's chamber, seeing thou knowest it is little and of its straitness none of his monks might lie there? had i bethought me of this, ere the curtains were drawn, i would have let his monks lie on the grain-sacks and have lodged myself where they sleep.' 'nay,' answered the host, 'the case standeth thus;[ ] but, an thou wilt, thou mayst lie whereas i tell thee with all the ease in the world. the abbot is asleep and his curtains are drawn; i will quickly lay thee a pallet-bed there, and do thou sleep on it.' alessandro, seeing that this might be done without giving the abbot any annoy, consented thereto and settled himself on the grain-sacks as softliest he might. [footnote : _i.e._ the thing is done and cannot be undone; there is no help for it.] the abbot, who slept not, nay, whose thoughts were ardently occupied with his new desires, heard what passed between alessandro and the host and noted where the former laid himself to sleep, and well pleased with this, began to say in himself, 'god hath sent an occasion unto my desires; an i take it not, it may be long ere the like recur to me.' accordingly, being altogether resolved to take the opportunity and himseeming all was quiet in the inn, he called to alessandro in a low voice and bade him come couch with him. alessandro, after many excuses, put off his clothes and laid himself beside the abbot, who put his hand on his breast and fell to touching him no otherwise than amorous damsels use to do with their lovers; whereat alessandro marvelled exceedingly and misdoubted him the abbot was moved by unnatural love to handle him on that wise; but the latter promptly divined his suspicions, whether of presumption or through some gesture of his, and smiled; then, suddenly putting off a shirt that he wore, he took alessandro's hand and laying it on his own breast, said, 'alessandro, put away thy foolish thought and searching here, know that which i conceal.' alessandro accordingly put his hand to the abbot's bosom and found there two little breasts, round and firm and delicate, no otherwise than as they were of ivory, whereby perceiving that the supposed prelate was a woman, without awaiting farther bidding, he straightway took her in his arms and would have kissed her; but she said to him, 'ere thou draw nearer to me, hearken to that which i have to say to thee. as thou mayst see, i am a woman and not a man, and having left home a maid, i was on my way to the pope, that he might marry me. be it thy good fortune or my mishap, no sooner did i see thee the other day than love so fired me for thee, that never yet was woman who so loved man. wherefore, i am resolved to take thee, before any other, to husband; but, an thou wilt not have me to wife, begone hence forthright and return to thy place.' alessandro, albeit he knew her not, having regard to her company and retinue, judged her to be of necessity noble and rich and saw that she was very fair; wherefore, without overlong thought, he replied that, if this pleased her, it was mighty agreeable to him. accordingly, sitting up with him in bed, she put a ring into his hand and made him espouse her[ ] before a picture wherein our lord was portrayed, after which they embraced each other and solaced themselves with amorous dalliance, to the exceeding pleasure of both parties, for so much as remained of the night. [footnote : _i.e._ make her a solemn promise of marriage, formally plight her his troth. the ceremony of betrothal was formerly (and still is in certain countries) the most essential part of the marriage rite.] when the day came, after they had taken order together concerning their affairs, alessandro arose and departed the chamber by the way he had entered, without any knowing where he had passed the night. then, glad beyond measure, he took to the road again with the abbot and his company and came after many days to rome. there they abode some days, after which the abbot, with the two knights and alessandro and no more, went in to the pope and having done him due reverence, bespoke him thus, 'holy father, as you should know better than any other, whoso is minded to live well and honestly should, inasmuch as he may, eschew every occasion that may lead him to do otherwise; the which that i, who would fain live honestly, may throughly do, having fled privily with a great part of the treasures of the king of england my father, (who would have given me to wife to the king of scotland, a very old prince, i being, as you see, a young maid), i set out, habited as you see me, to come hither, so your holiness might marry me. nor was it so much the age of the king of scotland that made me flee as the fear, if i were married to him, lest i should, for the frailty of my youth, be led to do aught that might be contrary to the divine laws and the honour of the royal blood of my father. as i came, thus disposed, god, who alone knoweth aright that which behoveth unto every one, set before mine eyes (as i believe, of his mercy) him whom it pleased him should be my husband, to wit, this young man,' showing alessandro, 'whom you see here beside me and whose fashions and desert are worthy of however great a lady, although belike the nobility of his blood is not so illustrious as the blood-royal. him, then, have i taken and him i desire, nor will i ever have any other than he, however it may seem to my father or to other folk. thus, the principal occasion of my coming is done away; but it pleased me to make an end of my journey, at once that i might visit the holy and reverential places, whereof this city is full, and your holiness and that through you i might make manifest, in your presence and consequently in that of the rest of mankind, the marriage contracted between alessandro and myself in the presence of god alone. wherefore i humbly pray you that this which hath pleased god and me may find favour with you and that you will vouchsafe us your benison, in order that with this, as with more assurance of his approof whose vicar you are, we may live and ultimately die together.' alessandro marvelled to hear that the damsel was the king's daughter of england and was inwardly filled with exceeding great gladness; but the two knights marvelled yet more and were so incensed, that, had they been otherwhere than in the pope's presence, they had done alessandro a mischief and belike the lady also. the pope also, on his part, marvelled exceedingly both at the habit of the lady and at her choice; but, seeing that there was no going back on that which was done, he consented to satisfy her of her prayer. accordingly, having first appeased the two knights, whom he knew to be angered, and made them well at one again with the lady and alessandro, he took order for that which was to do, and the day appointed by him being come, before all the cardinals and many other men of great worship, come, at his bidding, to a magnificent bride-feast prepared by him, he produced the lady, royally apparelled, who showed so fair and so agreeable that she was worthily commended of all, and on like wise alessandro splendidly attired, in bearing and appearance no whit like a youth who had lent at usury, but rather one of royal blood, and now much honoured of the two knights. there he caused solemnly celebrate the marriage afresh and after goodly and magnificent nuptials made, he dismissed them with his benison. it pleased alessandro, and likewise the lady, departing rome, to betake themselves to florence, whither report had already carried the news. there they were received by the townsfolk with the utmost honour and the lady caused liberate the three brothers, having first paid every man [his due]. moreover, she reinstated them and their ladies in their possessions and with every one's goodwill, because of this, she and her husband departed florence, carrying agolante with them, and coming to paris, were honourably entertained by the king. thence the two knights passed into england and so wrought with the king that the latter restored to his daughter his good graces and with exceeding great rejoicing received her and his son-in-law, whom he a little after made a knight with the utmost honour and gave him the earldom of cornwall. in this capacity he approved himself a man of such parts and made shift to do on such wise that he reconciled the son with his father, whereof there ensued great good to the island, and thereby he gained the love and favour of all the people of the country. moreover, agolante thoroughly recovered all that was there due to him and his brethren and returned to florence, rich beyond measure, having first been knighted by count alessandro. the latter lived long and gloriously with his lady, and according as some avouch, what with his wit and valour and the aid of his father-in-law, he after conquered scotland and was crowned king thereof." the fourth story [day the second] landolfo ruffolo, grown poor, turneth corsair and being taken by the genoese, is wrecked at sea, but saveth himself upon a coffer full of jewels of price and being entertained in corfu by a woman, returneth home rich lauretta, who sat next pampinea, seeing her come to the glorious ending of her story, began, without awaiting more, to speak on this wise: "most gracious ladies, there can, to my judgment, be seen no greater feat of fortune than when we behold one raised from the lowest misery to royal estate, even as pampinea's story hath shown it to have betided her alessandro. and for that from this time forth whosoever relateth of the appointed matter must of necessity speak within these limits,[ ] i shall think no shame to tell a story, which, albeit it compriseth in itself yet greater distresses hath not withal so splendid an issue. i know well, indeed, that, having regard unto that, my story will be hearkened with less diligence; but, as i can no otherwise, i shall be excused. [footnote : _i.e._ cannot hope to tell a story presenting more extraordinary shifts from one to the other extreme of human fortune than that of pampinea.] the sea-coast from reggio to gaeta is commonly believed to be well nigh the most delightful part of italy, and therein, pretty near salerno, is a hillside overlooking the sea, which the countryfolk call amalfi side, full of little towns and gardens and springs and of men as rich and stirring in the matter of trade as any in the world. among the said cities is one called ravello and therein, albeit nowadays there are rich men there, there was aforetime one, landolfo ruffolo by name, who was exceeding rich and who, his wealth sufficing him not, came nigh, in seeking to double it, to lose it all and himself withal. this man, then, having, after the usance of merchants, laid his plans, bought a great ship and freighting it all of his own monies with divers merchandise, repaired therewith to cyprus. there he found sundry other ships come with the same kind and quality of merchandise as he had brought, by reason of which not only was he constrained to make great good cheap of his own venture, but it behoved him, an he would dispose of his goods, well nigh to throw them away, whereby he was brought near unto ruin. sore chagrined at this mischance and knowing not what to do, seeing himself thus from a very rich man in brief space grown in a manner poor, he determined either to die or repair his losses by pillage, so he might not return thither poor, whence he had departed rich. accordingly, having found a purchaser for his great ship, with the price thereof and that which he had gotten of his wares, he bought a little vessel, light and apt for cruising and arming and garnishing it excellent well with everything needful unto such a service, addressed himself to make his purchase of other men's goods and especially of those of the turks. in this trade fortune was far kinder to him than she had been in that of a merchant, for that, in some year's space, he plundered and took so many turkish vessels that he found he had not only gotten him his own again that he had lost in trade, but had more than doubled his former substance. whereupon, schooled by the chagrin of his former loss and deeming he had enough, he persuaded himself, rather than risk a second mischance, to rest content with that which he had, without seeking more. accordingly he resolved to return therewith to his own country and being fearful of trade, concerned not himself to employ his money otherwise, but, thrusting his oars into the water, set out homeward in that same little vessel wherewith he had gained it. he had already reached the archipelago when there arose one evening a violent south-east wind, which was not only contrary to his course, but raised so great a sea that his little vessel could not endure it; wherefore he took refuge in a bight of the sea, made by a little island, and there abode sheltered from the wind and purposing there to await better weather. he had not lain there long when two great genoese carracks, coming from constantinople, made their way with great difficulty into the little harbour, to avoid that from which himself had fled. the newcomers espied the little ship and hearing that it pertained to landolfo, whom they already knew by report to be very rich, blocked against it the way by which it might depart and addressed themselves, like men by nature rapacious and greedy of gain,[ ] to make prize of it. accordingly, they landed part of their men well harnessed and armed with crossbows and posted them on such wise that none might come down from the bark, an he would not be shot; whilst the rest, warping themselves in with small boats and aided by the current, laid landolfo's little ship aboard and took it out of hand, crew and all, without missing a man. landolfo they carried aboard one of the carracks, leaving him but a sorry doublet; then, taking everything out of the ship, they scuttled her. [footnote : the genoese have the reputation in italy of being thieves by nature.] on the morrow, the wind having shifted, the carracks made sail westward and fared on their voyage prosperously all that day; but towards evening there arose a tempestuous wind which made the waves run mountains high and parted the two carracks one from the other. moreover, from stress of wind it befell that that wherein was the wretched and unfortunate landolfo smote with great violence upon a shoal over against the island of cephalonia and parting amidships, broke all in sunder no otherwise than a glass dashed against a wall. the sea was in a moment all full of bales of merchandise and chests and planks, that floated on the surface, as is wont to happen in such cases, and the poor wretches on board, swimming, those who knew how, albeit it was a very dark night and the sea was exceeding great and swollen, fell to laying hold of such things as came within their reach. among the rest the unfortunate landolfo, albeit many a time that day he had called for death, (choosing rather to die than return home poor as he found himself,) seeing it near at hand, was fearful thereof and like the others, laid hold of a plank that came to his hand, so haply, an he put off drowning awhile, god might send him some means of escape. bestriding this, he kept himself afloat as best he might, driven hither and thither of the sea and the wind, till daylight, when he looked about him and saw nothing but clouds and sea and a chest floating on the waves, which bytimes, to his sore affright, drew nigh unto him, for that he feared lest peradventure it should dash against him on such wise as to do him a mischief; wherefore, as often as it came near him, he put it away from him as best he might with his hand, albeit he had little strength thereof. but presently there issued a sudden flaw of wind out of the air and falling on the sea, smote upon the chest and drove it with such violence against landolfo's plank that the latter was overset and he himself perforce went under water. however, he struck out and rising to the surface, aided more by fear than by strength, saw the plank far removed from him, wherefore, fearing he might be unable to reach it again, he made for the chest, which was pretty near him, and laying himself flat with his breast on the lid thereof, guided it with his arms as best he might.[ ] [footnote : it seems doubtful whether _la reggeva diritta_ should not rather be rendered "kept it upright." boccaccio has a knack, very trying to the translator, of constantly using words in an obscure or strained sense.] on this wise, tossed about by the sea now hither and now thither, without eating, as one indeed who had not the wherewithal, but drinking more than he could have wished, he abode all that day and the ensuing night, unknowing where he was and descrying nought but sea; but, on the following day, whether it was god's pleasure or stress of wind that wrought it, he came, grown well nigh a sponge and clinging fast with both hands to the marges of the chest, even as we see those do who are like to drown, to the coast of the island of corfu, where a poor woman chanced to be scouring her pots and pans and making them bright with sand and salt water. seeing landolfo draw near and discerning in him no [human] shape, she drew back, affrighted and crying out. he could not speak and scarce saw, wherefore he said nothing; but presently, the sea carrying him landward, the woman descried the shape of the chest and looking straitlier, perceived first the arms outspread upon it and then the face and guessed it for that which it was. accordingly, moved with compassion, she entered somedele into the sea, which was now calm, and seizing landolfo by the hair, dragged him ashore, chest and all. there having with difficulty unclasped his hands from the chest, she set the latter on the head of a young daughter of hers, who was with her, and carried him off, as he were a little child, to her hut, where she put him in a bagnio and so chafed and bathed him with warm water that the strayed heat returned to him, together with somewhat of his lost strength. then, taking him up out of the bath, whenas it seemed good to her, she comforted him with somewhat of good wine and confections and tended him some days, as best she might, till he had recovered his strength and knew where he was, when she judged it time to restore him his chest, which she had kept safe for him, and to tell him that he might now prosecute his fortune. landolfo, who had no recollection of the chest, yet took it, when the good woman presented it to him, thinking it could not be so little worth but that it might defray his expenses for some days, but, finding it very light, was sore abated of his hopes. nevertheless, what while his hostess was abroad, he broke it open, to see what it contained, and found therein store of precious stones, both set and unset. he had some knowledge of these matters and seeing them, knew them to be of great value; wherefore he praised god, who had not yet forsaken him, and was altogether comforted. however, as one who had in brief space been twice cruelly baffled by fortune, fearing a third misadventure, he bethought himself that it behoved him use great wariness and he would bring those things home; wherefore, wrapping them, as best he might, in some rags, he told the good woman that he had no more occasion for the chest, but that, an it pleased her, she should give him a bag and take the chest herself. this she willingly did and he, having rendered her the best thanks in his power for the kindness received from her, shouldered his bag and going aboard a bark, passed over to brindisi and thence made his way, along the coast, to trani. here he found certain townsmen of his, who were drapers and clad him for the love of god,[ ] after he had related to them all his adventures, except that of the chest; nay more, they lent him a horse and sent him, under escort, to ravello, whither he said he would fain return. there, deeming himself in safety and thanking god who had conducted him thither, he opened his bag and examining everything more diligently than he had yet done, found he had so many and such stones that, supposing he sold them at a fair price or even less, he was twice as rich again as when he departed thence. then, finding means to dispose of his jewels, he sent a good sum of money to corfu to the good woman who had brought him forth of the sea, in requital of the service received, and the like to trani to those who had reclothed him. the rest he kept for himself and lived in honour and worship to the end of his days, without seeking to trade any more." [footnote : _i.e._ for nothing.] the fifth story [day the second] andreuccio of perugia, coming to naples to buy horses, is in one night overtaken with three grievous accidents, but escapeth them all and returneth home with a ruby "the stones found by landolfo," began fiammetta, to whose turn it came to tell, "have brought to my mind a story scarce less full of perilous scapes than that related by lauretta, but differing therefrom inasmuch as the adventures comprised in the latter befell in the course of belike several years and these of which i have to tell in the space of a single night, as you shall hear. there was once in perugia, as i have heard tell aforetime, a young man, a horse-courser, by name andreuccio di pietro,[ ] who, hearing that horses were good cheap at naples, put five hundred gold florins in his purse and betook himself thither with other merchants, having never before been away from home. he arrived there one sunday evening, towards vespers, and having taken counsel with his host, sallied forth next morning to the market, where he saw great plenty of horses. many of them pleased him and he cheapened one and another, but could not come to an accord concerning any. meanwhile, to show that he was for buying, he now and again, like a raw unwary clown as he was, pulled out the purse of florins he had with him, in the presence of those who came and went. as he was thus engaged, with his purse displayed, it chanced that a sicilian damsel, who was very handsome, but disposed for a small matter to do any man's pleasure, passed near him, without his seeing her, and catching sight of the purse, said straightway in herself, 'who would fare better than i, if yonder money were mine!' and passed on. [footnote : _i.e._ son of pietro, as they still say in lancashire and other northern provinces, "tom o' dick" for "thomas, son of richard," etc.] now there was with her an old woman, likewise a sicilian, who, seeing andreuccio, let her companion pass on and running to him, embraced him affectionately, which when the damsel saw, she stepped aside to wait for her, without saying aught. andreuccio, turning to the old woman and recognizing her, gave her a hearty greeting and she, having promised to visit him at his inn, took leave, without holding overlong parley there, whilst he fell again to chaffering, but bought nothing that morning. the damsel, who had noted first andreuccio's purse and after her old woman's acquaintance with him, began cautiously to enquire of the latter, by way of casting about for a means of coming at the whole or part of the money, who and whence he was and what he did there and how she came to know him. the old woman told her every particular of andreuccio's affairs well nigh as fully as he himself could have done, having long abidden with his father, first in sicily and after at perugia, and acquainted her, to boot, where he lodged and wherefore he was come thither. the damsel, being thus fully informed both of his name and parentage, thereby with subtle craft laid her plans for giving effect to her desire and returning home, set the old woman awork for the rest of the day, so she might not avail to return to andreuccio. then, calling a maid of hers, whom she had right well lessoned unto such offices, she despatched her, towards evensong, to the inn where andreuccio lodged. as chance would have it, she found him alone at the door and enquired at him of himself. he answered that he was the man she sought, whereupon she drew him aside and said to him, 'sir, an it please you, a gentlewoman of this city would fain speak with you.' andreuccio, hearing this, considered himself from head to foot and himseeming he was a handsome varlet of his person, he concluded (as if there were no other well-looking young fellow to be found in naples,) that the lady in question must have fallen in love with him. accordingly, he answered without further deliberation that he was ready and asked the girl when and where the lady would speak with him; whereto she answered, 'sir, whenas it pleaseth you to come, she awaiteth you in her house'; and andreuccio forthwith rejoined, without saying aught to the people of the inn, 'go thou on before; i will come after thee.' thereupon the girl carried him to the house of her mistress, who dwelt in a street called malpertugio,[ ] the very name whereof denoteth how reputable a quarter it is. but he, unknowing neither suspecting aught thereof and thinking to go to most honourable place and to a lady of quality, entered the house without hesitation,--preceded by the serving-maid, who called her mistress and said, 'here is andreuccio,'--and mounting the stair, saw the damsel come to the stairhead to receive him. now she was yet in the prime of youth, tall of person, with a very fair face and very handsomely dressed and adorned. as he drew near her, she came down three steps to meet him with open arms and clasping him round the neck, abode awhile without speaking, as if hindered by excess of tenderness; then kissed him on the forehead, weeping, and said, in a somewhat broken voice, 'o my andreuccio, thou art indeed welcome.' [footnote : _i.e._ ill hole.] he was amazed at such tender caresses and answered, all confounded, 'madam, you are well met.' thereupon, taking him by the hand, she carried him up into her saloon and thence, without saying another word to him, she brought him into her chamber, which was all redolent of roses and orange flowers and other perfumes. here he saw a very fine bed, hung round with curtains, and store of dresses upon the pegs and other very goodly and rich gear, after the usance of those parts; by reason whereof, like a freshman as he was, he firmly believed her to be no less than a great lady. she made him sit with her on a chest that stood at the foot of the bed and bespoke him thus, 'andreuccio, i am very certain thou marvellest at these caresses that i bestow on thee and at my tears, as he may well do who knoweth me not and hath maybe never heard speak of me; but i have that to tell thee which is like to amaze thee yet more, namely, that i am thy sister; and i tell thee that, since god hath vouchsafed me to look upon one of my brothers, (though fain would i see you all,) before my death, henceforth i shall not die disconsolate; and as perchance thou has never heard of this, i will tell it thee. pietro, my father and thine, as i doubt not thou knowest, abode long in palermo and there for his good humour and pleasant composition was and yet is greatly beloved of those who knew him; but, among all his lovers, my mother, who was a lady of gentle birth and then a widow, was she who most affected him, insomuch that, laying aside the fear of her father and brethren, as well as the care of her own honour, she became so private with him that i was born thereof and grew up as thou seest me. presently, having occasion to depart palermo and return to perugia, he left me a little maid with my mother nor ever after, for all that i could hear, remembered him of me or her; whereof, were he not my father, i should blame him sore, having regard to the ingratitude shown by him to my mother (to say nothing of the love it behoved him bear me, as his daughter, born of no serving-wench nor woman of mean extraction) who had, moved by very faithful love, without anywise knowing who he might be, committed into his hands her possessions and herself no less. but what [skilleth it]? things ill done and long time passed are easier blamed than mended; algates, so it was. he left me a little child in palermo, where being grown well nigh as i am now, my mother, who was a rich lady, gave me to wife to a worthy gentleman of girgenti, who, for her love and mine, came to abide at palermo and there, being a great guelph,[ ] he entered into treaty with our king charles,[ ] which, being discovered by king frederick,[ ] ere effect could be given to it, was the occasion of our being enforced to flee from sicily, whenas i looked to be the greatest lady was ever in the island; wherefore, taking such few things as we might (i say few, in respect of the many we had) and leaving our lands and palaces, we took refuge in this city, where we found king charles so mindful of our services that he hath in part made good to us the losses we had sustained for him, bestowing on us both lands and houses, and still maketh my husband, thy kinsman that is, a goodly provision, as thou shalt hereafter see. on this wise come i in this city, where, godamercy and no thanks to thee, sweet my brother, i now behold thee.' so saying, she embraced him over again and kissed him on the forehead, still weeping for tenderness. [footnote : _i.e._ a member of the guelph party, as against the ghibellines or partisans of the pope.] [footnote : charles d'anjou, afterwards king of sicily.] [footnote : _i.e._ frederick ii. of germany.] andreuccio, hearing this fable so orderly, so artfully delivered by the damsel, without ever stammering or faltering for a word, and remembering it to be true that his father had been in palermo, knowing, moreover, by himself the fashions of young men and how lightly they fall in love in their youth and seeing the affectionate tears and embraces and the chaste kisses that she lavished on him, held all she told him for more than true; wherefore, as soon as she was silent, he answered her, saying, 'madam, it should seem to you no very great matter if i marvel, for that in truth, whether it be that my father, for whatsoever reason, never spoke of your mother nor of yourself, or that if he did, it came not to my notice, i had no more knowledge of you than if you had never been, and so much the dearer is it to me to find you my sister here, as i am alone in this city and the less expected this. indeed, i know no man of so high a condition that you should not be dear to him, to say nothing of myself, who am but a petty trader. but i pray you make me clear of one thing; how knew you that i was here?' whereto she made answer, 'a poor woman, who much frequenteth me, gave me this morning to know of thy coming, for that, as she telleth me, she abode long with our father both at palermo and at perugia; and but that meseemed it was a more reputable thing that thou shouldst visit me in my own house than i thee in that of another, i had come to thee this great while agone.' after this, she proceeded to enquire more particularly of all his kinsfolk by name, and he answered her of all, giving the more credence, by reason of this, to that which it the less behoved him to believe. the talk being long and the heat great, she called for greek wine and confections and let give andreuccio to drink, after which he would have taken leave, for that it was supper-time; but she would on no wise suffer it and making a show of being sore vexed, embraced him and said, 'ah, woe is me! i see but too clearly how little dear i am to thee! who would believe that thou couldst be with a sister of thine, whom thou hast never yet seen and in whose house thou shouldst have lighted down, whenas thou earnest hither, and offer to leave her, to go sup at the inn? indeed, thou shalt sup with me, and albeit my husband is abroad, which grieveth me mightily, i shall know well how to do thee some little honour, such as a woman may.' to which andreuccio, unknowing what else he should say, answered, 'i hold you as dear as a sister should be held; but, an i go not, i shall be expected to supper all the evening and shall do an unmannerliness.' 'praised be god!' cried she. 'one would think i had no one in the house to send to tell them not to expect thee; albeit thou wouldst do much greater courtesy and indeed but thy duty an thou sentest to bid thy companions come hither to supper; and after, am thou must e'en begone, you might all go away together.' andreuccio replied that he had no desire for his companions that evening; but that, since it was agreeable to her, she might do her pleasure of him. accordingly, she made a show of sending to the inn to say that he was not to be expected to supper, and after much other discourse, they sat down to supper and were sumptuously served with various meats, whilst she adroitly contrived to prolong the repast till it was dark night. then, when they rose from table and andreuccio would have taken his leave, she declared that she would on no wise suffer this, for that naples was no place to go about in by night especially for a stranger, and that, whenas she sent to the inn to say that he was not to be expected to supper, she had at the same time given notice that he would lie abroad. andreuccio, believing this and taking pleasure in being with her, beguiled as he was by false credence, abode where he was, and after supper they held much and long discourse, not without reason,[ ] till a part of the night was past, when she withdrew with her women into another room, leaving andreuccio in her own chamber, with a little lad to wait upon him, if he should lack aught. [footnote : the reason was that she wished to keep him in play till late into the night, when all the folk should be asleep and she might the lightlier deal with him.] the heat being great, andreuccio, as soon as he found himself alone, stripped to his doublet and putting off his hosen, laid them at the bedhead; after which, natural use soliciting him to rid himself of the overmuch burden of his stomach, he asked the boy where this might be done, who showed him a door in one corner of the room and said, 'go in there.' accordingly he opened the door and passing through in all assurance, chanced to set foot on a plank, which, being broken loose from the joist at the opposite end, [flew up] and down they went, plank and man together. god so favoured him that he did himself no hurt in the fall, albeit he fell from some height; but he was all bemired with the ordure whereof the place was full; and in order that you may the better apprehend both that which hath been said and that which ensueth, i will show you how the place lay. there were in a narrow alley, such as we often see between two houses, a pair of rafters laid from one house to another, and thereon sundry boards nailed and the place of session set up; of which boards that which gave way with andreuccio was one. finding himself, then, at the bottom of the alley and sore chagrined at the mishap, he fell a-bawling for the boy; but the latter, as soon as he heard him fall, had run to tell his mistress, who hastened to his chamber and searching hurriedly if his clothes were there, found them and with them the money, which, in his mistrust, he still foolishly carried about him. having now gotten that for which, feigning herself of palermo and sister to a perugian, she had set her snare, she took no more reck of him, but hastened to shut the door whereby he had gone out when he fell. andreuccio, getting no answer from the boy, proceeded to call loudlier, but to no purpose; whereupon, his suspicions being now aroused, he began too late to smoke the cheat. accordingly, he scrambled over a low wall that shut off the alley from the street, and letting himself down into the road, went up to the door of the house, which he knew very well, and there called long and loud and shook and beat upon it amain, but all in vain. wherefore, bewailing himself, as one who was now fully aware of his mischance, 'ah, woe is me!' cried he. 'in how little time have i lost five hundred florins and a sister!' then, after many other words, he fell again to battering the door and crying out and this he did so long and so lustily that many of the neighbours, being awakened and unable to brook the annoy, arose and one of the courtezan's waiting-women, coming to the window, apparently all sleepy-eyed, said peevishly, 'who knocketh below there?' 'what?' cried andreuccio. 'dost thou not know me? i am andreuccio, brother to madam fiordaliso.' whereto quoth she, 'good man, an thou have drunken overmuch, go sleep and come back to-morrow morning. i know no andreuccio nor what be these idle tales thou tellest. begone in peace and let us sleep, so it please thee.' 'how?' replied andreuccio. 'thou knowest not what i mean? certes, thou knowest; but, if sicilian kinships be of such a fashion that they are forgotten in so short a time, at least give me back my clothes and i will begone with all my heart.' 'good man,' rejoined she, as if laughing, 'methinketh thou dreamest'; and to say this and to draw in her head and shut the window were one and the same thing. whereat andreuccio, now fully certified of his loss, was like for chagrin to turn his exceeding anger into madness and bethought himself to seek to recover by violence that which he might not have again with words; wherefore, taking up a great stone, he began anew to batter the door more furiously than ever. at this many of the neighbours, who had already been awakened and had arisen, deeming him some pestilent fellow who had trumped up this story to spite the woman of the house and provoked at the knocking he kept up, came to the windows and began to say, no otherwise than as all the dogs of a quarter bark after a strange dog, ''tis a villainous shame to come at this hour to decent women's houses and tell these cock-and-bull stories. for god's sake, good man, please you begone in peace and let us sleep. an thou have aught to mell with her, come back to-morrow and spare us this annoy to-night.' taking assurance, perchance, by these words, there came to the window one who was within the house, a bully of the gentlewoman's, whom andreuccio had as yet neither heard nor seen, and said, in a terrible big rough voice, 'who is below there?' andreuccio, hearing this, raised his eyes and saw at the window one who, by what little he could make out, himseemed should be a very masterful fellow, with a bushy black beard on his face, and who yawned and rubbed his eyes, as he had arisen from bed or deep sleep; whereupon, not without fear, he answered, 'i am a brother of the lady of the house.' the other waited not for him to make an end of his reply, but said, more fiercely than before, 'i know not what hindereth me from coming down and cudgelling thee what while i see thee stir, for a pestilent drunken ass as thou must be, who will not let us sleep this night.' then, drawing back into the house, he shut the window; whereupon certain of the neighbours, who were better acquainted with the fellow's quality, said softly to andreuccio, 'for god's sake, good man, begone in peace and abide not there to-night to be slain; get thee gone for thine own good.' andreuccio, terrified at the fellow's voice and aspect and moved by the exhortations of the neighbours, who seemed to him to speak out of charity, set out to return to his inn, in the direction of the quarter whence he had followed the maid, without knowing whither to go, despairing of his money and woebegone as ever man was. being loathsome to himself, for the stench that came from him, and thinking to repair to the sea to wash himself, he turned to the left and followed a street called ruga catalana,[ ] that led towards the upper part of the city. presently, he espied two men coming towards him with a lantern and fearing they might be officers of the watch or other ill-disposed folk, he stealthily took refuge, to avoid them, in a hovel, that he saw hard by. but they, as of malice aforethought, made straight for the same place and entering in, began to examine certain irons which one of them laid from off his shoulder, discoursing various things thereof the while. [footnote : _i.e._ catalan street.] presently, 'what meaneth this?' quoth one. 'i smell the worst stench meseemeth i ever smelt.' so saying, he raised the lantern and seeing the wretched andreuccio, enquired, in amazement. 'who is there?' andreuccio made no answer, but they came up to him with the light and asked him what he did there in such a pickle; whereupon he related to them all that had befallen him, and they, conceiving where this might have happened, said, one to the other, 'verily, this must have been in the house of scarabone buttafuocco.' then, turning to him, 'good man,' quoth one, 'albeit thou hast lost thy money, thou hast much reason to praise god that this mischance betided thee, so that thou fellest nor couldst after avail to enter the house again; for, hadst thou not fallen, thou mayst be assured that, when once thou wast fallen asleep, thou hadst been knocked on the head and hadst lost thy life as well as thy money. but what booteth it now to repine? thou mayst as well look to have the stars out of the sky as to recover a farthing of thy money; nay, thou art like to be murdered, should yonder fellow hear that thou makest any words thereof.' then they consulted together awhile and presently said to him, 'look you, we are moved to pity for thee; wherefore, an thou wilt join with us in somewhat we go about to do, it seemeth to us certain that there will fall to thee for thy share much more than the value of that which thou hast lost.' whereupon andreuccio, in his desperation, answered that he was ready. now there had been that day buried an archbishop of naples, by name messer filippo minutolo, and he had been interred in his richest ornaments and with a ruby on his finger worth more than five hundred florins of gold. him they were minded to despoil and this their intent they discovered to andreuccio, who, more covetous than well-advised, set out with them for the cathedral. as they went, andreuccio still stinking amain, one of the thieves said, 'can we not find means for this fellow to wash himself a little, be it where it may, so he may not stink so terribly?' 'ay can we,' answered the other. 'we are here near a well, where there useth to be a rope and pulley and a great bucket; let us go thither and we will wash him in a trice.' accordingly they made for the well in question and found the rope there, but the bucket had been taken away; wherefore they took counsel together to tie him to the rope and let him down into the well, so he might wash himself there, charging him shake the rope as soon as he was clean, and they would pull him up. hardly had they let him down when, as chance would have it, certain of the watch, being athirst for the heat and with running after some rogue or another, came to the well to drink, and the two rogues, setting eyes on them, made off incontinent, before the officers saw them. presently, andreuccio, having washed himself at the bottom of the well, shook the rope, and the thirsty officers, laying by their targets and arms and surcoats, began to haul upon the rope, thinking the bucket full of water at the other end. as soon as andreuccio found himself near the top, he let go the rope and laid hold of the marge with both hands; which when the officers saw, overcome with sudden affright, they dropped the rope, without saying a word, and took to their heels as quickliest they might. at this andreuccio marvelled sore, and but that he had fast hold of the marge, would have fallen to the bottom, to his no little hurt or maybe death. however, he made his way out and finding the arms, which he knew were none of his companions' bringing, he was yet more amazed; but, knowing not what to make of it and misdoubting [some snare], he determined to begone without touching aught and accordingly made off he knew not whither, bewailing his ill-luck. as he went, he met his two comrades, who came to draw him forth of the well; and when they saw him, they marvelled exceedingly and asked him who had drawn him up. andreuccio replied that he knew not and told them orderly how it had happened and what he had found by the wellside, whereupon the others, perceiving how the case stood, told him, laughing, why they had fled and who these were that had pulled him up. then, without farther parley, it being now middle night, they repaired to the cathedral and making their way thereinto lightly enough, went straight to the archbishop's tomb, which was of marble and very large. with their irons they raised the lid, which was very heavy, and propped it up so as a man might enter; which being done, quoth one, 'who shall go in?' 'not i,' answered the other. 'nor i,' rejoined his fellow; 'let andreuccio enter.' 'that will i not,' said the latter; whereupon the two rogues turned upon him and said, 'how! thou wilt not? cock's faith, an thou enter not, we will clout thee over the costard with one of these iron bars till thou fall dead.' andreuccio, affrighted, crept into the tomb, saying in himself the while, 'these fellows will have me go in here so they may cheat me, for that, when i shall have given them everything, they will begone about their business, whilst i am labouring to win out of the tomb, and i shall abide empty-handed.' accordingly, he determined to make sure of his share beforehand; wherefore, as soon as he came to the bottom, calling to mind the precious ring whereof he had heard them speak, he drew it from the archbishop's finger and set it on his own. then he passed them the crozier and mitre and gloves and stripping the dead man to his shirt, gave them everything, saying that there was nothing more. the others declared that the ring must be there and bade him seek everywhere; but he replied that he found it not and making a show of seeking it, kept them in play awhile. at last, the two rogues, who were no less wily than himself, bidding him seek well the while, took occasion to pull away the prop that held up the lid and made off, leaving him shut in the tomb. what became of andreuccio, when he found himself in this plight, you may all imagine for yourselves. he strove again and again to heave up the lid with his head and shoulders, but only wearied himself in vain; wherefore, overcome with chagrin and despair, he fell down in a swoon upon the archbishop's dead body; and whoso saw him there had hardly known which was the deader, the prelate or he. presently, coming to himself, he fell into a passion of weeping, seeing he must there without fail come to one of two ends, to wit, either he must, if none came thither to open the tomb again, die of hunger and stench, among the worms of the dead body, or, if any came and found him there, he would certainly be hanged for a thief. as he abode in this mind, exceeding woebegone, he heard folk stirring in the church and many persons speaking and presently perceived that they came to do that which he and his comrades had already done; whereat fear redoubled upon him. but, after the newcomers had forced open the tomb and propped up the lid, they fell into dispute of who should go in, and none was willing to do it. however, after long parley, a priest said, 'what fear ye? think you he will eat you? the dead eat not men. i will go in myself.' so saying, he set his breast to the marge of the tomb and turning his head outward, put in his legs, thinking to let himself drop. andreuccio, seeing this, started up and catching the priest by one of his legs, made a show of offering to pull him down into the tomb. the other, feeling this, gave a terrible screech and flung precipitately out of the tomb; whereupon all the others fled in terror, as they were pursued by an hundred thousand devils, leaving the tomb open. andreuccio, seeing this, scrambled hastily out of the tomb, rejoiced beyond all hope, and made off out of the church by the way he had entered in. the day now drawing near, he fared on at a venture, with the ring on his finger, till he came to the sea-shore and thence made his way back to his inn, where he found his comrades and the host, who had been in concern for him all that night. he told them what had betided him and themseemed, by the host's counsel, that he were best depart naples incontinent. accordingly, he set out forthright and returned to perugia, having invested his money in a ring, whereas he came to buy horses." the sixth story [day the second] madam beritola, having lost her two sons, is found on a desert island with two kids and goeth thence into lunigiana, where one of her sons, taking service with the lord of the country, lieth with his daughter and is cast into prison. sicily after rebelling against king charles and the youth being recognized by his mother, he espouseth his lord's daughter, and his brother being likewise found, they are all three restored to high estate ladies and young men alike laughed heartily at andreuccio's adventures, as related by fiammetta, and emilia, seeing the story ended, began, by the queen's commandment, to speak thus: "grievous things and woeful are the various shifts of fortune, whereof,--for that, whenassoever it is discoursed of them, it is an awakenment for our minds, which lightly fall asleep under her blandishments,--methinketh it should never be irksome either to the happy or the unhappy to hear tell, inasmuch as it rendereth the former wary and consoleth the latter. wherefore, albeit great things have already been recounted upon this subject, i purpose to tell you thereanent a story no less true than pitiful, whereof, for all it had a joyful ending, so great and so longsome was the bitterness that i can scarce believe it to have been assuaged by any subsequent gladness. you must know, dearest ladies, that, after the death of the emperor frederick the second, manfred was crowned king of sicily, in very high estate with whom was a gentleman of naples called arrighetto capece, who had to wife a fair and noble lady, also of naples, by name madam beritola caracciola. the said arrighetto, who had the governance of the island in his hands, hearing that king charles the first[ ] had overcome and slain manfred at benevento and that all the realm had revolted to him and having scant assurance of the short-lived fidelity of the sicilians, prepared for flight, misliking to become a subject of his lord's enemy; but, his intent being known of the sicilians, he and many other friends and servants of king manfred were suddenly made prisoners and delivered to king charles, together with possession of the island. [footnote : charles d'anjou.] madam beritola, in this grievous change of affairs, knowing not what was come of arrighetto and sore adread of that which had befallen, abandoned all her possessions for fear of shame and poor and pregnant as she was, embarked, with a son of hers and maybe eight years of age, giusfredi by name, in a little boat and fled to lipari, where she gave birth to another male child, whom she named scacciato,[ ] and getting her a nurse, took ship with all three to return to her kinsfolk at naples. but it befell otherwise than as she purposed; for that the ship, which should have gone to naples, was carried by stress of wind to the island of ponza,[ ] where they entered a little bight of the sea and there awaited an occasion for continuing their voyage. madam beritola, going up, like the rest, into the island and finding a remote and solitary place, addressed herself to make moan for her arrighetto, all alone there. [footnote : _i.e._ the banished or the expelled one.] [footnote : an island in the gulf of gaeta, about miles from naples. it is now inhabited, but appears in boccaccio's time to have been desert.] this being her daily usance, it chanced one day that, as she was occupied in bewailing herself, there came up a pirate galley, unobserved of any, sailor or other, and taking them all at unawares, made off with her prize. madam beritola, having made an end of her diurnal lamentation, returned to the sea-shore, as she was used to do, to visit her children, but found none there; whereat she first marvelled and after, suddenly misdoubting her of that which had happened, cast her eyes out to sea and saw the galley at no great distance, towing the little ship after it; whereby she knew but too well that she had lost her children, as well as her husband, and seeing herself there poor and desolate and forsaken, unknowing where she should ever again find any of them, she fell down aswoon upon the strand, calling upon her husband and her children. there was none there to recall her distracted spirits with cold water or other remedy, wherefore they might at their leisure go wandering whither it pleased them; but, after awhile, the lost senses returning to her wretched body, in company with tears and lamentations, she called long upon her children and went a great while seeking them in every cavern. at last, finding all her labour in vain and seeing the night coming on, she began, hoping and knowing not what, to be careful for herself and departing the sea-shore, returned to the cavern where she was wont to weep and bemoan herself. she passed the night in great fear and inexpressible dolour and the new day being come and the hour of tierce past, she was fain, constrained by hunger, for that she had not supped overnight, to browse upon herbs; and having fed as best she might, she gave herself, weeping, to various thoughts of her future life. pondering thus, she saw a she-goat enter a cavern hard by and presently issue thence and betake herself into the wood; whereupon she arose and entering whereas the goat had come forth, found there two little kidlings, born belike that same day, which seemed to her the quaintest and prettiest things in the world. her milk being yet undried from her recent delivery, she tenderly took up the kids and set them to her breast. they refused not the service, but sucked her as if she had been their dam and thenceforth made no distinction between the one and the other. wherefore, herseeming she had found some company in that desert place, and growing no less familiar with the old goat than with her little ones, she resigned herself to live and die there and abode eating of herbs and drinking water and weeping as often as she remembered her of her husband and children and of her past life. the gentle lady, thus grown a wild creature, abiding on this wise, it befell, after some months, that there came on like wise to the place whither she had aforetime been driven by stress of weather, a little vessel from pisa and there abode some days. on broad this bark was a gentleman named currado [of the family] of the marquises of malespina, who, with his wife, a lady of worth and piety, was on his return home from a pilgrimage to all the holy places that be in the kingdom of apulia. to pass away the time, currado set out one day, with his lady and certain of his servants and his dogs, to go about the island, and not far from madam beritola's place of harbourage, the dogs started the two kids, which were now grown pretty big, as they went grazing. the latter, chased by the dogs, fled to no other place but into the cavern where was madam beritola, who, seeing this, started to her feet and catching up a staff, beat off the dogs. currado and his wife, who came after them, seeing the lady, who was grown swart and lean and hairy, marvelled, and she yet more at them. but after currado had, at her instance, called off his dogs, they prevailed with her, by dint of much entreaty, to tell them who she was and what she did there; whereupon she fully discovered to them her whole condition and all that had befallen her, together with her firm resolution [to abide alone in the island]. currado, who had know arrighetto capece very well, hearing this, wept for pity, and did his utmost to divert her with words from so barbarous a purpose, offering to carry her back to her own house or to keep her with himself, holding her in such honour as his sister, until god should send her happier fortune. the lady not yielding to these proffers, currado left his wife with her, bidding the latter cause bring thither to eat and clothe the lady, who was all in rags, with some of her own apparel, and charging her contrive, by whatsoever means, to bring her away with her. accordingly, the gentle lady, being left with madam beritola, after condoling with her amain of her misfortunes, sent for raiment and victual and prevailed on her, with all the pains in the world, to don the one and eat the other. ultimately, after many prayers, madam beritola protesting that she would never consent to go whereas she might be known, she persuaded her to go with her into lunigiana, together with the two kids and their dam, which latter were meantime returned and had greeted her with the utmost fondness, to the no small wonderment of the gentlewoman. accordingly, as soon as fair weather was come, madam beritola embarked with currado and his lady in their vessel, carrying with her the two kids and the she-goat (on whose account, her name being everywhere unknown, she was styled cavriuola[ ]) and setting sail with a fair wind, came speedily to the mouth of the magra,[ ] where they landed and went up to currado's castle. there madam beritola abode, in a widow's habit, about the person of currado's lady, as one of her waiting-women, humble, modest and obedient, still cherishing her kids and letting nourish them. [footnote : _i.e._ wild she-goat.] [footnote : a river falling into the gulf of genoa between carrara and spezzia.] meanwhile, the corsairs, who had taken the ship wherein madam beritola came to ponza, but had left herself, as being unseen of them, betook themselves with all the other folk to genoa, where, the booty coming to be shared among the owners of the galley, it chanced that the nurse and the two children fell, amongst other things, to the lot of a certain messer guasparrino d'oria,[ ] who sent them all three to his mansion, to be there employed as slaves about the service of the house. the nurse, afflicted beyond measure at the loss of her mistress and at the wretched condition where into she found herself and the two children fallen, wept long and sore; but, for that, albeit a poor woman, she was discreet and well-advised, when she saw that tears availed nothing and that she was become a slave together with them, she first comforted herself as best she might and after, considering whither they were come, she bethought herself that, should the two children be known, they might lightly chance to suffer hindrance; wherefore, hoping withal that, sooner or later fortune might change and they, an they lived, regain their lost estate, she resolved to discover to no one who they were, until she should see occasion therefor, and told all who asked her thereof that they were her sons. the elder she named, not giusfredi, but giannotto di procida (the name of the younger she cared not to change), and explained to him, with the utmost diligence, why she had changed his name, showing him in what peril he might be, an he were known. this she set out to him not once, but many and many a time, and the boy, who was quick of wit, punctually obeyed the enjoinment of his discreet nurse. [footnote : more familiar to modern ears as doria.] accordingly, the two boys and their nurse abode patiently in messer guasparrino's house several years, ill-clad and worse shod and employed about the meanest offices. but giannotto, who was now sixteen years of age, and had more spirit than pertained to a slave, scorning the baseness of a menial condition, embarked on board certain galleys bound for alexandria and taking leave of messer guasparrino's service, journeyed to divers parts, without any wise availing to advance himself. at last some three or four years after his departure from genoa, being grown a handsome youth and tall of his person and hearing that his father, whom he thought dead, was yet alive, but was kept by king charles in prison and duresse, he went wandering at a venture, well nigh despairing of fortune, till he came to lunigiana and there, as chance would have it, took service with currado malespina, whom he served with great aptitude and acceptance. and albeit he now and again saw his mother, who was with currado's lady, he never recognized her nor she him, so much had time changed the one and the other from that which they were used to be, whenas they last set eyes on each other. giannotto being, then, in currado's service, it befell that a daughter of the latter, by name spina, being left the widow of one niccolo da grignano, returned to her father's house and being very fair and agreeable and a girl of little more than sixteen years of age, chanced to cast eyes on giannotto and he on her, and they became passionately enamoured of each other. their love was not long without effect and lasted several months ere any was ware thereof. wherefore, taking overmuch assurance, they began to order themselves with less discretion than behoveth unto matters of this kind, and one day, as they went, the young lady and giannotto together, through a fair and thickset wood, they pushed on among the trees, leaving the rest of the company behind. presently, themseeming they had far foregone the others, they laid themselves down to rest in a pleasant place, full of grass and flowers and shut in with trees, and there fell to taking amorous delight one of the other. in this occupation, the greatness of their delight making the time seem brief to them, albeit they had been there a great while, they were surprised, first by the girl's mother and after by currado, who, chagrined beyond measure at this sight, without saying aught of the cause, had them both seized by three of his serving-men and carried in bonds to a castle of his and went off, boiling with rage and despite and resolved to put them both to a shameful death. the girl's mother, although sore incensed and holding her daughter worthy of the severest punishment for her default, having by certain words of currado apprehended his intent towards the culprits and unable to brook this, hastened after her enraged husband and began to beseech him that it would please him not run madly to make himself in his old age the murderer of his own daughter and to soil his hands with the blood of one of his servants, but to find other means of satisfying his wrath, such as to clap them in prison and there let them pine and bewail the fault committed. with these and many other words the pious lady so wrought upon him that she turned his mind from putting them to death and he bade imprison them, each in a place apart, where they should be well guarded and kept with scant victual and much unease, till such time as he should determine farther of them. as he bade, so was it done, and what their life was in duresse and continual tears and in fasts longer than might have behoved unto them, each may picture to himself. what while giannotto and spina abode in this doleful case and had therein already abidden a year's space, unremembered of currado, it came to pass that king pedro of arragon, by the procurement of messer gian di procida, raised the island of sicily against king charles and took it from him, whereat currado, being a ghibelline,[ ] rejoiced exceedingly, giannotto, hearing of this from one of those who had him in guard, heaved a great sigh and said, 'ah, woe is me! these fourteen years have i gone ranging beggarlike about the world, looking for nought other than this, which, now that it is come, so i may never again hope for weal, hath found me in a prison whence i have no hope ever to come forth, save dead.' 'how so?' asked the gaoler. 'what doth that concern thee which great kings do to one another? what hast thou to do in sicily?' quoth giannotto, 'my heart is like to burst when i remember me of that which my father erst had to do there, whom, albeit i was but a little child, when i fled thence, yet do i mind me to have been lord thereof, in the lifetime of king manfred.' 'and who was thy father?' asked the gaoler. 'my father's name,' answered giannotto, 'i may now safely make known, since i find myself in the peril whereof i was in fear, an i discovered it. he was and is yet, an he live, called arrighetto capece, and my name is, not giannotto, but giusfredi, and i doubt not a jot, an i were quit of this prison, but i might yet, by returning to sicily, have very high place there.' [footnote : the ghibellines were the supporters of the papal faction against the guelphs or adherents of the emperor frederick ii. of germany. the cardinal struggle between the two factions took place over the succession to the throne of naples and sicily, to which the pope appointed charles of anjou, who overcame and killed the reigning sovereign manfred, but was himself, through the machinations of the ghibellines, expelled from sicily by the celebrated popular rising known as the sicilian vespers.] the honest man, without asking farther, reported giannotto's words, as first he had occasion, to currado, who, hearing this,--albeit he feigned to the gaoler to make light of it,--betook himself to madam beritola and courteously asked her if she had had by arrighetto a son named giusfredi. the lady answered, weeping, that, if the elder of her two sons were alive, he would so be called and would be two-and-twenty years old. currado, hearing this, concluded that this must be he and bethought himself that, were it so, he might at once do a great mercy and take away his own and his daughter's shame by giving her to giannotto to wife; wherefore, sending privily for the latter, he particularly examined him touching all his past life and finding, by very manifest tokens, that he was indeed giusfredi, son of arrighetto capece, he said to him, 'giannotto, thou knowest what and how great is the wrong thou hast done me in the person of my daughter, whereas, i having ever well and friendly entreated thee, it behoved thee, as a servant should, still to study and do for my honour and interest; and many there be who, hadst thou used them like as thou hast used me, would have put thee to a shameful death, the which my clemency brooked not. now, if it be as thou tellest me, to wit, that thou art the son of a man of condition and of a noble lady, i purpose, an thou thyself be willing, to put an end to thy tribulations and relieving thee from the misery and duresse wherein thou abidest, to reinstate at once thine honour and mine own in their due stead. as thou knowest, spina, whom thou hast, though after a fashion misbeseeming both thyself and her, taken with love-liking, is a widow and her dowry is both great and good; as for her manners and her father and mother, thou knowest them, and of thy present state i say nothing. wherefore, an thou will, i purpose that, whereas she hath unlawfully been thy mistress, she shall now lawfully become thy wife and that thou shalt abide here with me and with her, as my very son, so long as it shall please thee.' now prison had mortified giannotto's flesh, but had nothing abated the generous spirit, which he derived from his noble birth, nor yet the entire affection he bore his mistress; and albeit he ardently desired that which currado proffered him and saw himself in the latter's power, yet no whit did he dissemble of that which the greatness of his soul prompted him to say; wherefore he answered, 'currado, neither lust of lordship nor greed of gain nor other cause whatever hath ever made me lay snares, traitor-wise, for thy life or thy good. i loved and love thy daughter and still shall love her, for that i hold her worthy of my love, and if i dealt with her less than honourably, in the opinion of the vulgar, my sin was one which still goeth hand in hand with youth and which an you would do away, it behoveth you first do away with youth. moreover, it is an offence which, would the old but remember them of having been young and measure the defaults of others by their own and their own by those of others, would show less grievous than thou and many others make it; and as a friend, and not as an enemy, i committed it. this that thou profferest me i have still desired and had i thought it should be vouchsafed me, i had long since sought it; and so much the dearer will it now be to me, as my hope thereof was less. if, then, thou have not that intent which thy words denote, feed me not with vain hope; but restore me to prison and there torment me as thou wilt, for, so long as i love spina, even so, for the love of her, shall i still love thee, whatsoever thou dost with me, and have thee in reverence.' currado, hearing this, marvelled and held him great of soul and his love fervent and tendered him therefore the dearer; wherefore, rising to his feet, he embraced him and kissed him and without more delay bade privily bring spina thither. accordingly, the lady--who was grown lean and pale and weakly in prison and showed well nigh another than she was wont to be, as on like wise giannotto another man--being come, the two lovers in currado's presence with one consent contracted marriage according to our usance. then, after some days, during which he had let furnish the newly-married pair with all that was necessary or agreeable to them, he deemed it time to gladden their mothers with the good news and accordingly calling his lady and cavriuola, he said to the latter, 'what would you say, madam, an i should cause you have again your elder son as the husband of one of my daughters?' whereto she answered, 'of that i can say to you no otherwhat than that, could i be more beholden to you than i am, i should be so much the more so as you would have restored to me that which is dearer to me than mine own self; and restoring it to me on such wise as you say, you would in some measure re-awaken in me my lost hope.' with this, she held her peace, weeping, and currado said to his lady, 'and thou, mistress, how wouldst thou take it, were i to present thee with such a son-in-law?' the lady replied, 'even a common churl, so he pleased you, would please me, let alone one of these,[ ] who are men of gentle birth.' 'then,' said currado, 'i hope, ere many days, to make you happy women in this.' [footnote : _i.e._ beritola's sons.] accordingly, seeing the two young folk now restored to their former cheer, he clad them sumptuously and said to giusfredi, 'were it not dear to thee, over and above thy present joyance, an thou sawest thy mother here?' whereto he answered, 'i dare not flatter myself that the chagrin of her unhappy chances can have left her so long alive; but, were it indeed so, it were dear to me above all, more by token that methinketh i might yet, by her counsel, avail to recover great part of my estate in sicily.' thereupon currado sent for both the ladies, who came and made much of the newly-wedded wife, no little wondering what happy inspiration it could have been that prompted currado to such exceeding complaisance as he had shown in joining giannotto with her in marriage. madam beritola, by reason of the words she had heard from currado, began to consider giannotto and some remembrance of the boyish lineaments of her son's countenance being by occult virtue awakened in her, without awaiting farther explanation, she ran, open-armed, to cast herself upon his neck, nor did overabounding emotion and maternal joy suffer her to say a word; nay, they so locked up all her senses that she fell into her son's arms, as if dead. the latter, albeit he was sore amazed, remembering to have many times before seen her in that same castle and never recognized her, nevertheless knew incontinent the maternal odour and blaming himself for his past heedlessness, received her, weeping, in his arms and kissed her tenderly. after awhile, madam beritola, being affectionately tended by currado's lady and spina and plied both with cold water and other remedies, recalled her strayed senses and embracing her son anew, full of maternal tenderness, with many tears and many tender words, kissed him a thousand times, whilst he all reverently beheld and entreated her. after these joyful and honourable greetings had been thrice or four times repeated, to the no small contentment of the bystanders, and they had related unto each other all that had befallen them, currado now, to the exceeding satisfaction of all, signified to his friends the new alliance made by him and gave ordinance for a goodly and magnificent entertainment. then said giusfredi to him, 'currado, you have made me glad of many things and have long honourably entertained my mother; and now, that no whit may remain undone of that which it is in your power to do, i pray you gladden my mother and bride-feast and myself with the presence of my brother, whom messer guasparrino d'oria holdeth in servitude in his house and whom, as i have already told you, he took with me in one of his cruises. moreover, i would have you send into sicily one who shall thoroughly inform himself of the state and condition of the country and study to learn what is come of arrighetto, my father, an he be alive or dead, and if he be alive, in what estate; of all which having fully certified himself, let him return to us.' giusfredi's request was pleasing to currado, and without any delay he despatched very discreet persons both to genoa and to sicily. he who went to genoa there sought out messer guasparrino and instantly besought him, on currado's part, to send him scacciato and his nurse, orderly recounting to him all his lord's dealings with giusfredi and his mother. messer guasparrino marvelled exceedingly to hear this and said, 'true is it i would do all i may to pleasure currado, and i have, indeed, these fourteen years had in my house the boy thou seekest and one his mother, both of whom i will gladly send him; but do thou bid him, on my part, beware of lending overmuch credence to the fables of giannotto, who nowadays styleth himself giusfredi, for that he is a far greater knave than he deemeth.' so saying, he caused honourably entertain the gentleman and sending privily for the nurse, questioned her shrewdly touching the matter. now she had heard of the sicilian revolt and understood arrighetto to be alive, wherefore, casting off her former fears, she told him everything in order and showed him the reasons that had moved her to do as she had done. messer guasparrino, finding her tale to accord perfectly with that of currado's messenger, began to give credit to the latter's words and having by one means and another, like a very astute man as he was, made enquiry of the matter and happening hourly upon things that gave him more and more assurance of the fact, took shame to himself of his mean usage of the lad, in amends whereof, knowing what arrighetto had been and was, he gave him to wife a fair young daughter of his, eleven years of age, with a great dowry. then, after making a great bride-feast thereon, he embarked with the boy and girl and currado's messenger and the nurse in a well-armed galliot and betook himself to lerici, where he was received by currado and went up, with all his company, to one of the latter's castles, not far removed thence, where there was a great banquet toward. the mother's joy at seeing her son again and that of the two brothers in each other and of all three in the faithful nurse, the honour done of all to messer guasparrino and his daughter and of him to all and the rejoicing of all together with currado and his lady and children and friends, no words might avail to express; wherefore, ladies, i leave it to you to imagine. thereunto,[ ] that it might be complete, it pleased god the most high, a most abundant giver, whenas he beginneth, to add the glad news of the life and well-being of arrighetto capece; for that, the feast being at its height and the guests, both ladies and men, yet at table for the first service, there came he who had been sent into sicily and amongst other things, reported of arrighetto that he, being kept in captivity by king charles, whenas the revolt against the latter broke out in the land, the folk ran in a fury to the prison and slaying his guards, delivered himself and as a capital enemy of king charles, made him their captain and followed him to expel and slay the french: wherefore he was become in especial favour with king pedro,[ ] who had reinstated him in all his honours and possessions, and was now in great good case. the messenger added that he had received himself with the utmost honour and had rejoiced with inexpressible joy in the recovery of his wife and son, of whom he had heard nothing since his capture; moreover, he had sent a brigantine for them, with divers gentlemen aboard, who came after him. [footnote : _i.e._ to which general joy.] [footnote : pedro of arragon, son-in-law of manfred, who, in consequence of the sicilian vespers, succeeded charles d'anjou as king of sicily.] the messenger was received and hearkened with great gladness and rejoicing, whilst currado, with certain of his friends, set out incontinent to meet the gentlemen who came for madam beritola and giusfredi and welcoming them joyously, introduced them into his banquet, which was not yet half ended. there both the lady and giusfredi, no less than all the others, beheld them with such joyance that never was heard the like; and the gentlemen, ere they sat down to meat, saluted currado and his lady on the part of arrighetto, thanking them, as best they knew and might, for the honour done both to his wife and his son and offering himself to their pleasure,[ ] in all that lay in his power. then, turning to messer guasparrino, whose kindness was unlooked for, they avouched themselves most certain that, whenas that which he had done for scacciato should be known of arrighetto, the like thanks and yet greater would be rendered him. [footnote : or (in modern phrase) putting himself at their disposition.] thereafter they banqueted right joyously with the new-made bridegrooms at the bride-feast of the two newly-wedded wives; nor that day alone did currado entertain his son-in-law and other his kinsmen and friends, but many others. as soon as the rejoicings were somewhat abated, it appearing to madam beritola and to giusfredi and the others that it was time to depart, they took leave with many tears of currado and his lady and messer guasparrino and embarked on board the brigantine, carrying spina with them; then, setting sail with a fair wind, they came speedily to sicily, where all alike, both sons and daughters-in-law, were received by arrighetto in palermo with such rejoicing as might never be told; and there it is believed that they all lived happily a great while after, in love and thankfulness to god the most high, as mindful of the benefits received." the seventh story [day the second] the soldan of babylon sendeth a daughter of his to be married to the king of algarve, and she, by divers chances, in the space of four years cometh to the hands of nine men in various places. ultimately, being restored to her father for a maid, she goeth to the king of algarve to wife, as first she did had emilia's story been much longer protracted, it is like the compassion had by the young ladies on the misfortunes of madam beritola would have brought them to tears; but, an end being now made thereof, it pleased the queen that pamfilo should follow on with his story, and accordingly he, who was very obedient, began thus, "uneath, charming ladies, is it for us to know that which is meet for us, for that, as may oftentimes have been seen, many, imagining that, were they but rich, they might avail to live without care and secure, have not only with prayers sought riches of god, but have diligently studied to acquire them, grudging no toil and no peril in the quest, and who,--whereas, before they became enriched, they loved their lives,--once having gotten their desire, have found folk to slay them, for greed of so ample an inheritance. others of low estate, having, through a thousand perilous battles and the blood of their brethren and their friends, mounted to the summit of kingdoms, thinking in the royal estate to enjoy supreme felicity, without the innumerable cares and alarms whereof they see and feel it full, have learned, at the cost of their lives, that poison is drunken at royal tables in cups of gold. many there be who have with most ardent appetite desired bodily strength and beauty and divers personal adornments and perceived not that they had desired ill till they found these very gifts a cause to them of death or dolorous life. in fine, not to speak particularly of all the objects of human desire, i dare say that there is not one which can, with entire assurance, be chosen by mortal men as secure from the vicissitudes of fortune; wherefore, an we would do aright, needs must we resign ourselves to take and possess that which is appointed us of him who alone knoweth that which behoveth unto us and is able to give it to us. but for that, whereas men sin in desiring various things, you, gracious ladies, sin, above all, in one, to wit, in wishing to be fair,--insomuch that, not content with the charms vouchsafed you by nature, you still with marvellous art study to augment them,--it pleaseth me to recount to you how ill-fortunedly fair was a saracen lady, whom it befell, for her beauty, to be in some four years' space nine times wedded anew. it is now a pretty while since there was a certain soldan of babylon,[ ] by name berminedab, to whom in his day many things happened in accordance with his pleasure.[ ] amongst many other children, both male and female, he had a daughter called alatiel, who, by report of all who saw her, was the fairest woman to be seen in the world in those days, and having, in a great defeat he had inflicted upon a vast multitude of arabs who were come upon him, been wonder-well seconded by the king of algarve,[ ] had, at his request, given her to him to wife, of especial favour; wherefore, embarking her aboard a ship well armed and equipped, with an honourable company of men and ladies and store of rich and sumptuous gear and furniture, he despatched her to him, commending her to god. [footnote : _i.e._ egypt, cairo was known in the middle ages by the name of "babylon of egypt." it need hardly be noted that the babylon of the bible was the city of that name on the euphrates, the ancient capital of chaldæa (irak babili). the names beminedab and alatiel are purely imaginary.] [footnote : _i.e._ to his wish, to whom fortune was mostly favourable in his enterprises.] [footnote : _il garbo_, arabic el gherb or gharb, [arabic: al gharb], the west, a name given by the arabs to several parts of the muslim empire, but by which boccaccio apparently means algarve, the southernmost province of portugal and the last part of that kingdom to succumb to the wave of christian reconquest, it having remained in the hands of the muslims till the second half of the thirteenth century. this supposition is confirmed by the course taken by alatiel's ship, which would naturally pass sardinia and the balearic islands on its way from alexandria to portugal.] the sailors, seeing the weather favourable, gave their sails to the wind and departing the port of alexandria, fared on prosperously many days, and having now passed sardinia, deemed themselves near the end of their voyage, when there arose one day of a sudden divers contrary winds, which, being each beyond measure boisterous, so harassed the ship, wherein was the lady, and the sailors, that the latter more than once gave themselves over for lost. however, like valiant men, using every art and means in their power, they rode it out two days, though buffeted by a terrible sea; but, at nightfall of the third day, the tempest abating not, nay, waxing momently, they felt the ship open, being then not far off majorca, but knowing not where they were neither availing to apprehend it either by nautical reckoning or by sight, for that the sky was altogether obscured by clouds and dark night; wherefore, seeing no other way of escape and having each himself in mind and not others, they lowered a shallop into the water, into which the officers cast themselves, choosing rather to trust themselves thereto than to the leaking ship. the rest of the men in the ship crowded after them into the boat, albeit those who had first embarked therein opposed it, knife in hand,--and thinking thus to flee from death, ran straight into it, for that the boat, availing not, for the intemperance of the weather, to hold so many, foundered and they perished one and all. as for the ship, being driven by a furious wind and running very swiftly, albeit it was now well nigh water-logged, (none being left on board save the princess and her women, who all, overcome by the tempestuous sea and by fear, lay about the decks as they were dead,) it stranded upon a beach of the island of majorca and such and so great was the shock that it well nigh buried itself in the sand some stone's cast from the shore, where it abode the night, beaten by the waves, nor might the wind avail to stir it more. broad day came and the tempest somewhat abating, the princess, who was half dead, raised her head and weak as she was, fell to calling now one, now another of her household, but to no purpose, for that those she called were too far distant. finding herself unanswered of any and seeing no one, she marvelled exceedingly and began to be sore afraid; then, rising up, as best she might, she saw the ladies who were in her company and the other women lying all about and trying now one and now another, found few who gave any signs of life, the most of them being dead what with sore travail of the stomach and what with affright; wherefore fear redoubled upon her. nevertheless, necessity constraining her, for that she saw herself alone there and had neither knowledge nor inkling where she was, she so goaded those who were yet alive that she made them arise and finding them unknowing whither the men were gone and seeing the ship stranded and full of water, she fell to weeping piteously, together with them. it was noon ere they saw any about the shore or elsewhere, whom they might move to pity and succour them; but about that hour there passed by a gentleman, by name pericone da visalgo, returning by chance from a place of his, with sundry of his servants on horseback. he saw the ship and forthright conceiving what it was, bade one of the servants board it without delay and tell him what he found there. the man, though with difficulty, made his way on board and found the young lady, with what little company she had, crouched, all adread, under the heel of the bowsprit. when they saw him, they besought him, weeping, of mercy again and again; but, perceiving that he understood them not nor they him, they made shift to make known to him their misadventure by signs. the servant having examined everything as best he might, reported to pericone that which was on board; whereupon the latter promptly caused to bring the ladies ashore, together with the most precious things that were in the ship and might be gotten, and carried them off to a castle of his, where, the women being refreshed with food and rest, he perceived, from the richness of her apparel, that the lady whom he had found must needs be some great gentlewoman, and of this he was speedily certified by the honour that he saw the others do her and her alone; and although she was pale and sore disordered of her person, for the fatigues of the voyage, her features seemed to him exceeding fair; wherefore he forthright took counsel with himself, an she had no husband, to seek to have her to wife, and if he might not have her in marriage, to make shift to have her favours. he was a man of commanding presence and exceeding robust and having for some days let tend the lady excellently well and she being thereby altogether restored, he saw her lovely past all conception and was grieved beyond measure that he could not understand her nor she him and so he might not learn who she was. nevertheless, being inordinately inflamed by her charms, he studied, with pleasing and amorous gestures, to engage her to do his pleasure without contention; but to no avail; she altogether rejected his advances and so much the more waxed pericone's ardour. the lady, seeing this and having now abidden there some days, perceived, by the usances of the folk, that she was among christians and in a country where, even if she could, it had little profited her to make herself known and foresaw that, in the end, either perforce or for love, needs must she resign herself to do pericone's pleasure, but resolved nevertheless by dint of magnanimity to override the wretchedness of her fortune; wherefore she commanded her women, of whom but three were left her, that they should never discover to any who she was, except they found themselves whereas they might look for manifest furtherance in the regaining of their liberty, and urgently exhorted them, moreover, to preserve their chastity, avouching herself determined that none, save her husband, should ever enjoy her. they commended her for this and promised to observe her commandment to the best of their power. meanwhile pericone, waxing daily more inflamed, insomuch as he saw the thing desired so near and yet so straitly denied, and seeing that his blandishments availed him nothing, resolved to employ craft and artifice, reserving force unto the last. wherefore, having observed bytimes that wine was pleasing to the lady, as being unused to drink thereof, for that her law forbade it, he bethought himself that he might avail to take her with this, as with a minister of enus. accordingly, feigning to reck no more of that whereof she showed herself so chary, he made one night by way of special festival a goodly supper, whereto he bade the lady, and therein, the repast being gladdened with many things, he took order with him who served her that he should give her to drink of various wines mingled. the cupbearer did his bidding punctually and she, being nowise on her guard against this and allured by the pleasantness of the drink, took more thereof than consisted with her modesty; whereupon, forgetting all her past troubles, she waxed merry and seeing some women dance after the fashion of majorca, herself danced in the alexandrian manner. pericone, seeing this, deemed himself on the high road to that which he desired and continuing the supper with great plenty of meats and wines, protracted it far into the night. ultimately, the guests having departed, he entered with the lady alone into her chamber, where she, more heated with wine than restrained by modesty, without any reserve of shamefastness, undid herself in his presence, as he had been one of her women, and betook herself to bed. pericone was not slow to follow her, but, putting out all the lights, promptly hid himself beside her and catching her in his arms, proceeded, without any gainsayal on her part, amorously to solace himself with her; which when once she had felt,--having never theretofore known with what manner horn men butt,--as if repenting her of not having yielded to pericone's solicitations, thenceforth, without waiting to be bidden to such agreeable nights, she oftentimes invited herself thereto, not by words, which she knew not how to make understood, but by deeds. but, in the midst of this great pleasance of pericone and herself, fortune, not content with having reduced her from a king's bride to be the mistress of a country gentleman, had foreordained unto her a more barbarous alliance. pericone had a brother by name marato, five-and-twenty years of age and fair and fresh as a rose, who saw her and she pleased him mightily. himseemed, moreover, according to that which he could apprehend from her gestures, that he was very well seen of her and conceiving that nought hindered him of that which he craved of her save the strait watch kept on her by pericone, he fell into a barbarous thought, whereon the nefarious effect followed without delay. there was then, by chance, in the harbour of the city a vessel laden with merchandise and bound for chiarenza[ ] in roumelia; whereof two young genoese were masters, who had already hoisted sail to depart as soon as the wind should be fair. marato, having agreed with them, took order how he should on the ensuing night be received aboard their ship with the lady; and this done, as soon as it was dark, having inwardly determined what he should do, he secretly betook himself, with certain of his trustiest friends, whom he had enlisted for the purpose, to the house of pericone, who nowise mistrusted him. there he hid himself, according to the ordinance appointed between them, and after a part of the night had passed, he admitted his companions and repaired with them to the chamber where pericone lay with the lady. having opened the door, they slew pericone, as he slept, and took the lady, who was now awake and in tears, threatening her with death, if she made any outcry; after which they made off, unobserved, with great part of pericone's most precious things and betook themselves in haste to the sea-shore, where marato and the lady embarked without delay on board the ship, whilst his companions returned whence they came. [footnote : the modern klarentza in the north-west of the morea, which latter province formed part of roumelia under the turkish domination.] the sailors, having a fair wind and a fresh, made sail and set out on their voyage, whilst the princess sore and bitterly bewailed both her former and that her second misadventure; but marato, with that saint waxeth-in-hand, which god hath given us [men,] proceeded to comfort her after such a fashion that she soon grew familiar with him and forgetting pericone, began to feel at her ease, when fortune, as if not content with the past tribulations wherewith it had visited her, prepared her a new affliction; for that, she being, as we have already more than once said, exceeding fair of favour and of very engaging manners, the two young men, the masters of the ship, became so passionately enamoured of her that, forgetting all else, they studied only to serve and pleasure her, being still on their guard lest marato should get wind of the cause. each becoming aware of the other's passion, they privily took counsel together thereof, and agreed to join in getting the lady for themselves and enjoy her in common, as if love should suffer this, as do merchandise and gain. seeing her straitly guarded by marato and being thereby hindered of their purpose, one day, as the ship fared on at full speed under sail and marato stood at the poop, looking out on the sea and nowise on his guard against them, they went of one accord and laying hold of him suddenly from behind, cast him into the sea, nor was it till they had sailed more than a mile farther that any perceived marato to be fallen overboard. alatiel, hearing this and seeing no possible way of recovering him, began anew to make moan for herself; whereupon the two lovers came incontinent to her succour and with soft words and very good promises, whereof she understood but little, studied to soothe and console the lady, who lamented not so much her lost husband as her own ill fortune. after holding much discourse with her at one time and another, themseeming after awhile they had well nigh comforted her, they came to words with one another which should first take her to lie with him. each would fain be the first and being unable to come to any accord upon this, they first with words began a sore and hot dispute and thereby kindled into rage, they clapped hands to their knives and falling furiously on one another, before those on board could part them, dealt each other several blows, whereof one incontinent fell dead, whilst the other abode on life, though grievously wounded in many places. this new mishap was sore unpleasing to the lady, who saw herself alone, without aid or counsel of any, and feared lest the anger of the two masters' kinsfolk and friends should revert upon herself; but the prayers of the wounded man and their speedy arrival at chiarenza delivered her from danger of death. there she went ashore with the wounded man and took up her abode with him in an inn, where the report of her great beauty soon spread through the city and came to the ears of the prince of the morea, who was then at chiarenza and was fain to see her. having gotten sight of her and himseeming she was fairer than report gave out, he straightway became so sore enamoured of her that he could think of nothing else and hearing how she came thither, doubted not to be able to get her for himself. as he cast about for a means of effecting his purpose, the wounded man's kinsfolk got wind of his desire and without awaiting more, sent her to him forthright, which was mighty agreeable to the prince and to the lady also, for that herseemed she was quit of a great peril. the prince, seeing her graced, over and above her beauty, with royal manners and unable otherwise to learn who she was, concluded her to be some noble lady, wherefore he redoubled in his love for her and holding her in exceeding honour, entreated her not as a mistress, but as his very wife. the lady, accordingly, having regard to her past troubles and herseeming she was well enough bestowed, was altogether comforted and waxing blithe again, her beauties flourished on such wise that it seemed all roumelia could talk of nothing else. the report of her loveliness reaching the duke of athens, who was young and handsome and doughty of his person and a friend and kinsman of the prince, he was taken with a desire to see her and making a show of paying him a visit, as he was wont bytimes to do, repaired, with a fair and worshipful company, to chiarenza, where he was honourably received and sumptuously entertained. some days after, the two kinsmen coming to discourse together of the lady's charms, the duke asked if she were indeed so admirable a creature as was reported; to which the prince answered, 'much more so; but thereof i will have not my words, but thine own eyes certify thee.' accordingly, at the duke's solicitation, they betook themselves together to the princess's lodging, who, having had notice of their coming, received them very courteously and with a cheerful favour, and they seated her between them, but might not have the pleasure of conversing with her, for that she understood little or nothing of their language; wherefore each contented himself with gazing upon her, as upon a marvel, and especially the duke, who could scarce bring himself to believe that she was a mortal creature and thinking to satisfy his desire with her sight, heedless of the amorous poison he drank in at his eyes, beholding her, he miserably ensnared himself, becoming most ardently enamoured of her. after he had departed her presence with the prince and had leisure to bethink himself, he esteemed his kinsman happy beyond all others in having so fair a creature at his pleasure, and after many and various thoughts, his unruly passion weighing more with him than his honour, he resolved, come thereof what might, to do his utmost endeavour to despoil the prince of that felicity and bless himself therewith. accordingly, being minded to make a quick despatch of the matter and setting aside all reason and all equity, he turned his every thought to the devising of means for the attainment of his wishes, and one day, in accordance with the nefarious ordinance taken by him with a privy chamberlain of the prince's, by name ciuriaci, he let make ready in secret his horses and baggage for a sudden departure. the night come, he was, with a companion, both armed, stealthily introduced by the aforesaid ciuriaci into the prince's chamber and saw the latter (the lady being asleep) standing, all naked for the great heat, at a window overlooking the sea-shore, to take a little breeze that came from that quarter; whereupon, having beforehand informed his companion of that which he had to do, he went softly up to the window and striking the prince with a knife, stabbed him, through and through the small of his back; then, taking him up in haste, he cast him forth of the window. the palace stood over against the sea and was very lofty and the window in question looked upon certain houses that had been undermined by the beating of the waves and where seldom or never any came; wherefore it happened, as the duke had foreseen, that the fall of the prince's body was not nor might be heard of any. the duke's companion, seeing this done, pulled out a halter he had brought with him to that end and making a show of caressing ciuriaci, cast it adroitly about his neck and drew it so that he could make no outcry; then, the duke coming up, they strangled him and cast him whereas they had cast the prince. this done and they being manifestly certified that they had been unheard of the lady or of any other, the duke took a light in his hand and carrying it to the bedside, softly uncovered the princess, who slept fast. he considered her from head to foot and mightily commended her; for, if she was to his liking, being clothed, she pleased him, naked, beyond all compare. wherefore, fired with hotter desire and unawed by his new-committed crime, he couched himself by her side, with hands yet bloody, and lay with her, all sleepy-eyed as she was and thinking him to be the prince. after he had abidden with her awhile in the utmost pleasure, he arose and summoning certain of his companions, caused take up the lady on such wise that she could make no outcry and carry her forth by a privy door, whereat he had entered; then, setting her on horseback, he took to the road with all his men, as softliest he might, and returned to his own dominions. however (for that he had a wife) he carried the lady, who was the most distressful of women, not to athens, but to a very goodly place he had by the sea, a little without the city, and there entertained her in secret, causing honourably furnish her with all that was needful. the prince's courtiers on the morrow awaited his rising till none, when, hearing nothing, they opened the chamber-doors, which were but closed, and finding no one, concluded that he was gone somewhither privily, to pass some days there at his ease with his fair lady, and gave themselves no farther concern. things being thus, it chanced next day that an idiot, entering the ruins where lay the bodies of the prince and ciuriaci, dragged the latter forth by the halter and went haling him after him. the body was, with no little wonderment, recognized by many, who, coaxing the idiot to bring them to the place whence he had dragged it, there, to the exceeding grief of the whole city, found the prince's corpse and gave it honourable burial. then, enquiring for the authors of so heinous a crime and finding that the duke of athens was no longer there, but had departed by stealth, they concluded, even as was the case, that it must be he who had done this and carried off the lady; whereupon they straightway substituted a brother of the dead man to their prince and incited him with all their might to vengeance. the new prince, being presently certified by various other circumstances that it was as they had surmised, summoned his friends and kinsmen and servants from divers parts and promptly levying a great and goodly and powerful army, set out to make war upon the duke of athens. the latter, hearing of this, on like wise mustered all his forces for his own defence, and to his aid came many lords, amongst whom the emperor of constantinople sent constantine his son and manual his nephew, with a great and goodly following. the two princes were honourably received by the duke and yet more so by the duchess, for that she was their sister,[ ] and matters drawing thus daily nearer unto war, taking her occasion, she sent for them both one day to her chamber and there, with tears galore and many words, related to them the whole story, acquainting them with the causes of the war. moreover, she discovered to them the affront done her by the duke in the matter of the woman whom it was believed he privily entertained, and complaining sore thereof, besought them to apply to the matter such remedy as best they might, for the honour of the duke and her own solacement. [footnote : _i.e._ sister to the one and cousin to the other.] the young men already knew all the facts as it had been; wherefore, without enquiring farther, they comforted the duchess, as best they might, and filled her with good hope. then, having learned from her where the lady abode, they took their leave and having a mind to see the latter, for that they had oftentimes heard her commended for marvellous beauty, they besought the duke to show her to them. he, unmindful of that which had befallen the prince of the morea for having shown her to himself, promised to do this and accordingly next morning, having let prepare a magnificent collation in a very goodly garden that pertained to the lady's place of abode, he carried them and a few others thither to eat with her. constantine, sitting with alatiel, fell a-gazing upon her, full of wonderment, avouching in himself that he had never seen aught so lovely and that certes the duke must needs be held excused, ay, and whatsoever other, to have so fair a creature, should do treason or other foul thing, and looking on her again and again and each time admiring her more, it betided him no otherwise than it had betided the duke; wherefore, taking his leave, enamoured of her, he abandoned all thought of the war and occupied himself with considering how he might take her from the duke, carefully concealing his passion the while from every one. whilst he yet burnt in this fire, the time came to go out against the new prince, who now drew near to the duke's territories; wherefore the latter and constantine and all the others, sallied forth of athens according to the given ordinance and betook themselves to the defence of certain frontiers, so the prince might not avail to advance farther. when they had lain there some days, constantine having his mind and thought still intent upon the lady and conceiving that, now the duke was no longer near her, he might very well avail to accomplish his pleasure, feigned himself sore indisposed of his person, to have an occasion of returning to athens; wherefore, with the duke's leave, committing his whole power to manuel, he returned to athens to his sister, and there, after some days, putting her upon talk of the affront which herseemed she suffered from the duke by reason of the lady whom he entertained, he told her that, an it liked her, he would soon ease her thereof by causing take the lady from whereas she was and carry her off. the duchess, conceiving that he did this of regard for herself and not for love of the lady, answered that it liked her exceeding well so but it might be done on such wise that the duke should never know that she had been party thereto, which constantine fully promised her, and thereupon she consented that he should do as seemed best to him. constantine, accordingly, let secretly equip a light vessel and sent it one evening to the neighbourhood of the garden where the lady abode; then, having taught certain of his men who were on board what they had to do, he repaired with others to the lady's pavilion, where he was cheerfully received by those in her service and indeed by the lady herself, who, at his instance, betook herself with him to the garden, attended by her servitors and his companions. there, making as he would speak with her on the duke's part, he went with her alone towards a gate, which gave upon the sea and had already been opened by one of his men, and calling the bark thither with the given signal, he caused suddenly seize the lady and carry her aboard; then, turning to her people, he said to them, 'let none stir or utter a word, an he would not die; for that i purpose not to rob the duke of his wench, but to do away the affront which he putteth upon my sister.' to this none dared make answer; whereupon constantine, embarking with his people and seating himself by the side of the weeping lady, bade thrust the oars into the water and make off. accordingly, they put out to sea and not hieing, but flying,[ ] came, after a little after daybreak on the morrow, to egina, where they landed and took rest, whilst constantine solaced himself awhile with the lady, who bemoaned her ill-fated beauty. thence, going aboard the bark again, they made their way, in a few days, to chios, where it pleased constantine to take up his sojourn, as in a place of safety, for fear of his father's resentment and lest the stolen lady should be taken from him. there the fair lady bewailed her ill fate some days, but, being presently comforted by constantine, she began, as she had done otherwhiles, to take her pleasure of that which fortune had foreordained to her. [footnote : _non vogando, ma volando._] things being at this pass, osbech, king of the turks, who abode in continual war with the emperor, came by chance to smyrna, where hearing how constantine abode in chios, without any precaution, leading a wanton life with a mistress of his, whom he had stolen away, he repaired thither one night with some light-armed ships and entering the city by stealth with some of his people, took many in their beds, ere they knew of the enemy's coming. some, who, taking the alert, had run to arms, he slew and having burnt the whole place, carried the booty and captives on board the ships and returned to smyrna. when they arrived there, osbech, who was a young man, passing his prisoners in review, found the fair lady among them and knowing her for her who had been taken with constantine asleep in bed, was mightily rejoiced at sight of her. accordingly, he made her his wife without delay, and celebrating the nuptials forthright, lay with her some months in all joyance. meanwhile, the emperor, who had, before these things came to pass, been in treaty with bassano, king of cappadocia, to the end that he should come down upon osbech from one side with his power, whilst himself assailed him on the other, but had not yet been able to come to a full accord with him, for that he was unwilling to grant certain things which bassano demanded and which he deemed unreasonable, hearing what had betided his son and chagrined beyond measure thereat, without hesitating farther, did that which the king of cappadocia asked and pressed him as most he might to fall upon osbech, whilst himself made ready to come down upon him from another quarter. osbech, hearing this, assembled his army, ere he should be straitened between two such puissant princes, and marched against bassano, leaving his fair lady at smyrna, in charge of a trusty servant and friend of his. after some time he encountered the king of cappadocia and giving him battle, was slain in the mellay and his army discomfited and dispersed; whereupon bassano advanced in triumph towards smyrna, unopposed, and all the folk submitted to him by the way, as to a conqueror. meanwhile, osbech's servant, antiochus by name, in whose charge the lady had been left, seeing her so fair, forgot his plighted faith to his friend and master and became enamoured of her, for all he was a man in years. urged by love and knowing her tongue (the which was mighty agreeable to her, as well as it might be to one whom it had behoved for some years live as she were deaf and dumb, for that she understood none neither was understanded of any) he began, in a few days, to be so familiar with her that, ere long, having no regard to their lord and master who was absent in the field, they passed from friendly commerce to amorous privacy, taking marvellous pleasure one of the other between the sheets. when they heard that osbech was defeated and slain and that bassano came carrying all before him, they took counsel together not to await him there and laying hands on great part of the things of most price that were there pertaining to osbech, gat them privily to rhodes, where they had not long abidden ere antiochus sickened unto death. as chance would have it, there was then in lodging with him a merchant of cyprus, who was much loved of him and his fast friend, and antiochus, feeling himself draw to his end, bethought himself to leave him both his possessions and his beloved lady; wherefore, being now nigh upon death, he called them both to him and bespoke them thus, 'i feel myself, without a doubt, passing away, which grieveth me, for that never had i such delight in life as i presently have. of one thing, indeed, i die most content, in that, since i must e'en die, i see myself die in the arms of those twain whom i love over all others that be in the world, to wit, in thine, dearest friend, and in those of this lady, whom i have loved more than mine own self, since first i knew her. true, it grieveth me to feel that, when i am dead, she will abide here a stranger, without aid or counsel; and it were yet more grievous to me, did i not know thee here, who wilt, i trust, have that same care of her, for the love of me, which thou wouldst have had of myself. wherefore, i entreat thee, as most i may, if it come to pass that i die, that thou take my goods and her into thy charge and do with them and her that which thou deemest may be for the solacement of my soul. and thou, dearest lady, i prithee forget me not after my death, so i may vaunt me, in the other world, of being beloved here below of the fairest lady ever nature formed; of which two things an you will give me entire assurance, i shall depart without misgiving and comforted.' the merchant his friend and the lady, hearing these words, wept, and when he had made an end of his speech, they comforted him and promised him upon their troth to do that which he asked, if it came to pass that he died. he tarried not long, but presently departed this life and was honourably interred of them. a few days after, the merchant having despatched all his business in rhodes and purposing to return to cyprus on board a catalan carrack that was there, asked the fair lady what she had a mind to do, for that it behoved him return to cyprus. she answered that, an it pleased him, she would gladly go with him, hoping for antiochus his love to be of him entreated and regarded as a sister. the merchant replied that he was content to do her every pleasure, and the better to defend her from any affront that might be offered her, ere they came to cyprus, he avouched that she was his wife. accordingly, they embarked on board the ship and were given a little cabin on the poop, where, that the fact might not belie his words, he lay with her in one very small bed. whereby there came about that which was not intended of the one or the other of them at departing rhodes, to wit, that--darkness and commodity and the heat of the bed, matters of no small potency, inciting them,--drawn by equal appetite and forgetting both the friendship and the love of antiochus dead, they fell to dallying with each other and before they reached baffa, whence the cypriot came, they had clapped up an alliance together. at baffa she abode some time with the merchant till, as chance would have it, there came thither, for his occasions, a gentleman by name antigonus, great of years and greater yet of wit, but little of wealth, for that, intermeddling in the affairs of the king of cyprus, fortune had in many things been contrary to him. chancing one day to pass by the house where the fair lady dwelt with the merchant, who was then gone with his merchandise into armenia, he espied her at a window and seeing her very beautiful, fell to gazing fixedly upon her and presently began to recollect that he must have seen her otherwhere, but where he could on no wise call to mind. as for the lady, who had long been the sport of fortune, but the term of whose ills was now drawing near, she no sooner set eyes on antigonus than she remembered to have seen him at alexandria in no mean station in her father's service; wherefore, conceiving a sudden hope of yet by his aid regaining her royal estate, and knowing her merchant to be abroad, she let call him to her as quickliest she might and asked him, blushing, an he were not, as she supposed, antigonus of famagosta. he answered that he was and added, 'madam, meseemeth i know you, but on no wise can i remember me where i have seen you; wherefore i pray you, an it mislike you not, put me in mind who you are.' the lady hearing that it was indeed he, to his great amazement, cast her arms about his neck, weeping sore, and presently asked him if he had never seen her in alexandria. antigonus, hearing this, incontinent knew her for the soldan's daughter alatiel, who was thought to have perished at sea, and would fain have paid her the homage due to her quality; but she would on no wise suffer it and besought him to sit with her awhile. accordingly, seating himself beside her, he asked her respectfully how and when and whence she came thither, seeing that it was had for certain, through all the land of egypt, that she had been drowned at sea years agone. 'would god,' replied she, 'it had been so, rather than that i should have had the life i have had; and i doubt not but my father would wish the like, if ever he came to know it.' so saying, she fell anew to weeping wonder-sore; whereupon quoth antigonus to her, 'madam, despair not ere it behove you; but, an it please you, relate to me your adventures and what manner of life yours hath been; it may be the matter hath gone on such wise that, with god's aid, we may avail to find an effectual remedy.' 'antigonus,' answered the fair lady, 'when i beheld thee, meseemed i saw my father, and moved by that love and tenderness, which i am bounden to bear him, i discovered myself to thee, having it in my power to conceal myself from thee, and few persons could it have befallen me to look upon in whom i could have been so well-pleased as i am to have seen and known thee before any other; wherefore that which in my ill fortune i have still kept hidden, to thee, as to a father, i will discover. if, after thou hast heard it, thou see any means of restoring me to my pristine estate, prithee use it; but, if thou see none, i beseech thee never tell any that thou hast seen me or heard aught of me.' this said, she recounted to him, still weeping, that which had befallen her from the time of her shipwreck on majorca up to that moment; whereupon he fell a-weeping for pity and after considering awhile, 'madam,' said he, 'since in your misfortunes it hath been hidden who you are, i will, without fail, restore you, dearer than ever, to your father and after to the king of algarve to wife.' being questioned of her of the means, he showed her orderly that which was to do, and lest any hindrance should betide through delay, he presently returned to famagosta and going in to the king, said to him, 'my lord, an it like you, you have it in your power at once to do yourself exceeding honour and me, who am poor through you, a great service, at no great cost of yours.' the king asked how and antigonus replied, 'there is come to baffa the soldan's fair young daughter, who hath so long been reputed drowned and who, to save her honour, hath long suffered very great unease and is presently in poor case and would fain return to her father. an it pleased you send her to him under my guard, it would be much to your honour and to my weal, nor do i believe that such a service would ever be forgotten of the soldan.' the king, moved by a royal generosity of mind, answered forthright that he would well and sending for alatiel, brought her with all honour and worship to famagosta, where she was received by himself and the queen with inexpressible rejoicing and entertained with magnificent hospitality. being presently questioned of the king and queen of her adventures, she answered according to the instructions given her by antigonus and related everything;[ ] and a few days after, at her request, the king sent her, under the governance of antigonus, with a goodly and worshipful company of men and women, back to the soldan, of whom let none ask if she was received with rejoicing, as also was antigonus and all her company. [footnote : sic (_contò tutto_); but this is an oversight of the author's, as it is evident from what follows that she did _not_ relate everything.] as soon as she was somewhat rested, the soldan desired to know how it chanced that she was yet alive and where she had so long abidden, without having ever let him know aught of her condition; whereupon the lady, who had kept antigonus his instructions perfectly in mind, bespoke him thus, 'father mine, belike the twentieth day after my departure from you, our ship, having sprung a leak in a terrible storm, struck in the night upon certain coasts yonder in the west,[ ] near a place called aguamorta, and what became of the men who were aboard i know not nor could ever learn; this much only do i remember that, the day come and i arisen as it were from death to life, the shattered vessel was espied of the country people, who ran from all the parts around to plunder it. i and two of my women were first set ashore and the latter were incontinent seized by certain of the young men, who fled with them, one this way and the other that, and what came of them i never knew. [footnote : lit. ponant (_ponente_), _i.e._ the western coasts of the mediterranean, as opposed to the eastern or levant.] as for myself, i was taken, despite my resistance, by two young men, and haled along by the hair, weeping sore the while; but, as they crossed over a road, to enter a great wood, there passed by four men on horseback, whom when my ravishers saw, they loosed me forthwith and took to flight. the new comers, who seemed to me persons of great authority, seeing this, ran where i was and asked me many questions; whereto i answered much, but neither understood nor was understanded of them. however, after long consultation they set me on one of their horses and carried me to a convent of women vowed to religion, according to their law, where, whatever they said, i was of all the ladies kindly received and still entreated with honour, and there with great devotion i joined them in serving saint waxeth-in-deepdene, a saint for whom the women of that country have a vast regard. after i had abidden with them awhile and learned somewhat of their language, they questioned me of who i was and fearing, an i told the truth, to be expelled from amongst them, as an enemy of their faith, i answered that i was the daughter of a great gentleman of cyprus, who was sending me to be married in crete, when, as ill-luck would have it, we had run thither and suffered shipwreck. moreover, many a time and in many things i observed their customs, for fear of worse, and being asked by the chief of the ladies, her whom they call abbess, if i wished to return thence to cyprus, i answered that i desired nothing so much; but she, tender of my honour, would never consent to trust me to any person who was bound for cyprus, till some two months agone, when there came thither certain gentlemen of france with their ladies. one of the latter being a kinswoman of the abbess and she hearing that they were bound for jerusalem, to visit the sepulchre where he whom they hold god was buried, after he had been slain by the jews, she commended me to their care and besought them to deliver me to my father in cyprus. with what honour these gentlemen entreated me and how cheerfully they received me together with their ladies, it were a long story to tell; suffice it to say that we took ship and came, after some days, to baffa, where finding myself arrived and knowing none in the place, i knew not what to say to the gentlemen, who would fain have delivered me to my father, according to that which had been enjoined them of the reverend lady; but god, taking pity belike on my affliction, brought me antigonus upon the beach what time we disembarked at baffa, whom i straightway hailed and in our tongue, so as not to be understood of the gentlemen and their ladies, bade him receive me as a daughter. he promptly apprehended me and receiving me with a great show of joy, entertained the gentlemen and their ladies with such honour as his poverty permitted and carried me to the king of cyprus, who received me with such hospitality and hath sent me back to you [with such courtesy] as might never be told of me. if aught remain to be said, let antigonus, who hath ofttimes heard from me these adventures, recount it.' accordingly antigonus, turning to the soldan, said, 'my lord, even as she hath many a time told me and as the gentlemen and ladies, with whom she came, said to me, so hath she recounted unto you. only one part hath she forborne to tell you, the which methinketh she left unsaid for that it beseemeth her not to tell it, to wit, how much the gentlemen and ladies, with whom she came, said of the chaste and modest life which she led with the religious ladies and of her virtue and commendable manners and the tears and lamentations of her companions, both men and women, when, having restored her to me, they took leave of her. of which things were i fain to tell in full that which they said to me, not only this present day, but the ensuing night would not suffice unto us; be it enough to say only that (according to that which their words attested and that also which i have been able to see thereof,) you may vaunt yourself of having the fairest daughter and the chastest and most virtuous of any prince that nowadays weareth a crown.' the soldan was beyond measure rejoiced at these things and besought god again and again to vouchsafe him of his grace the power of worthily requiting all who had succoured his daughter and especially the king of cyprus, by whom she had been sent back to him with honour. after some days, having caused prepare great gifts for antigonus, he gave him leave to return to cyprus and rendered, both by letters and by special ambassadors, the utmost thanks to the king for that which he had done with his daughter. then desiring that that which was begun should have effect, to wit, that she should be the wife of the king of algarve, he acquainted the latter with the whole matter and wrote to him to boot, that, an it pleased him have her, he should send for her. the king of algarve was mightily rejoiced at this news and sending for her in state, received her joyfully; and she, who had lain with eight men belike ten thousand times, was put to bed to him for a maid and making him believe that she was so, lived happily with him as his queen awhile after; wherefore it was said, 'lips for kissing forfeit no favour; nay, they renew as the moon doth ever.'" the eighth story [day the second] the count of antwerp, being falsely accused, goeth into exile and leaveth his two children in different places in england, whither, after awhile, returning in disguise and finding them in good case, he taketh service as a horseboy in the service of the king of france and being approved innocent, is restored to his former estate the ladies sighed amain over the fortunes of the fair saracen; but who knoweth what gave rise to those sighs? maybe there were some of them who sighed no less for envy of such frequent nuptials than for pity of alatiel. but, leaving that be for the present, after they had laughed at pamfilo's last words, the queen, seeing his story ended, turned to elisa and bade her follow on with one of hers. elisa cheerfully obeyed and began as follows: "a most ample field is that wherein we go to-day a-ranging, nor is there any of us but could lightly enough run, not one, but half a score courses there, so abounding hath fortune made it in her strange and grievous chances; wherefore, to come to tell of one of these latter, which are innumerable, i say that: when the roman empire was transferred from the french to the germans,[ ] there arose between the one and the other nation an exceeding great enmity and a grievous and continual war, by reason whereof, as well for the defence of their own country as for the offence of that of others, the king of france and a son of his, with all the power of their realm and of such friends and kinsfolk as they could command, levied a mighty army to go forth upon the foe; and ere they proceeded thereunto,--not to leave the realm without governance,--knowing gautier, count of antwerp,[ ] for a noble and discreet gentleman and their very faithful friend and servant, and for that (albeit he was well versed in the art of war) he seemed to them more apt unto things delicate than unto martial toils, they left him vicar general in their stead over all the governance of the realm of france and went on their way. gautier accordingly addressed himself with both order and discretion to the office committed unto him, still conferring of everything with the queen and her daughter-in-law, whom, for all they were left under his custody and jurisdiction, he honoured none the less as his liege ladies and mistresses. [footnote : _i.e._ a.d. , when, upon the death of louis iii, the last prince of the carlovingian race, conrad, duke of franconia, was elected emperor and the empire, which had till then been hereditary in the descendants of charlemagne, became elective and remained thenceforth in german hands.] [footnote : _anguersa_, the old form of _anversa_, antwerp. all versions that i have seen call gautier comte d'_angers_ or _angiers_, the translators, who forgot or were unaware that antwerp, as part of flanders, was then a fief of the french crown, apparently taking it for granted that the mention of the latter city was in error and substituting the name of the ancient capital of anjou on their own responsibility.] now this gautier was exceedingly goodly of his body, being maybe forty years old and as agreeable and well-mannered a gentleman as might be; and withal, he was the sprightliest and daintiest cavalier known in those days and he who went most adorned of his person. his countess was dead, leaving him two little children, a boy and a girl, without more, and it befell that, the king of france and his son being at the war aforesaid and gautier using much at the court of the aforesaid ladies and speaking often with them of the affairs of the kingdom, the wife of the king's son cast her eyes on him and considering his person and his manners with very great affection, was secretly fired with a fervent love for him. feeling herself young and lusty and knowing him wifeless, she doubted not but her desire might lightly be accomplished unto her and thinking nought hindered her thereof but shamefastness, she bethought herself altogether to put that away and discover to him her passion. accordingly, being one day alone and it seeming to her time, she sent for him into her chamber, as though she would discourse with him of other matters. the count, whose thought was far from that of the lady, betook himself to her without any delay and at her bidding, seated himself by her side on a couch; then, they being alone together, he twice asked her the occasion for which she had caused him come thither; but she made him no reply. at last, urged by love and grown all vermeil for shame, well nigh in tears and all trembling, with broken speech she thus began to say: 'dearest and sweet friend and my lord, you may easily as a man of understanding apprehend how great is the frailty both of men and of women, and that more, for divers reasons, in one than in another; wherefore, at the hands of a just judge, the same sin in diverse kinds of qualities of persons should not in equity receive one same punishment. and who is there will deny that a poor man or a poor woman, whom it behoveth gain with their toil that which is needful for their livelihood, would, an they were stricken with love's smart and followed after him, be far more blameworthy than a lady who is rich and idle and to whom nothing is lacking that can flatter her desires? certes, i believe, no one. for which reason methinketh the things aforesaid [to wit, wealth and leisure and luxurious living] should furnish forth a very great measure of excuse on behalf of her who possesseth them, if, peradventure, she suffer herself lapse into loving, and the having made choice of a lover of worth and discretion should stand for the rest,[ ] if she who loveth hath done that. these circumstances being both, to my seeming, in myself (beside several others which should move me to love, such as my youth and the absence of my husband), it behoveth now that they rise up in my behalf for the defence of my ardent love in your sight, wherein if they avail that which they should avail in the eyes of men of understanding, i pray you afford me counsel and succour in that which i shall ask of you. true is it, that availing not, for the absence of my husband, to withstand the pricks of the flesh nor the might of love-liking, the which are of such potency that they have erst many a time overcome and yet all days long overcome the strongest men, to say nothing of weak women,--and enjoying the commodities and the leisures wherein you see me, i have suffered myself lapse into ensuing love his pleasures and becoming enamoured; the which,--albeit, were it known, i acknowledge it would not be seemly, yet,--being and abiding hidden, i hold[ ] well nigh nothing unseemly; more by token that love hath been insomuch gracious to me that not only hath he not bereft me of due discernment in the choice of a lover, but hath lent me great plenty thereof[ ] to that end, showing me yourself worthy to be loved of a lady such as i,--you whom, if my fancy beguile me not, i hold the goodliest, the most agreeable, the sprightliest and the most accomplished cavalier that may be found in all the realm of france; and even as i may say that i find myself without a husband, so likewise are you without a wife. wherefore, i pray you, by the great love which i bear you, that you deny me not your love in return, but have compassion on my youth, the which, in very deed, consumeth for you, as ice before the fire.' [footnote : _i.e._ of her excuse.] [footnote : lit. thou holdest (or judges); but _giudichi_ in the text is apparently a mistake for _giudico_.] [footnote : _i.e._ of discernment.] with these words her tears welled up in such abundance that, albeit she would fain have proffered him yet other prayers, she had no power to speak farther, but, bowing her face, as if overcome, she let herself fall, weeping, her head on the count's bosom. the latter, who was a very loyal gentleman, began with the gravest reproofs to rebuke so fond a passion and to repel the princess, who would fain have cast herself on his neck, avouching to her with oaths that he had liefer be torn limb from limb than consent unto such an offence against his lord's honour, whether in himself or in another. the lady, hearing this, forthright forgot her love and kindling into a furious rage, said, 'felon knight that you are, shall i be this wise flouted by you of my desire? now god forbid, since you would have me die, but i have you put to death or driven from the world!' so saying, she set her hands to her tresses and altogether disordered and tore them; then, rending her raiment at the breast, she fell to crying aloud and saying, 'help! help! the count of antwerp would do me violence.' the count, seeing this, misdoubting far more the courtiers' envy than his own conscience and fearful lest, by reason of this same envy, more credence should be given to the lady's malice than to his own innocence, started up and departing the chamber and the palace as quickliest he might, fled to his own house, where, without taking other counsel, he set his children on horseback and mounting himself to horse, made off with them, as most he might, towards calais. meanwhile, many ran to the princess's clamour and seeing her in that plight and hearing [her account of] the cause of her outcry, not only gave credence to her words, but added[ ] that the count's gallant bearing and debonair address had long been used by him to win to that end. accordingly, they ran in a fury to his houses to arrest him, but finding him not, first plundered them all and after razed them to the foundations. the news, in its perverted shape, came presently to the army to the king and his son, who, sore incensed, doomed gautier and his descendants to perpetual banishment, promising very great guerdons to whoso should deliver him to them alive or dead. [footnote : sic (_aggiunsero_); but _semble_ should mean "believed, in addition."] the count, woeful for that by his flight he had, innocent as he was, approved himself guilty, having, without making himself known or being recognized, reached calais with his children, passed hastily over into england and betook himself in mean apparel to london, wherein ere he entered, with many words he lessoned his two little children, and especially in two things; first, that they should brook with patience the poor estate, whereunto, without their fault, fortune had brought them, together with himself,--and after, that with all wariness they should keep themselves from ever discovering unto any whence or whose children they were, as they held life dear. the boy, louis by name, who was some nine and the girl, who was called violante and was some seven years old, both, as far as their tender age comported, very well apprehended their father's lessons and showed it thereafter by deed. that this might be the better done,[ ] he deemed it well to change their names; wherefore he named the boy perrot and the girl jeannette and all three, entering london, meanly clad, addressed themselves to go about asking alms, like as we see yonder french vagabonds do. [footnote : _i.e._ that the secret might be the better kept.] they being on this account one morning at a church door, it chanced that a certain great lady, the wife of one of the king's marshals of england, coming forth of the church, saw the count and his two little ones asking alms and questioned him whence he was and if the children were his, to which he replied that he was from picardy and that, by reason of the misfeasance of a rakehelly elder son of his, it had behoved him depart the country with these two, who were his. the lady, who was pitiful, cast her eyes on the girl and being much taken with her, for that she was handsome, well-mannered and engaging, said, 'honest man, an thou be content to leave thy daughter with me, i will willingly take her, for that she hath a good favour, and if she prove an honest woman, i will in due time marry her on such wise that she shall fare well.' this offer was very pleasing to the count, who promptly answered, 'yes,' and with tears gave up the girl to the lady, urgently commending her to her care. having thus disposed of his daughter, well knowing to whom, he resolved to abide there no longer and accordingly, begging his way across the island, came, not without sore fatigue, as one who was unused to go afoot, into wales. here dwelt another of the king's marshals, who held great state and entertained a numerous household, and to his court both the count and his son whiles much resorted to get food. certain sons of the said marshal and other gentlemen's children being there engaged in such boyish exercises as running and leaping, perrot began to mingle with them and to do as dextrously as any of the rest, or more so, each feat that was practised among them. the marshal, chancing whiles to see this and being much taken with the manners and fashion of the boy, asked who he was and was told that he was the son of a poor man who came there bytimes for alms; whereupon he caused require him of the count, and the latter, who indeed besought god of nought else, freely resigned the boy to him, grievous as it was to him to be parted from him. having thus provided his son and daughter, he determined to abide no longer in england and passing over into ireland, made his way, as best he might, to stamford, where he took service with a knight belonging to an earl of the country, doing all such things as pertain unto a lackey or a horseboy, and there, without being known of any, he abode a great while in unease and travail galore. meanwhile violante, called jeannette, went waxing with the gentlewoman in london in years and person and beauty and was in such favour both with the lady and her husband and with every other of the house and whoso else knew her, that it was a marvellous thing to see; nor was there any who noted her manners and fashions but avouched her worthy of every greatest good and honour. wherefore the noble lady who had received her from her father, without having ever availed to learn who he was, otherwise than as she had heard from himself, was purposed to marry her honourably according to that condition whereof she deemed her. but god, who is a just observer of folk's deserts, knowing her to be of noble birth and to bear, without fault, the penalty of another's sin, ordained otherwise, and fain must we believe that he of his benignity permitted that which came to pass to the end that the gentle damsel might not fall into the hands of a man of low estate. the noble lady with whom jeannette dwelt had of her husband one only son, whom both she and his father loved with an exceeding love, both for that he was their child and that he deserved it by reason of his worth and virtues. he, being some six years older than jeannette and seeing her exceeding fair and graceful, became so sore enamoured of her that he saw nought beyond her; yet, for that he deemed her to be of mean extraction, not only dared he not demand her of his father and mother to wife, but, fearing to be blamed for having set himself to love unworthily, he held his love, as most he might, hidden; wherefore it tormented him far more than if he had discovered it; and thus it came to pass that, for excess of chagrin, he fell sick and that grievously. divers physicians were called in to medicine him, who, having noted one and another symptom of his case and being nevertheless unable to discover what ailed him, all with one accord despaired of his recovery; whereat the young man's father and mother suffered dolour and melancholy so great that greater might not be brooked, and many a time, with piteous prayers, they questioned him of the cause of his malady, whereto or sighs he gave for answer or replied that he felt himself all wasting away. it chanced one day that, what while a doctor, young enough, but exceedingly deeply versed in science, sat by him and held him by the arm in that part where leaches use to seek the pulse, jeannette, who, of regard for his mother, tended him solicitously, entered, on some occasion or another, the chamber where the young man lay. when the latter saw her, without word said or gesture made, he felt the amorous ardour redouble in his heart, wherefore his pulse began to beat stronglier than of wont; the which the leach incontinent noted and marvelling, abode still to see how long this should last. as soon as jeannette left the chamber, the beating abated, wherefore it seemed to the physician he had gotten impartment of the cause of the young man's ailment, and after waiting awhile, he let call jeannette to him, as he would question her of somewhat, still holding the sick man by the arm. she came to him incontinent and no sooner did she enter than the beating of the youth's pulse returned and she being gone again, ceased. thereupon, it seeming to the physician that he had full enough assurance, he rose and taking the young man's father and mother apart, said to them, 'the healing of your son is not in the succour of physicians, but abideth in the hands of jeannette, whom, as i have by sure signs manifestly recognized, the young man ardently loveth, albeit, for all i can see, she is unaware thereof. you know now what you have to do, if his life be dear to you.' the gentleman and his lady, hearing this, were well pleased, inasmuch as some means was found for his recoverance, albeit it irked them sore that the means in question should be that whereof they misdoubted them, to wit, that they should give jeannette to their son to wife. accordingly, the physician being gone, they went into the sick man and the lady bespoke him thus: 'son mine, i could never have believed that thou wouldst keep from me any desire of thine, especially seeing thyself pine away for lack thereof; for that thou shouldst have been and shouldst be assured that there is nought i can for thy contentment, were it even less than seemly, which i would not do as for myself. but, since thou hast e'en done this, god the lord hath been more pitiful over thee than thou thyself and that thou mayst not die of this sickness, hath shown me the cause of thine ill, which is no otherwhat than excess of love for some damsel or other, whoever she may be; and this, indeed, thou needest not have thought shame to discover, for that thine age requireth it, and wert thou not enamoured, i should hold thee of very little account. wherefore, my son, dissemble not with me, but in all security discover to me thine every desire and put away from thee the melancholy and the thought-taking which be upon thee and from which proceedeth this thy sickness and take comfort and be assured that there is nothing of that which thou mayst impose on me for thy satisfaction but i will do it to the best of my power, as she who loveth thee more than her life. banish shamefastness and fearfulness and tell me if i can do aught to further thy passion; and if thou find me not diligent therein or if i bring it not to effect for thee, account me the cruellest mother that ever bore son.' the young man, hearing his mother's words, was at first abashed, but presently, bethinking himself that none was better able than she to satisfy his wishes, he put away shamefastness and said thus to her: 'madam, nothing hath wrought so effectually with me to keep my love hidden as my having noted of most folk that, once they are grown in years, they choose not to remember them of having themselves been young. but, since in this i find you reasonable, not only will i not deny that to be true which you say you have observed, but i will, to boot, discover to you of whom [i am enamoured], on condition that you will, to the best of your power, give effect to your promise; and thus may you have me whole again.' whereto the lady (trusting overmuch in that which was not to come to pass for her on such wise as she deemed in herself) answered freely that he might in all assurance discover to her his every desire, for that she would without any delay address herself to contrive that he should have his pleasure. 'madam,' then said the youth, 'the exceeding beauty and commendable fashions of our jeannette and my unableness to make her even sensible, still less to move her to pity, of my love and the having never dared to discover it unto any have brought me whereas you see me; and if that which you have promised me come not, one way or another, to pass, you may be assured that my life will be brief.' the lady, to whom it appeared more a time for comfort than for reproof, said, smilingly, 'alack, my son, hast thou then for this suffered thyself to languish thus? take comfort and leave me do, once thou shalt be recovered.' the youth, full of good hope, in a very short time showed signs of great amendment, whereas the lady, being much rejoiced, began to cast about how she might perform that which she had promised him. accordingly, calling jeannette to her one day, she asked her very civilly, as by way of a jest, if she had a lover; whereupon she waxed all red and answered, 'madam, it concerneth not neither were it seemly in a poor damsel like myself, banished from house and home and abiding in others' service, to think of love.' quoth the lady, 'an you have no lover, we mean to give you one, in whom you may rejoice and live merry and have more delight of your beauty, for it behoveth not that so handsome a girl as you are abide without a lover.' to this jeannette made answer, 'madam, you took me from my father's poverty and have reared me as a daughter, wherefore it behoveth me to do your every pleasure; but in this i will nowise comply with you, and therein methinketh i do well. if it please you give me a husband, him do i purpose to love, but none other; for that, since of the inheritance of my ancestors nought is left me save only honour, this latter i mean to keep and preserve as long as life shall endure to me.' this speech seemed to the lady very contrary to that whereto she thought to come for the keeping of her promise to her son,--albeit, like a discreet woman as she was, she inwardly much commended the damsel therefor,--and she said, 'how now, jeannette? if our lord the king, who is a young cavalier, as thou art a very fair damsel, would fain have some easance of thy love, wouldst thou deny it to him?' whereto she answered forthright, 'the king might do me violence, but of my consent he should never avail to have aught of me save what was honourable.' the lady, seeing how she was minded, left parleying with her and bethought herself to put her to the proof; wherefore she told her son that, whenas he should be recovered, she would contrive to get her alone with him in a chamber, so he might make shift to have his pleasure of her, saying that it appeared to her unseemly that she should, procuress-wise, plead for her son and solicit her own maid. with this the young man was nowise content and presently waxed grievously worse, which when his mother saw, she opened her mind to jeannette, but, finding her more constant than ever, recounted what she had done to her husband, and he and she resolved of one accord, grievous though it seemed to them, to give her to him to wife, choosing rather to have their son alive with a wife unsorted to his quality than dead without any; and so, after much parley, they did; whereat jeannette was exceeding content and with a devout heart rendered thanks to god, who had not forgotten her; but for all that she never avouched herself other than the daughter of a picard. as for the young man, he presently recovered and celebrating his nuptials, the gladdest man alive, proceeded to lead a merry life with his bride. meanwhile, perrot, who had been left in wales with the king of england's marshal, waxed likewise in favour with his lord and grew up very goodly of his person and doughty as any man in the island, insomuch that neither in tourneying nor jousting nor in any other act of arms was there any in the land who could cope with him; wherefore he was everywhere known and famous under the name of perrot the picard. and even as god had not forgotten his sister, so on like wise he showed that he had him also in mind; for that a pestilential sickness, being come into those parts, carried off well nigh half the people thereof, besides that most part of those who survived fled for fear into other lands; wherefore the whole country appeared desert. in this mortality, the marshal his lord and his lady and only son, together with many others, brothers and nephews and kinsmen, all died, nor was any left of all his house save a daughter, just husband-ripe, and perrot, with sundry other serving folk. the pestilence being somewhat abated, the young lady, with the approof and by the counsel of some few gentlemen of the country[ ] left alive, took perrot, for that he was a man of worth and prowess, to husband and made him lord of all that had fallen to her by inheritance; nor was it long ere the king of england, hearing the marshal to be dead and knowing the worth of perrot the picard, substituted him in the dead man's room and made him his marshal. this, in brief, is what came of the two innocent children of the count of antwerp, left by him for lost. [footnote : _paesani_, lit., countrymen; but boccaccio evidently uses the word in the sense of "vassals."] eighteen years were now passed since the count's flight from paris, when, as he abode in ireland, having suffered many things in a very sorry way of life, there took him a desire to learn, as he might, what was come of his children. wherefore, seeing himself altogether changed of favour from that which he was wont to be and feeling himself, for long exercise, grown more robust of his person than he had been when young and abiding in ease and idlesse, he took leave of him with whom he had so long abidden and came, poor and ill enough in case, to england. thence he betook himself whereas he had left perrot and found him a marshal and a great lord and saw him robust and goodly of person; the which was mighty pleasing unto him, but he would not make himself known to him till he should have learned how it was with jeannette. accordingly, he set out and stayed not till he came to london, where, cautiously enquiring of the lady with whom he had left his daughter and of her condition, he found jeannette married to her son, which greatly rejoiced him and he counted all his past adversity a little thing, since he had found his children again alive and in good case. then, desirous of seeing jeannette, he began beggarwise, to haunt the neighbourhood of her house, where one day jamy lamiens, (for so was jeannette's husband called,) espying him and having compassion on him, for that he saw him old and poor, bade one of his servants bring him in and give him to eat for the love of god, which the man readily did. now jeannette had had several children by jamy, whereof the eldest was no more than eight years old, and they were the handsomest and sprightliest children in the world. when they saw the count eat, they came one and all about him and began to caress him, as if, moved by some occult virtue, they divined him to be their grandfather. he, knowing them for his grandchildren, fell to fondling and making much of them, wherefore the children would not leave him, albeit he who had charge of their governance called them. jeannette, hearing this, issued forth of a chamber therenigh and coming whereas the count was, chid them amain and threatened to beat them, an they did not what their governor willed. the children began to weep and say that they would fain abide with that honest man, who loved them better than their governor, whereat both the lady and the count laughed. now the latter had risen, nowise as a father, but as a poor man, to do honour to his daughter, as to a mistress, and seeing her, felt a marvellous pleasure at his heart. but she nor then nor after knew him any whit, for that he was beyond measure changed from what he was used to be, being grown old and hoar and bearded and lean and swart, and appeared altogether another man than the count. the lady then, seeing that the children were unwilling to leave him and wept, when she would have them go away, bade their governor let them be awhile and the children thus being with the good man, it chanced that jamy's father returned and heard from their governor what had passed, whereupon quoth the marshal, who held jeannette in despite, 'let them be, god give them ill-luck! they do but hark back to that whence they sprang. they come by their mother of a vagabond and therefore it is no wonder if they are fain to herd with vagabonds.' the count heard these words and was mightily chagrined thereat; nevertheless, he shrugged his shoulders and put up with the affront, even as he had put up with many others. jamy, hearing how the children had welcomed the honest man, to wit, the count, albeit it misliked him, nevertheless so loved them that, rather than see them weep, he commanded that, if the good man chose to abide there in any capacity, he should be received into his service. the count answered that he would gladly abide there, but he knew not to do aught other than tend horses, whereto he had been used all his lifetime. a horse was accordingly assigned to him and when he had cared for it, he busied himself with making sport for the children. whilst fortune handled the count of antwerp and his children on such wise as hath been set out, it befell that the king of france, after many truces made with the germans, died and his son, whose wife was she through whom the count had been banished, was crowned in his place; and no sooner was the current truce expired than he again began a very fierce war. to his aid the king of england, as a new-made kinsman, despatched much people, under the commandment of perrot his marshal and jamy lamiens, son of the other marshal, and with them went the good man, to wit, the count, who, without being recognized of any, abode a pretty while with the army in the guise of a horseboy, and there, like a man of mettle as he was, wrought good galore, more than was required of him, both with counsels and with deeds. during the war, it came to pass that the queen of france fell grievously sick and feeling herself nigh unto death, contrite for all her sins, confessed herself unto the archbishop of rouen, who was held of all a very holy and good man. amongst her other sins, she related to him that which the count of antwerp had most wrongfully suffered through her; nor was she content to tell it to him alone, nay, but before many other men of worth she recounted all as it had passed, beseeching them so to do with the king that the count, an he were on life, or, if not, one of his children, should be restored to his estate; after which she lingered not long, but, departing this life, was honourably buried. her confession, being reported to the king, moved him, after he had heaved divers sighs of regret for the wrong done to the nobleman, to let cry throughout all the army and in many other parts, that whoso should give him news of the count of antwerp or of either of his children should for each be wonder-well guerdoned of him, for that he held him, upon the queen's confession, innocent of that for which he had gone into exile and was minded to restore him to his first estate and more. the count, in his guise of a horseboy, hearing this and being assured that it was the truth,[ ] betook himself forthright to jamy lamiens and prayed him go with him to perrot, for that he had a mind to discover to them that which the king went seeking. all three being then met together, quoth the count to perrot, who had it already in mind to discover himself, 'perrot, jamy here hath thy sister to wife nor ever had any dowry with her; wherefore, that thy sister may not go undowered, i purpose that he and none other shall, by making thee known as the son of the count of antwerp, have this great reward that the king promiseth for thee and for violante, thy sister and his wife, and myself, who am the count of antwerp and your father.' perrot, hearing this and looking steadfastly upon him, presently knew him and cast himself, weeping, at his feet and embraced him, saying, 'father mine, you are dearly welcome.' jamy, hearing first what the count said and after seeing what perrot did, was overcome at once with such wonderment and such gladness that he scarce knew what he should do. however, after awhile, giving credence to the former's speech and sore ashamed for the injurious words he had whiles used to the hostler-count, he let himself fall, weeping, at his feet and humbly besought him pardon of every past affront, the which the count, having raised him to his feet, graciously accorded him. [footnote : _i.e._ that it was not a snare.] then, after they had all three discoursed awhile of each one's various adventures and wept and rejoiced together amain, perrot and jamy would have reclad the count, who would on nowise suffer it, but willed that jamy, having first assured himself of the promised guerdon, should, the more to shame the king, present him to the latter in that his then plight and in his groom's habit. accordingly, jamy, followed by the count and perrot, presented himself before the king, and offered, provided he would guerdon him according to the proclamation made, to produce to him the count and his children. the king promptly let bring for all three a guerdon marvellous in jamy's eyes and commanded that he should be free to carry it off, whenas he should in very deed produce the count and his children, as he promised. jamy, then, turning himself about and putting forward the count his horseboy and perrot, said, 'my lord, here be the father and the son; the daughter, who is my wife and who is not here, with god's aid you shall soon see.' the king, hearing this, looked at the count and albeit he was sore changed from that which he was used to be, yet, after he had awhile considered him, he knew him and well nigh with tears in his eyes raised him--for that he was on his knees before him--to his feet and kissed and embraced him. perrot, also, he graciously received and commanded that the count should incontinent be furnished anew with clothes and servants and horses and harness, according as his quality required, which was straightway done. moreover, he entreated jamy with exceeding honour and would fain know every particular of his[ ] past adventures. then, jamy being about to receive the magnificent guerdons appointed him for having discovered the count and his children, the former said to him, 'take these of the munificence of our lord the king and remember to tell thy father that thy children, his grandchildren and mine, are not by their mother born of a vagabond.' jamy, accordingly, took the gifts and sent for his wife and mother to paris, whither came also perrot's wife; and there they all foregathered in the utmost joyance with the count, whom the king had reinstated in all his good and made greater than he ever was. then all, with gautier's leave, returned to their several homes and he until his death abode in paris more worshipfully than ever." [footnote : _quære_, the count's?] the ninth story [day the second] bernabo of genoa, duped by ambrogiuolo, loseth his good and commandeth that his innocent wife be put to death. she escapeth and serveth the soldan in a man's habit. here she lighteth upon the deceiver of her husband and bringeth the latter to alexandria, where, her traducer being punished, she resumeth woman's apparel and returneth to genoa with her husband, rich elisa having furnished her due with her pitiful story, filomena the queen, who was tall and goodly of person and smiling and agreeable of aspect beyond any other of her sex, collecting herself, said, "needs must the covenant with dioneo be observed, wherefore, there remaining none other to tell than he and i, i will tell my story first, and he, for that he asked it as a favour, shall be the last to speak." so saying, she began thus, "there is a proverb oftentimes cited among the common folk to the effect that the deceiver abideth[ ] at the feet of the deceived; the which meseemeth may by no reasoning be shown to be true, an it approve not itself by actual occurrences. wherefore, whilst ensuing the appointed theme, it hath occurred to me, dearest ladies, to show you, at the same time, that this is true, even as it is said; nor should it mislike you to hear it, so you may know how to keep yourselves from deceivers. [footnote : _rimane._ the verb _rimanere_ is constantly used by the old italian writers in the sense of "to become," so that the proverb cited in the text may be read "the deceiver becometh (_i.e._ findeth himself in the end) at the feet (_i.e._ at the mercy) of the person deceived."] there were once at paris in an inn certain very considerable italian merchants, who were come thither, according to their usance, some on one occasion and some on another, and having one evening among others supped all together merrily, they fell to devising of divers matters, and passing from one discourse to another, they came at last to speak of their wives, whom they had left at home, and one said jestingly, 'i know not how mine doth; but this i know well, that, whenas there cometh to my hand here any lass that pleaseth me, i leave on one side the love i bear my wife and take of the other such pleasure as i may.' 'and i,' quoth another, 'do likewise, for that if i believe that my wife pusheth her fortunes [in my absence,] she doth it, and if i believe it not, still she doth it; wherefore tit for tat be it; an ass still getteth as good as he giveth.'[ ] a third, following on, came well nigh to the same conclusion, and in brief all seemed agreed upon this point, that the wives they left behind had no mind to lose time in their husbands' absence. one only, who hight bernabo lomellini of genoa, maintained the contrary, avouching that he, by special grace of god, had a lady to wife who was belike the most accomplished woman of all italy in all those qualities which a lady, nay, even (in great part) in those which a knight or an esquire, should have; for that she was fair of favour and yet in her first youth and adroit and robust of her person; nor was there aught that pertaineth unto a woman, such as works of broidery in silk and the like, but she did it better than any other of her sex. moreover, said he, there was no sewer, or in other words, no serving-man, alive who served better or more deftly at a nobleman's table than did she, for that she was very well bred and exceeding wise and discreet. he after went on to extol her as knowing better how to ride a horse and fly a hawk, to read and write and cast a reckoning than if she were a merchant; and thence, after many other commendations, coming to that whereof it had been discoursed among them, he avouched with an oath that there could be found no honester nor chaster woman than she; wherefore he firmly believed that, should he abide half a score years, or even always, from home, she would never incline to the least levity with another man. among the merchants who discoursed thus was a young man called ambrogiuolo of piacenza, who fell to making the greatest mock in the world of this last commendation bestowed by bernabo upon his wife and asked him scoffingly if the emperor had granted him that privilege over and above all other men. bernabo, some little nettled, replied that not the emperor, but god, who could somewhat more than the emperor, had vouchsafed him the favour in question. whereupon quoth ambrogiuolo, 'bernabo, i doubt not a whit but that thou thinkest to say sooth; but meseemeth thou hast paid little regard to the nature of things; for that, hadst thou taken heed thereunto, i deem thee not so dull of wit but thou wouldst have noted therein certain matters which had made thee speak more circumspectly on this subject. and that thou mayst not think that we, who have spoken much at large of our wives, believe that we have wives other or otherwise made than thine, but mayst see that we spoke thus, moved by natural perception, i will e'en reason with thee a little on this matter. i have always understood man to be the noblest animal created of god among mortals, and after him, woman; but man, as is commonly believed and as is seen by works, is the more perfect and having more perfection, must without fail have more of firmness and constancy, for that women universally are more changeable; the reason whereof might be shown by many natural arguments, which for the present i purpose to leave be. if then man be of more stability and yet cannot keep himself, let alone from complying with a woman who soliciteth him, but even from desiring one who pleaseth him, nay more, from doing what he can, so he may avail to be with her,--and if this betide him not once a month, but a thousand times a day,--what canst thou expect a woman, naturally unstable, to avail against the prayers, the blandishments, the gifts and a thousand other means which an adroit man, who loveth her, will use? thinkest thou she can hold out? certes, how much soever thou mayst affirm it, i believe not that thou believest it; and thou thyself sayst that thy wife is a woman and that she is of flesh and blood, as are other women. if this be so, those same desires must be hers and the same powers that are in other women to resist these natural appetites; wherefore, however honest she be, it is possible she may do that which other women do; and nothing that is possible she be so peremptorily denied nor the contrary thereof affirmed with such rigour as thou dost.' to which bernabo made answer, saying, 'i am a merchant, and not a philosopher, and as a merchant i will answer; and i say that i acknowledge that what thou sayst may happen to foolish women in whom there is no shame; but those who are discreet are so careful of their honour that for the guarding thereof they become stronger than men, who reck not of this; and of those thus fashioned is my wife.' 'indeed,' rejoined ambrogiuolo, 'if, for every time they occupy themselves with toys of this kind, there sprouted from their foreheads a horn to bear witness of that which they have done, there be few, i believe, who would incline thereto; but, far from the horn sprouting, there appeareth neither trace nor token thereof in those who are discreet, and shame and soil of honour consist not but in things discovered; wherefore, whenas they may secretly, they do it, or, if they forebear, it is for stupidity. and have thou this for certain that she alone is chaste, who hath either never been solicited of any or who, having herself solicited, hath not been hearkened. and although i know by natural and true reasons that it is e'en as i say, yet should i not speak thereof with so full an assurance, had i not many a time and with many women made essay thereof. and this i tell thee, that, were i near this most sanctified wife of thine, i warrant me i would in brief space of time bring her to that which i have already gotten of other women.' whereupon quoth bernabo, 'disputing with words might be prolonged without end; thou wouldst say and i should say, and in the end it would all amount to nothing. but, since thou wilt have it that all women are so compliant and that thine address is such, i am content, so i may certify thee of my wife's honesty, to have my head cut off, and thou canst anywise avail to bring her to do thy pleasure in aught of the kind; and if thou fail thereof, i will have thee lose no otherwhat than a thousand gold florins.' 'bernabo,' replied ambrogiuolo, who was now grown heated over the dispute, 'i know not what i should do with thy blood, if i won the wager; but, an thou have a mind to see proof of that which i have advanced, do thou stake five thousand gold florins of thy monies, which should be less dear to thee than thy head, against a thousand of mine, and whereas thou settest no limit [of time,] i will e'en bind myself to go to genoa and within three months from the day of my departure hence to have done my will of thy wife and to bring back with me, in proof thereof, sundry of her most precious things and such and so many tokens that thou shalt thyself confess it to be truth, so verily thou wilt pledge me thy faith not to come to genoa within that term nor write her aught of the matter.' bernabo said that it liked him well and albeit the other merchants endeavoured to hinder the affair, foreseeing that sore mischief might come thereof, the two merchants' minds were so inflamed that, in despite of the rest, they bound themselves one to other by express writings under their hands. this done, bernabo abode behind, whilst ambrogiuolo, as quickliest he might, betook himself to genoa. there he abode some days and informing himself with the utmost precaution of the name of the street where the lady dwelt and of her manner of life, understood of her that and more than that which he had heard of her from bernabo, wherefore himseemed he was come on a fool's errand. however, he presently clapped up an acquaintance with a poor woman, who was much about the house and whose great well-wisher the lady was, and availing not to induce her to aught else, he debauched her with money and prevailed with her to bring him, in a chest wroughten after a fashion of his own, not only into the house, but into the gentlewoman's very bedchamber, where, according to the ordinance given her of him, the good woman commended it to her care for some days, as if she had a mind to go somewhither. the chest, then being left in the chamber and the night come, ambrogiuolo, what time he judged the lady to be asleep, opened the chest with certain engines of his and came softly out into the chamber, where there was a light burning, with whose aid he proceeded to observe the ordinance of the place, the paintings and every other notable thing that was therein and fixed them in his memory. then, drawing near the bed and perceiving that the lady and a little girl, who was with her, were fast asleep, he softly altogether uncovered the former and found that she was as fair, naked, as clad, but saw no sign about her that he might carry away, save one, to wit, a mole which she had under the left pap and about which were sundry little hairs as red as gold. this noted he covered her softly up again, albeit, seeing her so fair, he was tempted to adventure his life and lay himself by her side; however, for that he had heard her to be so obdurate and uncomplying in matters of this kind, he hazarded not himself, but, abiding at his leisure in the chamber the most part of the night, took from one of her coffers a purse and a night-rail, together with sundry rings and girdles, and laying them all in his chest, returned thither himself and shut himself up therein as before; and on this wise he did two nights, without the lady being ware of aught. on the third day the good woman came back for the chest, according to the given ordinance, and carried it off whence she had taken it, whereupon ambrogiuolo came out and having rewarded her according to promise, returned, as quickliest he might, with the things aforesaid, to paris, where he arrived before the term appointed. there he summoned the merchants who had been present at the dispute and the laying of the wager and declared, in bernabo's presence, that he had won the wager laid between them, for that he had accomplished that whereof he had vaunted himself; and to prove this to be true, he first described the fashion of the chamber and the paintings thereof and after showed the things he had brought with him thence, avouching that he had them of herself. bernabo confessed the chamber to be as he had said and owned, moreover, that he recognized the things in question as being in truth his wife's; but said that he might have learned from one of the servants of the house the fashion of the chamber and have gotten the things in like manner; wherefore, an he had nought else to say, himseemed not that this should suffice to prove him to have won. whereupon quoth ambrogiuolo, 'in sooth this should suffice, but, since thou wilt have me say more, i will say it. i tell thee that madam ginevra thy wife hath under her left pap a pretty big mole, about which are maybe half a dozen little hairs as red as gold.' when bernabo heard this, it was as if he had gotten a knife-thrust in the heart, such anguish did he feel, and though he had said not a word, his countenance, being all changed, gave very manifest token that what ambrogiuolo said was true. then, after awhile, 'gentlemen,' quoth he, 'that which ambrogiuolo saith is true; wherefore, he having won, let him come whenassoever it pleaseth him and he shall be paid.' accordingly, on the ensuing day ambrogiuolo was paid in full and bernabo, departing paris, betook himself to genoa with fell intent against the lady. when he drew near the city, he would not enter therein, but lighted down a good score miles away at a country house of his and despatched one of his servants, in whom he much trusted, to genoa with two horses and letters under his hand, advising his wife that he had returned and bidding her come to him; and he privily charged the man, whenas he should be with the lady in such place as should seem best to him, to put her to death without pity and return to him. the servant accordingly repaired to genoa and delivering the letters and doing his errand, was received with great rejoicing by the lady, who on the morrow took horse with him and set out for their country house. as they fared on together, discoursing of one thing and another, they came to a very deep and lonely valley, beset with high rocks and trees, which seeming to the servant a place wherein he might, with assurance for himself, do his lord's commandment, he pulled out his knife and taking the lady by the arm, said, 'madam, commend your soul to god, for needs must you die, without faring farther.' the lady, seeing the knife and hearing these words, was all dismayed and said, 'mercy, for god's sake! ere thou slay me, tell me wherein i have offended thee, that thou wouldst put me to death.' 'madam,' answered the man, 'me you have nowise offended; but wherein you have offended your husband i know not, save that he hath commanded me slay you by the way, without having any pity upon you, threatening me, an i did it not, to have me hanged by the neck. you know well how much i am beholden to him and how i may not gainsay him in aught that he may impose upon me; god knoweth it irketh me for you, but i can no otherwise.' whereupon quoth the lady, weeping, 'alack, for god's sake, consent not to become the murderer of one who hath never wronged thee, to serve another! god who knoweth all knoweth that i never did aught for which i should receive such a recompense from my husband. but let that be; thou mayst, an thou wilt, at once content god and thy master and me, on this wise; to wit, that thou take these my clothes and give me but thy doublet and a hood and with the former return to my lord and thine and tell him that thou hast slain me; and i swear to thee, by that life which thou wilt have bestowed on me, that i will remove hence and get me gone into a country whence never shall any news of me win either to him or to thee or into these parts.' the servant, who was loath to slay her, was lightly moved to compassion; wherefore he took her clothes and give her a sorry doublet of his and a hood, leaving her sundry monies she had with her. then praying her depart the country, he left her in the valley and afoot and betook himself to his master, to whom he avouched that not only was his commandment accomplished, but that he had left the lady's dead body among a pack of wolves, and bernabo presently returned to genoa, where the thing becoming known, he was much blamed. as for the lady, she abode alone and disconsolate till nightfall, when she disguised herself as most she might and repaired to a village hard by, where, having gotten from an old woman that which she needed, she fitted the doublet to her shape and shortening it, made a pair of linen breeches of her shift; then, having cut her hair and altogether transformed herself in the guise of a sailor, she betook herself to the sea-shore, where, as chance would have it, she found a catalan gentleman, by name senor encararch, who had landed at alba from a ship he had in the offing, to refresh himself at a spring there. with him she entered into parley and engaging with him as a servant, embarked on board the ship, under the name of sicurano da finale. there, being furnished by the gentleman with better clothes, she proceeded to serve him so well and so aptly that she became in the utmost favour with him. no great while after it befell that the catalan made a voyage to alexandria with a lading of his and carrying thither certain peregrine falcons for the soldan, presented them to him. the soldan, having once and again entertained him at meat and noting with approof the fashions of sicurano, who still went serving him, begged him[ ] of his master, who yielded him to him, although it irked him to do it, and sicurano, in a little while, by his good behaviour, gained the love and favour of the soldan, even as he had gained that of the catalan. wherefore, in process of time, it befell that,--the time coming for a great assemblage, in the guise of a fair, of merchants, both christian and saracen, which was wont at a certain season of the year to be held in acre, a town under the seignory of the soldan, and to which, in order that the merchants and their merchandise might rest secure, the latter was still used to despatch, besides other his officers, some one of his chief men, with troops, to look to the guard,--he bethought himself to send sicurano, who was by this well versed in the language of the country, on this service; and so he did. sicurano accordingly came to acre as governor and captain of the guard of the merchants and their merchandise and there well and diligently doing that which pertained to his office and going round looking about him, saw many merchants there, sicilians and pisans and genoese and venetians and other italians, with whom he was fain to make acquaintance, in remembrance of his country. it befell, one time amongst others, that, having lighted down at the shop of certain venetian merchants, he espied among other trinkets, a purse and a girdle, which he straightway knew for having been his and marvelled thereat; but, without making any sign, he carelessly asked to whom they pertained and if they were for sale. now ambrogiuolo of piacenza was come thither with much merchandise on board a venetian ship and hearing the captain of the guard ask whose the trinkets were, came forward and said, laughing, 'sir, the things are mine and i do not sell them; but, if they please you, i will gladly give them to you.' sicurano, seeing him laugh, misdoubted he had recognized him by some gesture of his; but yet, keeping a steady countenance, he said, 'belike thou laughest to see me, a soldier, go questioning of these women's toys?' 'sir,' answered ambrogiuolo, 'i laugh not at that; nay, but at the way i came by them.' 'marry, then,' said sicurano, 'an it be not unspeakable, tell me how thou gottest them, so god give thee good luck.' quoth ambrogiuolo, 'sir, a gentlewoman of genoa, hight madam ginevra, wife of bernabo lomellini, gave me these things, with certain others, one night that i lay with her, and prayed me keep them for the love of her. now i laugh for that i mind me of the simplicity of bernabo, who was fool enough to lay five thousand florins to one that i would not bring his wife to do my pleasure; the which i did and won the wager; whereupon he, who should rather have punished himself for his stupidity than her for doing that which all women do, returned from paris to genoa and there, by what i have since heard, caused her put to death.' sicurano, hearing this, understood forthwith what was the cause of bernabo's anger against his wife[ ] and manifestly perceiving this fellow to have been the occasion of all her ills, determined not to let him go unpunished therefor. accordingly he feigned to be greatly diverted with the story and artfully clapped up a strait acquaintance with him, insomuch that, the fair being ended, ambrogiuolo, at his instance, accompanied him, with all his good, to alexandria. here sicurano let build him a warehouse and lodged in his hands store of his own monies; and ambrogiuolo, foreseeing great advantage to himself, willingly took up his abode there. meanwhile, sicurano, careful to make bernabo clear of his[ ] innocence, rested not till, by means of certain great genoese merchants who were then in alexandria, he had, on some plausible occasion of his[ ] own devising, caused him come thither, where finding him in poor enough case, he had him privily entertained by a friend of his[ ] against it should seem to him[ ] time to do that which he purposed. now he had already made ambrogiuolo recount his story before the soldan for the latter's diversion; but seeing bernabo there and thinking there was no need to use farther delay in the matter, he took occasion to procure the soldan to have ambrogiuolo and bernabo brought before him and in the latter's presence, to extort from the former, by dint of severity, an it might not easily be done [by other means,] the truth of that whereof he vaunted himself concerning bernabo's wife. accordingly, they both being come, the soldan, in the presence of many, with a stern countenance commanded ambrogiuolo to tell the truth how he had won of bernabo the five thousand gold florins; and sicurano himself, in whom he most trusted, with a yet angrier aspect, threatened him with the most grievous torments, an he told it not; whereupon ambrogiuolo, affrighted on one side and another and in a measure constrained, in the presence of bernabo and many others, plainly related everything, even as it passed, expecting no worse punishment therefor than the restitution of the five thousand gold florins and of the stolen trinkets. he having spoken, sicurano, as he were the soldan's minister in the matter, turned to bernabo and said to him, 'and thou, what didst thou to thy lady for this lie?' whereto bernabo replied, 'overcome with wrath for the loss of my money and with resentment for the shame which meseemed i had gotten from my wife, i caused a servant of mine put her to death, and according to that which he reported to me, she was straightway devoured by a multitude of wolves,' these things said in the presence of the soldan and all heard and apprehended of him, albeit he knew not yet to what end sicurano, who had sought and ordered this, would fain come, the latter said to him, 'my lord, you may very clearly see how much reason yonder poor lady had to vaunt herself of her gallant and her husband, for that the former at once bereaved her of honour, marring her fair fame with lies, and despoiled her husband, whilst the latter more credulous of others' falsehoods than of the truth which he might by long experience have known, caused her to be slain and eaten of wolves; and moreover, such is the goodwill and the love borne her by the one and the other that, having long abidden with her, neither of them knoweth her. but that you may the better apprehend that which each of these hath deserved, i will,--so but you vouchsafe me, of special favour to punish the deceiver and pardon the dupe,--e'en cause her come hither into your and their presence.' the soldan, disposed in the matter altogether to comply with sicurano's wishes, answered that he would well and bade him produce the lady; whereat bernabo marvelled exceedingly, for that he firmly believed her to be dead, whilst ambrogiuolo, now divining his danger, began to be in fear of worse than paying of monies and knew not whether more to hope or to fear from the coming of the lady, but awaited her appearance with the utmost amazement. the soldan, then, having accorded sicurano his wish, the latter threw himself, weeping, on his knees before him and putting off, as it were at one and the same time, his manly voice and masculine demeanour, said, 'my lord, i am the wretched misfortunate ginevra, who have these six years gone wandering in man's disguise about the world, having been foully and wickedly aspersed by this traitor ambrogiuolo and given by yonder cruel and unjust man to one of his servants to be slain and eaten of wolves.' then, tearing open the fore part of her clothes and showing her breast, she discovered herself to the soldan and all else who were present and after, turning to ambrogiuolo, indignantly demanded of him when he had ever lain with her, according as he had aforetime boasted; but he, now knowing her and fallen well nigh dumb for shame, said nothing. the soldan, who had always held her a man, seeing and hearing this, fell into such a wonderment that he more than once misdoubted that which he saw and heard to be rather a dream than true. however, after his amazement had abated, apprehending the truth of the matter, he lauded to the utmost the life and fashions of ginevra, till then called sicurano, and extolled her constancy and virtue; and letting bring her very sumptuous woman's apparel and women to attend her, he pardoned bernabo, in accordance with her request, the death he had merited, whilst the latter, recognizing her, cast himself at her feet, weeping and craving forgiveness, which she, ill worthy as he was thereof, graciously accorded him and raising him to his feet, embraced him tenderly, as her husband. then the soldan commanded that ambrogiuolo should incontinent be bound to a stake and smeared with honey and exposed to the sun in some high place of the city, nor should ever be loosed thence till such time as he should fall of himself; and so was it done. after this he commanded that all that had belonged to him should be given to the lady, the which was not so little but that it outvalued ten thousand doubloons. moreover, he let make a very goodly banquet, wherein he entertained bernabo with honour, as madam ginevra's husband, and herself as a very valiant lady and gave her, in jewels and vessels of gold and silver and monies, that which amounted to better[ ] than other ten thousand doubloons. then, the banquet over, he caused equip them a ship and gave them leave to return at their pleasure to genoa, whither accordingly they returned with great joyance and exceeding rich; and there they were received with the utmost honour, especially madam ginevra, who was of all believed to be dead and who, while she lived, was still reputed of great worth and virtue. as for ambrogiuolo, being that same day bounded to the stake and anointed with honey, he was, to his exceeding torment, not only slain, but devoured, of the flies and wasps and gadflies, wherewith that country aboundeth, even to the bones, which latter, waxed white and hanging by the sinews, being left unremoved, long bore witness of his villainy to all who saw them. and on this wise did the deceiver abide at the feet of the deceived." [footnote : lit. whatsoever an ass giveth against a wall, such he receiveth (_quale asino da in parete, tal riceve_). i cannot find any satisfactory explanation of this proverbial saying, which may be rendered in two ways, according as _quale_ and _tale_ are taken as relative to a thing or a person. the probable reference seems to be to the circumstance of an ass making water against a wall, so that his urine returns to him.] [footnote : from this point until the final discovery of her true sex, the heroine is spoken of in the masculine gender, as became her assumed name and habit.] [footnote : here boccaccio uses the feminine pronoun, immediately afterward resuming the masculine form in speaking of sicurano.] [footnote : _i.e._ her.] [footnote : _i.e._ her.] [footnote : _i.e._ hers.] [footnote : _i.e._ her.] [footnote : sic (_meglio_).] the tenth story [day the second] paganino of monaco stealeth away the wife of messer ricciardo di chinzica, who, learning where she is, goeth thither and making friends with paganino, demandeth her again of him. the latter concedeth her to him, an she will; but she refuseth to return with him and messer ricciardo dying, she becometh the wife of paganino each of the honourable company highly commended for goodly the story told by their queen, especially dioneo, with whom alone for that present day it now rested to tell, and who, after many praises bestowed upon the preceding tale, said, "fair ladies, one part of the queen's story hath caused me change counsel of telling you one that was in my mind, and determine to tell you another,--and that is the stupidity of bernabo (albeit good betided him thereof) and of all others who give themselves to believe that which he made a show of believing and who, to wit, whilst going about the world, diverting themselves now with this woman and now with that, imagine that the ladies left at home abide with their hands in their girdles, as if we knew not, we who are born and reared among the latter, unto what they are fain. in telling you this story, i shall at once show you how great is the folly of these folk and how greater yet is that of those who, deeming themselves more potent than nature herself, think by dint of sophistical inventions[ ] to avail unto that which is beyond their power and study to bring others to that which they themselves are, whenas the complexion of those on whom they practise brooketh it not. [footnote : lit. fabulous demonstrations (_dimostrazioni favolose_), casuistical arguments, founded upon premises of their own invention.] there was, then, in pisa a judge, by name messer ricciardo di chinzica, more gifted with wit than with bodily strength, who, thinking belike to satisfy a wife by the same means which served him to despatch his studies and being very rich, sought with no little diligence to have a fair and young lady to wife; whereas, had he but known to counsel himself as he counselled others, he should have shunned both the one and the other. the thing came to pass according to his wish, for messer lotto gualandi gave him to wife a daughter of his, bartolomea by name, one of the fairest and handsomest young ladies of pisa, albeit there be few there that are not very lizards to look upon. the judge accordingly brought her home with the utmost pomp and having held a magnificent wedding, made shift the first night to hand her one venue for the consummation of the marriage, but came within an ace of making a stalemate of it, whereafter, lean and dry and scant of wind as he was, it behoved him on the morrow bring himself back to life with malmsey and restorative confections and other remedies. thenceforward, being now a better judge of his own powers than he was, he fell to teaching his wife a calendar fit for children learning to read and belike made aforetime at ravenna,[ ] for that, according to what he feigned to her, there was no day in the year but was sacred not to one saint only, but to many, in reverence of whom he showed by divers reasons that man and wife should abstain from carnal conversation; and to these be added, to boot, fast days and emberdays and the vigils of the apostles and of a thousand other saints and fridays and saturdays and lord's day and all lent and certain seasons of the moon and store of other exceptions, conceiving belike that it behoved to keep holiday with women in bed like as he did bytimes whilst pleading in the courts of civil law. this fashion (to the no small chagrin of the lady, whom he handled maybe once a month, and hardly that) he followed a great while, still keeping strait watch over her, lest peradventure some other should teach her to know working-days, even as he had taught her holidays. things standing thus, it chanced that, the heat being great and messer ricciardo having a mind to go a-pleasuring to a very fair country-seat he had, near monte nero, and there abide some days to take the air, he betook himself thither, carrying with him his fair lady. there sojourning, to give her some diversion, he caused one day fish and they went out to sea in two boats, he in one with the fishermen, and she in another with other ladies. the sport luring them on, they drifted some miles out to sea, well nigh without perceiving it, and whilst they were intent upon their diversion, there came up of a sudden a galliot belonging to paganino da mare, a famous corsair of those days. the latter, espying the boats, made for them, nor could they flee so fast but he overtook that in which were the women and seeing therein the judge's fair lady, he carried her aboard the galliot, in full sight of messer ricciardo, who was now come to land, and made off without recking of aught else. when my lord judge, who was so jealous that he misdoubted of the very air, saw this, it booteth not to ask if he was chagrined; and in vain, both at pisa and otherwhere, did he complain of the villainy of the corsairs, for that he knew not who had taken his wife from him nor whither he had carried her. as for paganino, finding her so fair, he deemed himself in luck and having no wife, resolved to keep her for himself. accordingly, seeing her weeping sore, he studied to comfort her with soft words till nightfall, when, his calendar having dropped from his girdle and saints' days and holidays gone clean out of his head, he fell to comforting her with deeds, himseeming that words had availed little by day; and after such a fashion did he console her that, ere they came to monaco, the judge and his ordinances had altogether escaped her mind and she began to lead the merriest of lives with paganino. the latter carried her to monaco and there, over and above the consolations with which he plied her night and day, he entreated her honourably as his wife. after awhile it came to messer ricciardo's ears where his wife was and he, being possessed with the most ardent desire to have her again and bethinking himself that none other might thoroughly suffice to do what was needful to that end, resolved to go thither himself, determined to spend any quantity of money for her ransom. accordingly he set out by sea and coming to monaco, there both saw and was seen of the lady, who told it to paganino that same evening and acquainted him with her intent. next morning messer ricciardo, seeing paganino, accosted him and quickly clapped up a great familiarity and friendship with him, whilst the other feigned not to know him and waited to see at what he aimed. accordingly, whenas it seemed to him time, messer ricciardo discovered to him, as best and most civilly he knew, the occasion of his coming and prayed him take what he pleased and restore him the lady. to which paganino made answer with a cheerful countenance, 'sir, you are welcome, and to answer you briefly, i say thus; it is true i have a young lady in my house, if she be your wife or another's i know not, for that i know you not nor indeed her, save in so much as she hath abidden awhile with me. if you be, as you say, her husband, i will, since you seem to me a civil gentleman, carry you to her and i am assured that she will know you right well. if she say it is as you avouch and be willing to go with you, you shall, for the sake of your civility, give me what you yourself will to her ransom; but, an it be not so, you would do ill to seek to take her from me, for that i am a young man and can entertain a woman as well as another, and especially such an one as she, who is the most pleasing i ever saw.' quoth messer ricciardo, 'for certain she is my wife, an thou bring me where she is, thou shalt soon see it; for she will incontinent throw herself on my neck; wherefore i ask no better than that it be as thou proposest.' 'then,' said paganino, 'let us be going.' accordingly they betook themselves to the corsair's house, where he brought the judge into a saloon of his and let call the lady, who issued forth of a chamber, all dressed and tired, and came whereas they were, but accosted messer ricciardo no otherwise than as she would any other stranger who might have come home with paganino. the judge, who looked to have been received by her with the utmost joy, marvelled sore at this and fell a-saying in himself, 'belike the chagrin and long grief i have suffered, since i lost her, have so changed me that she knoweth me not.' wherefore he said to her, 'wife, it hath cost me dear to carry thee a-fishing, for that never was grief felt like that which i have suffered since i lost thee, and now meseemeth thou knowest me not, so distantly dost thou greet me. seest thou not that i am thine own messer ricciardo, come hither to pay that which this gentleman, in whose house we are, shall require to thy ransom and to carry thee away? and he, of his favour, restoreth thee to me for what i will.' the lady turned to him and said, smiling somewhat, 'speak you to me, sir? look you mistake me not, for, for my part, i mind me not ever to have seen you.' quoth ricciardo, 'look what thou sayest; consider me well; an thou wilt but recollect thyself, thou wilt see that i am thine own ricciardo di chinzica.' 'sir,' answered the lady, 'you will pardon me; belike it is not so seemly a thing as you imagine for me to look much on you. nevertheless i have seen enough of you to know that i never before set eyes on you.' ricciardo, concluding that she did this for fear of paganino and chose not to confess to knowing him in the latter's presence, besought him of his favour that he might speak with her in a room alone. paganino replied that he would well, so but he would not kiss her against her will, and bade the lady go with him into a chamber and there hear what he had to say and answer him as it should please her. accordingly the lady and messer ricciardo went into a room apart and as soon as they were seated, the latter began to say, 'alack, heart of my body, sweet my soul and my hope, knowest thou not thy ricciardo, who loveth thee more than himself? how can this be? am i so changed? prithee, fair mine eye, do but look on me a little.' the lady began to laugh and without letting him say more, replied, 'you may be assured that i am not so scatterbrained but that i know well enough you are messer ricciardo di chinzica, my husband; but, what time i was with you, you showed that you knew me very ill, for that you should have had the sense to see that i was young and lusty and gamesome and should consequently have known that which behoveth unto young ladies, over and above clothes and meat, albeit for shamefastness they name it not; the which how you performed, you know. if the study of the laws was more agreeable to you than your wife, you should not have taken her, albeit it never appeared to me that you were a judge; nay, you seemed to me rather a common crier of saints' days and sacraments and fasts and vigils, so well you knew them. and i tell you this, that, had you suffered the husbandmen who till your lands keep as many holidays as you allowed him who had the tilling of my poor little field, you would never have reaped the least grain of corn. however, as god, having compassion on my youth, hath willed it, i have happened on yonder man, with whom i abide in this chamber, wherein it is unknown what manner of thing is a holiday (i speak of those holidays which you, more assiduous in the service of god than in that of the ladies, did so diligently celebrate) nor ever yet entered in at this door saturday nor friday nor vigil nor emberday nor lent, that is so long; nay, here swink we day and night and thump our wool; and this very night after matinsong, i know right well how the thing went, once he was up. wherefore i mean to abide with him and work; whilst i am young, and leave saints' days and jubilees and fasts for my keeping when i am old; so get you gone about your business as quickliest you may, good luck go with you, and keep as many holidays as you please, without me.' messer ricciardo, hearing these words, was distressed beyond endurance and said, whenas he saw she had made an end of speaking. 'alack, sweet my soul, what is this thou sayest? hast thou no regard for thy kinsfolk's honour and thine own? wilt thou rather abide here for this man's whore and in mortal sin than at pisa as my wife? he, when he is weary of thee, will turn thee away to thine own exceeding reproach, whilst i will still hold thee dear and still (e'en though i willed it not) thou shalt be mistress of my house. wilt thou for the sake of a lewd and disorderly appetite, forsake thine honour and me, who love thee more than my life? for god's sake, dear my hope, speak no more thus, but consent to come with me; henceforth, since i know thy desire, i will enforce myself [to content it;] wherefore, sweet my treasure, change counsel and come away with me, who have never known weal since thou wast taken from me.' whereto answered the lady, 'i have no mind that any, now that it availeth not, should be more tender of my honour than i myself; would my kinsfolk had had regard thereto, whenas they gave me to you! but, as they had then no care for my honour, i am under no present concern to be careful of theirs; and if i am herein _mortar_[ ] sin, i shall abide though it be in pestle[ ] sin. and let me tell you that here meseemeth i am paganino's wife, whereas at pisa meseemed i was your whore, seeing that there, by season of the moon and quadratures of geometry, needs must be planets concur to couple betwixt you and me, whereas here paganino holdeth me all night in his arms and straineth me and biteth me, and how he serveth me, let god tell you for me. you say forsooth you will enforce yourself; to what? to do it in three casts and cause it stand by dint of cudgelling? i warrant me you are grown a doughty cavalier since i saw you last! begone and enforce yourself to live, for methinketh indeed you do but sojourn here below upon sufferance, so peaked and scant o' wind you show to me. and yet more i tell you, that, should he leave me (albeit meseemeth he is nowise inclined thereto, so i choose to stay,) i purpose not therefor ever to return to you, of whom squeeze you as i might, there were no making a porringer of sauce; for that i abode with you once to my grievous hurt and loss, wherefore in such a case i should seek my vantage elsewhere. nay, once again i tell you, here be neither saints' days nor vigils; wherefore here i mean to abide; so get you gone in god's name as quickliest you may, or i will cry out that you would fain force me.' messer ricciardo, seeing himself in ill case and now recognizing his folly in taking a young wife, whenas he was himself forspent, went forth the chamber tristful and woebegone, and bespoke paganino with many words, that skilled not a jot. ultimately, leaving the lady, he returned to pisa, without having accomplished aught, and there for chagrin fell into such dotage that, as he went about pisa, to whoso greeted him or asked him of anywhat, he answered nought but 'the ill hole[ ] will have no holidays;'[ ] and there, no great while after, he died. paganino, hearing this and knowing the love the lady bore himself, espoused her to his lawful wife and thereafter, without ever observing saints' day or vigil or keeping lent, they wrought what while their legs would carry them and led a jolly life of it. wherefore, dear my ladies, meseemeth bernabo, in his dispute with ambrogiuolo, rode the she-goat down the steep."[ ] [footnote : according to one of the commentators of the decameron, there are as many churches at ravenna as days in the year and each day is there celebrated as that of some saint or other.] [footnote : a trifling jingle upon the similarity in sound of the words _mortale_ (mortal), _mortaio_ (mortar), _pestello_ (pestle), and _pestilente_ (pestilential). the same word-play occurs at least once more in the decameron.] [footnote : _il mal foro_, a woman's commodity (florio).] [footnote : _i.e._ _cunnus nonvult feriari._ some commentators propose to read _il mal furo_, the ill thief, supposing ricciardo to allude to paganino, but this seems far-fetched.] [footnote : _i.e. semble_ ran headlong to destruction. the commentators explain this proverbial expression by saying that a she-goat is in any case a hazardous mount, and _a fortiori_ when ridden down a precipice; but this seems a somewhat "sporting" kind of interpretation.] * * * * * this story gave such occasion for laughter to all the company that there was none whose jaws ached not therefor, and all the ladies avouched with one accord that dioneo spoke sooth and that bernabo had been an ass. but, after the story was ended and the laughter abated, the queen, observing that the hour was now late and that all had told and seeing that the end of her seignory was come, according to the ordinance commenced, took the wreath from her own head and set it on that of neifile, saying, with a blithe aspect, "henceforth, companion dear, be thine the governance of this little people"; and reseated herself. neifile blushed a little at the honour received and became in countenance like as showeth a new-blown rose of april or of may in the breaking of the day, with lovesome eyes some little downcast, sparkling no otherwise than the morning-star. but, after the courteous murmur of the bystanders, whereby they gladsomely approved their goodwill towards the new-made queen, had abated and she had taken heart again, she seated herself somewhat higher than of wont and said, "since i am to be your queen, i will, departing not from the manner holden of those who have foregone me and whose governance you have by your obedience commended, make manifest to you in few words my opinion, which, an it be approved by your counsel, we will ensue. to-morrow, as you know, is friday and the next day is saturday, days which, by reason of the viands that are used therein,[ ] are somewhat irksome to most folk, more by token that friday, considering that he who died for our life on that day suffered passion, is worthy of reverence; wherefore i hold it a just thing and a seemly that, in honour of the divinity, we apply ourselves rather to orisons than to story-telling. as for saturday, it is the usance of ladies on that day to wash their heads and do away all dust and all uncleanliness befallen them for the labours of the past week; and many, likewise, use, in reverence of the virgin mother of the son of god, to fast and rest from all manner of work in honour of the ensuing sunday. wherefore, we being unable fully to ensue the order of living taken by us, on like wise methinketh we were well to rest from story-telling on that day also; after which, for that we shall then have sojourned here four days, i hold it opportune, an we would give no occasion for newcomers to intrude upon us, that we remove hence and get us gone elsewhither; where i have already considered and provided. there when we shall be assembled together on sunday, after sleeping,--we having to-day had leisure enough for discoursing at large,[ ]--i have bethought myself,--at once that you may have more time to consider and because it will be yet goodlier that the license of our story-telling be somewhat straitened and that we devise of one of the many fashions of fortune,--that our discourse shall be of such as have, by dint of diligence,[ ] acquired some much desired thing or recovered some lost good. whereupon let each think to tell somewhat that may be useful or at least entertaining to the company, saving always dioneo his privilege." all commended the speech and disposition of the queen and ordained that it should be as she had said. then, calling for her seneschal, she particularly instructed him where he should set the tables that evening and after of what he should do during all the time of her seignory; and this done, rising to her feet, she gave the company leave to do that which was most pleasing unto each. accordingly, ladies and men betook themselves to a little garden and there, after they had disported themselves awhile, the hour of supper being come, they supped with mirth and pleasance; then, all arising thence and emilia, by the queen's commandment, leading the round, the ditty following was sung by pampinea, whilst the other ladies responded: what lady aye should sing, and if not i, who'm blest with all for which a maid can sigh? come then, o love, thou source of all my weal, all hope and every issue glad and bright sing ye awhile yfere of sighs nor bitter pains i erst did feel, that now but sweeten to me thy delight, nay, but of that fire clear, wherein i, burning, live in joy and cheer, and as my god, thy name do magnify. thou settest, love, before these eyes of mine whenas thy fire i entered the first day, a youngling so beseen with valour, worth and loveliness divine, that never might one find a goodlier, nay, nor yet his match, i ween. so sore i burnt for him i still must e'en sing, blithe, of him with thee, my lord most high. and that in him which crowneth my liesse is that i please him, as he pleaseth me, thanks to love debonair; thus in this world my wish i do possess and in the next i trust at peace to be, through that fast faith i bear to him; sure god, who seeth this, will ne'er the kingdom of his bliss to us deny. [footnote : _i.e._ friday being a fast day and saturday a _jour maigre_.] [footnote : _i.e._ generally upon the vicissitudes of fortune and not upon any particular feature.] [footnote : _industria_, syn. address, skilful contrivance.] after this they sang sundry other songs and danced sundry dances and played upon divers instruments of music. then, the queen deeming it time to go to rest, each betook himself, with torches before him, to his chamber, and all on the two following days, whilst applying themselves to those things whereof the queen had spoken, looked longingly for sunday. here endeth the second day of the decameron _day the third_ here beginneth the third day of the decameron wherein under the governance of neifile is discoursed of such as have by dint of diligence acquired some much desired thing or recovered some lost good the dawn from vermeil began to grow orange-tawny, at the approach of the sun, when on the sunday the queen arose and caused all her company rise also. the seneschal had a great while before despatched to the place whither they were to go store of things needful and folk who should there make ready that which behoved, and seeing the queen now on the way, straightway let load everything else, as if the camp were raised thence, and with the household stuff and such of the servants as remained set out in rear of the ladies and gentlemen. the queen, then, with slow step, accompanied and followed by her ladies and the three young men and guided by the song of some score nightingales and other birds, took her way westward, by a little-used footpath, full of green herbs and flowers, which latter now all began to open for the coming sun, and chatting, jesting and laughing with her company, brought them a while before half tierce,[ ] without having gone over two thousand paces, to a very fair and rich palace, somewhat upraised above the plain upon a little knoll. here they entered and having gone all about and viewed the great saloons and the quaint and elegant chambers all throughly furnished with that which pertaineth thereunto, they mightily commended the place and accounted its lord magnificent. then, going below and seeing the very spacious and cheerful court thereof, the cellars full of choicest wines and the very cool water that welled there in great abundance, they praised it yet more. thence, as if desirous of repose, they betook themselves to sit in a gallery which commanded all the courtyard and was all full of flowers, such as the season afforded, and leafage, whereupon there came the careful seneschal and entertained and refreshed them with costliest confections and wines of choice. thereafter, letting open to them a garden, all walled about, which coasted the palace, they entered therein and it seeming to them, at their entering, altogether[ ] wonder-goodly, they addressed themselves more intently to view the particulars thereof. it had about it and athwart the middle very spacious alleys, all straight as arrows and embowered with trellises of vines, which made great show of bearing abundance of grapes that year and being then all in blossom, yielded so rare a savour about the garden, that, as it blent with the fragrance of many another sweet-smelling plant that there gave scent, themseemed they were among all the spiceries that ever grew in the orient. the sides of these alleys were all in a manner walled about with roses, red and white, and jessamine, wherefore not only of a morning, but what while the sun was highest, one might go all about, untouched thereby, neath odoriferous and delightsome shade. what and how many and how orderly disposed were the plants that grew in that place, it were tedious to recount; suffice it that there is none goodly of those which may brook our air but was there in abundance. amiddleward the garden (what was not less, but yet more commendable than aught else there) was a plat of very fine grass, so green that it seemed well nigh black, enamelled all with belike a thousand kinds of flowers and closed about with the greenest and lustiest of orange and citron trees, the which, bearing at once old fruits and new and flowers, not only afforded the eyes a pleasant shade, but were no less grateful to the smell. midmost the grass-plat was a fountain of the whitest marble, enchased with wonder-goodly sculptures, and thence,--whether i know not from a natural or an artificial source,--there sprang, by a figure that stood on a column in its midst, so great a jet of water and so high towards the sky, whence not without a delectable sound it fell back into the wonder-limpid fount, that a mill might have wrought with less; the which after (i mean the water which overflowed the full basin) issued forth of the lawn by a hidden way, and coming to light therewithout, encompassed it all about by very goodly and curiously wroughten channels. thence by like channels it ran through well nigh every part of the pleasance and was gathered again at the last in a place whereby it had issue from the fair garden and whence it descended, in the clearest of streams, towards the plain; but, ere it won thither, it turned two mills with exceeding power and to the no small vantage of the lord. the sight of this garden and its fair ordinance and the plants and the fountain, with the rivulets proceeding therefrom, so pleased the ladies and the three young men that they all of one accord avouched that, an paradise might be created upon earth, they could not avail to conceive what form, other than that of this garden, might be given it nor what farther beauty might possibly be added thereunto. however, as they went most gladsomely thereabout, weaving them the goodliest garlands of the various leafage of the trees and hearkening the while to the carols of belike a score of different kinds of birds, that sang as if in rivalry one of other, they became aware of a delectable beauty, which, wonderstricken as they were with the other charms of the place, they had not yet noted; to wit, they found the garden full of maybe an hundred kinds of goodly creatures, and one showing them to other, they saw on one side rabbits issue, on another hares run; here lay kids and there fawns went grazing, and there was many another kind of harmless animal, each going about his pastime at his pleasure, as if tame; the which added unto them a yet greater pleasure than the others. after they had gone about their fill, viewing now this thing and now that, the queen let set the tables around the fair fountain and at her commandment, having first sung half a dozen canzonets and danced sundry dances, they sat down to meat. there, being right well and orderly served, after a very fair and sumptuous and tranquil fashion, with goodly and delicate viands, they waxed yet blither and arising thence, gave themselves anew to music-making and singing and dancing till it seemed good to the queen that those whom it pleased should betake themselves to sleep. accordingly some went thither, whilst others, overcome with the beauty of the place, willed not to leave it, but, abiding there, addressed themselves, some to reading romances and some to playing chess or tables, whilst the others slept. but presently, the hour of none being past and the sleepers having arisen and refreshed their faces with cold water, they came all, at the queen's commandment, to the lawn hard by the fountain and there seating themselves, after the wonted fashion, waited to fall to story-telling upon the subject proposed by her. the first upon whom she laid this charge was filostrato, who began on this wise: [footnote : _i.e._ half _before_ (not half _after_) tierce or . a.m. _cf._ the equivalent german idiom, _halb acht_, . (not . ) a.m.] [footnote : _i.e._ as a whole (_tutto insieme_).] the first story [day the third] masetto of lamporecchio feigneth himself dumb and becometh gardener to a convent of women, who all flock to lie with him "fairest ladies, there be many men and women foolish enough to believe that, whenas the white fillet is bound about a girl's head and the black cowl clapped upon her back, she is no longer a woman and is no longer sensible of feminine appetites, as if the making her a nun had changed her to stone; and if perchance they hear aught contrary to this their belief, they are as much incensed as if a very great and heinous misdeed had been committed against nature, considering not neither having regard to themselves, whom full license to do that which they will availeth not to sate, nor yet to the much potency of idlesse and thought-taking.[ ] on like wise there are but too many who believe that spade and mattock and coarse victuals and hard living do altogether purge away carnal appetites from the tillers of the earth and render them exceeding dull of wit and judgment. but how much all who believe thus are deluded, i purpose, since the queen hath commanded it to me, to make plain to you in a little story, without departing from the theme by her appointed. [footnote : _sollecitudine._ the commentators will have it that this is an error for _solitudine_, solitude, but i see no necessity for the substitution, the text being perfectly acceptable as it stands.] there was (and is yet) in these our parts a convent of women, very famous for sanctity (the which, that i may not anywise abate its repute, i will not name), wherein no great while agone, there being then no more than eight nuns and an abbess, all young, in the nunnery, a poor silly dolt of a fellow was gardener of a very goodly garden of theirs, who, being miscontent with his wage, settled his accounts with the ladies' bailiff and returned to lamporecchio, whence he came. there, amongst others who welcomed him home, was a young labouring man, stout and robust and (for a countryman) a well-favoured fellow, by name of masetto, who asked him where he had been so long. the good man, whose name was nuto, told him, whereupon masetto asked him in what he had served the convent, and he, 'i tended a great and goodly garden of theirs, and moreover i went while to the coppice for faggots and drew water and did other such small matters of service; but the nuns gave me so little wage that i could scare find me in shoon withal. besides, they are all young and methinketh they are possessed of the devil, for there was no doing anything to their liking; nay, when i was at work whiles in the hortyard,[ ] quoth one, "set this here," and another, "set that here," and a third snatched the spade from my hand, saying, "that is naught"; brief, they gave me so much vexation that i would leave work be and begone out of the hortyard; insomuch that, what with one thing and what with another, i would abide there no longer and took myself off. when i came away, their bailiff besought me, an i could lay my hand on any one apt unto that service, to send the man to him, and i promised it him; but may god make him sound of the loins as he whom i shall get him, else will i send him none at all!' masetto, hearing this, was taken with so great a desire to be with these nuns that he was all consumed therewith, judging from nuto's words that he might avail to compass somewhat of that which he desired. however, foreseeing that he would fail of his purpose, if he discovered aught thereof to nuto, he said to the latter, 'egad, thou didst well to come away. how is a man to live with women? he were better abide with devils. six times out of seven they know not what they would have themselves.' but, after they had made an end of their talk, masetto began to cast about what means he should take to be with them and feeling himself well able to do the offices of which nuto had spoken, he had no fear of being refused on that head, but misdoubted him he might not be received, for that he was young and well-looked. wherefore, after pondering many things in himself, he bethought himself thus: 'the place is far hence and none knoweth me there, an i can but make a show of being dumb, i shall for certain be received there.' having fixed upon this device, he set out with an axe he had about his neck, without telling any whither he was bound, and betook himself, in the guise of a beggarman, to the convent, where being come, he entered in and as luck would have it, found the bailiff in the courtyard. him he accosted with signs such as dumb folk use and made a show of asking food of him for the love of god and that in return he would, an it were needed, cleave wood for him. the bailiff willingly gave him to eat and after set before him divers logs that nuto had not availed to cleave, but of all which masetto, who was very strong, made a speedy despatch. by and by, the bailiff, having occasion to go to the coppice, carried him thither and put him to cutting faggots; after which, setting the ass before him, he gave him to understand by signs that he was to bring them home. this he did very well; wherefore the bailiff kept him there some days, so he might have him do certain things for which he had occasion. one day it chanced that the abbess saw him and asked the bailiff who he was. 'madam,' answered he, 'this is a poor deaf and dumb man, who came hither the other day to ask an alms; so i took him in out of charity and have made him do sundry things of which we had need. if he knew how to till the hortyard and chose to abide with us, i believe we should get good service of him; for that we lack such an one and he is strong and we could make what we would of him; more by token that you would have no occasion to fear his playing the fool with yonder lasses of yours.' 'i' faith,' rejoined the abbess, 'thou sayst sooth. learn if he knoweth how to till and study to keep him here; give him a pair of shoes and some old hood or other and make much of him, caress him, give him plenty to eat.' which the bailiff promised to do. masetto was not so far distant but he heard all this, making a show the while of sweeping the courtyard, and said merrily in himself, 'an you put me therein, i will till you your hortyard as it was never tilled yet.' accordingly, the bailiff, seeing that he knew right well how to work, asked him by signs if he had a mind to abide there and he replied on like wise that he would do whatsoever he wished; whereupon the bailiff engaged him and charged him till the hortyard, showing him what he was to do; after which he went about other business of the convent and left him. presently, as masetto went working one day after another, the nuns fell to plaguing him and making mock of him, as ofttimes it betideth that folk do with mutes, and bespoke him the naughtiest words in the world, thinking he understood them not; whereof the abbess, mayhap supposing him to be tailless as well as tongueless, recked little or nothing. it chanced one day, however, that, as he rested himself after a hard morning's work, two young nuns, who went about the garden,[ ] drew near the place where he lay and fell to looking upon him, whilst he made a show of sleeping. presently quoth one who was somewhat the bolder of the twain to the other, 'if i thought thou wouldst keep my counsel, i would tell thee a thought which i have once and again had and which might perchance profit thee also.' 'speak in all assurance,' answered the other, 'for certes i will never tell it to any.' then said the forward wench, 'i know not if thou have ever considered how straitly we are kept and how no man dare ever enter here, save the bailiff, who is old, and yonder dumb fellow; and i have again and again heard ladies, who come to visit us, say that all other delights in the world are but toys in comparison with that which a woman enjoyeth, whenas she hath to do with a man. wherefore i have often had it in mind to make trial with this mute, since with others i may not, if it be so. and indeed he is the best in the world to that end, for that, e'en if he would, he could not nor might tell it again. thou seest he is a poor silly lout of a lad, who hath overgrown his wit, and i would fain hear how thou deemest of the thing.' 'alack!' rejoined the other, 'what is this thou sayest? knowest thou not that we have promised our virginity to god?' 'oh, as for that,' answered the first, 'how many things are promised him all day long, whereof not one is fulfilled unto him! an we have promised it him, let him find himself another or others to perform it to him.' 'or if,' went on her fellow, 'we should prove with child, how would it go then?' quoth the other, 'thou beginnest to take thought unto ill ere it cometh; when that betideth, then will we look to it; there will be a thousand ways for us of doing so that it shall never be known, provided we ourselves tell it not.' the other, hearing this and having now a greater itch than her companion to prove what manner beast a man was, said, 'well, then, how shall we do?' quoth the first, 'thou seest it is nigh upon none and methinketh the sisters are all asleep, save only ourselves; let us look about the hortyard if there be any there, and if there be none, what have we to do but to take him by the hand and carry him into yonder hut, whereas he harboureth against the rain, and there let one of us abide with him, whilst the other keepeth watch? he is so simple that he will do whatever we will.' masetto heard all this talk and disposed to compliance, waited but to be taken by one of the nuns. the latter having looked well all about and satisfied themselves that they could be seen from nowhere, she who had broached the matter came up to masetto and aroused him, whereupon he rose incontinent to his feet. the nun took him coaxingly by the hand and led him, grinning like an idiot, to the hut, where, without overmuch pressing, he did what she would. then, like a loyal comrade, having had her will, she gave place to her fellow, and masetto, still feigning himself a simpleton, did their pleasure. before they departed thence, each of the girls must needs once more prove how the mute could horse it, and after devising with each other, they agreed that the thing was as delectable as they had heard, nay, more so. accordingly, watching their opportunity, they went oftentimes at fitting seasons to divert themselves with the mute, till one day it chanced that one of their sisters, espying them in the act from the lattice of her cell, showed it to other twain. at first they talked of denouncing the culprits to the abbess, but, after, changing counsel and coming to an accord with the first two, they became sharers with them in masetto's services, and to them the other three nuns were at divers times and by divers chances added as associates. ultimately, the abbess, who had not yet gotten wind of these doings, walking one day alone in the garden, the heat being great, found masetto (who had enough of a little fatigue by day, because of overmuch posting it by night) stretched out asleep under the shade of an almond-tree, and the wind lifting the forepart of his clothes, all abode discovered. the lady, beholding this and seeing herself alone, fell into that same appetite which had gotten hold of her nuns, and arousing masetto, carried him to her chamber, where, to the no small miscontent of the others, who complained loudly that the gardener came not to till the hortyard, she kept him several days, proving and reproving that delight which she had erst been wont to blame in others. at last she sent him back to his own lodging, but was fain to have him often again and as, moreover, she required of him more than her share, masetto, unable to satisfy so many, bethought himself that his playing the mute might, an it endured longer, result in his exceeding great hurt. wherefore, being one night with the abbess, he gave loose to[ ] his tongue and bespoke her thus: 'madam, i have heard say that one cock sufficeth unto half a score hens, but that half a score men can ill or hardly satisfy one woman; whereas needs must i serve nine, and to this i can no wise endure; nay, for that which i have done up to now, i am come to such a pass that i can do neither little nor much; wherefore do ye either let me go in god's name or find a remedy for the matter.' the abbess, hearing him speak whom she held dumb, was all amazed and said, 'what is this? methought thou wast dumb.' 'madam,' answered masetto, 'i was indeed dumb, not by nature, but by reason of a malady which bereft me of speech, and only this very night for the first time do i feel it restored to me, wherefore i praise god as most i may.' the lady believed this and asked him what he meant by saying that he had to serve nine. masetto told her how the case stood, whereby she perceived that she had no nun but was far wiser than herself; but, like a discreet woman as she was, she resolved to take counsel with her nuns to find some means of arranging the matter, without letting masetto go, so the convent might not be defamed by him. accordingly, having openly confessed to one another that which had been secretly done of each, they all of one accord, with masetto's consent, so ordered it that the people round about believed speech to have been restored to him, after he had long been mute, through their prayers and by the merits of the saint in whose name the convent was intituled, and their bailiff being lately dead, they made masetto bailiff in his stead and apportioned his toils on such wise that he could endure them. thereafter, albeit he began upon them monikins galore, the thing was so discreetly ordered that nothing took vent thereof till after the death of the abbess, when masetto began to grow old and had a mind to return home rich. the thing becoming known, enabled him lightly to accomplish his desire, and thus masetto, having by his foresight contrived to employ his youth to good purpose, returned in his old age, rich and a father, without being at the pains or expense of rearing children, to the place whence he had set out with an axe about his neck, avouching that thus did christ entreat whoso set horns to his cap." [footnote : hortyard (_orto_) is the old form of orchard, properly an enclosed tract of land in which fruit, vegetables and potherbs are cultivated for use, _i.e._ the modern kitchen garden and orchard in one, as distinguished from the pleasaunce or flower garden (_giardino_).] [footnote : _giardino_, _i.e._ flower-garden.] [footnote : lit. broke the string of.] the second story [day the third] a horsekeeper lieth with the wife of king agilulf, who, becoming aware thereof, without word said, findeth him out and polleth him; but the polled man polleth all his fellows on like wise and so escapeth ill hap the end of filostrato's story, whereat whiles the ladies had some little blushed and other whiles laughed, being come, it pleased the queen that pampinea should follow on with a story, and she accordingly, beginning with a smiling countenance, said, "some are so little discreet in seeking at all hazards to show that they know and apprehend that which it concerneth them not to know, that whiles, rebuking to this end unperceived defects in others, they think to lessen their own shame, whereas they do infinitely augment it; and that this is so i purpose, lovesome ladies, to prove to you by the contrary thereof, showing you the astuteness of one who, in the judgment of a king of worth and valour, was held belike of less account than masetto himself. agilulf, king of the lombards, as his predecessors had done, fixed the seat of his kingship at pavia, a city of lombardy, and took to wife theodolinda[ ] the widow of autari, likewise king of the lombards, a very fair lady and exceeding discreet and virtuous, but ill fortuned in a lover.[ ] the affairs of the lombards having, thanks to the valour and judgment of king agilulf, been for some time prosperous and in quiet, it befell that one of the said queen's horse-keepers, a man of very low condition, in respect of birth, but otherwise of worth far above so mean a station, and comely of person and tall as he were the king, became beyond measure enamoured of his mistress. his mean estate hindered him not from being sensible that this love of his was out of all reason, wherefore, like a discreet man as he was, he discovered it unto none, nor dared he make it known to her even with his eyes. but, albeit he lived without any hope of ever winning her favour, yet inwardly he gloried in that he had bestowed his thoughts in such high place, and being all aflame with amorous fire, he studied, beyond every other of his fellows, to do whatsoever he deemed might pleasure the queen; whereby it befell that, whenas she had occasion to ride abroad, she liefer mounted the palfrey of which he had charge than any other; and when this happened, he reckoned it a passing great favour to himself nor ever stirred from her stirrup, accounting himself happy what time he might but touch her clothes. but, as often enough we see it happen that, even as hope groweth less, so love waxeth greater, so did it betide this poor groom, insomuch that sore uneath it was to him to avail to brook his great desire, keeping it, as he did, hidden and being upheld by no hope; and many a time, unable to rid himself of that his love, he determined in himself to die. and considering inwardly of the manner, he resolved to seek his death on such wise that it should be manifest he died for the love he bore the queen, to which end he bethought himself to try his fortune in an enterprise of such a sort as should afford him a chance of having or all or part of his desire. he set not himself to seek to say aught to the queen nor to make her sensible of his love by letters, knowing he should speak and write in vain, but chose rather to essay an he might by practice avail to lie with her; nor was there any other shift for it but to find a means how he might, in the person of the king, who, he knew, lay not with her continually, contrive to make his way to her and enter her bedchamber. accordingly, that he might see on what wise and in what habit the king went, whenas he visited her, he hid himself several times by night in a great saloon of the palace, which lay between the king's bedchamber and that of the queen, and one night, amongst others, he saw the king come forth of his chamber, wrapped in a great mantle, with a lighted taper in one hand and a little wand in the other, and making for the queen's chamber, strike once or twice upon the door with the wand, without saying aught, whereupon it was incontinent opened to him and the taper taken from his hand. noting this and having seen the king return after the same fashion, he bethought himself to do likewise. accordingly, finding means to have a cloak like that which he had seen the king wear, together with a taper and a wand, and having first well washed himself in a bagnio, lest haply the smell of the muck should offend the queen or cause her smoke the cheat, he hid himself in the great saloon, as of wont. whenas he knew that all were asleep and it seemed to him time either to give effect to his desire or to make his way by high emprise[ ] to the wished-for death, he struck a light with a flint and steel he had brought with him and kindling the taper, wrapped himself fast in the mantle, then, going up to the chamber-door, smote twice upon it with the wand. the door was opened by a bedchamber-woman, all sleepy-eyed, who took the light and covered it; whereupon, without saying aught, he passed within the curtain, put off his mantle and entered the bed where the queen slept. then, taking her desirefully in his arms and feigning himself troubled (for that he knew the king's wont to be that, whenas he was troubled, he cared not to hear aught), without speaking or being spoken to, he several times carnally knew the queen; after which, grievous as it seemed to him to depart, yet, fearing lest his too long stay should be the occasion of turning the gotten delight into dolour, he arose and taking up the mantle and the light, withdrew, without word said, and returned, as quickliest he might, to his own bed. he could scarce yet have been therein when the king arose and repaired to the queen's chamber, whereat she marvelled exceedingly; and as he entered the bed and greeted her blithely, she took courage by his cheerfulness and said, 'o my lord, what new fashion is this of to-night? you left me but now, after having taken pleasure of me beyond your wont, and do you return so soon? have a care what you do.' the king, hearing these words, at once concluded that the queen had been deceived by likeness of manners and person, but, like a wise man, bethought himself forthright, seeing that neither she nor any else had perceived the cheat, not to make her aware thereof; which many simpletons would not have done, but would have said, 'i have not been here, i. who is it hath been here? how did it happen? who came hither?' whence many things might have arisen, whereby he would needlessly have afflicted the lady and given her ground for desiring another time that which she had already tasted; more by token that, an he kept silence of the matter, no shame might revert to him, whereas, by speaking, he would have brought dishonour upon himself. the king, then, more troubled at heart than in looks or speech, answered, saying, 'wife, seem i not to you man enough to have been here a first time and to come yet again after that?' 'ay, my lord,' answered she. 'nevertheless, i beseech you have regard to your health.' quoth agilulf, 'and it pleaseth me to follow your counsel, wherefore for the nonce i will get me gone again, without giving you more annoy.' this said, taking up his mantle, he departed the chamber, with a heart full of wrath and despite for the affront that he saw had been done him, and bethought himself quietly to seek to discover the culprit, concluding that he must be of the household and could not, whoever he might be, have issued forth of the palace. accordingly, taking a very small light in a little lantern, he betook himself to a very long gallery that was over the stables of his palace and where all his household slept in different beds, and judging that, whoever he might be that had done what the queen said, his pulse and the beating of his heart for the swink endured could not yet have had time to abate, he silently, beginning at one end of the gallery, fell to feeling each one's breast, to know if his heart beat high. although every other slept fast, he who had been with the queen was not yet asleep, but, seeing the king come and guessing what he went seeking, fell into such a fright that to the beating of the heart caused by the late-had fatigue, fear added yet a greater and he doubted not but the king, if he became aware of this, would put him to death without delay, and many things passed through his thought that he should do. however, seeing him all unarmed, he resolved to feign sleep and await what he should do. agilulf, then, having examined many and found none whom he judged to be he of whom he was in quest, came presently to the horsekeeper and feeling his heart beat high, said in himself, 'this is the man.' nevertheless, an he would have nought be known of that which he purposed to do, he did nought to him but poll, with a pair of scissors he had brought with him, somewhat on one side of his hair, which they then wore very long, so by that token he might know him again on the morrow; and this done, he withdrew and returned to his own chamber. the culprit, who had felt all this, like a shrewd fellow as he was, understood plainly enough why he had been thus marked; wherefore he arose without delay and finding a pair of shears, whereof it chanced there were several about the stables for the service of the horses, went softly up to all who lay in the gallery and clipped each one's hair on like wise over the ear; which having done without being observed, he returned to sleep. when the king arose in the morning, he commanded that all his household should present themselves before him, or ever the palace-doors were opened; and it was done as he said. then, as they all stood before him with uncovered heads, he began to look that he might know him whom he had polled; but, seeing the most part of them with their hair clipped after one and the same fashion, he marvelled and said in himself, 'he whom i seek, for all he may be of mean estate, showeth right well he is of no mean wit.' then, seeing that he could not, without making a stir, avail to have him whom he sought, and having no mind to incur a great shame for the sake of a paltry revenge, it pleased him with one sole word to admonish the culprit and show him that he was ware of the matter; wherefore, turning to all who were present, he said, 'let him who did it do it no more and get you gone in peace.' another would have been for giving them the strappado, for torturing, examining and questioning, and doing this, would have published that which every one should go about to conceal; and having thus discovered himself, though he should have taken entire revenge for the affront suffered, his shame had not been minished, nay, were rather much enhanced therefor and his lady's honour sullied. those who heard the king's words marvelled and long debated amongst themselves what he meant by this speech; but none understood it, save he whom it concerned, and he, like a wise man, never, during agilulf's lifetime, discovered the matter nor ever again committed his life to the hazard of such a venture." [footnote : boccaccio calls her _teudelinga_; but i know of no authority for this form of the name of the famous longobardian queen.] [footnote : referring apparently to the adventure related in the present story.] [footnote : lit. with high (_i.e._ worthy) cause (_con alta cagione_).] the third story [day the third] under colour of confession and of exceeding niceness of conscience, a lady, being enamoured of a young man, bringeth a grave friar, without his misdoubting him thereof, to afford a means of giving entire effect to her pleasure pampinea being now silent and the daring and subtlety of the horsekeeper having been extolled by several of the company, as also the king's good sense, the queen, turning to filomena, charged her follow on; whereupon she blithely began to speak thus, "i purpose to recount to you a cheat which was in very deed put by a fair lady upon a grave friar and which should be so much the more pleasing to every layman as these [--friars, to wit--], albeit for the most part very dull fools and men of strange manners and usances, hold themselves to be in everything both better worth and wiser than others, whereas they are of far less account than the rest of mankind, being men who, lacking, of the meanness of their spirit, the ability to provide themselves, take refuge, like swine, whereas they may have what to eat. and this story, charming ladies, i shall tell you, not only for the ensuing of the order imposed, but to give you to know withal that even the clergy, to whom we women, beyond measure credulous as we are, yield overmuch faith, can be and are whiles adroitly befooled, and that not by men only, but even by certain of our own sex. in our city, the which is fuller of cozenage than of love or faith, there was, not many years agone, a gentlewoman adorned with beauty and charms and as richly endowed by nature as any of her sex with engaging manners and loftiness of spirit and subtle wit, whose name albeit i know, i purpose not to discover it, no, nor any other that pertaineth unto the present story, for that there be folk yet alive who would take it in despite, whereas it should be passed over with a laugh. this lady, then, seeing herself, though of high lineage, married to a wool-monger and unable, for that he was a craftsman, to put off the haughtiness of her spirit, whereby she deemed no man of mean condition, how rich soever he might be, worthy of a gentlewoman and seeing him moreover, for all his wealth, to be apt unto nothing of more moment than to lay a warp for a piece of motley or let weave a cloth or chaffer with a spinster anent her yarn, resolved on no wise to admit of his embraces, save in so far as she might not deny him, but to seek, for her own satisfaction, to find some one who should be worthier of her favours than the wool-monger appeared to her to be, and accordingly fell so fervently in love with a man of very good quality and middle age, that, whenas she saw him not by day, she could not pass the ensuing night without unease. the gentleman, perceiving not how the case stood, took no heed of her, and she, being very circumspect, dared not make the matter known to him by sending of women nor by letter, fearing the possible perils that might betide. however, observing that he companied much with a churchman, who, albeit a dull lump of a fellow, was nevertheless, for that he was a man of very devout life, reputed of well nigh all a most worthy friar, she bethought herself that this latter would make an excellent go-between herself and her lover and having considered what means she should use, she repaired, at a fitting season, to the church where he abode, and letting call him to her, told him that, an he pleased, she would fain confess herself to him. the friar seeing her and judging her to be a woman of condition, willingly gave ear to her, and she, after confession, said to him, 'father mine, it behoveth me have recourse to you for aid and counsel anent that which you shall hear. i know, as having myself told you, that you know my kinsfolk and my husband, who loveth me more than his life, nor is there aught i desire but i have it of him incontinent, he being a very rich man and one who can well afford it; wherefore i love him more than mine own self and should i but think, let alone do, aught that might be contrary to his honour and pleasure, there were no woman more wicked or more deserving of the fire than i. now one, whose name in truth i know not, but who is, meseemeth, a man of condition, and is, if i mistake not, much in your company,--a well-favoured man and tall of his person and clad in very decent sad-coloured raiment,--unaware belike of the constancy of my purpose, appeareth to have laid siege to me, nor can i show myself at door or window nor go without the house, but he incontinent presenteth himself before me, and i marvel that he is not here now; whereat i am sore concerned, for that such fashions as these often bring virtuous women into reproach, without their fault. i have whiles had it in mind to have him told of this by my brothers; but then i have bethought me that men oftentimes do messages on such wise that ill answers ensue, which give rise to words and from words they come to deeds; wherefore, lest mischief spring therefrom and scandal, i have kept silence of the matter and have determined to discover it to yourself rather than to another, at once because meseemeth you are his friend and for that it beseemeth you to rebuke not only friends, but strangers, of such things. i beseech you, therefore, for the one god's sake, that you rebuke him of this and pray him leave these his fashions. there be women enough, who incline belike to these toys and would take pleasure in being dogged and courted by him, whereas to me, who have no manner of mind to such matters, it is a very grievous annoy.' so saying, she bowed her head as she would weep. the holy friar understood incontinent of whom she spoke and firmly believing what she said to be true, greatly commended her righteous intent and promised her to do on such wise that she should have no farther annoy from the person in question; and knowing her to be very rich, he commended to her works of charity and almsdeeds, recounting to her his own need. quoth the lady, 'i beseech you thereof for god's sake, and should he deny, prithee scruple not to tell him that it was i who told you this and complained to you thereof.' then, having made her confession and gotten her penance, recalling the friar's exhortations to works of almsgiving, she stealthily filled his hand with money, praying him to say masses for the souls of her dead kinsfolk; after which she rose from his feet and taking leave of him, returned home. not long after up came the gentleman, according to his wont, and after they had talked awhile of one thing and another, the friar, drawing his friend aside, very civilly rebuked him of the manner in which, as he believed, he pursued and spied upon the lady aforesaid, according to that which she had given him to understand. the other marvelled, as well he might, having never set eyes upon her and being used very rarely to pass before her house, and would have excused himself; but the friar suffered him not to speak, saying, 'now make no show of wonderment nor waste words in denying it, for it will avail thee nothing; i learnt not these matters from the neighbours; nay, she herself told them to me, complaining sore of thee. and besides that such toys beseem not a man of thine age, i may tell thee this much of her, that if ever i saw a woman averse to these follies, it is she; wherefore, for thine own credit and her comfort, i prithee desist therefrom and let her be in peace.' the gentleman, quicker of wit than the friar, was not slow to apprehend the lady's device and feigning to be somewhat abashed, promised to meddle no more with her thenceforward; then, taking leave of the friar, he betook himself to the house of the lady, who still abode await at a little window, so she might see him, should he pass that way. when she saw him come, she showed herself so rejoiced and so gracious to him, that he might very well understand that he had gathered the truth from the friar's words, and thenceforward, under colour of other business, he began with the utmost precaution to pass continually through the street, to his own pleasure and to the exceeding delight and solace of the lady. after awhile, perceiving that she pleased him even as he pleased her and wishful to inflame him yet more and to certify him of the love she bore him, she betook herself again, choosing her time and place, to the holy friar and seating herself at his feet in the church, fell a-weeping. the friar, seeing this, asked her affectionately what was to do with her anew. 'alack, father mine,' answered she, 'that which aileth me is none other than yonder god-accursed friend of yours, of whom i complained to you the other day, for that methinketh he was born for my especial torment and to make me do a thing, such that i should never be glad again nor ever after dare to seat myself at your feet.' 'how?' cried the friar. 'hath he not given over annoying thee?' 'no, indeed,' answered she; 'nay, since i complained to you of him, as if of despite, maybe taking it ill that i should have done so, for every once he used to pass before my house, i verily believe he hath passed seven times. and would to god he were content with passing and spying upon me! nay, he is grown so bold and so malapert that but yesterday he despatched a woman to me at home with his idle tales and toys and sent me a purse and a girdle, as if i had not purses and girdles galore; the which i took and take so ill that i believe, but for my having regard to the sin of it and after for the love of you, i had played the devil. however, i contained myself and would not do or say aught whereof i should not first have let you know. nay, i had already returned the purse and the girdle to the baggage who brought them, that she might carry them back to him, and had given her a rough dismissal, but after, fearing she might keep them for herself and tell him that i had accepted them, as i hear women of her fashion do whiles, i called her back and took them, full of despite, from her hands and have brought them to you, so you may return them to him and tell him i want none of his trash, for that, thanks to god and my husband, i have purses and girdles enough to smother him withal. moreover, if hereafter he desist not from this, i tell you, as a father, you must excuse me, but i will tell it, come what may, to my husband and my brothers; for i had far liefer he should brook an affront, if needs he must, than that i should suffer blame for him; wherefore let him look to himself.' so saying, still weeping sore, she pulled out from under her surcoat a very handsome and rich purse and a quaint and costly girdle and threw them into the lap of the friar, who, fully crediting that which she told him and incensed beyond measure, took them and said to her, 'daughter, i marvel not that thou art provoked at these doings, nor can i blame thee therefor; but i much commend thee for following my counsel in the matter. i rebuked him the other day and he hath ill performed that which he promised me; wherefore, as well for that as for this that he hath newly done, i mean to warm his ears[ ] for him after such a fashion that methinketh he will give thee no farther concern; but do thou, god's benison on thee, suffer not thyself to be so overcome with anger that thou tell it to any of thy folk, for that overmuch harm might ensue thereof unto him. neither fear thou lest this blame anywise ensue to thee, for i shall still, before both god and men, be a most constant witness to thy virtue.' the lady made believe to be somewhat comforted and leaving that talk, said, as one who knew his greed and that of his fellow-churchmen, 'sir, these some nights past there have appeared to me sundry of my kinsfolk, who ask nought but almsdeeds, and meseemeth they are indeed in exceeding great torment, especially my mother, who appeareth to me in such ill case and affliction that it is pity to behold. methinketh she suffereth exceeding distress to see me in this tribulation with yonder enemy of god; wherefore i would have you say me forty masses of saint gregory for her and their souls, together with certain of your own prayers, so god may deliver them from that penitential fire.' so saying, she put a florin into his hand, which the holy father blithely received and confirming her devoutness with fair words and store of pious instances, gave her his benison and let her go. the lady being gone, the friar, never thinking how he was gulled, sent for his friend, who, coming and finding him troubled, at once divined that he was to have news of the lady and awaited what the friar should say. the latter repeated that which he had before said to him and bespeaking him anew angrily and reproachfully, rebuked him severely of that which, according to the lady's report, he had done. the gentleman, not yet perceiving the friar's drift, faintly enough denied having sent her the purse and the girdle, so as not to undeceive the friar, in case the lady should have given him to believe that he had done this; whereat the good man was sore incensed and said, 'how canst thou deny it, wicked man that thou art? see, here they are, for she herself brought them to me, weeping; look if thou knowest them.' the gentleman feigned to be sore abashed and answered, 'yes, i do indeed know them and i confess to you that i did ill; but i swear to you, since i see her thus disposed, that you shall never more hear a word of this.' brief, after many words, the numskull of a friar gave his friend the purse and the girdle and dismissed him, after rating him amain and beseeching him occupy himself no more with these follies, the which he promised him. the gentleman, overjoyed both at the assurance that himseemed he had of the lady's love and at the goodly gift, was no sooner quit of the friar than he betook himself to a place where he made shift to let his mistress see that he had the one and the other thing; whereat she was mightily rejoiced, more by token that herseemed her device went from good to better. she now awaited nought but her husband's going abroad to give completion to the work, and it befell not long after that it behoved him repair to genoa on some occasion or other. no sooner had he mounted to horse in the morning and gone his way, than the lady betook herself to the holy man and after many lamentations, said to him, weeping, 'father mine, i tell you now plainly that i can brook no more; but, for that i promised you the other day to do nought, without first telling you, i am come to excuse myself to you; and that you may believe i have good reason both to weep and to complain, i will tell you what your friend, or rather devil incarnate, did to me this very morning, a little before matins. i know not what ill chance gave him to know that my husband was to go to genoa yestermorn; algates, this morning, at the time i tell you, he came into a garden of mine and climbing up by a tree to the window of my bedchamber, which giveth upon the garden, had already opened the lattice and was for entering, when i of a sudden awoke and starting up, offered to cry out, nay, would assuredly have cried out, but that he, who was not yet within, besought me of mercy in god's name and yours, telling me who he was; which when i heard, i held my peace for the love of you and naked as i was born, ran and shut the window in his face; whereupon i suppose he took himself off (ill-luck go with him!), for i heard no more of him. look you now if this be a goodly thing and to be endured. for my part i mean to bear with him no more; nay, i have already forborne him overmuch for the love of you.' the friar, hearing this, was the wrathfullest man alive and knew not what to say, except to ask again and again if she had well certified herself that it was indeed he and not another; to which she answered, 'praised be god! as if i did not yet know him from another! i tell you it was himself, and although he should deny it, credit him not.' then said the friar, 'daughter, there is nothing to be said for it but that this was exceeding effrontery and a thing exceeding ill done, and in sending him off, as thou didst, thou didst that which it behoved thee to do. but i beseech thee, since god hath preserved thee from shame, that, like as thou hast twice followed my counsel, even so do thou yet this once; to wit, without complaining to any kinsman of thine, leave it to me to see an i can bridle yonder devil broke loose, whom i believed a saint. if i can make shift to turn him from this lewdness, well and good; if not, i give thee leave henceforth to do with him that which thy soul shall judge best, and my benison go with thee.' 'well, then,' answered the lady, 'for this once i will well not to vex or disobey you; but look you do on such wise that he be ware of annoying me again, for i promise you i will never again return to you for this cause.' thereupon, without saying more, she took leave of the friar and went away, as if in anger. hardly was she out of the church when up came the gentleman and was called by the friar, who, taking him apart, gave him the soundest rating ever man had, calling him disloyal and forsworn and traitor. the other, who had already twice had occasion to know to what the monk's reprimands amounted, abode expectant and studied with embarrassed answers to make him speak out, saying, at the first, 'why all this passion, sir? have i crucified christ?' whereupon, 'mark this shameless fellow!' cried the friar. 'hear what he saith! he speaketh as if a year or two were passed and he had for lapse of time forgotten his misdeeds and his lewdness! hath it then escaped thy mind between this and matinsong that thou hast outraged some one this very morning? where wast thou this morning a little before day?' 'i know not,' answered the gentleman; 'but wherever it was, the news thereof hath reached you mighty early.' quoth the friar, 'certes, the news hath reached me. doubtless thou supposedst because her husband was abroad, that needs must the gentlewoman receive thee incontinent in her arms. a fine thing, indeed! here's a pretty fellow! here's an honourable man! he's grown a nighthawk, a garden-breaker, a tree-climber! thinkest thou by importunity to overcome this lady's chastity, that thou climbest up to her windows anights by the trees? there is nought in the world so displeasing to her as thou; yet must thou e'en go essaying it again and again. truly, thou hast profited finely by my admonitions, let alone that she hath shown thee her aversion in many ways. but this i have to say to thee; she hath up to now, not for any love she beareth thee, but at my instant entreaty, kept silence of that which thou hast done; but she will do so no more; i have given her leave to do what seemeth good to her, an thou annoy her again in aught. what wilt thou do, an she tell her brothers?' the gentleman having now gathered enough of that which it concerned him to know, appeased the friar, as best he knew and might, with many and ample promises, and taking leave of him, waited till matinsong[ ] of the ensuing night, when he made his way into the garden and climbed up by the tree to the window. he found the lattice open and entering the chamber as quickliest he might, threw himself into the arms of his fair mistress, who, having awaited him with the utmost impatience, received him joyfully, saying, 'gramercy to my lord the friar for that he so well taught thee the way hither!' then, taking their pleasure one of the other, they solaced themselves together with great delight, devising and laughing amain anent the simplicity of the dolt of a friar and gibing at wool-hanks and teasels and carding-combs. moreover, having taken order for their future converse, they did on such wise that, without having to resort anew to my lord the friar, they foregathered in equal joyance many another night, to the like whereof i pray god, of his holy mercy, speedily to conduct me and all christian souls who have a mind thereto." [footnote : lit. (_riscaldare gli orecchi_).] [footnote : _i.e._ three a.m. next morning.] the fourth story [day the third] dom felice teacheth fra puccio how he may become beatified by performing a certain penance of his fashion, which the other doth, and dom felice meanwhile leadeth a merry life of it with the good man's wife filomena, having made an end of her story, was silent and dioneo having with dulcet speech mightily commended the lady's shrewdness and eke the prayer with which filomena had concluded, the queen turned with a smile to pamfilo and said, "come, pamfilo, continue our diversion with some pleasant trifle." pamfilo promptly answered that he would well and began thus: "madam, there are many persons who, what while they study to enter paradise, unwittingly send others thither; the which happened, no great while since, to a neighbour of ours, as you shall hear. according to that which i have heard tell, there abode near san pancrazio an honest man and a rich, called puccio di rinieri, who, devoting himself in his latter days altogether to religious practices, became a tertiary[ ] of the order of st. francis, whence he was styled fra puccio, and ensuing this his devout life, much frequented the church, for that he had no family other than a wife and one maid and consequently, it behoved him not apply himself to any craft. being an ignorant, clod-pated fellow, he said his paternosters, went to preachments and attended mass, nor ever failed to be at the lauds chanted by the seculars,[ ] and fasted and mortified himself; nay, it was buzzed about that he was of the flagellants.[ ] his wife, whose name was mistress isabetta,[ ] a woman, yet young, of eight-and-twenty to thirty years of age, fresh and fair and plump as a lady-apple, kept, by reason of the piety and belike of the age of her husband, much longer and more frequent fasts than she could have wished, and when she would have slept or maybe frolicked with him, he recounted to her the life of christ and the preachments of fra nastagio or the complaint of mary magdalene or the like. meantime there returned home from paris a monk hight dom[ ] felice, conventual[ ] of san pancrazio, who was young and comely enough of person, keen of wit and a profound scholar, and with him fra puccio contracted a strait friendship. and for that this dom felice right well resolved him his every doubt and knowing his pious turn of mind, made him a show of exceeding devoutness, fra puccio fell to carrying him home bytimes and giving him to dine and sup, as the occasion offered; and the lady also, for her husband's sake, became familiar with him and willingly did him honour. the monk, then, continuing to frequent fra puccio's house and seeing the latter's wife so fresh and plump, guessed what should be the thing whereof she suffered the most default and bethought himself, an he might, to go about to furnish her withal himself, and so spare fra puccio fatigue. accordingly, craftily casting his eyes on her, at one time and another, he made shift to kindle in her breast that same desire which he had himself, which when he saw, he bespoke her of his wishes as first occasion betided him. but, albeit he found her well disposed to give effect to the work, he could find no means thereunto, for that she would on nowise trust herself to be with him in any place in the world save her own house, and there it might not be, seeing that fra puccio never went without the town. at this the monk was sore chagrined; but, after much consideration, he hit upon a device whereby he might avail to foregather with the lady in her own house, without suspect, for all fra puccio should be at home. accordingly, the latter coming one day to visit him, he bespoke him thus, 'i have many a time understood, fra puccio, that all thy desire is to become a saint and to this end meseemeth thou goest about by a long road, whereas there is another and a very short one, which the pope and the other great prelates, who know and practise it, will not have made known, for that the clergy, who for the most part live by alms, would incontinent be undone, inasmuch as the laity would no longer trouble themselves to propitiate them with alms or otherwhat. but, for that thou art my friend and hast very honourably entertained me, i would teach it thee, so i were assured thou wouldst practise it and wouldst not discover it to any living soul.' fra puccio, eager to know the thing, began straightway to entreat him with the utmost instancy that he would teach it him and then to swear that never, save in so far as it should please him, would he tell it to any, engaging, an if it were such as he might avail to follow, to address himself thereunto. whereupon quoth the monk, 'since thou promisest me this, i will e'en discover it to thee. thou must know that the doctors of the church hold that it behoveth whoso would become blessed to perform the penance which thou shalt hear; but understand me aright; i do not say that, after the penance, thou wilt not be a sinner like as thou presently art; but this will betide, that the sins which thou hast committed up to the time of the penance will all by virtue thereof be purged and pardoned unto thee, and those which thou shalt commit thereafterward will not be written to thy prejudice, but will pass away with the holy water, as venial sins do now. it behoveth a man, then, in the first place, whenas he cometh to begin the penance, to confess himself with the utmost diligence of his sins, and after this he must keep a fast and a very strict abstinence for the space of forty days, during which time thou[ ] must abstain from touching, not to say other women, but even thine own wife. moreover, thou must have in thine own house some place whence thou mayst see the sky by night, whither thou must betake thyself towards the hour of complines,[ ] and there thou must have a wide plank set up, on such wise that, standing upright, thou mayst lean thy loins against it and keeping thy feet on the ground, stretch out thine arms, crucifix fashion. an thou wouldst rest them upon some peg or other, thou mayst do it, and on this wise thou must abide gazing upon the sky, without budging a jot, till matins. wert thou a scholar, thou wouldst do well to repeat certain orisons i would give thee; but, as thou art it not, thou must say three hundred paternosters and as many ave marys, in honour of the trinity, and looking upon heaven, still have in remembrance that god is the creator of heaven and earth and the passion of christ, abiding on such wise as he abode on the cross. when the bell ringeth to matins, thou mayst, an thou wilt, go and cast thyself, clad as thou art, on thy bed and sleep, and after, in the forenoon, betake thyself to church and there hear at least three masses and repeat fifty paternosters and as many aves; after which thou shalt with a single heart do all and sundry thine occasions, if thou have any to do, and dine and at evensong be in church again and there say certain orisons which i will give thee by writ and without which it cannot be done. then, towards complines, do thou return to the fashion aforesaid, and thus doing, even as i have myself done aforetime, i doubt not but, ere thou come to the end of the penance, thou wilt, (provided thou shalt have performed it with devoutness and compunction,) feel somewhat marvellous of eternal beatitude.' quoth fra puccio, 'this is no very burdensome matter, nor yet overlong, and may very well be done; wherefore i purpose in god's name to begin on sunday.' then, taking leave of him and returning home, he related everything in due order to his wife, having the other's permission therefor. the lady understood very well what the monk meant by bidding him stand fast without stirring till matins; wherefore, the device seeming to her excellent, she replied that she was well pleased therewith and with every other good work that he did for the health of his soul and that, so god might make the penance profitable to him, she would e'en fast with him, but do no more. they being thus of accord and sunday come, fra puccio began his penance and my lord monk, having agreed with the lady, came most evenings to sup with her, bringing with him store of good things to eat and drink, and after lay with her till matinsong, when he arose and took himself off, whilst fra puccio returned to bed. now the place which fra puccio had chosen for his penance adjoined the chamber where the lady lay and was parted therefrom but by a very slight wall, wherefore, master monk wantoning it one night overfreely with the lady and she with him, it seemed to fra puccio that he felt a shaking of the floor of the house. accordingly, having by this said an hundred of his paternosters, he made a stop there and without moving, called to his wife to know what she did. the lady, who was of a waggish turn and was then belike astride of san benedetto his beast or that of san giovanni gualberto, answered, 'i' faith, husband mine, i toss as most i may.' 'how?' quoth fra puccio. 'thou tossest? what meaneth this tossing?' the lady, laughing, for that she was a frolicsome dame and doubtless had cause to laugh, answered merrily; 'how? you know not what it meaneth? why, i have heard you say a thousand times, "who suppeth not by night must toss till morning light."' fra puccio doubted not but that the fasting was the cause of her unableness to sleep and it was for this she tossed thus about the bed; wherefore, in the simplicity of his heart, 'wife,' said he, 'i told thee not to fast; but, since thou wouldst e'en do it, think not of that, but address thyself to rest; thou givest such vaults about the bed that thou makest all in the place shake.' 'have no care for that,' answered the lady; 'i know what i am about; do you but well, you, and i will do as well as i may.' fra puccio, accordingly, held his peace and betook himself anew to his paternosters; and after that night my lord monk and the lady let make a bed in another part of the house, wherein they abode in the utmost joyance what while fra puccio's penance lasted. at one and the same hour the monk took himself off and the lady returned to her own bed, whereto a little after came fra puccio from his penance; and on this wise the latter continued to do penance, whilst his wife did her delight with the monk, to whom quoth she merrily, now and again, 'thou hast put fra puccio upon performing a penance, whereby we have gotten paradise.' indeed, the lady, finding herself in good case, took such a liking to the monk's fare, having been long kept on low diet by her husband, that, whenas fra puccio's penance was accomplished, she still found means to feed her fill with him elsewhere and using discretion, long took her pleasure thereof. thus, then, that my last words may not be out of accord with my first, it came to pass that, whereas fra puccio, by doing penance, thought to win paradise for himself, he put therein the monk, who had shown him the speedy way thither, and his wife, who lived with him in great lack of that whereof dom felice, like a charitable man as he was, vouchsafed her great plenty." [footnote : _i.e._ a lay brother or affiliate.] [footnote : _i.e._ the canticles of praise chanted by certain lay confraternities, established for that purpose and answering to our præ-reformation laudsingers.] [footnote : an order of lay penitents, who were wont at certain times to go masked about the streets, scourging themselves in expiation of the sins of the people. this expiatory practice was particularly prevalent in italy in the middle of the thirteenth century.] [footnote : contraction of elisabetta.] [footnote : _dom_, contraction of dominus (lord), the title commonly given to the beneficed clergy in the middle ages, answering to our _sir_ as used by shakespeare (_e.g._ sir hugh evans the welsh parson, sir topas the curate, etc.). the expression survives in the title _dominie_ (_i.e._ domine, voc. of dominus) still familiarly applied to schoolmasters, who were of course originally invariably clergymen.] [footnote : a conventual is a member of some monastic order attached to the regular service of a church, or (as would nowadays be said) a "beneficed" monk.] [footnote : _sic._ this confusion of persons constantly occurs in boccaccio, especially in the conversational parts of the decameron, in which he makes the freest use of the various forms of enallage and of other rhetorical figures, such as hyperbaton, synecdoche, etc., to the no small detriment of his style in the matter of clearness.] [footnote : _i.e._ nine o'clock p.m.] the fifth story [day the third] ricciardo, surnamed il zima, giveth messer francesco vergellesi a palfrey of his and hath therefor his leave to speak with his wife. she keeping silence, he in her person replieth unto himself, and the effect after ensueth in accordance with his answer pamfilo having made an end, not without laughter on the part of the ladies, of the story of fra puccio, the queen with a commanding air bade elisa follow on. she, rather tartly than otherwise, not out of malice, but of old habit, began to speak thus, "many folk, knowing much, imagine that others know nothing, and so ofttimes, what while they think to overreach others, find, after the event, that they themselves have been outwitted of them; wherefore i hold his folly great who setteth himself without occasion to test the strength of another's wit. but, for that maybe all are not of my opinion, it pleaseth me, whilst following on the given order of the discourse, to relate to you that which befell a pistolese gentleman[ ] by reason thereof. [footnote : _i.e._ a gentleman of pistoia.] there was in pistoia a gentleman of the vergellesi family, by name messer francesco, a man of great wealth and understanding and well advised in all else, but covetous beyond measure. being made provost of milan, he had furnished himself with everything necessary for his honourable going thither, except only with a palfrey handsome enough for him, and finding none to his liking, he abode in concern thereof. now there was then in the same town a young man called ricciardo, of little family, but very rich, who still went so quaintly clad and so brave of his person that he was commonly known as il zima,[ ] and he had long in vain loved and courted messer francesco's wife, who was exceeding fair and very virtuous. now he had one of the handsomest palfreys in all tuscany and set great store by it for its beauty and it being public to every one that he was enamoured of messer francesco's wife, there were those who told the latter that, should he ask it, he might have the horse for the love il zima bore his lady. accordingly, moved by covetise, messer francesco let call il zima to him and sought of him his palfrey by way of sale, so he should proffer it to him as a gift. the other, hearing this, was well pleased and made answer to him, saying, "sir, though you gave me all you have in the world, you might not avail to have my palfrey by way of sale, but by way of gift you may have it, whenas it pleaseth you, on condition that, ere you take it, i may have leave to speak some words with your lady in your presence, but so far removed from every one that i may be heard of none other than herself.' the gentleman, urged by avarice and looking to outwit the other, answered that it liked him well and [that he might speak with her] as much as he would; then, leaving him in the saloon of his palace, he betook himself to the lady's chamber and telling her how easily he might acquire the palfrey, bade her come hearken to il zima, but charged her take good care to answer neither little or much to aught that he should say. to this the lady much demurred, but, it behoving her ensue her husband's pleasure, she promised to do his bidding and followed him to the saloon, to hear what il zima should say. the latter, having renewed his covenant with the gentleman, seated himself with the lady in a part of the saloon at a great distance from every one and began to say thus, 'noble lady, meseemeth certain that you have too much wit not to have long since perceived how great a love i have been brought to bear you by your beauty, which far transcendeth that of any woman whom methinketh i ever beheld, to say nothing of the engaging manners and the peerless virtues which be in you and which might well avail to take the loftiest spirits of mankind; wherefore it were needless to declare to you in words that this [my love] is the greatest and most fervent that ever man bore woman; and thus, without fail, will i do[ ] so long as my wretched life shall sustain these limbs, nay, longer; for that, if in the other world folk love as they do here below, i shall love you to all eternity. wherefore you may rest assured that you have nothing, be it much or little worth, that you may hold so wholly yours and whereon you may in every wise so surely reckon as myself, such as i am, and that likewise which is mine. and that of this you may take assurance by very certain argument, i tell you that i should count myself more graced, did you command me somewhat that i might do and that would pleasure you, than if, i commanding, all the world should promptliest obey me. since, then, i am yours, even as you have heard, it is not without reason that i dare to offer up my prayers to your nobility, wherefrom alone can all peace, all health and all well-being derive for me, and no otherwhence; yea, as the humblest of your servants, i beseech you, dear my good and only hope of my soul, which, midmost the fire of love, feedeth upon its hope in you,--that your benignity may be so great and your past rigour shown unto me, who am yours, on such wise be mollified that i, recomforted by your kindness, may say that, like as by your beauty i was stricken with love, even so by your pity have i life, which latter, an your haughty soul incline not to my prayers, will without fail come to nought and i shall perish and you may be said to be my murderer. letting be that my death will do you no honour, i doubt not eke but that, conscience bytimes pricking you therefor, you will regret having wrought it[ ] and whiles, better disposed, will say in yourself, "alack, how ill i did not to have compassion upon my poor zima!" and this repentance, being of no avail, will cause you the great annoy. wherefore, so this may not betide, now that you have it in your power to succour me, bethink yourself and ere i die, be moved to pity on me, for that with you alone it resteth to make me the happiest or the most miserable man alive. i trust your courtesy will be such that you will not suffer me to receive death in guerdon of such and so great a love, but will with a glad response and full of favour quicken my fainting spirits, which flutter, all dismayed, in your presence.' therewith he held his peace and heaving the deepest of sighs, followed up with sundry tears, proceeded to await the lady's answer. the latter,--whom the long court he had paid her, the joustings held and the serenades given in her honour and other like things done of him for the love of her had not availed to move,--was moved by the passionate speech of this most ardent lover and began to be sensible of that which she had never yet felt, to wit, what manner of thing love was; and albeit, in ensuance of the commandment laid upon her by her husband, she kept silence, she could not withal hinder sundry gentle sighs from discovering that which, in answer to il zima, she would gladly have made manifest. il zima, having waited awhile and seeing that no response ensued, was wondered and presently began to divine the husband's device; but yet, looking her in the face and observing certain flashes of her eyes towards him now and again and noting, moreover, the sighs which she suffered not to escape her bosom with all her strength, conceived fresh hope and heartened thereby, took new counsel[ ] and proceeded to answer himself after the following fashion, she hearkening the while: 'zima mine, this long time, in good sooth, have i perceived thy love for me to be most great and perfect, and now by thy words i know it yet better and am well pleased therewith, as indeed i should be. algates, an i have seemed to thee harsh and cruel, i will not have thee believe that i have at heart been that which i have shown myself in countenance; nay, i have ever loved thee and held thee dear above all other men; but thus hath it behoved me do, both for fear of others and for the preserving of my fair fame. but now is the time at hand when i may show thee clearly that i love thee and guerdon thee of the love that thou hast borne and bearest me. take comfort, therefore, and be of good hope, for that a few days hence messer francesco is to go to milan for provost, as indeed thou knowest, who hast for the love of me given him thy goodly palfrey; and whenas he shall be gone, i promise thee by my troth and of the true love i bear thee, that, before many days, thou shalt without fail foregather with me and we will give gladsome and entire accomplishment to our love. and that i may not have to bespeak thee otherwhiles of the matter, i tell thee presently that, whenas thou shalt see two napkins displayed at the window of my chamber, which giveth upon our garden, do thou that same evening at nightfall make shift to come to me by the garden door, taking good care that thou be not seen. thou wilt find me awaiting thee and we will all night long have delight and pleasance one of another, to our hearts' content.' having thus spoken for the lady, he began again to speak in his own person and rejoined on this wise, 'dearest lady, my every sense is so transported with excessive joy for your gracious reply that i can scarce avail to make response, much less to render you due thanks; nay, could i e'en speak as i desire, there is no term so long that it might suffice me fully to thank you as i would fain do and as it behoveth me; wherefore i leave it to your discreet consideration to imagine that which, for all my will, i am unable to express in words. this much only i tell you that i will without fail bethink myself to do as you have charged me, and being then, peradventure, better certified of so great a grace as that which you have vouchsafed me, i will, as best i may, study to render you the utmost thanks in my power. for the nonce there abideth no more to say; wherefore, dearest lady mine, god give you that gladness and that weal which you most desire, and so to him i commend you.' for all this the lady said not a word; whereupon il zima arose and turned towards the husband, who, seeing him risen, came up to him and said, laughing 'how deemest thou? have i well performed my promise to thee?' 'nay, sir' answered il zima; 'for you promised to let me speak with your lady and you have caused me speak with a marble statue.' these words were mighty pleasing to the husband, who, for all he had a good opinion of the lady, conceived of her a yet better and said, 'now is thy palfrey fairly mine.' 'ay is it, sir,' replied il zima, 'but, had i thought to reap of this favour received of you such fruit as i have gotten, i had given you the palfrey, without asking it[ ] of you; and would god i had done it, for that now you have bought the palfrey and i have not sold it.' the other laughed at this and being now provided with a palfrey, set out upon his way a few days after and betook himself to milan, to enter upon the provostship. the lady, left free in her house, called to mind il zima's words and the love he bore her and the palfrey given for her sake and seeing him pass often by the house, said in herself, 'what do i? why waste i my youth? yonder man is gone to milan and will not return these six months. when will he ever render me them[ ] again? when i am old? moreover, when shall i ever find such a lover as il zima? i am alone and have no one to fear. i know not why i should not take this good opportunity what while i may; i shall not always have such leisure as i presently have. none will know the thing, and even were it to be known, it is better to do and repent, than to abstain and repent.' having thus taken counsel with herself, she one day set two napkins in the garden window, even as il zima had said, which when he saw, he was greatly rejoiced and no sooner was the night come than he betook himself, secretly and alone, to the gate of the lady's garden and finding it open, passed on to another door that opened into the house, where he found his mistress awaiting him. she, seeing him come, started up to meet him and received him with the utmost joy, whilst he clipped and kissed her an hundred thousand times and followed her up the stair to her chamber, where, getting them to bed without a moment's delay, they knew the utmost term of amorous delight. nor was this first time the last, for that, what while the gentleman abode at milan and even after his coming back, il zima returned thither many another time, to the exceeding satisfaction of both parties." [footnote : lit. "the summit," or in modern slang "the tiptop," _i.e._ the pink of fashion.] [footnote : _i.e._ this love shall i bear you. this is a flagrant instance of the misuse of ellipsis, which so frequently disfigures boccaccio's dialogue.] [footnote : _i.e._ my death.] [footnote : syn. a rare or strange means (_nuovo consiglio_). the word _nuovo_ is constantly used by boccaccio in the latter sense, as is _consiglio_ in its remoter signification of means, remedy, etc.] [footnote : _i.e._ the favour.] [footnote : _i.e._ the lost six months.] the sixth story [day the third] ricciardo minutolo, being enamoured of the wife of filippello fighinolfi and knowing her jealousy of her husband, contriveth, by representing that filippello was on the ensuing day to be with his own wife in a bagnio, to bring her to the latter place, where, thinking to be with her husband, she findeth that she hath abidden with ricciardo elisa having no more to say, the queen, after commending the sagacity of il zima, bade fiammetta proceed with a story, who answered, all smilingly, "willingly, madam," and began thus: "it behoveth somedele to depart our city (which, like as it aboundeth in all things else, is fruitful in instances of every subject) and as elisa hath done, to recount somewhat of the things that have befallen in other parts of the world; wherefore, passing over to naples, i shall tell how one of those she-saints, who feign themselves so shy of love, was by the ingenuity of a lover of hers brought to taste the fruits of love, ere she had known its flowers; the which will at once teach you circumspection in the things that may hap and afford you diversion of those already befallen. in naples, a very ancient city and as delightful as any in italy or maybe more so, there was once a young man, illustrious for nobility of blood and noted for his much wealth, whose name was ricciardo minutolo. albeit he had to wife a very fair and lovesome young lady, he fell in love with one who, according to general opinion, far overpassed in beauty all the other ladies of naples. her name was catella and she was the wife of another young gentleman of like condition, hight filippello fighinolfi, whom, like a very virtuous woman as she was, she loved and cherished over all. ricciardo, then, loving this catella and doing all those things whereby the love and favour of a lady are commonly to be won, yet for all that availing not to compass aught of his desire, was like to despair; and unknowing or unable to rid him of his passion, he neither knew how to die nor did it profit him to live. abiding in this mind, it befell that he was one day urgently exhorted by certain ladies of his kinsfolk to renounce this passion of his, seeing he did but weary himself in vain, for that catella had none other good than filippello, of whom she lived in such jealousy that she fancied every bird that flew through the air would take him from her. ricciardo, hearing of catella's jealousy, forthright bethought himself how he might compass his wishes and accordingly proceeded to feign himself in despair of her love and to have therefore set his mind upon another lady, for whose love he began to make a show of jousting and tourneying and doing all those things which he had been used to do for catella; nor did he do this long before well nigh all the neapolitans, and among the rest the lady herself, were persuaded that he no longer loved catella, but was ardently enamoured of this second lady; and on this wise he persisted until it was so firmly believed not only of others, but of catella herself, that the latter laid aside a certain reserve with which she was wont to entreat him, by reason of the love he bore her, and coming and going, saluted him familiarly, neighbourwise, as she did others. it presently befell that, the weather being warm, many companies of ladies and gentlemen went, according to the usance of the neapolitans, to divert themselves on the banks of the sea and there to dine and sup, and ricciardo, knowing catella to be gone thither with her company, betook himself to the same place with his friends and was received into catella's party of ladies, after allowing himself to be much pressed, as if he had no great mind to abide there. the ladies and catella fell to rallying him upon his new love, and he, feigning himself sore inflamed therewith, gave them the more occasion for discourse. presently, one lady going hither and thither, as commonly happeneth in such places, and catella being left with a few whereas ricciardo was, the latter cast at her a hint of a certain amour of filippello her husband, whereupon she fell into a sudden passion of jealousy and began to be inwardly all afire with impatience to know what he meant. at last, having contained herself awhile and being unable to hold out longer, she besought ricciardo, for that lady's sake whom he most loved, to be pleased to make her clear[ ] of that which he had said of filippello; whereupon quoth he, 'you conjure me by such a person that i dare not deny aught you ask me; wherefore i am ready to tell it you, so but you promise me that you will never say a word thereof either to him or to any other, save whenas you shall by experience have seen that which i shall tell you to be true; for that, when you please, i will teach you how you may see it.' [footnote : or, in modern parlance, to enlighten her.] the lady consented to that which he asked and swore to him never to repeat that which he should tell her, believing it the more to be true. then, withdrawing apart with her, so they might not be overheard of any, he proceeded to say thus: 'madam, an i loved you as once i loved, i should not dare tell you aught which i thought might vex you; but, since that love is passed away, i shall be less chary of discovering to you the whole truth. i know not if filippello have ever taken umbrage at the love i bore you or have believed that i was ever loved of you. be this as it may, he hath never personally shown me aught thereof; but now, having peradventure awaited a time whenas he deemed i should be less suspicious, it seemeth he would fain do unto me that which i misdoubt me he feareth i have done unto him, to wit, [he seeketh] to have my wife at his pleasure. as i find, he hath for some little time past secretly solicited her with sundry messages, all of which i have known from herself, and she hath made answer thereunto according as i have enjoined her. this very day, however, ere i came hither, i found in the house, in close conference with my wife, a woman whom i set down incontinent for that which she was, wherefore i called my wife and asked her what the woman wanted. quoth she, "she is the agent of filippello, with whom thou hast saddled me, by dint of making me answer him and give him hopes, and she saith that he will e'en know once for all what i mean to do and that, an i will, he would contrive for me to be privily at a bagnio in this city; nay, of this he prayeth and importuneth me; and hadst thou not, i know not why, caused me keep this traffic with him, i would have rid myself of him after such a fashion that he should never more have looked whereas i might be." thereupon meseemed this was going too far and that it was no longer to be borne; and i bethought myself to tell it to you, so you might know how he requiteth that entire fidelity of yours, whereby aforetime i was nigh upon death. and so you shall not believe this that i tell you to be words and fables, but may, whenas you have a mind thereto, openly both see and touch it, i caused my wife make this answer to her who awaited it, that she was ready to be at the bagnio in question to-morrow at none, whenas the folk sleep; with which the woman took leave of her, very well pleased. now methinketh not you believe that i will send my wife thither; but, were i in your place, i would contrive that he should find me there in the room of her he thinketh to meet, and whenas i had abidden with him awhile, i would give him to know with whom he had been and render him such honour thereof as should beseem him; by which means methinketh you would do him such a shame that the affront he would fain put upon yourself and upon me would at one blow be avenged.' catella, hearing this, without anywise considering who it was that said it to her or suspecting his design, forthright, after the wont of jealous folk, gave credence to his words and fell a-fitting to his story certain things that had already befallen; then, fired with sudden anger, she answered that she would certainly do as he counselled,--it was no such great matter,--and that assuredly, if filippello came thither, she would do him such a shame that it should still recur to his mind, as often as he saw a woman. ricciardo, well pleased at this and himseeming his device was a good one and in a fair way of success, confirmed her in her purpose with many other words and strengthened her belief in his story, praying her, natheless, never to say that she had heard it from him, the which she promised him on her troth. next morning, ricciardo betook himself to a good woman, who kept the bagnio he had named to catella, and telling her what he purposed to do, prayed her to further him therein as most she might. the good woman, who was much beholden to him, answered that she would well and agreed with him what she should do and say. now in the house where the bagnio was she had a very dark chamber, for that no window gave thereon by which the light might enter. this chamber she made ready and spread a bed there, as best she might, wherein ricciardo, as soon as he had dined, laid himself and proceeded to await catella. the latter, having heard ricciardo's words and giving more credence thereto than behoved her, returned in the evening, full of despite, to her house, whither filippello also returned and being by chance full of other thought, maybe did not show her his usual fondness. when she saw this, her suspicions rose yet higher and she said in herself, 'forsooth, his mind is occupied with yonder lady with whom he thinketh to take his pleasure to-morrow; but of a surety this shall not come to pass.' an in this thought she abode well nigh all that night, considering how she should bespeak him, whenas she should be with him [in the bagnio]. what more [need i say?] the hour of none come, she took her waiting-woman and without anywise changing counsel, repaired to the bagnio that ricciardo had named to her, and there finding the good woman, asked her if filippello had been there that day, whereupon quoth the other, who had been duly lessoned by ricciardo, 'are you the lady that should come to speak with him?' 'ay am i,' answered catella. 'then,' said the woman, 'get you in to him.' catella, who went seeking that which she would fain not have found, caused herself to be brought to the chamber where ricciardo was and entering with covered head, locked herself in. ricciardo, seeing her enter, rose joyfully to his feet and catching her in his arms, said softly, 'welcome, my soul!' whilst she, the better to feign herself other than she was, clipped him and kissed him and made much of him, without saying a word, fearing to be known of him if she should speak. the chamber was very dark, wherewith each of them was well pleased, nor for long abiding there did the eyes recover more power. ricciardo carried her to the bed and there, without speaking, lest their voices should betray them, they abode a long while, to the greater delight and pleasance of the one party than the other. but presently, it seeming to catella time to vent the resentment she felt, she began, all afire with rage and despite, to speak thus, 'alas, how wretched is women's lot and how ill bestowed the love that many of them bear their husbands! i, unhappy that i am, these eight years have i loved thee more than my life, and thou, as i have felt, art all afire and all consumed with love of a strange woman, wicked and perverse man that thou art! now with whom thinkest thou to have been? thou hast been with her whom thou hast too long beguiled with thy false blandishments, making a show of love to her and being enamoured elsewhere. i am catella, not ricciardo's wife, disloyal traitor that thou art! hearken if thou know my voice; it is indeed i; and it seemeth to me a thousand years till we be in the light, so i may shame thee as thou deservest, scurvy discredited cur that thou art! alack, woe is me! to whom have i borne so much love these many years? to this disloyal dog, who, thinking to have a strange woman in his arms, hath lavished on me more caresses and more fondnesses in this little while i have been here with him than in all the rest of the time i have been his. thou hast been brisk enough to-day, renegade cur that thou art, that usest at home to show thyself so feeble and forspent and impotent; but, praised be god, thou hast tilled thine own field and not, as thou thoughtest, that of another. no wonder thou camest not anigh me yesternight; thou lookedst to discharge thee of thy lading elsewhere and wouldst fain come fresh to the battle; but, thanks to god and my own foresight, the stream hath e'en run in its due channel. why answerest thou not, wicked man? why sayst thou not somewhat? art thou grown dumb, hearing me? cock's faith, i know not what hindereth me from thrusting my hands into thine eyes and tearing them out for thee. thou thoughtest to do this treason very secretly; but, perdie, one knoweth as much as another; thou hast not availed to compass thine end; i have had better beagles at thy heels than thou thoughtest.' ricciardo inwardly rejoiced at these words and without making any reply, clipped her and kissed her and fondled her more than ever; whereupon quoth she, following on her speech, 'ay, thou thinkest to cajole me with thy feigned caresses, fashious dog that thou art, and to appease and console me; but thou art mistaken; i shall never be comforted for this till i have put thee to shame therefor in the presence of all our friends and kinsmen and neighbours. am i not as fair as ricciardo's wife, thou villain? am i not as good a gentlewoman? why dost thou not answer, thou sorry dog? what hath she more than i? keep thy distance; touch me not; thou hast done enough feats of arms for to-day. now thou knowest who i am, i am well assured that all thou couldst do would be perforce; but, so god grant me grace, i will yet cause thee suffer want thereof, and i know not what hindereth me from sending for ricciardo, who hath loved me more than himself and could never boast that i once even looked at him; nor know i what harm it were to do it. thou thoughtest to have his wife here and it is as if thou hadst had her, inasmuch as it is none of thy fault that the thing hath miscarried; wherefore, were i to have himself, thou couldst not with reason blame me.' brief, many were the lady's words and sore her complaining. however, at last, ricciardo, bethinking himself that, an he let her go in that belief, much ill might ensue thereof, determined to discover himself and undeceive her; wherefore, catching her in his arms and holding her fast, so she might not get away, he said, 'sweet my soul, be not angered; that which i could not have of you by simply loving you, love hath taught me to obtain by practice; and i am your ricciardo.' catella, hearing this and knowing him by the voice, would have thrown herself incontinent out of bed, but could not; whereupon she offered to cry out; but ricciardo stopped her mouth with one hand and said, 'madam, this that hath been may henceforth on nowise be undone, though you should cry all the days of your life; and if you cry out or cause this ever anywise to be known of any one, two things will come thereof; the one (which should no little concern you) will be that your honour and fair fame will be marred, for that, albeit you may avouch that i brought you hither by practice, i shall say that it is not true, nay, that i caused you come hither for monies and gifts that i promised you, whereof for that i gave you not so largely as you hoped, you waxed angry and made all this talk and this outcry; and you know that folk are more apt to credit ill than good, wherefore i shall more readily be believed than you. secondly, there will ensue thereof a mortal enmity between your husband and myself, and it may as well happen that i shall kill him as he me, in which case you are never after like to be happy or content. wherefore, heart of my body, go not about at once to dishonour yourself and to cast your husband and myself into strife and peril. you are not the first woman, nor will you be the last, who hath been deceived, nor have i in this practised upon you to bereave you of your own, but for the exceeding love that i bear you and am minded ever to bear you and to be your most humble servant. and although it is long since i and all that i possess or can or am worth have been yours and at your service, henceforward i purpose that they shall be more than ever so. now, you are well advised in other things and so i am certain you will be in this.' catella, what while ricciardo spoke thus, wept sore, but, albeit she was sore provoked and complained grievously, nevertheless, her reason allowed so much force to his true words that she knew it to be possible that it should happen as he said; wherefore quoth she, 'ricciardo, i know not how god will vouchsafe me strength to suffer the affront and the cheat thou hast put upon me; i will well to make no outcry here whither my simplicity and overmuch jealousy have brought me; but of this be assured that i shall never be content till one way or another i see myself avenged of this thou hast done to me. wherefore, leave me, hold me no longer; thou hast had that which thou desiredst and hast tumbled me to thy heart's content; it is time to leave me; let me go, i prithee.' ricciardo, seeing her mind yet overmuch disordered, had laid it to heart never to leave her till he had gotten his pardon of her; wherefore, studying with the softest words to appease her, he so bespoke and so entreated and so conjured her that she was prevailed upon to make peace with him, and of like accord they abode together a great while thereafter in the utmost delight. moreover, catella, having thus learned how much more savoury were the lover's kisses than those of the husband and her former rigour being changed into kind love-liking for ricciardo, from that day forth she loved him very tenderly and thereafter, ordering themselves with the utmost discretion, they many a time had joyance of their loves. god grant us to enjoy ours!" the seventh story [day the third] tedaldo elisei, having fallen out with his mistress, departeth florence and returning thither, after awhile, in a pilgrim's favour, speaketh with the lady and maketh her cognisant of her error; after which he delivereth her husband, who had been convicted of murdering him, from death and reconciling him with his brethren, thenceforward discreetly enjoyeth himself with his mistress fiammetta being now silent, commended of all, the queen, to lose no time, forthright committed the burden of discourse to emilia, who began thus: "it pleaseth me to return to our city, whence it pleased the last two speakers to depart, and to show you how a townsman of ours regained his lost mistress. there was, then, in florence a noble youth, whose name was tedaldo elisei and who, being beyond measure enamoured of a lady called madam ermellina, the wife of one aldobrandino palermini, deserved for his praiseworthy fashions, to enjoy his desire. however, fortune, the enemy of the happy, denied him this solace, for that, whatever might have been the cause, the lady, after complying awhile with tedaldo's wishes, suddenly altogether withdrew her good graces from him and not only refused to hearken to any message of his, but would on no wise see him; wherefore he fell into a dire and cruel melancholy; but his love for her had been so hidden that none guessed it to be the cause of his chagrin. after he had in divers ways studied amain to recover the love himseemed he had lost without his fault and finding all his labour vain, he resolved to withdraw from the world, that he might not afford her who was the cause of his ill the pleasure of seeing him pine away; wherefore, without saying aught to friend or kinsman, save to a comrade of his, who knew all, he took such monies as he might avail to have and departing secretly, came to ancona, where, under the name of filippo di sanlodeccio, he made acquaintance with a rich merchant and taking service with him, accompanied him to cyprus on board a ship of his. his manners and behaviour so pleased the merchant that he not only assigned him a good wage, but made him in part his associate and put into his hands a great part of his affairs, which he ordered so well and so diligently that in a few years he himself became a rich and famous and considerable merchant; and albeit, in the midst of these his dealings, he oft remembered him of his cruel mistress and was grievously tormented of love and yearned sore to look on her again, such was his constancy that seven years long he got the better of the battle. but, chancing one day to hear sing in cyprus a song that himself had made aforetime and wherein was recounted the love he bore his mistress and she him and the pleasure he had of her, and thinking it could not be she had forgotten him, he flamed up into such a passion of desire to see her again that, unable to endure longer, he resolved to return to florence. accordingly, having set all his affairs in order, he betook himself with one only servant to ancona and transporting all his good thither, despatched it to florence to a friend of the anconese his partner, whilst he himself, in the disguise of a pilgrim returning from the holy sepulchre, followed secretly after with his servant and coming to florence, put up at a little hostelry kept by two brothers, in the neighbourhood of his mistress's house, whereto he repaired first of all, to see her, an he might. however, he found the windows and doors and all else closed, wherefore his heart misgave him she was dead or had removed thence and he betook himself, in great concern, to the house of his brethren, before which he saw four of the latter clad all in black. at this he marvelled exceedingly and knowing himself so changed both in habit and person from that which he was used to be, whenas he departed thence, that he might not lightly be recognized, he boldly accosted a cordwainer hard by and asked him why they were clad in black; whereto he answered, 'yonder men are clad in black for that it is not yet a fortnight since a brother of theirs, who had not been here this great while, was murdered, and i understand they have proved to the court that one aldobrandino palermini, who is in prison, slew him, for that he was a well-wisher of his wife and had returned hither unknown to be with her.' tedaldo marvelled exceedingly that any one should so resemble him as to be taken for him and was grieved for aldobrandino's ill fortune. then, having learned that the lady was alive and well and it being now night, he returned, full of various thoughts, to the inn and having supped with his servant, was put to sleep well nigh at the top of the house. there, what with the many thoughts that stirred him and the badness of the bed and peradventure also by reason of the supper, which had been meagre, half the night passed whilst he had not yet been able to fall asleep; wherefore, being awake, himseemed about midnight he heard folk come down into the house from the roof, and after through the chinks of the chamber-door he saw a light come up thither. thereupon he stole softly to the door and putting his eye to the chink, fell a-spying what this might mean and saw a comely enough lass who held the light, whilst three men, who had come down from the roof, made towards her; and after some greetings had passed between them, one of them said to the girl, 'henceforth, praised be god, we may abide secure, since we know now for certain that the death of tedaldo elisei hath been proved by his brethren against aldobrandino palermini, who hath confessed thereto, and judgment is now recorded; nevertheless, it behoveth to keep strict silence, for that, should it ever become known that it was we [who slew him], we shall be in the same danger as is aldobrandino.' having thus bespoken the woman, who showed herself much rejoiced thereat, they left her and going below, betook themselves to bed. tedaldo, hearing this, fell a-considering how many and how great are the errors which may befall the minds of men, bethinking him first of his brothers who had bewept and buried a stranger in his stead and after of the innocent man accused on false suspicion and brought by untrue witness to the point of death, no less than of the blind severity of laws and rulers, who ofttimes, under cover of diligent investigation of the truth, cause, by their cruelties, prove that which is false and style themselves ministers of justice and of god, whereas indeed they are executors of iniquity and of the devil; after which he turned his thought to the deliverance of aldobrandino and determined in himself what he should do. accordingly, arising in the morning, he left his servant at the inn and betook himself alone, whenas it seemed to him time, to the house of his mistress, where, chancing to find the door open, he entered in and saw the lady seated, all full of tears and bitterness of soul, in a little ground floor room that was there. at this sight he was like to weep for compassion of her and drawing near to her, said, 'madam, afflict not yourself; your peace is at hand.' the lady, hearing this, lifted her eyes and said, weeping, 'good man, thou seemest to me a stranger pilgrim; what knowest thou of my peace or of my affliction?' 'madam,' answered tedaldo, 'i am of constantinople and am but now come hither, being sent of god to turn your tears into laughter and to deliver your husband from death.' quoth she, 'an thou be of constantinople and newly come hither, how knowest thou who i am or who is my husband?' thereupon, the pilgrim beginning from the beginning, recounted to her the whole history of aldobrandino's troubles and told her who she was and how long she had been married and other things which he very well knew of her affairs; whereat she marvelled exceedingly and holding him for a prophet, fell on her knees at his feet, beseeching him for god's sake, an he were come for aldobrandino's salvation, to despatch, for that the time was short. the pilgrim, feigning himself a very holy man, said, 'madam, arise and weep not, but hearken well to that which i shall say to you and take good care never to tell it to any. according to that which god hath revealed unto me, the tribulation wherein you now are hath betided you because of a sin committed by you aforetime, which god the lord hath chosen in part to purge with this present annoy and will have altogether amended of you; else will you fall into far greater affliction.' 'sir,' answered the lady, 'i have many sins and know not which one, more than another, god the lord would have me amend; wherefore, an you know it, tell me and i will do what i may to amend it.' 'madam,' rejoined the pilgrim, 'i know well enough what it is, nor do i question you thereof the better to know it, but to the intent that, telling it yourself, you may have the more remorse thereof. but let us come to the fact; tell me, do you remember, ever to have had a lover?' the lady, hearing this, heaved a deep sigh and marvelled sore, supposing none had ever known it, albeit, in the days when he was slain who had been buried for tedaldo, there had been some whispering thereof, for certain words not very discreetly used by tedaldo's confidant, who knew it; then answered, 'i see that god discovereth unto you all men's secrets, wherefore i am resolved not to hide mine own from you. true it is that in my youth i loved over all the ill-fortuned youth whose death is laid to my husband's charge, which death i have bewept as sore as it was grievous to me, for that, albeit i showed myself harsh and cruel to him before his departure, yet neither his long absence nor his unhappy death hath availed to tear him from my heart.' quoth the pilgrim, 'the hapless youth who is dead you never loved, but tedaldo elisei ay.[ ] but tell me, what was the occasion of your falling out with him? did he ever give you any offence?' 'certes, no,' replied she; 'he never offended against me; the cause of the breach was the prate of an accursed friar, to whom i once confessed me and who, when i told him of the love i bore tedaldo and the privacy i had with him, made such a racket about my ears that i tremble yet to think of it, telling me that, an i desisted not therefrom, i should go in the devil's mouth to the deepest deep of hell and there be cast into everlasting fire; whereupon there entered into me such a fear that i altogether determined to forswear all further converse with him, and that i might have no occasion therefor, i would no longer receive his letters or messages; albeit i believe, had he persevered awhile, instead of getting him gone (as i presume) in despair, that, seeing him, as i did, waste away like snow in the sun, my harsh resolve would have yielded, for that i had no greater desire in the world.' [footnote : _i.e._ it was not the dead man, but tedaldo elisei whom you loved. (_lo sventurato giovane che fu morto non amasti voi mai, ma tedaldo elisei si._)] 'madam,' rejoined the pilgrim, 'it is this sin alone that now afflicteth you. i know for certain that tedaldo did you no manner of violence; whenas you fell in love with him, you did it of your own free will, for that he pleased you; and as you yourself would have it, he came to you and enjoyed your privacy, wherein both with words and deeds you showed him such complaisance that, if he loved you before, you caused his love redouble a thousandfold. and this being so (as i know it was) what cause should have availed to move you so harshly to withdraw yourself from him? these things should be pondered awhile beforehand and if you think you may presently have cause to repent thereof, as of ill doing, you ought not to do them. you might, at your pleasure, have ordained of him, as of that which belonged to you, that he should no longer be yours; but to go about to deprive him of yourself, you who were his, was a theft and an unseemly thing, whenas it was not his will. now you must know that i am a friar and am therefore well acquainted with all their usances; and if i speak somewhat at large of them for your profit, it is not forbidden me, as it were to another; nay, and it pleaseth me to speak of them, so you may henceforward know them better than you appear to have done in the past. friars of old were very pious and worthy men, but those who nowadays style themselves friars and would be held such have nothing of the monk but the gown; nor is this latter even that of a true friar, for that,--whereas of the founders of the monastic orders they[ ] were ordained strait and poor and of coarse stuff and demonstrative[ ] of the spirit of the wearers, who testified that they held things temporal in contempt whenas they wrapped their bodies in so mean a habit,--those of our time have them made full and double and glossy and of the finest cloth and have brought them to a quaint pontifical cut, insomuch that they think it no shame to flaunt it withal peacock-wise, in the churches and public places, even as do the laity with their apparel; and like as with the sweep-net the fisher goeth about to take many fishes in the river at one cast, even so these, wrapping themselves about with the amplest of skirts, study to entangle therein great store of prudish maids and widows and many other silly women and men, and this is their chief concern over any other exercise; wherefore, to speak more plainly, they have not the friar's gown, but only the colours thereof. [footnote : _i.e._ friars' gowns. boccaccio constantly uses this irregular form of enallage, especially in dialogue.] [footnote : or, as we should nowadays say, "typical."] moreover, whereas the ancients[ ] desired the salvation of mankind, those of our day covet women and riches and turn their every thought to terrifying the minds of the foolish with clamours and depicturements[ ] and to making believe that sins may be purged with almsdeeds and masses, to the intent that unto themselves (who, of poltroonery, not of devoutness, and that they may not suffer fatigue,[ ] have, as a last resort, turned friars) one may bring bread, another send wine and a third give them a dole of money for the souls of their departed friends. certes, it is true that almsdeeds and prayers purge away sins; but, if those who give alms knew on what manner folks they bestow them, they would or keep them for themselves or cast them before as many hogs. and for that these[ ] know that, the fewer the possessors of a great treasure, the more they live at ease, every one of them studieth with clamours and bugbears to detach others from that whereof he would fain abide sole possessor. they decry lust in men, in order that, they who are chidden desisting from women, the latter may be left to the chiders; they condemn usury and unjust gains, to the intent that, it being entrusted to them to make restitution thereof, they may, with that which they declare must bring to perdition him who hath it, make wide their gowns and purchase bishopricks and other great benefices. [footnote : _i.e._ the founders of the monastic orders.] [footnote : lit. pictures, paintings (_dipinture_), but evidently here used in a tropical sense, boccaccio's apparent meaning being that the hypocritical friars used to terrify their devotees by picturing to them, in vivid colours, the horrors of the punishment reserved for sinners.] [footnote : _i.e._ may not have to labour for their living.] [footnote : _i.e._ the false friars.] and when they are taken to task of these and many other unseemly things that they do, they think that to answer, "do as we say and not as we do," is a sufficient discharge of every grave burden, as if it were possible for the sheep to be more constant and stouter to resist temptation[ ] than the shepherds. and how many there be of those to whom they make such a reply who apprehend it not after the fashion[ ] in which they say it, the most part of them know. the monks of our day would have you do as they say, to wit, fill their purses with money, trust your secrets to them, observe chastity, practise patience and forgiveness of injuries and keep yourselves from evil speaking,--all things good, seemly and righteous; but why would they have this? so they may do that, which if the laity did, themselves could not do. who knoweth not that without money idleness may not endure? an thou expend thy monies in thy pleasures, the friar will not be able to idle it in the monastery; an thou follow after women, there will be no room for him, and except thou be patient or a forgiver of injuries, he will not dare to come to thy house to corrupt thy family. but why should i hark back after every particular? they condemn themselves in the eyes of the understanding as often as they make this excuse. an they believe not themselves able to abstain and lead a devout life, why do they not rather abide at home? or, if they will e'en give themselves unto this,[ ] why do they not ensue that other holy saying of the gospel, "christ began to do and to teach?"[ ] let them first do and after teach others. i have in my time seen a thousand of them wooers, lovers and haunters, not of lay women alone, but of nuns; ay, and of those that make the greatest outcry in the pulpit. shall we, then, follow after these who are thus fashioned? whoso doth it doth that which he will, but god knoweth if he do wisely. [footnote : lit. more of iron (_più di ferro_).] [footnote : sic (_per lo modo_); but _quære_ not rather "in the sense."] [footnote : _i.e._ if they must enter upon this way of life, to wit, that of the friar.] [footnote : the reference is apparently to the opening verse of the acts of the apostles, where luke says, "the former treatise have i made, o theophilus, of all that jesus began to do and to teach." it need hardly be remarked that the passage in question does not bear the interpretation boccaccio would put upon it.] but, granted even we are to allow that which the friar who chid you said to you, to wit, that it is a grievous sin to break the marriage vow, is it not a far greater sin to rob a man and a greater yet to slay him or drive him into exile, to wander miserably about the world? every one must allow this. for a woman to have converse with a man is a sin of nature; but to rob him or slay him or drive him into exile proceedeth from malignity of mind. that you robbed tedaldo i have already shown you, in despoiling him of yourself, who had become his of your spontaneous will, and i say also that, so far as in you lay, you slew him, for that it was none of your fault,--showing yourself, as you did, hourly more cruel,--that he slew not himself with his own hand; and the law willeth that whoso is the cause of the ill that is done be held alike guilty with him who doth it. and that you were the cause of his exile and of his going wandering seven years about the world cannot be denied. so that in whichever one of these three things aforesaid you have committed a far greater sin than in your converse with him. but, let us see; maybe tedaldo deserved this usage? certes, he did not; you yourself have already confessed it, more by token that i know he loveth[ ] you more than himself. no woman was ever so honoured, so exalted, so magnified over every other of her sex as were you by him, whenas he found himself where he might fairly speak of you, without engendering suspicion. his every good, his every honour, his every liberty were all committed by him into your hands. was he not noble and young? was he not handsome among all his townsmen? was he not accomplished in such things as pertain unto young men? was he not loved, cherished and well seen of every one? you will not say nay to this either. then how, at the bidding of a scurvy, envious numskull of a friar, could you take such a cruel resolve against him? i know not what error is that of women who eschew men and hold them in little esteem, whenas, considering what themselves are and what and how great is the nobility, beyond every other animal, given of god to man, they should rather glory whenas they are loved of any and prize him over all and study with all diligence to please him, so he may never desist from loving them. this how you did, moved by the prate of a friar, who must for certain have been some broth-swilling pasty-gorger, you yourself know; and most like he had a mind to put himself in the place whence he studied to expel others. [footnote : _sic_; but the past tense "loved" is probably intended, as the pretended pilgrim had not yet discovered tedaldo to be alive.] this, then, is the sin that divine justice, the which with a just balance bringeth all its operations to effect, hath willed not to leave unpunished; and even as you without reason studied to withdraw yourself from tedaldo, so on like wise hath your husband been and is yet, without reason, in peril for tedaldo, and you in tribulation. wherefrom an you would be delivered, that which it behoveth you to promise, and yet more to do, is this; that, should it ever chance that tedaldo return hither from his long banishment, you will render him again your favour, your love, your goodwill and your privacy and reinstate him in that condition wherein he was, ere you foolishly hearkened to yonder crack-brained friar.' the pilgrim having thus made an end of his discourse, the lady, who had hearkened thereto with the utmost attention, for that his arguments appeared to her most true and that, hearing him say, she accounted herself of a certainty afflicted for the sin of which he spoke, said, 'friend of god, i know full well that the things you allege are true, and in great part by your showing do i perceive what manner of folk are these friars, whom till now i have held all saints. moreover, i acknowledge my default without doubt to have been great in that which i wrought against tedaldo; and an i might, i would gladly amend it on such wise as you have said; but how may this be done? tedaldo can never more return hither; he is dead; wherefore i know not why it should behove me promise that which may not be performed.' 'madam,' replied the pilgrim, 'according to that which god hath revealed unto me, tedaldo is nowise dead, but alive and well and in good case, so but he had your favour.' quoth the lady, 'look what you say; i saw him dead before my door of several knife-thrusts and had him in these arms and bathed his dead face with many tears, the which it may be gave occasion for that which hath been spoken thereof unseemly.' 'madam,' replied the pilgrim, 'whatever you may say, i certify you that tedaldo is alive, and if you will e'en promise me that [which i ask,] with intent to fulfil your promise, i hope you shall soon see him.' quoth she, 'that do i promise and will gladly perform; nor could aught betide that would afford me such content as to see my husband free and unharmed and tedaldo alive.' thereupon it seemed to tedaldo time to discover himself and to comfort the lady with more certain hope of her husband, and accordingly he said, 'madam, in order that i may comfort you for your husband, it behoveth me reveal to you a secret, which look you discover not unto any, as you value your life.' now they were in a very retired place and alone, the lady having conceived the utmost confidence of the sanctity which herseemed was in the pilgrim; wherefore tedaldo, pulling out a ring, which she had given him the last night he had been with her and which he had kept with the utmost diligence, and showing it to her, said, 'madam, know you this?' as soon as she saw it, she recognized it and answered, 'ay, sir; i gave it to tedaldo aforetime.' whereupon the pilgrim, rising to his feet, hastily cast off his palmer's gown and hat and speaking florence-fashion, said, 'and know you me?' when the lady saw this, she knew him to be tedaldo and was all aghast, fearing him as one feareth the dead, an they be seen after death to go as if alive; wherefore she made not towards him to welcome him as tedaldo returned from cyprus, but would have fled from him in affright, as he were tedaldo come back from the tomb. whereupon, 'madam,' quoth he, 'fear not; i am your tedaldo, alive and well, and have never died nor been slain, whatsoever you and my brothers may believe.' the lady, somewhat reassured and knowing his voice, considered him awhile longer and avouched in herself that he was certainly tedaldo; wherefore she threw herself, weeping, on his neck and kissed him, saying, 'welcome back, sweet my tedaldo.' tedaldo, having kissed and embraced her, said, 'madam, it is no time now for closer greetings; i must e'en go take order that aldobrandino may be restored to you safe and sound; whereof i hope that, ere to-morrow come eventide, you shall hear news that will please you; nay, if, as i expect, i have good news of his safety, i trust this night to be able to come to you and report them to you at more leisure than i can at this present.' then, donning his gown and hat again, he kissed the lady once more and bidding her be of good hope, took leave of her and repaired whereas aldobrandino lay in prison, occupied more with fear of imminent death than with hopes of deliverance to come. tedaldo, with the gaoler's consent, went in to him, in the guise of a ghostly comforter, and seating himself by his side, said to him, 'aldobrandino, i am a friend of thine, sent thee for thy deliverance by god, who hath taken pity on thee because of thine innocence; wherefore, if, in reverence to him, thou wilt grant me a little boon that i shall ask of thee, thou shalt without fail, ere to-morrow be night, whereas thou lookest for sentence of death, hear that of thine acquittance.' 'honest man,' replied the prisoner, 'since thou art solicitous of my deliverance, albeit i know thee not nor mind me ever to have seen thee, needs must thou be a friend, as thou sayst. in truth, the sin, for which they say i am to be doomed to death, i never committed; though others enough have i committed aforetime, which, it may be, have brought me to this pass. but this i say to thee, of reverence to god; an he presently have compassion on me, i will not only promise, but gladly do any thing, however great, to say nothing of a little one; wherefore ask that which pleaseth thee, for without fail, if it come to pass that i escape with life, i will punctually perform it.' then said the pilgrim, 'what i would have of thee is that thou pardon tedaldo's four brothers the having brought thee to this pass, believing thee guilty of their brother's death, and have them again for brethren and for friends, whenas they crave thee pardon thereof.' whereto quoth aldobrandino, 'none knoweth but he who hath suffered the affront how sweet a thing is vengeance and with what ardour it is desired; nevertheless, so god may apply himself to my deliverance, i will freely pardon them; nay, i pardon them now, and if i come off hence alive and escape, i will in this hold such course as shall be to thy liking.' this pleased the pilgrim and without concerning himself to say more to him, he exhorted him to be of good heart, for that, ere the ensuing day came to an end, he should without fail hear very certain news of his safety. then, taking leave of him, he repaired to the seignory and said privily to a gentleman who was in session there, 'my lord, every one should gladly labour to bring to light the truth of things, and especially those who hold such a room as this of yours, to the end that those may not suffer the penalty who have not committed the crime and that the guilty may be punished; that which may be brought about, to your honour and the bane of those who have merited it, i am come hither to you. as you know, you have rigorously proceeded against aldobrandino palermini and thinking you have found for truth that it was he who slew tedaldo elisei, are minded to condemn him; but this is most certainly false, as i doubt not to show you, ere midnight betide, by giving into your hands the murderers of the young man in question.' the worthy gentleman, who was in concern for aldobrandino, willingly gave ear to the pilgrim's words and having conferred at large with him upon the matter, on his information, took the two innkeeper brothers and their servant, without resistance, in their first sleep. he would have put them to the question, to discover how the case stood; but they brooked it not and each first for himself, and after all together, openly confessed that it was they who had slain tedaldo elisei, knowing him not. being questioned of the case, they said [that it was] for that he had given the wife of one of them sore annoy, what while they were abroad, and would fain have enforced her to do his will. the pilgrim, having heard this, with the magistrate's consent took his leave and repairing privily to the house of madam ermellina, found her alone and awaiting him, (all else in the house being gone to sleep,) alike desirous of having good news of her husband and of fully reconciling herself with her tedaldo. he accosted her with a joyful countenance and said, 'dearest lady mine, be of good cheer, for to-morrow thou shalt certainly have thine aldobrandino here again safe and sound'; and to give her more entire assurance thereof, he fully recounted to her that which he had done. whereupon she, glad as ever woman was of two so sudden and so happy chances, to wit, the having her lover alive again, whom she verily believed to have bewept dead, and the seeing aldobrandino free from peril, whose death she looked ere many days to have to mourn, affectionately embraced and kissed tedaldo; then, getting them to bed together, with one accord they made a glad and gracious peace, taking delight and joyance one of the other. whenas the day drew near, tedaldo arose, after showing the lady that which he purposed to do and praying her anew to keep it a close secret, and went forth, even in his pilgrim's habit, to attend, whenas it should be time, to aldobrandino's affairs. the day come, it appearing to the seignory that they had full information of the matter, they straightway discharged aldobrandino and a few days after let strike off the murderers' heads whereas they had committed the crime. aldobrandino being now, to the great joy of himself and his wife and of all his friends and kinsfolk, free and manifestly acknowledging that he owed his deliverance to the good offices of the pilgrim, carried the latter to his house for such time as it pleased him to sojourn in the city; and there they could not sate themselves of doing him honour and worship, especially the lady, who knew with whom she had to do. after awhile, deeming it time to bring his brothers to an accord with aldobrandino and knowing that they were not only put to shame by the latter's acquittance, but went armed for fear [of his resentment,] he demanded of his host the fulfilment of his promise. aldobrandino freely answered that he was ready, whereupon the pilgrim caused him prepare against the morrow a goodly banquet, whereat he told him he would have him and his kinsmen and kinswomen entertain the four brothers and their ladies, adding that he himself would go incontinent and bid the latter on his part to peace and his banquet. aldobrandino consenting to all that liked the pilgrim, the latter forthright betook himself to the four brothers and plying them with store of such words as behoved unto the matter, in fine, with irrepugnable arguments, brought them easily enough to consent to regain aldobrandino's friendship by asking pardon; which done, he invited them and their ladies to dinner with aldobrandino next morning, and they, being certified of his good faith, frankly accepted the invitation. accordingly, on the morrow, towards dinner-time, tedaldo's four brothers, clad all in black as they were, came, with sundry of their friends, to the house of aldobrandino, who stayed for them, and there, in the presence of all who had been bidden of him to bear them company, cast down their arms and committed themselves to his mercy, craving forgiveness of that which they had wrought against him. aldobrandino, weeping, received them affectionately, and kissing them all on the mouth, despatched the matter in a few words, remitting unto them every injury received. after them came their wives and sisters, clad all in sad-coloured raiment, and were graciously received by madam ermellina and the other ladies. then were all, ladies and men alike, magnificently entertained at the banquet, nor was there aught in the entertainment other than commendable, except it were the taciturnity occasioned by the yet fresh sorrow expressed in the sombre raiment of tedaldo's kinsfolk. now on this account the pilgrim's device of the banquet had been blamed of some and he had observed it; wherefore, the time being come to do away with the constraint aforesaid, he rose to his feet, according as he had foreordained in himself, what while the rest still ate of the fruits, and said, 'nothing hath lacked to this entertainment that should make it joyful, save only tedaldo himself; whom (since having had him continually with you, you have not known him) i will e'en discover to you.' so saying, he cast off his palmer's gown and all other his pilgrim's weeds and abiding in a jerkin of green sendal, was with no little amazement, long eyed and considered of all, ere any would venture to believe it was indeed he. tedaldo, seeing this, recounted many particulars of the relations and things betided between them, as well as of his own adventures; whereupon his brethren and the other gentlemen present ran all to embrace him, with eyes full of joyful tears, as after did the ladies on like wise, as well strangers as kinswomen, except only madam ermellina. which aldobrandino seeing, 'what is this, ermellina?' quoth he. 'why dost thou not welcome tedaldo, as do the other ladies?' whereto she answered, in the hearing of all, 'there is none who had more gladly welcomed and would yet welcome him than myself, who am more beholden to him than any other woman, seeing that by his means i have gotten thee again; but the unseemly words spoken in the days when we mourned him whom we deemed tedaldo made me refrain therefrom.' quoth her husband, 'go to; thinkest thou i believe in the howlers?[ ] he hath right well shown their prate to be false by procuring my deliverance; more by token that i never believed it. quick, rise and go and embrace him.' [footnote : lit. barkers (_abbajatori_), _i.e._ slanderers.] the lady, who desired nothing better, was not slow to obey her husband in this and accordingly, arising, embraced tedaldo, as the other ladies had done, and gave him joyous welcome. this liberality of aldobrandino was mighty pleasing to tedaldo's brothers and to every man and woman there, and thereby all suspect[ ] that had been aroused in the minds of some by the words aforesaid was done away. then, every one having given tedaldo joy, he with his own hands rent the black clothes on his brothers' backs and the sad-coloured on those of his sisters and kinswomen and would have them send after other apparel, which whenas they had donned, they gave themselves to singing and dancing and other diversions galore; wherefore the banquet, which had had a silent beginning had a loud-resounding ending. thereafter, with the utmost mirth, they one and all repaired, even as they were, to tedaldo's house, where they supped that night, and on this wise they continued to feast several days longer. [footnote : lit. despite, rancour (_rugginuzza_), but the phrase appears to refer to the suspicions excited by the whispers that had been current, as above mentioned, of the connection between ermellina and tedaldo.] the florentines awhile regarded tedaldo with amazement, as a man risen from the dead; nay, in many an one's mind, and even in that of his brethren, there abode a certain faint doubt an he were indeed himself and they did not yet thoroughly believe it, nor belike had they believed it for a long time to come but for a chance which made them clear who the murdered man was which was on this wise. there passed one day before their house certain footmen[ ] of lunigiana, who, seeing tedaldo, made towards him and said, 'give you good day, faziuolo.' whereto tedaldo in his brothers' presence answered, 'you mistake me.' the others, hearing him speak, were abashed and cried him pardon, saying, 'forsooth you resemble, more than ever we saw one man favour another, a comrade of ours called faziuolo of pontremoli, who came hither some fortnight or more agone, nor could we ever since learn what is come of him. indeed, we marvelled at the dress, for that he was a soldier, even as we are.' tedaldo's elder brother, hearing this, came forward and enquired how this faziuolo had been clad. they told him and it was found to have been punctually as they said; wherefore, what with these and what with other tokens, it was known for certain that he who had been slain was faziuolo and not tedaldo, and all doubt of the latter[ ] accordingly departed [the minds of] his brothers and of every other. tedaldo, then, being returned very rich, persevered in his love and the lady falling out with him no more, they long, discreetly dealing, had enjoyment of their love. god grant us to enjoy ours!" [footnote : _i.e._ foot-soldiers.] [footnote : _i.e._ of his identity.] the eighth story [day the third] ferondo, having swallowed a certain powder, is entombed for dead and being taken forth of the sepulchre by the abbot, who enjoyeth his wife the while, is put in prison and given to believe that he is in purgatory; after which, being raised up again, he reareth for his own a child begotten of the abbot on his wife the end being come of emilia's long story,--which had not withal for its length been unpleasing to any of the company, nay, but was held of all the ladies to have been briefly narrated, having regard to the number and diversity of the incidents therein recounted,--the queen, having with a mere sign intimated her pleasure to lauretta, gave her occasion to begin thus: "dearest ladies, there occurreth to me to tell you a true story which hath much more semblance of falsehood than of that which it indeed is and which hath been recalled to my mind by hearing one to have been bewept and buried for another. i purpose then, to tell you how a live man was entombed for dead and how after he and many other folk believed himself to have come forth of the sepulchre as one raised from the dead, by reason whereof he[ ] was adored as a saint who should rather have been condemned as a criminal. [footnote : _i.e._ the abbot who played the trick upon ferondo. see post.] there was, then, and yet is, in tuscany, an abbey situate, like as we see many thereof, in a place not overmuch frequented of men, whereof a monk was made abbot, who was a very holy man in everything, save in the matter of women, and in this he contrived to do so warily that well nigh none, not to say knew, but even suspected him thereof, for that he was holden exceeding godly and just in everything. it chanced that a very wealthy farmer, by name ferondo, contracted a great intimacy with him, a heavy, clodpate fellow and dull-witted beyond measure, whose commerce pleased the abbot but for that his simplicity whiles afforded him some diversion, and in the course of their acquaintance, the latter perceived that ferondo had a very handsome woman to wife, of whom he became so passionately enamoured that he thought of nothing else day or night; but, hearing that, simple and shallow-witted as ferondo was in everything else, he was shrewd enough in the matter of loving and guarding his wife, he well nigh despaired of her. however, like a very adroit man as he was, he wrought on such wise with ferondo that he came whiles, with his wife, to take his pleasance in the abbey-garden, and there he very demurely entertained them with discourse of the beatitude of the life eternal and of the pious works of many men and women of times past, insomuch that the lady was taken with a desire to confess herself to him and asked and had ferondo's leave thereof. accordingly, to the abbot's exceeding pleasure, she came to confess to him and seating herself at his feet, before she proceeded to say otherwhat, began thus: 'sir, if god had given me a right husband or had given me none, it would belike be easy to me, with the help of your exhortations, to enter upon the road which you say leadeth folk unto life eternal; but i, having regard to what ferondo is and to his witlessness, may style myself a widow, and yet i am married, inasmuch as, he living, i can have no other husband; and dolt as he is, he is without any cause, so out of all measure jealous of me that by reason thereof i cannot live with him otherwise than in tribulation and misery; wherefore, ere i come to other confession, i humbly beseech you, as most i may, that it may please you give me some counsel concerning this, for that, an the occasion of my well-doing begin not therefrom, confession or other good work will profit me little.' this speech gave the abbot great satisfaction and himseemed fortune had opened him the way to his chief desire; wherefore, 'daughter,' quoth he, 'i can well believe that it must be a sore annoy for a fair and dainty dame such as you are to have a blockhead to husband, but a much greater meseemeth to have a jealous man; wherefore, you having both the one and the other, i can lightly credit that which you avouch of your tribulation. but for this, speaking briefly, i see neither counsel nor remedy save one, the which is that ferondo be cured of this jealousy. the medicine that will cure him i know very well how to make, provided you have the heart to keep secret that which i shall tell you.' 'father mine,' answered the lady, 'have no fear of that, for i would liefer suffer death than tell any that which you bid me not repeat; but how may this be done?' quoth the abbot, 'an we would have him cured, it behoveth of necessity that he go to purgatory.' 'but how,' asked she, 'can he go thither alive?' 'needs must he die,' replied the abbot, 'and so go thither; and whenas he shall have suffered such penance as shall suffice to purge him of his jealousy, we will pray god, with certain orisons that he restore him to this life, and he will do it.' 'then,' said the lady, 'i am to become a widow?' 'ay,' answered the abbot, 'for a certain time, wherein you must look well you suffer not yourself to be married again, for that god would take it in ill part, and whenas ferondo returned hither, it would behove you return to him and he would then be more jealous than ever.' quoth she, 'provided he be but cured of this calamity, so it may not behove me abide in prison all my life, i am content; do as it pleaseth you.' 'and i will do it,'[ ] rejoined he; 'but what guerdon am i to have of you for such a service?' 'father,' answered the lady, 'you shall have whatsoever pleaseth you, so but it be in my power; but what can the like of me that may befit such a man as yourself?' 'madam,' replied the abbot 'you can do no less for me than that which i undertake to do for you; for that, like as i am disposed to do that which is to be your weal and your solacement, even so can you do that which will be the saving and assainment of my life.' quoth she, 'an it be so, i am ready.' 'then,' said the abbot, 'you must give me your love and vouchsafe me satisfaction of yourself, for whom i am all afire with love and languishment.' [footnote : _i.e._ i will cure your husband of his jealousy.] the lady, hearing this, was all aghast and answered, 'alack, father mine, what is this you ask? methought you were a saint. doth it beseem holy men to require women, who come to them for counsel, of such things?' 'fair my soul,' rejoined the abbot, 'marvel not, for that sanctity nowise abateth by this, seeing it hath its seat in the soul and that which i ask of you is a sin of the body. but, be that as it may, your ravishing beauty hath had such might that love constraineth me to do thus; and i tell you that you may glory in your charms over all other women, considering that they please holy men, who are used to look upon the beauties of heaven. moreover, abbot though i be, i am a man like another and am, as you see, not yet old. nor should this that i ask be grievous to you to do; nay, you should rather desire it, for that, what while ferondo sojourneth in purgatory, i will bear you company by night and render you that solacement which he should give you; nor shall any ever come to know of this, for that every one believeth of me that, and more than that, which you but now believed of me. reject not the grace that god sendeth you, for there be women enough who covet that which you may have and shall have, if, like a wise woman, you hearken to my counsel. moreover, i have fair and precious jewels, which i purpose shall belong to none other than yourself. do, then, for me, sweet my hope, that which i willingly do for you.' the lady hung her head, knowing not how to deny him, whilst herseemed it were ill done to grant him what he asked; but the abbot, seeing that she hearkened and hesitated to reply and himseeming he had already half converted her, followed up his first words with many others and stayed not till he had persuaded her that she would do well to comply with him. accordingly, she said, blushing, that she was ready to do his every commandment, but might not avail thereto till such time as ferondo should be gone to purgatory; whereupon quoth the abbot, exceeding well pleased, 'and we will make shift to send him thither incontinent; do you but contrive that he come hither to-morrow or next day to sojourn with me.' so saying, he privily put a very handsome ring into her hand and dismissed her. the lady rejoiced at the gift and looking to have others, rejoined her companions, to whom she fell to relating marvellous things of the abbot's sanctity, and presently returned home with them. a few days after ferondo repaired to the abbey, whom, whenas the abbot saw, he cast about to send him to purgatory. accordingly, he sought out a powder of marvellous virtue, which he had gotten in the parts of the levant of a great prince who avouched it to be that which was wont to be used of the old man of the mountain,[ ] whenas he would fain send any one, sleeping, into his paradise or bring him forth thereof, and that, according as more or less thereof was given, without doing any hurt, it made him who took it sleep more or less [time] on such wise that, whilst its virtue lasted, none would say he had life in him. of this he took as much as might suffice to make a man sleep three days and putting it in a beaker of wine, that was not yet well cleared, gave it to ferondo to drink in his cell, without the latter suspecting aught; after which he carried him into the cloister and there with some of his monks fell to making sport of him and his dunceries; nor was it long before, the powder working, ferondo was taken with so sudden and overpowering a drowsiness, that he slumbered as yet he stood afoot and presently fell down fast asleep. [footnote : the well-known chief of the assassins (properly _heshashin_, _i.e._ hashish or hemp eaters). the powder in question is apparently a preparation of hashish or hemp. boccaccio seems to have taken his idea of the old man of the mountain from marco polo, whose travels, published in the early part of the fourteenth century, give a most romantic account of that chieftain and his followers.] the abbot made a show of being concerned at this accident and letting untruss him, caused fetch cold water and cast it in his face and essay many other remedies of his fashion, as if he would recall the strayed life and senses from [the oppression of] some fumosity of the stomach or what not like affection that had usurped them. the monks, seeing that for all this he came not to himself and feeling his pulse, but finding no sign of life in him, all held it for certain that he was dead. accordingly, they sent to tell his wife and his kinsfolk, who all came thither forthright, and the lady having bewept him awhile with her kinswomen, the abbot caused lay him, clad as he was, in a tomb; whilst the lady returned to her house and giving out that she meant never to part from a little son, whom she had had by her husband, abode at home and occupied herself with the governance of the child and of the wealth which had been ferondo's. meanwhile, the abbot arose stealthily in the night and with the aid of a bolognese monk, in whom he much trusted and who was that day come thither from bologna, took up ferondo out of the tomb and carried him into a vault, in which there was no light to be seen and which had been made for prison of such of the monks as should make default in aught. there they pulled off his garments and clothing him monk-fashion, laid him on a truss of straw and there left him against he should recover his senses, whilst the bolognese monk, having been instructed by the abbot of that which he had to do, without any else knowing aught thereof, proceeded to await his coming to himself. on the morrow, the abbot, accompanied by sundry of his monks, betook himself, by way of visitation, to the house of the lady, whom he found clad in black and in great tribulation, and having comforted her awhile, he softly required her of her promise. the lady, finding herself free and unhindered of ferondo or any other and seeing on his finger another fine ring, replied that she was ready and appointed him to come to her that same night. accordingly, night come, the abbot, disguised in ferondo's clothes and accompanied by the monk his confidant, repaired thither and lay with her in the utmost delight and pleasance till the morning, when he returned to the abbey. after this he very often made the same journey on a like errand and being whiles encountered, coming or going, of one or another of the villagers, it was believed he was ferondo who went about those parts, doing penance; by reason whereof many strange stories were after bruited about among the simple countryfolk, and this was more than once reported to ferondo's wife, who well knew what it was. as for ferondo, when he recovered his senses and found himself he knew not where, the bolognese monk came in to him with a horrible noise and laying hold of him, gave him a sound drubbing with a rod he had in his hand. ferondo, weeping and crying out, did nought but ask, 'where am i?' to which the monk answered, 'thou art in purgatory.' 'how?' cried ferondo. 'am i then dead?' 'ay, certes,' replied the other; whereupon ferondo fell to bemoaning himself and his wife and child, saying the oddest things in the world. presently the monk brought him somewhat of meat and drink, which ferondo seeing, 'what!' cried he. 'do the dead eat?' 'ay do they,' answered the monk. 'this that i bring thee is what the woman, thy wife that was, sent this morning to the church to let say masses for thy soul, and god the lord willeth that it be made over to thee.' quoth ferondo, 'god grant her a good year! i still cherished her ere i died, insomuch that i held her all night in mine arms and did nought but kiss her, and t' other thing also i did, when i had a mind thereto.' then, being very sharp-set, he fell to eating and drinking and himseeming the wine was not overgood, 'lord confound her!' quoth he. 'why did not she give the priest wine of the cask against the wall?' after he had eaten, the monk laid hold of him anew and gave him another sound beating with the same rod; whereat ferondo roared out lustily and said, 'alack, why dost thou this to me?' quoth the monk, 'because thus hath god the lord ordained that it be done unto thee twice every day.' 'and for what cause?' asked ferondo. 'because,' answered the monk, 'thou wast jealous, having the best woman in the country to wife.' 'alas!' said ferondo. 'thou sayst sooth, ay, and the kindest creature; she was sweeter than syrup; but i knew not that god the lord held it for ill that a man should be jealous; else had i not been so.' quoth the monk, 'thou shouldst have bethought thyself of that, whenas thou wast there below,[ ] and have amended thee thereof; and should it betide that thou ever return thither, look thou so have in mind that which i do unto thee at this present that thou be nevermore jealous.' 'what?' said ferondo. 'do the dead ever return thither?' 'ay,' answered the monk; 'whom god willeth.' 'marry,' cried ferondo, 'and i ever return thither, i will be the best husband in the world; i will never beat her nor give her an ill word, except it be anent the wine she sent hither this morning and for that she sent no candles, so it behoved me to eat in the dark.' 'nay,' said the monk, 'she sent candles enough, but they were all burnt for the masses.' 'true,' rejoined ferondo; 'and assuredly, an i return thither, i will let her do what she will. but tell me, who art thou that usest me thus?' quoth the monk, 'i also am dead. i was of sardinia and for that aforetime i much commended a master of mine of being jealous, i have been doomed of god to this punishment, that i must give thee to eat and drink and beat thee thus, till such time as god shall ordain otherwhat of thee and of me.' then said ferondo, 'is there none here other than we twain?' 'ay,' answered the monk, 'there be folk by the thousands; but thou canst neither see nor hear them, nor they thee.' quoth ferondo, 'and how far are we from our own countries?' 'ecod,' replied the other, 'we are distant thence more miles than we can well cack at a bout.' 'faith,' rejoined the farmer, 'that is far enough; meseemeth we must be out of the world, an it be so much as all that.' [footnote : _i.e._ in the sublunary world.] in such and the like discourse was ferondo entertained half a score months with eating and drinking and beating, what while the abbot assiduously visited the fair lady, without miscarriage, and gave himself the goodliest time in the world with her. at last, as ill-luck would have it, the lady found herself with child and straightway acquainted the abbot therewith, wherefore it seemed well to them both that ferondo should without delay be recalled from purgatory to life and return to her, so she might avouch herself with child by him. accordingly, the abbot that same night caused call to ferondo in prison with a counterfeit voice, saying, 'ferondo, take comfort, for it is god's pleasure that thou return to the world, where thou shalt have a son by thy wife, whom look thou name benedict, for that by the prayers of thy holy abbot and of thy wife and for the love of st. benedict he doth thee this favour.' ferondo, hearing this, was exceedingly rejoiced and said, 'it liketh me well, lord grant a good year to seignior god almighty and to the abbot and st. benedict and my cheesy[ ] sweet honey wife.' the abbot let give him, in the wine that he sent him, so much of the powder aforesaid as should cause him sleep maybe four hours and with the aid of his monk, having put his own clothes on him, restored him privily to the tomb wherein he had been buried. [footnote : _sic_ (_casciata_); meaning that he loves her as well as he loves cheese, for which it is well known that the lower-class italian has a romantic passion. according to alexandre dumas, the italian loves cheese so well that he has succeeded in introducing it into everything he eats or drinks, with the one exception of coffee.] next morning, at break of day, ferondo came to himself and espying light,--a thing which he had not seen for good ten months,--through some crevice of the tomb, doubted not but he was alive again. accordingly, he fell to bawling out, 'open to me! open to me!' and heaving so lustily at the lid of the tomb with his head that he stirred it, for that it was eath to move, and had begun to move it away, when the monks, having now made an end of saying matins, ran thither and knew ferondo's voice and saw him in act to come forth of the sepulchre; whereupon, all aghast for the strangeness of the case, they took to their heels and ran to the abbot, who made a show of rising from prayer and said, 'my sons, have no fear; take the cross and the holy water and follow after me, so we may see that which god willeth to show forth to us of his might'; and as he said, so he did. now ferondo was come forth of the sepulchre all pale, as well might he be who had so long abidden without seeing the sky. as soon as he saw the abbot, he ran to cast himself at his feet and said, 'father mine, according to that which hath been revealed to me, your prayers and those of st. benedict and my wife have delivered me from the pains of purgatory and restored me to life, wherefore i pray god to give you a good year and good calends now and always.' quoth the abbot, 'praised be god his might! go, my son, since he hath sent thee back hither; comfort thy wife, who hath been still in tears, since thou departedst this life, and henceforth be a friend and servant of god.' 'sir,' replied ferondo, 'so hath it indeed been said to me; only leave me do; for, as soon as i find her, i shall buss her, such goodwill do i bear her.' the abbot, left alone with his monks, made a great show of wonderment at this miracle and caused devoutly sing miserere therefor. as for ferondo, he returned to his village, where all who saw him fled, as men use to do from things frightful; but he called them back and avouched himself to be raised up again. his wife on like wise feigned to be adread of him; but, after the folk were somewhat reassured anent him and saw that he was indeed alive, they questioned him of many things, and he, as it were he had returned wise, made answer to all and gave them news of the souls of their kinsfolk, making up, of his own motion, the finest fables in the world of the affairs of purgatory and recounting in full assembly the revelation made him by the mouth of the rangel bragiel[ ] ere he was raised up again. then, returning to his house and entering again into possession of his goods, he got his wife, as he thought, with child, and by chance it befell that, in due time,--to the thinking of the fools who believe that women go just nine months with child,--the lady gave birth to a boy, who was called benedict ferondi.[ ] [footnote : _i.e._ the angel gabriel.] [footnote : the plural of a surname is, in strictness, always used by the italians in speaking of a man by his full name, _dei_ being understood between the christian and surname, as _benedetto_ (_dei_) _ferondi_, benedict of the ferondos or ferondo family, whilst, when he is denominated by the surname alone, it is used in the singular, _il_ (the) being understood, _e.g._ (il) boccaccio, (il) ferondo, _i.e._ the particular boccaccio or ferondo in question for the nonce.] ferondo's return and his talk, well nigh every one believing him to have risen from the dead, added infinitely to the renown of the abbot's sanctity, and he himself, as if cured of his jealousy by the many beatings he had received therefor, thenceforward, according to the promise made by the abbot to the lady, was no more jealous; whereat she was well pleased and lived honestly with him, as of her wont, save indeed that, whenas she conveniently might, she willingly foregathered with the holy abbot, who had so well and diligently served her in her greatest needs." the ninth story [day the third] gillette de narbonne recovereth the king of france of a fistula and demandeth for her husband bertrand de roussillon, who marrieth her against his will and betaketh him for despite to florence, where, he paying court to a young lady, gillette, in the person of the latter, lieth with him and hath by him two sons; wherefore after, holding her dear, he entertaineth her for his wife lauretta's story being now ended, it rested but with the queen to tell, an she would not infringe upon dioneo's privilege; wherefore, without waiting to be solicited by her companions, she began all blithesomely to speak thus: "who shall tell a story that may appear goodly, now we have heard that of lauretta? certes, it was well for us that hers was not the first, for that few of the others would have pleased after it, as i misdoubt me[ ] will betide of those which are yet to tell this day. natheless, be that as it may, i will e'en recount to you that which occurreth to me upon the proposed theme. [footnote : lit. and so i hope (_spero_), a curious instance of the ancient dantesque use of the word _spero_, i hope, in its contrary sense of fear.] there was in the kingdom of france a gentleman called isnard, count of roussillon, who, for that he was scant of health, still entertained about his person a physician, by name master gerard de narbonne. the said count had one little son, and no more, hight bertrand, who was exceeding handsome and agreeable, and with him other children of his own age were brought up. among these latter was a daughter of the aforesaid physician, by name gillette, who vowed to the said bertrand an infinite love and fervent more than pertained unto her tender years. the count dying and leaving his son in the hands of the king, it behoved him betake himself to paris, whereof the damsel abode sore disconsolate, and her own father dying no great while after, she would fain, an she might have had a seemly occasion, have gone to paris to see bertrand: but, being straitly guarded, for that she was left rich and alone, she saw no honourable way thereto; and being now of age for a husband and having never been able to forget bertrand, she had, without reason assigned, refused many to whom her kinsfolk would have married her. now it befell that, what while she burned more than ever for love of bertrand, for that she heard he was grown a very goodly gentleman, news came to her how the king of france, by an imposthume which he had had in his breast and which had been ill tended, had gotten a fistula, which occasioned him the utmost anguish and annoy, nor had he yet been able to find a physician who might avail to recover him thereof, albeit many had essayed it, but all had aggravated the ill; wherefore the king, despairing of cure, would have no more counsel nor aid of any. hereof the young lady was beyond measure content and bethought herself that not only would this furnish her with a legitimate occasion of going to paris, but that, should the king's ailment be such as she believed, she might lightly avail to have bertrand to husband. accordingly, having aforetime learned many things of her father, she made a powder of certain simples useful for such an infirmity as she conceived the king's to be and taking horse, repaired to paris. before aught else she studied to see bertrand and next, presenting herself before the king, she prayed him of his favour to show her his ailment. the king, seeing her a fair and engaging damsel, knew not how to deny her and showed her that which ailed him. whenas she saw it, she was certified incontinent that she could heal it and accordingly said, 'my lord, an it please you, i hope in god to make you whole of this your infirmity in eight days' time, without annoy or fatigue on your part.' the king scoffed in himself at her words, saying, 'that which the best physicians in the world have availed not neither known to do, how shall a young woman know?' accordingly, he thanked her for her good will and answered that he was resolved no more to follow the counsel of physicians. whereupon quoth the damsel, 'my lord, you make light of my skill, for that i am young and a woman; but i would have you bear in mind that i medicine not of mine own science, but with the aid of god and the science of master gerard de narbonne, who was my father and a famous physician whilst he lived.' the king, hearing this, said in himself, 'it may be this woman is sent me of god; why should i not make proof of her knowledge, since she saith she will, without annoy of mine, cure me in little time?' accordingly, being resolved to essay her, he said, 'damsel, and if you cure us not, after causing us break our resolution, what will you have ensue to you therefor?' 'my lord,' answered she, 'set a guard upon me and if i cure you not within eight days, let burn me alive; but, if i cure you, what reward shall i have?' quoth the king, 'you seem as yet unhusbanded; if you do this, we will marry you well and worshipfully.' 'my lord,' replied the young lady, 'i am well pleased that you should marry me, but i will have a husband such as i shall ask of you, excepting always any one of your sons or of the royal house.' he readily promised her that which she sought, whereupon she began her cure and in brief, before the term limited, she brought him back to health. the king, feeling himself healed, said, 'damsel, you have well earned your husband'; whereto she answered, 'then, my lord, i have earned bertrand de roussillon, whom i began to love even in the days of my childhood and have ever since loved over all.' the king deemed it a grave matter to give him to her; nevertheless, having promised her and unwilling to fail of his faith, he let call the count to himself and bespoke him thus: 'bertrand, you are now of age and accomplished [in all that behoveth unto man's estate];[ ] wherefore it is our pleasure that you return to govern your county and carry with you a damsel, whom we have given you to wife.' 'and who is the damsel, my lord?' asked bertrand; to which the king answered, 'it is she who hath with her medicines restored to us our health.' [footnote : _fornito_, a notable example of what the illustrious lewis carroll dodgson, waywode of wonderland, calls a "portmanteau-word," a species that abounds in mediæval italian, for the confusion of translators.] bertrand, who had seen and recognized gillette, knowing her (albeit she seemed to him very fair) to be of no such lineage as sorted with his quality, said all disdainfully, 'my lord, will you then marry me to a she-leach? now god forbid i should ever take such an one to wife!' 'then,' said the king, 'will you have us fail of our faith, the which, to have our health again, we pledged to the damsel, who in guerdon thereof demanded you to husband?' 'my lord,' answered bertrand, 'you may, an you will, take from me whatsoever i possess or, as your liegeman, bestow me upon whoso pleaseth you; but of this i certify you, that i will never be a consenting party unto such a marriage.' 'nay,' rejoined the king, 'but you shall, for that the damsel is fair and wise and loveth you dear; wherefore we doubt not but you will have a far happier life with her than with a lady of higher lineage.' bertrand held his peace and the king let make great preparations for the celebration of the marriage. the appointed day being come, bertrand, sore against his will, in the presence of the king, espoused the damsel, who loved him more than herself. this done, having already determined in himself what he should do, he sought leave of the king to depart, saying he would fain return to his county and there consummate the marriage; then, taking horse, he repaired not thither, but betook himself into tuscany, where, hearing that the florentines were at war with those of sienna, he determined to join himself to the former, by whom he was joyfully received and made captain over a certain number of men-at-arms; and there, being well provided[ ] of them, he abode a pretty while in their service. [footnote : _i.e._ getting good pay and allowances (_avendo buona provisione_).] the newly-made wife, ill content with such a lot, but hoping by her fair dealing to recall him to his county, betook herself to roussillon, where she was received of all as their liege lady. there, finding everything waste and disordered for the long time that the land had been without a lord, with great diligence and solicitude, like a discreet lady as she was, she set all in order again, whereof the count's vassals were mightily content and held her exceeding dear, vowing her a great love and blaming the count sore for that he accepted not of her. the lady, having thoroughly ordered the county, notified the count thereof by two knights, whom she despatched to him, praying him that, an it were on her account he forbore to come to his county, he should signify it to her and she, to pleasure him, would depart thence; but he answered them very harshly, saying, 'for that, let her do her pleasure; i, for my part, will return thither to abide with her, whenas she shall have this my ring on her finger and in her arms a son by me begotten.' now the ring in question he held very dear and never parted with it, by reason of a certain virtue which it had been given him to understand that it had. the knights understood the hardship of the condition implied in these two well nigh impossible requirements, but, seeing that they might not by their words avail to move him from his purpose, they returned to the lady and reported to her his reply; whereat she was sore afflicted and determined, after long consideration, to seek to learn if and where the two things aforesaid might be compassed, to the intent that she might, in consequence, have her husband again. accordingly, having bethought herself what she should do, she assembled certain of the best and chiefest men of the county and with plaintive speech very orderly recounted to them that which she had already done for love of the count and showed them what had ensued thereof, adding that it was not her intent that, through her sojourn there, the count should abide in perpetual exile; nay, rather she purposed to spend the rest of her life in pilgrimages and works of mercy and charity for her soul's health; wherefore she prayed them take the ward and governance of the county and notify the count that she had left him free and vacant possession and had departed the country, intending nevermore to return to roussillon. many were the tears shed by the good folk, whilst she spoke, and many the prayers addressed to her that it would please her change counsel and abide there; but they availed nought. then, commending them to god, she set out upon her way, without telling any whither she was bound, well furnished with monies and jewels of price and accompanied by a cousin of hers and a chamberwoman, all in pilgrims' habits, and stayed not till she came to florence, where, chancing upon a little inn, kept by a decent widow woman, she there took up her abode and lived quietly, after the fashion of a poor pilgrim, impatient to hear news of her lord. it befell, then, that on the morrow of her arrival she saw bertrand pass before her lodging, a-horseback with his company, and albeit she knew him full well, natheless she asked the good woman of the inn who he was. the hostess answered, 'that is a stranger gentleman, who calleth himself count bertrand, a pleasant man and a courteous and much loved in this city; and he is the most enamoured man in the world of a she-neighbour of ours, who is a gentlewoman, but poor. sooth to say, she is a very virtuous damsel and abideth, being yet unmarried for poverty, with her mother, a very good and discreet lady, but for whom, maybe, she had already done the count's pleasure.' the countess took good note of what she heard and having more closely enquired into every particular and apprehended all aright, determined in herself how she should do. accordingly, having learned the house and name of the lady whose daughter the count loved, she one day repaired privily thither in her pilgrim's habit and finding the mother and daughter in very poor case, saluted them and told the former that, an it pleased her, she would fain speak with her alone. the gentlewoman, rising, replied that she was ready to hearken to her and accordingly carried her into a chamber of hers, where they seated themselves and the countess began thus, 'madam, meseemeth you are of the enemies of fortune, even as i am; but, an you will, belike you may be able to relieve both yourself and me.' the lady answered that she desired nothing better than to relieve herself by any honest means; and the countess went on, 'needs must you pledge me your faith, whereto an i commit myself and you deceive me, you will mar your own affairs and mine.' 'tell me anything you will in all assurance,' replied the gentlewoman; 'for never shall you find yourself deceived of me.' thereupon the countess, beginning with her first enamourment, recounted to her who she was and all that had betided her to that day after such a fashion that the gentlewoman, putting faith in her words and having, indeed, already in part heard her story from others, began to have compassion of her. the countess, having related her adventures, went on to say, 'you have now, amongst my other troubles, heard what are the two things which it behoveth me have, an i would have my husband, and to which i know none who can help me, save only yourself, if that be true which i hear, to wit, that the count my husband is passionately enamoured of your daughter.' 'madam,' answered the gentlewoman, 'if the count love my daughter i know not; indeed he maketh a great show thereof. but, an it be so, what can i do in this that you desire?' 'madam,' rejoined the countess, 'i will tell you; but first i will e'en show you what i purpose shall ensue thereof to you, an you serve me. i see your daughter fair and of age for a husband and according to what i have heard, meseemeth i understand the lack of good to marry her withal it is that causeth you keep her at home. now i purpose, in requital of the service you shall do me, to give her forthright of mine own monies such a dowry as you yourself shall deem necessary to marry her honorably.' the mother, being needy, was pleased with the offer; algates, having the spirit of a gentlewoman, she said, 'madam, tell me what i can do for you; if it consist with my honour, i will willingly do it, and you shall after do that which shall please you.' then said the countess, 'it behoveth me that you let tell the count my husband by some one in whom you trust, that your daughter is ready to do his every pleasure, so she may but be certified that he loveth her as he pretendeth, the which she will never believe, except he send her the ring which he carrieth on his finger and by which she hath heard he setteth such store. an he send you the ring, you must give it to me and after send to him to say that your daughter is ready do his pleasure; then bring him hither in secret and privily put me to bed to him in the stead of your daughter. it may be god will vouchsafe me to conceive and on this wise, having his ring on my finger and a child in mine arms of him begotten, i shall presently regain him and abide with him, as a wife should abide with her husband, and you will have been the cause thereof.' this seemed a grave matter to the gentlewoman, who feared lest blame should haply ensue thereof to her daughter; nevertheless, bethinking her it were honourably done to help the poor lady recover her husband and that she went about to do this to a worthy end and trusting in the good and honest intention of the countess, she not only promised her to do it, but, before many days, dealing with prudence and secrecy, in accordance with the latter's instructions, she both got the ring (albeit this seemed somewhat grievous to the count) and adroitly put her to bed with her husband, in the place of her own daughter. in these first embracements, most ardently sought of the count, the lady, by god's pleasure, became with child of two sons, as her delivery in due time made manifest. nor once only, but many times, did the gentlewoman gratify the countess with her husband's embraces, contriving so secretly that never was a word known of the matter, whilst the count still believed himself to have been, not with his wife, but with her whom he loved; and whenas he came to take leave of a morning, he gave her, at one time and another, divers goodly and precious jewels, which the countess laid up with all diligence. then, feeling herself with child and unwilling to burden the gentlewoman farther with such an office, she said to her, 'madam, thanks to god and you, i have gotten that which i desired, wherefore it is time that i do that which shall content you and after get me gone hence.' the gentlewoman answered that, if she had gotten that which contented her, she was well pleased, but that she had not done this of any hope of reward, nay, for that herseemed it behoved her to do it, an she would do well. 'madam,' rejoined the countess, 'that which you say liketh me well and so on my part i purpose not to give you that which you shall ask of me by way of reward, but to do well, for that meseemeth behoveful so to do.' the gentlewoman, then, constrained by necessity, with the utmost shamefastness, asked her an hundred pounds to marry her daughter withal; but the countess, seeing her confusion and hearing her modest demand, gave her five hundred and so many rare and precious jewels as were worth maybe as much more. with this the gentlewoman was far more than satisfied and rendered the countess the best thanks in her power; whereupon the latter, taking leave of her, returned to the inn, whilst the other, to deprive bertrand of all farther occasion of coming or sending to her house, removed with her daughter into the country to the house of one of her kinsfolk, and he, being a little after recalled by his vassals and hearing that the countess had departed the country, returned to his own house. the countess, hearing that he had departed florence and returned to his county, was mightily rejoiced and abode at florence till her time came to be delivered, when she gave birth to two male children, most like their father, and let rear them with all diligence. whenas it seemed to her time, she set out and came, without being known of any, to montpellier, where having rested some days and made enquiry of the count and where he was, she learned that he was to hold a great entertainment of knights and ladies at roussillon on all saints' day and betook herself thither, still in her pilgrim's habit that she was wont to wear. finding the knights and ladies assembled in the count's palace and about to sit down to table, she went up, with her children in her arms and without changing her dress, into the banqueting hall and making her way between man and man whereas she saw the count, cast herself at his feet and said, weeping, 'i am thine unhappy wife, who, to let thee return and abide in thy house, have long gone wandering miserably about the world. i conjure thee, in the name of god, to accomplish unto me thy promise upon the condition appointed me by the two knights i sent thee; for, behold, here in mine arms is not only one son of thine, but two, and here is thy ring. it is time, then, that i be received of thee as a wife, according to thy promise.' the count, hearing this, was all confounded and recognized the ring and the children also, so like were they to him; but yet he said, 'how can this have come to pass?' the countess, then, to his exceeding wonderment and that of all others who were present, orderly recounted that which had passed and how it had happened; whereupon the count, feeling that she spoke sooth and seeing her constancy and wit and moreover two such goodly children, as well for the observance of his promise as to pleasure all his liegemen and the ladies, who all besought him thenceforth to receive and honour her as his lawful wife, put off his obstinate despite and raising the countess to her feet, embraced her and kissing her, acknowledged her for his lawful wife and those for his children. then, letting clothe her in apparel such as beseemed her quality, to the exceeding joyance of as many as were there and of all other his vassals who heard the news, he held high festival, not only all that day, but sundry others, and from that day forth still honoured her as his bride and his wife and loved and tendered her over all." the tenth story [day the third] alibech, turning hermit, is taught by rustico, a monk, to put the devil in hell, and being after brought away thence, becometh neerbale his wife dioneo, who had diligently hearkened to the queen's story, seeing that it was ended and that it rested with him alone to tell, without awaiting commandment, smilingly began to speak as follows: "charming ladies, maybe you have never heard tell how one putteth the devil in hell; wherefore, without much departing from the tenor of that whereof you have discoursed all this day, i will e'en tell it you. belike, having learned it, you may catch the spirit[ ] thereof and come to know that, albeit love sojourneth liefer in jocund palaces and luxurious chambers than in the hovels of the poor, yet none the less doth he whiles make his power felt midmost thick forests and rugged mountains and in desert caverns; whereby it may be understood that all things are subject to his puissance. [footnote : _guadagnare l'anima_, lit. gain the soul (syn. pith, kernel, substance). this passage is ambiguous and should perhaps be rendered "catch the knack or trick" or "acquire the wish."] to come, then, to the fact, i say that in the city of capsa in barbary there was aforetime a very rich man, who, among his other children, had a fair and winsome young daughter, by name alibech. she, not being a christian and hearing many christians who abode in the town mightily extol the christian faith and the service of god, one day questioned one of them in what manner one might avail to serve god with the least hindrance. the other answered that they best served god who most strictly eschewed the things of the world, as those did who had betaken them into the solitudes of the deserts of thebais. the girl, who was maybe fourteen years old and very simple, moved by no ordered desire, but by some childish fancy, set off next morning by stealth and all alone, to go to the desert of thebais, without letting any know her intent. after some days, her desire persisting, she won, with no little toil, to the deserts in question and seeing a hut afar off, went thither and found at the door a holy man, who marvelled to see her there and asked her what she sought. she replied that, being inspired of god, she went seeking to enter into his service and was now in quest of one who should teach her how it behoved to serve him. the worthy man, seeing her young and very fair and fearing lest, an he entertained her, the devil should beguile him, commended her pious intent and giving her somewhat to eat of roots of herbs and wild apples and dates and to drink of water, said to her, 'daughter mine, not far hence is a holy man, who is a much better master than i of that which thou goest seeking; do thou betake thyself to him'; and put her in the way. however, when she reached the man in question, she had of him the same answer and faring farther, came to the cell of a young hermit, a very devout and good man, whose name was rustico and to whom she made the same request as she had done to the others. he, having a mind to make a trial of his own constancy, sent her not away, as the others had done, but received her into his cell, and the night being come, he made her a little bed of palm-fronds and bade her lie down to rest thereon. this done, temptations tarried not to give battle to his powers of resistance and he, finding himself grossly deceived by these latter, turned tail, without awaiting many assaults, and confessed himself beaten; then, laying aside devout thoughts and orisons and mortifications, he fell to revolving in his memory the youth and beauty of the damsel and bethinking himself what course he should take with her, so as to win to that which he desired of her, without her taking him for a debauched fellow. accordingly, having sounded her with sundry questions, he found that she had never known man and was in truth as simple as she seemed; wherefore he bethought him how, under colour of the service of god, he might bring her to his pleasures. in the first place, he showeth her with many words how great an enemy the devil was of god the lord and after gave her to understand that the most acceptable service that could be rendered to god was to put back the devil into hell, whereto he had condemned him. the girl asked him how this might be done; and he, 'thou shalt soon know that; do thou but as thou shalt see me do.' so saying, he proceeded to put off the few garments he had and abode stark naked, as likewise did the girl, whereupon he fell on his knees, as he would pray, and caused her abide over against himself.[ ] [footnote : the translators regret that the disuse into which magic has fallen, makes it impossible to render the technicalities of that mysterious art into tolerable english; they have therefore found it necessary to insert several passages in the original italian.] e cosí stando, essendo rustico, piú che mai, nel suo disidero acceso, per lo vederla cosí bella, venue la resurrezion della carne; la quale riguardando alibech, e maravigliatasti, disse: rustico, quella che cosa è, che io ti veggio, che cosí si pigne in fuori, e non l' ho io? o figliuola mia, disse rustico, questo è il diavolo, di che io t'ho parlato, e vedi tu ora: egli mi dà grandissima molestia, tanta, che io appena la posso sofferire. allora disse la giovane. o lodato sia iddio, ché io veggio, che io sto meglio, che non stai tu, ché io non ho cotesto diavolo io. disse rustico, tu di vero; ma tu hai un' altra cosa, che non l'ho io, et haila in iscambio di questo. disse alibech: o che? a cui rustico disse: hai l'inferno; e dicoti, che io mi credo, che dio t'abbia qui mandata per la salute dell' anima mia; perciòche, se questo diavolo pur mi darà questa noia, ove tu cogli aver di me tanta pietà, e sofferire, che io in inferno il rimetta; tu mi darai grandissima consolazione, et a dio farai grandissimo piacere, e servigio; se tu per quello fare in queste parti venuta se; che tu di. la giovane di buona fede rispose o padre mio, poscia che io ho l'inferno, sia pure quando vi piacerà mettervi il diavolo. disse allora rustico: figliuola mia benedetta sia tu: andiamo dunque, e rimettiamlovi sí, che egli poscia mi lasci stare. e cosí detto, menate la giovane sopra uno de' loro letticelli, le 'nsegnò, come star si dovesse a dover incarcerare quel maladetto da dio. la giovane, che mai piú non aveva in inferno messo diavolo alcuno, per la prima volta sentí un poco di noia; perché ella disse a rustico. per certo, padre mio, mala cosa dee essere questo diavolo, e veramente nimico di iddio ché ancora all'inferno, non che altrui duole quando, egli v'è dentro rimesso. disse rustico: figliuola, egli non averrà sempre cosí: e per fare, che questo non avvenisse, da sei volte anziche di su il letticel si movesero, ve 'l rimisero; tantoche per quella volta gli trasser sí la superbia del capo, che egli si stette volentieri in pace. ma ritornatagli poi nel seguente tempo piú volte, e la giovane ubbidente sempre a trargliela si disponesse, avvenne, che il giuoco le cominciò a piacere; e cominciò a dire a rustico. ben veggio, che il ver dicevano que valenti uomini in capsa, che il servire a dio era cosí dolce cosa, e per certo io non mi ricordo, che mai alcuna altra ne facessi, che di tanto diletto, e piacere mi fosse, quanto è il rimettere il diavolo in inferno; e perciò giudico ogn' altra persona, che ad altro che a servire a dio attende, essere una bestia. per la qual cosa essa spesse volte andava a rustico, e gli diceva. padre mio, io son qui venuta per servire a dio, e non per istare oziosa; andiamo a rimittere il diavolo in inferno. la qual cosa faccendo, diceva ella alcuna volta. rustico, io non so perché il diavolo si fugga di ninferno, ché s' egli vi stesse cosí volentiere, come l'inferno il riceve, e tiene; agli non sene uscirebbe mai. cosí adunque invitando spesso la giovane rustico, et al servigio di dio confortandolo, se la bambagia del farsetto tratta gli avea, che egli a talora sentiva freddo, che un' altro sarebbe sudato; e perciò egli incominciò a dire alla giovane, che il diavolo non era da gastigare, né da rimettere in inferno, se non quando egli per superbia levasse il capo; e noi, per la grazia, di dio, l'abbiamo sí sgannato, che egla priega iddio di starsi in pace: e cosí alquanto impose di silenzio alla giovane. la qual, poiche vide che rustico non la richiedeva a dovere il diavolo rimittere in inferno, gli disse un giorno. rustico, se il diavolo tuo è gastigato, e piú non ti dà noia me il mio ninferno non lascia stare: perché tu farai bene, che tu col tuo diavolo aiuti ad attutare la rabbia al mio inferno; come io col mio ninferno ho ajutato a trarre la superbia al tuo diavolo. [transcriber's note: the following is a translation of this passage by j.m. rigg (from project gutenberg etext no. ): 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 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, 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, who lived on roots and water, could ill avail to answer her calls and told her that it would need overmany devils to appease hell, but he would do what he might thereof. accordingly he satisfied her bytimes, but so seldom it was but casting a bean into the lion's mouth; whereas the girl, herseeming she served not god as diligently as she would fain have done, murmured somewhat. but, whilst this debate was toward between rustico his devil and alibech her hell, for overmuch desire on the one part and lack of power on the other, it befell that a fire broke out in capsa and burnt alibech's father in his own house, with as many children and other family as he had; by reason whereof she abode heir to all his good. thereupon, a young man called neerbale, who had spent all his substance in gallantry, hearing that she was alive, set out in search of her and finding her, before the court[ ] had laid hands upon her father's estate, as that of a man dying without heir, to rustico's great satisfaction, but against her own will, brought her back to capsa, where he took her to wife and succeeded, in her right, to the ample inheritance of her father. [footnote : _i.e._ the government (_corte_).] there, being asked by the women at what she served god in the desert, she answered (neerbale having not yet lain with her) that she served him at putting the devil in hell and that neerbale had done a grievous sin in that he had taken her from such service. the ladies asked, 'how putteth one the devil in hell?' and the girl, what with words and what with gestures, expounded it to them; whereat they set up so great a laughing that they laugh yet and said, 'give yourself no concern, my child; nay, for that is done here also and neerbale will serve our lord full well with thee at this.' thereafter, telling it from one to another throughout the city, they brought it to a common saying there that the most acceptable service one could render to god was to put the devil in hell, which byword, having passed the sea hither, is yet current here. wherefore do all you young ladies, who have need of god's grace, learn to put the devil in hell, for that this is highly acceptable to him and pleasing to both parties and much good may grow and ensue thereof." * * * * * a thousand times or more had dioneo's story moved the modest ladies to laughter, so quaint and comical did his words appear to them; then, whenas he had made an end thereof, the queen, knowing the term of her sovranty to be come, lifted the laurel from her head and set it merrily on that of filostrato, saying: "we shall presently see if the wolf will know how to govern the ewes better than the ewes have governed the wolves." filostrato, hearing this, said, laughing, "an i were hearkened to, the wolves had taught the ewes to put the devil in hell, no worse than rustico taught alibech; wherefore do ye not style us wolven, since you yourselves have not been ewen. algates, i will govern the kingdom committed to me to the best of my power." "harkye, filostrato," rejoined neifile, "in seeking to teach us, you might have chanced to learn sense, even as did masetto of lamporecchio of the nuns, and find your tongue what time your bones should have learnt to whistle without a master." filostrato, finding that he still got a roland for his oliver,[ ] gave over pleasantry and addressed himself to the governance of the kingdom committed to him. wherefore, letting call the seneschal, he was fain to know at what point things stood all and after discreetly ordained that which he judged would be well and would content the company for such time as his seignory should endure. then, turning to the ladies, "lovesome ladies," quoth he, "since i knew good from evil, i have, for my ill fortune, been still subject unto love for the charms of one or other of you; nor hath humility neither obedience, no, nor the assiduous ensuing him in all his usances, in so far as it hath been known of me, availed me but that first i have been abandoned for another and after have still gone from bad to worse; and so i believe i shall fare unto my death; wherefore it pleaseth me that it be discoursed to-morrow of none other matter than that which is most conformable to mine own case, to wit, of those whose loves have had unhappy ending, for that i in the long run look for a most unhappy [issue to mine own]; nor was the name by which you call me conferred on me for otherwhat by such an one who knew well what it meant."[ ] so saying, he rose to his feet and dismissed every one until supper-time. [footnote : lit. that scythes were no less plenty that he had arrows (_che falci si trovavano non meno che egli avesse strali_), a proverbial expression the exact bearing of which i do not know, but whose evident sense i have rendered in the equivalent english idiom.] [footnote : syn. what he said (_che si dire_). see ante, p. , note.] the garden was so goodly and so delightsome that there was none who elected to go forth thereof, in the hope of finding more pleasance elsewhere. nay, the sun, now grown mild, making it nowise irksome to give chase to the fawns and kids and rabbits and other beasts which were thereabout and which, as they sat, had come maybe an hundred times to disturb them by skipping through their midst, some addressed themselves to pursue them. dioneo and fiammetta fell to singing of messer guglielmo and the lady of vergiu,[ ] whilst filomena and pamfilo sat down to chess; and so, some doing one thing and some another, the time passed on such wise that the hour of supper came well nigh unlooked for; whereupon, the tables being set round about the fair fountain, they supped there in the evening with the utmost delight. [footnote : apparently the well-known fabliau of the dame de vergy, upon which marguerite d'angoulême founded the seventieth story of the heptameron.] as soon as the tables were taken away, filostrato, not to depart from the course holden of those who had been queens before him, commanded lauretta to lead up a dance and sing a song. "my lord," answered she, "i know none of other folk's songs, nor have i in mind any of mine own which should best beseem so joyous a company; but, an you choose one of those which i have, i will willingly sing it." quote the king, "nothing of thine can be other than goodly and pleasing; wherefore sing us such as thou hast." lauretta, then, with a sweet voice enough, but in a somewhat plaintive style, began thus, the other ladies answering: no maid disconsolate hath cause as i, alack! who sigh for love in vain, to mourn her fate. he who moves heaven and all the stars in air made me for his delight lovesome and sprightly, kind and debonair, e'en here below to give each lofty spright some inkling of that fair that still in heaven abideth in his sight; but erring men's unright, ill knowing me, my worth accepted not, nay, with dispraise did bate. erst was there one who held me dear and fain took me, a youngling maid, into his arms and thought and heart and brain, caught fire at my sweet eyes; yea time, unstayed of aught, that flits amain and lightly, all to wooing me he laid. i, courteous, nought gainsaid and held[ ] him worthy me; but now, woe's me, of him i'm desolate. then unto me there did himself present a youngling proud and haught, renowning him for valorous and gent; he took and holds me and with erring thought[ ] to jealousy is bent; whence i, alack! nigh to despair am wrought, as knowing myself,--brought into this world for good of many an one,--engrossed of one sole mate. the luckless hour i curse, in very deed, when i, alas! said yea, vesture to change,--so fair in that dusk wede i was and glad, whereas in this more gay a weary life i lead, far less than erst held honest, welaway! ah, dolorous bridal day, would god i had been dead or e'er i proved thee in such ill estate! o lover dear, with whom well pleased was i whilere past all that be,-- who now before him sittest in the sky who fashioned us,--have pity upon me who cannot, though i die, forget thee for another; cause me see the flame that kindled thee for me lives yet unquenched and my recall up thither[ ] impetrate. [footnote : lit. made (_di me il feci digno_).] [footnote : _i.e._ false suspicion (_falso pensiero_).] [footnote : _i.e._ to heaven (_e costa su m'impetra la tornata_).] here lauretta made an end of her song, wherein, albeit attentively followed of all, she was diversely apprehended of divers persons, and there were those who would e'en understand, milan-fashion, that a good hog was better than a handsome wench;[ ] but others were of a loftier and better and truer apprehension, whereof it booteth not to tell at this present. thereafter the king let kindle store of flambeaux upon the grass and among the flowers and caused sing divers other songs, until every star began to decline, that was above the horizon, when, deeming it time for sleep, he bade all with a good night betake themselves to their chambers. [footnote : the pertinence of this allusion, which probably refers to some current milanese proverbial saying, the word _tosa_, here used by boccaccio for "wench," belonging to the lombard dialect, is not very clear. the expression "milan-fashion" (_alla melanese_) may be supposed to refer to the proverbial materialism of the people of lombardy.] here endeth the third day of the decameron _day the fourth_ here beginneth the fourth day of the decameron wherein under the governance of filostrato is discoursed of those whose loves have had unhappy endings dearest ladies, as well by words of wise men heard as by things many a time both seen and read of myself, i had conceived that the boisterous and burning blast of envy was apt to smite none but lofty towers or the highest summits of the trees; but i find myself mistaken in my conceit, for that, fleeing, as i have still studied to flee, from the cruel onslaught of that raging wind, i have striven to go, not only in the plains, but in the very deepest of the valleys, as many manifestly enough appear to whoso considereth these present stories, the which have been written by me, not only in vulgar florentine and in prose and without [author's] name, but eke in as humble and sober a style as might be. yet for all this have i not availed to escape being cruelly shaken, nay, well nigh uprooted, of the aforesaid wind and all torn of the fangs of envy; wherefore i can very manifestly understand that to be true which the wise use to say, to wit, that misery alone in things present is without envy.[ ] [footnote : sic (_senza invidia_); but the meaning is that misery alone is without _enviers_.] there are then, discreet ladies, some who, reading these stories, have said that you please me overmuch and that it is not a seemly thing that i should take so much delight in pleasuring and solacing you; and some have said yet worse of commending you as i do. others, making a show of wishing to speak more maturely, have said that it sorteth ill with mine age henceforth to follow after things of this kind, to wit, to discourse of women or to study to please them. and many, feigning themselves mighty tender of my repute, avouch that i should do more wisely to abide with the muses on parnassus than to busy myself among you with these toys. again, there be some who, speaking more despitefully than advisedly, have said that i should do more discreetly to consider whence i might get me bread than to go peddling after these baubles, feeding upon wind; and certain others, in disparagement of my pains, study to prove the things recounted by me to have been otherwise than as i present them to you. with such, then, and so many blusterings,[ ] such atrocious backbitings, such needle-pricks, noble ladies, am i, what while i battle in your service, baffled and buffeted and transfixed even to the quick. the which things, god knoweth, i hear and apprehend with an untroubled mind; and albeit my defence in this pertaineth altogether unto you, natheless, i purpose not to spare mine own pains; nay, without answering so much [at large] as it might behove, i mean to rid mine ears of them with some slight rejoinder, and that without delay; for that if even now, i being not yet come to[ ] the third part of my travail, they[ ] are many and presume amain, i opine that, ere i come to the end thereof, they may, having had no rebuff at the first, on such wise be multiplied that with whatsoever little pains of theirs they might overthrow me, nor might your powers, great though they be, avail to withstand this. [footnote : _i.e._ blasts of calumny.] [footnote : _i.e._ having not yet accomplished.] [footnote : _i.e._ my censors.] but, ere i come to make answer to any of them, it pleaseth me, in mine own defence, to relate, not an entire story,--lest it should seem i would fain mingle mine own stories with those of so commendable a company as that which i have presented to you,--but a part of one,--that so its very default [of completeness] may attest that it is none of those,--and accordingly, speaking to my assailants, i say that in our city, a good while agone, there was a townsman, by name filippo balducci, a man of mean enough extraction, but rich and well addressed and versed in such matters as his condition comported. he had a wife, whom he loved with an exceeding love, as she him, and they lived a peaceful life together, studying nothing so much as wholly to please one another. in course of time it came to pass, as it cometh to pass of all, that the good lady departed this life and left filippo nought of herself but one only son, begotten of him and maybe two years old. filippo for the death of his lady abode as disconsolate as ever man might, having lost a beloved one, and seeing himself left alone and forlorn of that company which most he loved, he resolved to be no more of the world, but to give himself altogether to the service of god and do the like with his little son. wherefore, bestowing all his good for the love of god,[ ] he repaired without delay to the top of mount asinajo, where he took up his abode with his son in a little hut and there living with him upon alms, in the practice of fasts and prayers, straitly guarded himself from discoursing whereas the boy was, of any temporal thing, neither suffered him see aught thereof, lest this should divert him from the service aforesaid, but still bespoke him of the glories of life eternal and of god and the saints, teaching him nought but pious orisons; and in this way of life he kept him many years, never suffering him go forth of the hermitage nor showing him aught other than himself. [footnote : _i.e._ in alms.] now the good man was used to come whiles into florence, where being succoured, according to his occasions, of the friends of god, he returned to his hut, and it chanced one day that, his son being now eighteen years old and filippo an old man, the lad asked him whither he went. filippo told him and the boy said, "father mine, you are now an old man and can ill endure fatigue; why do you not whiles carry me to florence and bring me to know the friends and devotees of god and yourself, to the end that i, who am young and better able to toil than you, may after, whenas it pleaseth you, go to florence for our occasions, whilst you abide here?" the worthy man, considering that his son was now grown to man's estate and thinking him so inured to the service of god that the things of this world might thenceforth uneath allure him to themselves, said in himself, "the lad saith well"; and accordingly, having occasion to go thither, he carried him with him. there the youth, seeing the palaces, the houses, the churches and all the other things whereof one seeth all the city full, began, as one who had never to his recollection beheld the like, to marvel amain and questioned his father of many things what they were and how they were called. filippo told him and he, hearing him, abode content and questioned of somewhat else. as they went thus, the son asking and the father answering, they encountered by chance a company of pretty and well-dressed young women, coming from a wedding, whom as soon as the young man saw, he asked his father what manner of things these were. "my son," answered filippo, "cast your eyes on the ground and look not at them, for that they are an ill thing." quoth the son, "and how are they called?" the father, not to awaken in the lad's mind a carnal appetite less than useful, would not name them by the proper name, to wit, women, but said, "they are called green geese." whereupon, marvellous to relate, he who have never seen a woman and who recked not of palaces nor oxen nor horses nor asses nor monies nor of aught else he had seen, said suddenly, "father mine, i prithee get me one of these green geese." "alack, my son," replied the father, "hold they peace; i tell thee they are an ill thing." "how!" asked the youth. "are ill things then made after this fashion?" and filippo answered, "ay." then said the son, "i know not what you would say nor why these are an ill thing; for my part, meseemeth i never yet saw aught goodly or pleasing as are these. they are fairer than the painted angels you have shown me whiles. for god's sake, an you reck of me, contrive that we may carry one of yonder green geese back with us up yonder, and i will give it to eat." "nay," answered the father, "i will not: thou knowest not whereon they feed." and he understood incontinent that nature was stronger than his wit and repented him of having brought the youth to florence. but i will have it suffice me to have told this much of the present story and return to those for whose behoof i have related it. some, then, of my censurers say that i do ill, young ladies, in studying overmuch to please you and that you please me overmuch. which things i do most openly confess, to wit, that you please me and that i study to please you, and i ask them if they marvel thereat,--considering (let be the having known the dulcet kisses and amorous embracements and delightsome couplings that are of you, most sweet ladies, often gotten) only my having seen and still seeing your dainty manners and lovesome beauty and sprightly grace and above all your womanly courtesy,--whenas he who had been reared and bred on a wild and solitary mountain and within the bounds of a little cell, without other company than his father, no sooner set eyes on you than you alone were desired of him, you alone sought, you alone followed with the eagerness of passion. will they, then, blame me, back bite me, rend me with their tongues if i, whose body heaven created all apt to love you, i, who from my childhood vowed my soul to you, feeling the potency of the light of your eyes and the sweetness of your honeyed words and the flame enkindled by your piteous sighs,--if, i say, you please me or if i study to please you, seeing that you over all else pleased a hermitling, a lad without understanding, nay, rather, a wild animal? certes, it is only those, who, having neither sense nor cognizance of the pleasures and potency of natural affection, love you not nor desire to be loved of you, that chide me thus; and of these i reck little. as for those who go railing anent mine age, it would seem they know ill that, for all the leek hath a white head, the tail thereof is green. but to these, laying aside pleasantry, i answer that never, no, not to the extreme limit of my life, shall i repute it to myself for shame to seek to please those whom guido cavalcanti and dante alighieri, when already stricken in years, and messer cino da pistoja, when a very old man, held in honour and whose approof was dear to them. and were it not to depart from the wonted usance of discourse, i would cite history in support and show it to be all full of stories of ancient and noble men who in their ripest years have still above all studied to please the ladies, the which an they know not, let them go learn. that i should abide with the muses on parnassus, i confess to be good counsel; but, since we can neither abide for ever with the muses, nor they with us, it is nothing blameworthy if, whenas it chanceth a man is parted from them, he take delight in seeing that which is like unto them. the muses are women, and albeit women may not avail to match with them, yet at first sight they have a semblance of them; insomuch that, an they pleased me not for aught else, for this they should please me; more by token that women have aforetime been to me the occasion of composing a thousand verses, whereas the muses never were to me the occasion of making any. they aided me, indeed, and showed me how to compose the verses in question; and peradventure, in the writing of these present things, all lowly though they be, they have come whiles to abide with me, in token maybe and honour of the likeness that women bear to them; wherefore, in inditing these toys, i stray not so far from mount parnassus nor from the muses as many belike conceive. but what shall we say to those who have such compassion on my hunger that they counsel me provide myself bread? certes, i know not, save that, whenas i seek to imagine in myself what would be their answer, an i should of necessity beseech them thereof, to wit, of bread, methinketh they would reply, "go seek it among thy fables." indeed, aforetime poets have found more thereof among their fables than many a rich man among his treasures, and many, following after their fables, have caused their age to flourish; whereas, on the contrary, many, in seeking to have more bread than they needed, have perished miserably. what more [shall i say?] let them drive me forth, whenas i ask it of them, not that, godamercy, i have yet need thereof; and even should need betide, i know with the apostle paul both how to abound and suffer need;[ ] wherefore let none be more careful of me than i am of myself. for those who say that these things have not been such as i have here set them down, i would fain have them produce the originals, and an these latter accord not with that of which i write, i will confess their objection for just and will study to amend myself; but till otherwhat than words appeareth, i will leave them to their opinion and follow mine own, saying of them that which they say of me. [footnote : "i know both how to be abased and i know how to abound; everywhere and in all things i am instructed both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and suffer need."--_philippians_ iv. .] wherefore, deeming that for the nonce i have answered enough, i say that, armed, as i hope to be, with god's aid and yours, gentlest ladies, and with fair patience, i will fare on with this that i have begun, turning my back to the wind aforesaid and letting it blow, for that i see not that aught can betide me other than that which betideth thin dust, the which a whirlwind, whenas it bloweth, either stirreth not from the earth, or, an it stir it, carrieth it aloft and leaveth it oftentimes upon the heads of men and upon the crowns of kings and emperors, nay, bytimes upon high palaces and lofty towers, whence an it fall, it cannot go lower than the place wherefrom it was uplifted. and if ever with all my might i vowed myself to seek to please you in aught, now more than ever shall i address myself thereto; for that i know none can with reason say otherwhat than that i and others who love you do according to nature, whose laws to seek to gainstand demandeth overgreat strength, and oftentimes not only in vain, but to the exceeding hurt of whoso striveth to that end, is this strength employed. such strength i confess i have not nor ever desired in this to have; and an i had it, i had liefer lend it to others than use it for myself. wherefore, let the carpers be silent and an they avail not to warm themselves, let them live star-stricken[ ] and abiding in their delights--or rather their corrupt appetites,--leave me to abide in mine for this brief life that is appointed me. but now, fair ladies, for that we have strayed enough, needs must we return whence we set out and ensue the ordinance commenced. [footnote : _i.e._ benumbed (_assiderati_).] the sun had already banished every star from the sky and had driven from the earth the humid vapours of the night, when filostrato, arising, caused all his company arise and with them betook himself to the fair garden, where they all proceeded to disport themselves, and the eating-hour come, they dined whereas they had supped on the foregoing evening. then, after having slept, what time the sun was at its highest, they seated themselves, after the wonted fashion, hard by the fair fountain, and filostrato bade fiammetta give beginning to the story-telling; whereupon, without awaiting further commandment, she began with womanly grace as follows: the first story [day the fourth] tancred, prince of salerno, slayeth his daughter's lover and sendeth her his heart in a bowl of gold; whereupon, pouring poisoned water over it, she drinketh thereof and dieth "our king hath this day appointed us a woeful subject of discourse, considering that, whereas we came hither to make merry, needs must we tell of others' tears, the which may not be recounted without moving both those who tell and those who hearken to compassion thereof. he hath mayhap done this somedele to temper the mirth of the foregoing days; but, whatsoever may have moved him thereto, since it pertaineth not to me to change his pleasure, i will relate a piteous chance, nay, an ill-fortuned and a worthy of your tears. tancred, lord of salerno, was a humane prince and benign enough of nature, (had he not in his old age imbrued his hands in lover's blood,) who in all the course of his life had but one daughter, and happier had he been if he had none. she was of him as tenderly loved as ever daughter of father, and knowing not, by reason of this his tender love for her, how to part with her, he married her not till she had long overpassed the age when she should have had a husband. at last, he gave her to wife to a son of the duke of capua, with whom having abidden a little while, she was left a widow and returned to her father. now she was most fair of form and favour, as ever was woman, and young and sprightly and learned perchance more than is required of a lady. abiding, then, with her father in all ease and luxury, like a great lady as she was, and seeing that, for the love he bore her, he recked little of marrying her again, nor did it seem to her a seemly thing to require him thereof, she bethought herself to seek, an it might be, to get her privily a worthy lover. she saw men galore, gentle and simple, frequent her father's court, and considering the manners and fashions of many, a young serving-man of her father's, guiscardo by name, a man of humble enough extraction, but nobler of worth and manners than whatsoever other, pleased her over all and of him, seeing him often, she became in secret ardently enamoured, approving more and more his fashions every hour; whilst the young man, who was no dullard, perceiving her liking for him, received her into his heart, on such wise that his mind was thereby diverted from well nigh everything other than the love of her. each, then, thus secretly tendering the other, the young lady, who desired nothing so much as to foregather with him, but had no mind to make any one a confidant of her passion, bethought herself of a rare device to apprize him of the means; to wit, she wrote him a letter, wherein she showed him how he should do to foregather with her on the ensuing day, and placing it in the hollow of a cane, gave the letter jestingly to guiscardo, saying, 'make thee a bellows thereof for thy serving-maid, wherewith she may blow up the fire to-night.' guiscardo took the cane and bethinking himself that she would not have given it him nor spoken thus, without some cause, took his leave and returned therewith to his lodging. there he examined the cane and seeing it to be cleft, opened it and found therein the letter, which having read and well apprehended that which he had to do, he was the joyfullest man alive and set about taking order how he might go to her, according to the fashion appointed him of her. there was, beside the prince's palace, a grotto hewn out of the rock and made in days long agone, and to this grotto some little light was given by a tunnel[ ] by art wrought in the mountain, which latter, for that the grotto was abandoned, was well nigh blocked at its mouth with briers and weeds that had overgrown it. into this grotto one might go by a privy stair which was in one of the ground floor rooms of the lady's apartment in the palace and which was shut in by a very strong door. this stair was so out of all folk's minds, for that it had been unused from time immemorial, that well nigh none remembered it to be there; but love, to whose eyes there is nothing so secret but it winneth, had recalled it to the memory of the enamoured lady, who, that none should get wind of the matter, had laboured sore many days with such tools as she might command, ere she could make shift to open the door; then, going down alone thereby into the grotto and seeing the tunnel, she sent to bid guiscardo study to come to her thereby and acquainted him with the height which herseemed should be from the mouth thereof to the ground. [footnote : or airshaft (_spiraglio_).] to this end guiscardo promptly made ready a rope with certain knots and loops, whereby he might avail to descend and ascend, and donning a leathern suit, that might defend him from the briers, he on the ensuing night repaired, without letting any know aught of the matter, to the mouth of the tunnel. there making one end of the rope fast to a stout tree-stump that had grown up in the mouth, he let himself down thereby into the grotto and there awaited the lady, who, on the morrow, feigning a desire to sleep, dismissed her women and shut herself up alone in her chamber; then, opening the privy door, she descended into the grotto, where she found guiscardo. they greeted one another with marvellous joy and betook themselves to her chamber, where they abode great part of the day in the utmost delight; and after they had taken order together for the discreet conduct of their loves, so they might abide secret, guiscardo returned to the grotto, whilst she shut the privy door and went forth to her women. the night come, guiscardo climbed up by his rope to the mouth of the tunnel and issuing forth whence he had entered in, returned to his lodging; and having learned this road, he in process of time returned many times thereafter. but fortune, jealous of so long and so great a delight, with a woeful chance changed the gladness of the two lovers into mourning and sorrow; and it befell on this wise. tancred was wont to come bytimes all alone into his daughter's chamber and there abide with her and converse awhile and after go away. accordingly, one day, after dinner, he came thither, what time the lady (whose name was ghismonda) was in a garden of hers with all her women, and willing not to take her from her diversion, he entered her chamber, without being seen or heard of any. finding the windows closed and the curtains let down over the bed, he sat down in a corner on a hassock at the bedfoot and leant his head against the bed; then, drawing the curtain over himself, as if he had studied to hide himself there, he fell asleep. as he slept thus, ghismonda, who, as ill chance would have it, had appointed her lover to come thither that day, softly entered the chamber, leaving her women in the garden, and having shut herself in, without perceiving that there was some one there, opened the secret door to guiscardo, who awaited her. they straightway betook themselves to bed, as of their wont, and what while they sported and solaced themselves together, it befell that tancred awoke and heard and saw that which guiscardo and his daughter did; whereat beyond measure grieved, at first he would have cried out at them, but after bethought himself to keep silence and abide, an he might, hidden, so with more secrecy and less shame to himself he might avail to do that which had already occurred to his mind. the two lovers abode a great while together, according to their usance, without observing tancred, and coming down from the bed, whenas it seemed to them time, guiscardo returned to the grotto and she departed the chamber; whereupon tancred, for all he was an old man, let himself down into the garden by a window and returned, unseen of any, to his own chamber, sorrowful unto death. that same night, at the time of the first sleep, guiscardo, by his orders, was seized by two men, as he came forth of the tunnel, and carried secretly, trussed as he was in his suit of leather, to tancred, who, whenas he saw him, said, well nigh weeping, 'guiscardo, my kindness to thee merited not the outrage and the shame thou hast done me in mine own flesh and blood, as i have this day seen with my very eyes.' whereto guiscardo answered nothing but this, 'love can far more than either you or i.' tancred then commanded that he should be kept secretly under guard and in one of the chambers of the palace, and so was it done. on the morrow, having meanwhile revolved in himself many and divers devices, he betook himself, after eating, as of his wont, to his daughter's chamber and sending for the lady, who as yet knew nothing of these things, shut himself up with her and proceeded, with tears in his eyes, to bespeak her thus: 'ghismonda, meseemed i knew thy virtue and thine honesty, nor might it ever have occurred to my mind, though it were told me, had i not seen it with mine own eyes, that thou wouldst, even so much as in thought, have abandoned thyself to any man, except he were thy husband; wherefore in this scant remnant of life that my eld reserveth unto me, i shall still abide sorrowful, remembering me of this. would god, an thou must needs stoop to such wantonness, thou hadst taken a man sortable to thy quality! but, amongst so many who frequent my court, thou hast chosen guiscardo, a youth of the meanest condition, reared in our court, well nigh of charity, from a little child up to this day; wherefore thou hast put me in sore travail of mind, for that i know not what course to take with thee. with guiscardo, whom i caused take yesternight, as he issued forth of the tunnel and have in ward, i am already resolved how to deal; but with thee god knoweth i know not what to do. on one side love draweth me, which i still borne thee more than father ever bore daughter, and on the other most just despite, conceived for thine exceeding folly; the one would have me pardon thee, the other would have me, against my nature, deal harshly by thee. but ere i come to a decision, i would fain hear what thou hast to say to this.' so saying, he bowed his head and wept sore as would a beaten child. ghismonda, hearing her father's words and seeing that not only was her secret love discovered, but guiscardo taken, felt an inexpressible chagrin and came many a time near upon showing it with outcry and tears, as women mostly do; nevertheless, her haughty soul overmastering that weakness, with marvellous fortitude she composed her countenance and rather than proffer any prayer for herself, determined inwardly to abide no more on life, doubting not but her guiscardo was already dead. wherefore, not as a woman rebuked and woeful for her default, but as one undaunted and valiant, with dry eyes and face open and nowise troubled, she thus bespoke her father: 'tancred, i purpose neither to deny nor to entreat, for that the one would profit me nothing nor would i have the other avail me; more by token that i am nowise minded to seek to render thy mansuetude and thine affection favourable to me, but rather, confessing the truth, first with true arguments to vindicate mine honour and after with deeds right resolutely to ensue the greatness of my soul. true is it i have loved and love guiscardo, and what while i live, which will be little, i shall love him, nor, if folk live after death, shall i ever leave loving him; but unto this it was not so much my feminine frailty that moved me as thy little solicitude to remarry me and his own worth. it should have been manifest to thee, tancred, being as thou art flesh and blood, that thou hadst begotten a daughter of flesh and blood and not of iron or stone; and thou shouldst have remembered and should still remember, for all thou art old, what and what like are the laws of youth and with what potency they work; nor, albeit thou, being a man, hast in thy best years exercised thyself in part in arms, shouldst thou the less know what ease and leisure and luxury can do in the old, to say nothing of the young. i am, then, as being of thee begotten, of flesh and blood and have lived so little that i am yet young and (for the one and the other reason) full of carnal desire, whereunto the having aforetime, by reason of marriage, known what pleasure it is to give accomplishment to such desire hath added marvellous strength. unable, therefore, to withstand the strength of my desires, i addressed myself, being young and a woman, to ensue that whereto they prompted me and became enamoured. and certes in this i set my every faculty to the endeavouring that, so far as in me lay, no shame should ensue either to thee or to me through this to which natural frailty moved me. to this end compassionate love and favouring fortune found and showed me a very occult way, whereby, unknown of any, i won to my desire, and this, whoever it be discovered it to thee or howsoever thou knowest it, i nowise deny. guiscardo i took not at hazard, as many women do; nay, of deliberate counsel i chose him before every other and with advisement prepense drew him to me[ ] and by dint of perseverance and discretion on my part and on his, i have long had enjoyment of my desire. whereof it seemeth that thou, ensuing rather vulgar prejudice than truth, reproachest me with more bitterness than of having sinned by way of love, saying (as if thou shouldst not have been chagrined, had i chosen therefor a man of gentle birth,) that i have committed myself with a man of mean condition. wherein thou seest not that thou blamest not my default, but that of fortune, which too often advanceth the unworthy to high estate, leaving the worthiest alow. [footnote : lit. introduced him to me (_a me lo 'ntrodussi_); but boccaccio here uses the word _introdurre_ in its rarer literal sense to lead, to draw, to bring in.] but now let us leave this and look somewhat to the first principles of things, whereby thou wilt see that we all get our flesh from one same stock and that all souls were by one same creator created with equal faculties, equal powers and equal virtues. worth it was that first distinguished between us, who were all and still are born equal; wherefore those who had and used the greatest sum thereof were called noble and the rest abode not noble. and albeit contrary usance hath since obscured this primary law, yet is it nowise done away nor blotted out from nature and good manners; wherefore he who doth worthily manifestly showeth himself a gentleman, and if any call him otherwise, not he who is called, but he who calleth committeth default. look among all thy gentlemen and examine into their worth, their usances and their manners, and on the other hand consider those of guiscardo; if thou wilt consent to judge without animosity, thou wilt say that he is most noble and that these thy nobles are all churls. with regard to his worth and virtue, i trusted not to the judgment of any other, but to that of thy words and of mine own eyes. who ever so commended him as thou didst in all those praiseworthy things wherefor a man of worth should be commended? and certes not without reason; for, if mine eyes deceived me not, there was no praise given him of thee which i saw him not justify by deeds, and that more admirably than thy words availed to express; and even had i suffered any deceit in this, it is by thyself i should have been deceived. an, then, thou say that i have committed myself with a man of mean condition, thou sayst not sooth; but shouldst thou say with a poor man, it might peradventure be conceded thee, to thy shame who hast so ill known to put a servant of thine and a man of worth in good case; yet poverty bereaveth not any of gentilesse; nay, rather, wealth it is that doth this. many kings, many great princes were once poor and many who delve and tend sheep were once very rich. the last doubt that thou broachest, to wit, what thou shouldst do with me, drive it away altogether; an thou in thine extreme old age be disposed to do that which thou usedst not, being young, namely, to deal cruelly, wreak thy cruelty upon me, who am minded to proffer no prayer unto thee, as being the prime cause of this sin, if sin it be; for of this i certify thee, that whatsoever thou hast done or shalt do with guiscardo, an thou do not the like with me, mine own hands shall do it. now begone; go shed tears with women and waxing cruel, slay him and me with one same blow, an it seem to thee we have deserved it.' the prince knew the greatness of his daughter's soul, but notwithstanding believed her not altogether so firmly resolved as she said unto that which her words gave out. wherefore, taking leave of her and having laid aside all intent of using rigour against her person, he thought to cool her fervent love with other's suffering and accordingly bade guiscardo's two guardians strangle him without noise that same night and taking out his heart, bring it to him. they did even as it was commanded them, and on the morrow the prince let bring a great and goodly bowl of gold and setting therein guiscardo's heart, despatched it to his daughter by the hands of a very privy servant of his, bidding him say, whenas he gave it her, 'thy father sendeth thee this, to solace thee of the thing thou most lovest, even as thou hast solaced him of that which he loved most.' now ghismonda, unmoved from her stern purpose, had, after her father's departure, let bring poisonous herbs and roots and distilled and reduced them in water, so she might have it at hand, an that she feared should come to pass. the serving-man coming to her with the prince's present and message, she took the cup with a steadfast countenance and uncovered it. whenas she saw the heart and apprehended the words of the message, she was throughly certified that this was guiscardo's heart and turning her eyes upon the messenger, said to him, 'no sepulchre less of worth than one of gold had beseemed a heart such as this; and in this my father hath done discreetly.' so saying, she set the heart to her lips and kissing it, said, 'still in everything and even to this extreme limit of my life have i found my father's love most tender towards me; but now more than ever; wherefore do than render him on my part for so great a gift the last thanks i shall ever have to give him.' then, bending down over the cup, which she held fast, she said, looking upon the heart, 'alack, sweetest harbourage of all my pleasures, accursed be his cruelty who maketh me now to see thee with the eyes of the body! enough was it for me at all hours to behold thee with those of the mind. thou hast finished thy course and hast acquitted thyself on such wise as was vouchsafed thee of fortune; thou art come to the end whereunto each runneth; thou hast left the toils and miseries of the world, and of thy very enemy thou hast that sepulchre which thy worth hath merited. there lacked nought to thee to make thy funeral rites complete save her tears whom in life thou so lovedst, the which that thou mightest have, god put it into the heart of my unnatural father to send thee to me and i will give them to thee, albeit i had purposed to die with dry eyes and visage undismayed of aught; and having given them to thee, i will without delay so do that my soul, thou working it,[ ] shall rejoin that soul which thou erst so dearly guardedst. and in what company could i betake me more contentedly or with better assurance to the regions unknown than with it?[ ] certain am i that it abideth yet herewithin[ ] and vieweth the seats of its delights and mine and as that which i am assured still loveth me, awaiteth my soul, whereof it is over all beloved.' [footnote : _i.e._ thou being the means of bringing about the conjunction (_adoperandol tu_).] [footnote : _i.e._ guiscardo's soul.] [footnote : _i.e._ in the heart.] so saying, no otherwise than as she had a fountain of water in her head, bowing herself over the bowl, without making any womanly outcry, she began, lamenting, to shed so many and such tears that they were a marvel to behold, kissing the dead heart the while an infinite number of times. her women, who stood about her, understood not what this heart was nor what her words meant, but, overcome with compassion, wept all and in vain questioned her affectionately of the cause of her lament and studied yet more, as best they knew and might, to comfort her. the lady, having wept as much as herseemed fit, raised her head and drying her eyes, said, 'o much-loved heart, i have accomplished mine every office towards thee, nor is there left me aught else to do save to come with my soul and bear thine company.' so saying, she called for the vial wherein was the water she had made the day before and poured the latter into the bowl where was the heart bathed with so many of her tears; then, setting her mouth thereto without any fear, she drank it all off and having drunken, mounted, with the cup in her hand, upon the bed, where composing her body as most decently she might, she pressed her dead lover's heart to her own and without saying aught, awaited death. her women, seeing and hearing all this, albeit they knew not what water this was she had drunken, had sent to tell tancred everything, and he, fearing that which came to pass, came quickly down into his daughter's chamber, where he arrived what time she laid herself on her bed and addressed himself too late to comfort her with soft words; but, seeing the extremity wherein she was, he fell a-weeping grievously; whereupon quoth the lady to him, 'tancred, keep these tears against a less desired fate than this of mine and give them not to me, who desire them not. who ever saw any, other than thou, lament for that which he himself hath willed? nevertheless, if aught yet live in thee of the love which once thou borest me, vouchsafe me for a last boon that, since it was not thy pleasure that i should privily and in secret live with guiscardo, my body may openly abide with his, whereassoever thou hast caused cast him dead.' the agony of his grief suffered not the prince to reply; whereupon the young lady, feeling herself come to her end, strained the dead heart to her breast and said, 'abide ye with god, for i go hence.' then, closing her eyes and losing every sense, she departed this life of woe. such, then, as you have heard, was the sorrowful ending of the loves of guiscardo and ghismonda, whose bodies tancred, after much lamentation, too late repenting him of his cruelty, caused honourably bury in one same sepulchre, amid the general mourning of all the people of salerno." the second story [day the fourth] fra alberto giveth a lady to believe that the angel gabriel is enamoured of her and in his shape lieth with her sundry times; after which, for fear of her kinsmen, he casteth himself forth of her window into the canal and taketh refuge in the house of a poor man, who on the morrow carrieth him, in the guise of a wild man of the woods, to the piazza, where, being recognized, he is taken by his brethren and put in prison the story told by fiammetta had more than once brought the tears to the eyes of the ladies her companions; but, it being now finished, the king with a stern countenance said, "my life would seem to me a little price to give for half the delight that guiscardo had with ghismonda, nor should any of you ladies marvel thereat, seeing that every hour of my life i suffer a thousand deaths, nor for all that is a single particle of delight vouchsafed me. but, leaving be my affairs for the present, it is my pleasure that pampinea follow on the order of the discourse with some story of woeful chances and fortunes in part like to mine own; which if she ensue like as fiammetta hath begun, i shall doubtless begin to feel some dew fallen upon my fire." pampinea, hearing the order laid upon her, more by her affection apprehended the mind of the ladies her companions than that of filostrato by his words,[ ] wherefore, being more disposed to give them some diversion than to content the king, farther than in the mere letter of his commandment, she bethought herself to tell a story, that should, without departing from the proposed theme, give occasion for laughter, and accordingly began as follows: [footnote : _i.e._ was more inclined to consider the wishes of the ladies her companions, which she divined by sympathy, than those of filostrato, as shown by his words (_più per la sua affezione cognobbe l'animo delle campagne che quello del re per le sue parole_). it is difficult, however, in this instance as in many others, to discover with certainty boccaccio's exact meaning, owing to his affectation of ciceronian concision and delight in obscure elliptical forms of construction; whilst his use of words in a remote or unfamiliar sense and the impossibility of deciding, in certain cases, the person of the pronouns and adjectives employed tend still farther to darken counsel. _e.g._, if we render _affezione_ sentiment, _cognobbe_ (as _riconobbe_) acknowledged, recognized, and read _le sue parole_ as meaning _her_ (instead of _his_) words, the whole sense of the passage is changed, and we must read it "more by her sentiment (_i.e._ by the tendency and spirit of her story) recognized the inclination of her companions than that of the king by her [actual] words." i have commented thus at large on this passage, in order to give my readers some idea of the difficulties which at every page beset the translator of the decameron and which make boccaccio perhaps the most troublesome of all authors to render into representative english.] "the vulgar have a proverb to the effect that he who is naught and is held good may do ill and it is not believed of him; the which affordeth me ample matter for discourse upon that which hath been proposed to me and at the same time to show what and how great is the hypocrisy of the clergy, who, with garments long and wide and faces paled by art and voices humble and meek to solicit the folk, but exceeding loud and fierce to rebuke in others their own vices, pretend that themselves by taking and others by giving to them come to salvation, and to boot, not as men who have, like ourselves, to purchase paradise, but as in a manner they were possessors and lords thereof, assign unto each who dieth, according to the sum of the monies left them by him, a more or less excellent place there, studying thus to deceive first themselves, an they believe as they say, and after those who put faith for that matter in their words. anent whom, were it permitted me to discover as much as it behoved, i would quickly make clear to many simple folk that which they keep hidden under those huge wide gowns of theirs. but would god it might betide them all of their cozening tricks, as it betided a certain minor friar, and he no youngling, but held one of the first casuists[ ] in venice; of whom it especially pleaseth me to tell you, so as peradventure somewhat to cheer your hearts, that are full of compassion for the death of ghismonda, with laughter and pleasance. [footnote : lit. of those who _was_ held of the greatest casuists (_di quelli che de' maggior cassesi era tenuto_). this is another very obscure passage. the meaning of the word _cassesi_ is unknown and we can only guess it to be a dialectic (probably venetian) corruption of the word _casisti_ (casuists). the giunta edition separates the word thus, _casse si_, making _si_ a mere corroborative prefix to _era_, but i do not see how the alteration helps us, the word _casse_ (chests, boxes) being apparently meaningless in this connection.] there was, then, noble ladies, in imola, a man of wicked and corrupt life, who was called berto della massa and whose lewd fashions, being well known of the imolese, had brought him into such ill savour with them that there was none in the town who would credit him, even when he said sooth; wherefore, seeing that his shifts might no longer stand him in stead there, he removed in desperation to venice, the receptacle of every kind of trash, thinking to find there new means of carrying on his wicked practices. there, as if conscience-stricken for the evil deeds done by him in the past, feigning himself overcome with the utmost humility and waxing devouter than any man alive, he went and turned minor friar and styled himself fra alberta da imola; in which habit he proceeded to lead, to all appearance, a very austere life, greatly commending abstinence and mortification and never eating flesh nor drinking wine, whenas he had not thereof that which was to his liking. in short, scarce was any ware of him when from a thief, a pimp, a forger, a manslayer, he suddenly became a great preacher, without having for all that forsworn the vices aforesaid, whenas he might secretly put them in practice. moreover, becoming a priest, he would still, whenas he celebrated mass at the altar, an he were seen of many, beweep our saviour's passion, as one whom tears cost little, whenas he willed it. brief, what with his preachings and his tears, he contrived on such wise to inveigle the venetians that he was trustee and depository of well nigh every will made in the town and guardian of folk's monies, besides being confessor and counsellor of the most part of the men and women of the place; and doing thus, from wolf he was become shepherd and the fame of his sanctity was far greater in those parts than ever was that of st. francis at assisi. it chanced one day that a vain simple young lady, by name madam lisetta da ca[ ] quirino, wife of a great merchant who was gone with the galleys into flanders, came with other ladies to confess to this same holy friar, at whose feet kneeling and having, like a true daughter of venice as she was (where the women are all feather-brained), told him part of her affairs, she was asked of him if she had a lover. whereto she answered, with an offended air, 'good lack, sir friar, have you no eyes in your head? seem my charms to you such as those of yonder others? i might have lovers and to spare, an i would; but my beauties are not for this one nor that. how many women do you see whose charms are such as mine, who would be fair in paradise?' brief, she said so many things of this beauty of hers that it was a weariness to hear. fra alberto incontinent perceived that she savoured of folly and himseeming she was a fit soil for his tools, he fell suddenly and beyond measure in love with her; but, reserving blandishments for a more convenient season, he proceeded, for the nonce, so he might show himself a holy man, to rebuke her and tell her that this was vainglory and so forth. the lady told him he was an ass and knew not what one beauty was more than another, whereupon he, unwilling to vex her overmuch, took her confession and let her go away with the others. [footnote : venetian contraction of _casa_, house. da ca quirino, of the quirino house or family.] he let some days pass, then, taking with him a trusty companion of his, he repaired to madam lisetta's house and withdrawing with her into a room apart, where none might see him, he fell on his knees before her and said, 'madam, i pray you for god's sake pardon me that which i said to you last sunday, whenas you bespoke me of your beauty, for that the following night i was so cruelly chastised there that i have not since been able to rise from my bed till to-day.' quoth mistress featherbrain, 'and who chastised you thus?' 'i will tell you,' replied the monk. 'being that night at my orisons, as i still use to be, i saw of a sudden a great light in my cell and ere i could turn me to see what it might be, i beheld over against me a very fair youth with a stout cudgel in his hand, who took me by the gown and dragging me to my feet, gave me such a drubbing that he broke every bone in my body. i asked him why he used me thus and he answered, "for that thou presumedst to-day, to disparage the celestial charms of madam lisetta, whom i love over all things, save only god." "who, then, are you?" asked i; and he replied that he was the angel gabriel. "o my lord," said i, "i pray you pardon me"; and he, "so be it; i pardon thee on condition that thou go to her, as first thou mayst, and get her pardon; but if she pardons thee not, i will return to thee and give thee such a bout of it that i will make thee a woeful man for all the time thou shalt live here below." that which he said to me after i dare not tell you, except you first pardon me.' my lady addlepate, who was somewhat scant of wit, was overjoyed to hear this, taking it all for gospel, and said, after a little, 'i told you, fra alberto, that my charms were celestial, but, so god be mine aid, it irketh me for you and i will pardon you forthright, so you may come to no more harm, provided you tell me truly that which the angel said to you after.' 'madam,' replied fra alberto, 'since you pardon me, i will gladly tell it you; but i must warn you of one thing, to wit, that whatever i tell you, you must have a care not to repeat it to any one alive, an you would not mar your affairs, for that you are the luckiest lady in the world. the angel gabriel bade me tell you that you pleased him so much that he had many a time come to pass the night with you, but that he feared to affright you. now he sendeth to tell you by me that he hath a mind to come to you one night and abide awhile with you and (for that he is an angel and that, if he came in angel-form, you might not avail to touch him,) he purposeth, for your delectation, to come in guise of a man, wherefore he biddeth you send to tell him when you would have him come and in whose form, and he will come hither; whereof you may hold yourself blest over any other lady alive.' my lady conceit answered that it liked her well that the angel gabriel loved her, seeing she loved him well nor ever failed to light a candle of a groat before him, whereas she saw him depictured, and that what time soever he chose to come to her, he should be dearly welcome and would find her all alone in her chamber, but on this condition, that he should not leave her for the virgin mary, whose great well-wisher it was said he was, as indeed appeareth, inasmuch as in every place where she saw him [limned], he was on his knees before her. moreover, she said it must rest with him to come in whatsoever form he pleased, so but she was not affrighted. then said fra alberto, 'madam, you speak sagely and i will without fail take order with him of that which you tell me. but you may do me a great favour, which will cost you nothing; it is this, that you will him come with this my body. and i will tell you in what you will do me a favour; you must know that he will take my soul forth of my body and put it in paradise, whilst he himself will enter into me; and what while he abideth with you, so long will my soul abide in paradise.' 'with all my heart,' answered dame littlewit. 'i will well that you have this consolation, in requital of the buffets he gave you on my account.' then said fra alberto, 'look that he find the door of your house open to-night, so he may come in thereat, for that, coming in human form, as he will, he might not enter save by the door.' the lady replied that it should be done, whereupon the monk took his leave and she abode in such a transport of exultation that her breech touched not her shift and herseemed a thousand years till the angel gabriel should come to her. meanwhile, fra alberto, bethinking him that it behoved him play the cavalier, not the angel, that night proceeded to fortify himself with confections and other good things, so he might not lightly be unhorsed; then, getting leave, as soon as it was night, he repaired with one of his comrades to the house of a woman, a friend of his, whence he was used whiles to take his start what time he went to course the fillies; and thence, whenas it seemed to him time, having disguised himself, he betook him to the lady's house. there he tricked himself out as an angel with the trappings he had brought with him and going up, entered the chamber of the lady, who, seeing this creature all in white, fell on her knees before him. the angel blessed her and raising her to her feet, signed to her to go to bed, which she, studious to obey, promptly did, and the angel after lay down with his devotee. now fra alberto was a personable man of his body and a lusty and excellent well set up on his legs; wherefore, finding himself in bed with madam lisetta, who was young and dainty, he showed himself another guess bedfellow than her husband and many a time that night took flight without wings, whereof she avowed herself exceeding content; and eke he told her many things of the glories of heaven. then, the day drawing near, after taking order for his return, he made off with his trappings and returned to his comrade, whom the good woman of the house had meanwhile borne amicable company, lest he should get a fright, lying alone. as for the lady, no sooner had she dined than, taking her waiting-woman with her, she betook herself to fra alberto and gave him news of the angel gabriel, telling him that which she had heard from him of the glories of life eternal and how he was made and adding to boot, marvellous stories of her own invention. 'madam,' said he, 'i know not how you fared with him; i only know that yesternight, whenas he came to me and i did your message to him, he suddenly transported my soul amongst such a multitude of roses and other flowers that never was the like thereof seen here below, and i abode in one of the most delightsome places that was aye until the morning; but what became of my body meanwhile i know not.' 'do i not tell you?' answered the lady. 'your body lay all night in mine arms with the angel gabriel. if you believe me not, look under your left pap, whereas i gave the angel such a kiss that the marks of it will stay by you for some days to come.' quoth the friar, 'say you so? then will i do to-day a thing i have not done this great while; i will strip myself, to see if you tell truth.' then, after much prating, the lady returned home and fra alberto paid her many visits in angel-form, without suffering any hindrance. however, it chanced one day that madam lisetta, being in dispute with a gossip of hers upon the question of female charms, to set her own above all others, said, like a woman who had little wit in her noddle, 'an you but knew whom my beauty pleaseth, in truth you would hold your peace of other women.' the other, longing to hear, said, as one who knew her well, 'madam, maybe you say sooth; but knowing not who this may be, one cannot turn about so lightly.' thereupon quoth lisetta, who was eath enough to draw, 'gossip, it must go no farther; but he i mean is the angel gabriel, who loveth me more than himself, as the fairest lady (for that which he telleth me) who is in the world or the maremma.'[ ] the other had a mind to laugh, but contained herself, so she might make lisetta speak farther, and said, 'faith, madam, an the angel gabriel be your lover and tell you this, needs must it be so; but methought not the angels did these things.' 'gossip,' answered the lady, 'you are mistaken; zounds, he doth what you wot of better than my husband and telleth me they do it also up yonder; but, for that i seem to him fairer than any she in heaven, he hath fallen in love with me and cometh full oft to lie with me; seestow now?'[ ] [footnote : _cf._ artemus ward's "natives of the universe and other parts."] [footnote : _mo vedi vu_, venetian for _or vedi tu_, now dost thou see? i have rendered it by the equivalent old english form.] the gossip, to whom it seemed a thousand years till she should be whereas she might repeat these things, took her leave of madam lisetta and foregathering at an entertainment with a great company of ladies, orderly recounted to them the whole story. they told it again to their husbands and other ladies, and these to yet others, and so in less than two days venice was all full of it. among others to whose ears the thing came were lisetta's brothers-in-law, who, without saying aught to her, bethought themselves to find the angel in question and see if he knew how to fly, and to this end they lay several nights in wait for him. as chance would have it, some inkling of the matter[ ] came to the ears of fra alberto, who accordingly repaired one night to the lady's house, to reprove her, but hardly had he put off his clothes ere her brothers-in-law, who had seen him come, were at the door of her chamber to open it. [footnote : _i.e._ not of the trap laid for him by the lady's brothers-in-law, but of her indiscretion in discovering the secret.] fra alberto, hearing this and guessing what was to do, started up and having no other resource, opened a window, which gave upon the grand canal, and cast himself thence into the water. the canal was deep there and he could swim well, so that he did himself no hurt, but made his way to the opposite bank and hastily entering a house that stood open there, besought a poor man, whom he found within, to save his life for the love of god, telling him a tale of his own fashion, to explain how he came there at that hour and naked. the good man was moved to pity and it behoving him to go do his occasions, he put him in his own bed and bade him abide there against his return; then, locking him in, he went about his affairs. meanwhile, the lady's brothers-in-law entered her chamber and found that the angel gabriel had flown, leaving his wings there; whereupon, seeing themselves baffled, they gave her all manner hard words and ultimately made off to their own house with the angel's trappings, leaving her disconsolate. broad day come, the good man with whom fra alberto had taken refuge, being on the rialto, heard how the angel gabriel had gone that night to lie with madam lisetta and being surprised by her kinsmen, had cast himself for fear into the canal, nor was it known what was come of him, and concluded forthright that this was he whom he had at home. accordingly, he returned thither and recognizing the monk, found means after much parley, to make him fetch him fifty ducats, an he would not have him give him up to the lady's kinsmen. having gotten the money and fra alberto offering to depart thence, the good man said to him, 'there is no way of escape for you, an it be not one that i will tell you. we hold to-day a festival, wherein one bringeth a man clad bear-fashion and another one accoutred as a wild man of the woods and what not else, some one thing and some another, and there is a hunt held in st. mark's place, which finished, the festival is at an end and after each goeth whither it pleaseth him with him whom he hath brought. an you will have me lead you thither, after one or other of these fashions, i can after carry you whither you please, ere it be spied out that you are here; else i know not how you are to get away, without being recognized, for the lady's kinsmen, concluding that you must be somewhere hereabout, have set a watch for you on all sides.' hard as it seemed to fra alberto to go on such wise, nevertheless, of the fear he had of the lady's kinsmen, he resigned himself thereto and told his host whither he would be carried, leaving the manner to him. accordingly, the other, having smeared him all over with honey and covered him with down, clapped a chain about his neck and a mask on his face; then giving him a great staff in on hand and in the other two great dogs which he had fetched from the shambles he despatched one to the rialto to make public proclamation that whoso would see the angel gabriel should repair to st. mark's place; and this was venetian loyalty! this done, after a while, he brought him forth and setting him before himself, went holding him by the chain behind, to the no small clamour of the folk, who said all, 'what be this? what be this?'[ ] till he came to the place, where, what with those who had followed after them and those who, hearing the proclamation, were come thither from the rialto, were folk without end. there he tied his wild man to a column in a raised and high place, making a show of awaiting the hunt, whilst the flies and gads gave the monk exceeding annoy, for that he was besmeared with honey. but, when he saw the place well filled, making as he would unchain his wild man, he pulled off fra alberto's mask and said, 'gentlemen, since the bear cometh not and there is no hunt toward, i purpose, so you may not be come in vain, that you shall see the angel gabriel, who cometh down from heaven to earth anights, to comfort the venetian ladies.' [footnote : _che xe quel?_ venetian for _che c'e quella cosa_, what is this thing?] no sooner was the mask off than fra alberto was incontinent recognized of all, who raised a general outcry against him, giving him the scurviest words and the soundest rating was ever given a canting knave; moreover, they cast in his face, one this kind of filth and another that, and so they baited him a great while, till the news came by chance to his brethren, whereupon half a dozen of them sallied forth and coming thither, unchained him and threw a gown over him; then, with a general hue and cry behind them, they carried him off to the convent, where it is believed he died in prison, after a wretched life. thus then did this fellow, held good and doing ill, without it being believed, dare to feign himself the angel gabriel, and after being turned into a wild man of the woods and put to shame, as he deserved, bewailed, when too late, the sins he had committed. god grant it happen thus to all other knaves of his fashion!" the third story [day the fourth] three young men love three sisters and flee with them into crete, where the eldest sister for jealousy slayeth her lover. the second, yielding herself to the duke of crete, saveth her sister from death, whereupon her own lover slayeth her and fleeth with the eldest sister. meanwhile the third lover and the youngest sister are accused of the new murder and being taken, confess it; then, for fear of death, they corrupt their keepers with money and flee to rhodes, where they die in poverty filostrato, having heard the end of pampinea's story, bethought himself awhile and presently, turning to her, said, "there was some little that was good and that pleased me in the ending of your story; but there was overmuch before that which gave occasion for laughter and which i would not have had there." then, turning to lauretta, "lady," said he, "ensue you with a better, and it may be." quoth she, laughing, "you are too cruel towards lovers, an you desire of them only an ill end;[ ] but, to obey you, i will tell a story of three who all ended equally ill, having had scant enjoyment of their loves." so saying, she began thus: "young ladies, as you should manifestly know, every vice may turn to the grievous hurt of whoso practiseth it, and often of other folk also; but of all others that which with the slackest rein carrieth us away to our peril, meseemeth is anger, which is none otherwhat than a sudden and unconsidered emotion, aroused by an affront suffered, and which, banishing all reason and overclouding the eyes of the understanding with darkness, kindleth the soul to the hottest fury. and although this often cometh to pass in men and more in one than in another, yet hath it been seen aforetime to work greater mischiefs in women, for that it is lightlier enkindled in these latter and burneth in them with a fiercer flame and urgeth them with less restraint. nor is this to be marvelled at, for that, an we choose to consider, we may see that fire, of its nature, catcheth quicklier to light and delicate things than to those which are denser and more ponderous; and we women, indeed,--let men not take it ill,--are more delicately fashioned than they and far more mobile. wherefore, seeing that we are naturally inclined thereunto[ ] and considering after how our mansuetude and our loving kindness are of repose and pleasance to the men with whom we have to do and how big with harm and peril are anger and fury, i purpose, to the intent that we may with a more steadfast, mind keep ourselves from these latter, to show you by my story how the loves of three young men and as many ladies came, as i said before, to an ill end, becoming through the ire of one of the latter, from happy most unhappy. [footnote : _i.e._ _semble_ "an you would wish them nought but an ill end."] [footnote : _i.e._ to anger.] marseilles is, as you know, a very ancient and noble city, situate in provence on the sea-shore, and was once more abounding in rich and great merchants than it is nowadays. among the latter was one called narnald cluada, a man of mean extraction, but of renowned good faith and a loyal merchant, rich beyond measure in lands and monies, who had by a wife of his several children, whereof the three eldest were daughters. two of these latter, born at a birth, were fifteen and the third fourteen years old, nor was aught awaited by their kinsfolk to marry them but the return of narnald, who was gone into spain with his merchandise. the names of the two elder were the one ninetta and the other maddalena and the third called bertella. of ninetta a young man of gentle birth, though poor, called restagnone, was enamoured as much as man might be, and she of him, and they had contrived to do on such wise that, without any knowing it, they had enjoyment of their loves. they had already a pretty while enjoyed this satisfaction when it chanced that two young companions, named the one folco and the other ughetto, whose fathers were dead, leaving them very rich, fell in love, the one with maddalena and the other with bertella. restagnone, noting this (it having been shown him of ninetta), bethought himself that he might make shift to supply his own lack by means of the newcomers' love. accordingly, he clapped up an acquaintance with them, so that now one, now the other of them accompanied him to visit their mistresses and his; and when himseemed he was grown privy enough with them and much their friend, he called them one day into his house and said to them, 'dearest youths, our commerce should have certified you how great is the love i bear you and that i would do for you that which i would do for myself; and for that i love you greatly, i purpose to discover to you that which hath occurred to my mind, and you and i together will after take such counsel thereof as shall seem to you best. you, an your words lie not and for that to boot which meseemeth i have apprehended by your deeds, both daily and nightly, burn with an exceeding passion for the two young ladies beloved of you, as do i for the third their sister; and to this ardour, an you will consent thereunto,[ ] my heart giveth me to find a very sweet and pleasing remedy, the which is as follows. you are both very rich, which i am not; now, if you will agree to bring your riches into a common stock, making me a third sharer with you therein, and determine in which part of the world we shall go lead a merry life with our mistresses, my heart warranteth me i can without fail so do that the three sisters, with a great part of their father's good, will go with, us whithersoever we shall please, and there, each with his wench, like three brothers, we may live the happiest lives of any men in the world. it resteth with you now to determine whether you will go about to solace yourself in this or leave it be.' [footnote : _i.e._ to the proposal i have to make.] the two young men, who were beyond measure inflamed, hearing that they were to have their lasses, were not long in making up their minds, but answered that, so this[ ] should ensue, they were ready to do as he said. restagnone, having gotten this answer from the young men, found means a few days after to foregather with ninetta, to whom he could not come without great unease, and after he had abidden with her awhile, he told her what he had proposed to the others and with many arguments studied to commend the emprise to her. this was little uneath to him, seeing that she was yet more desirous than himself to be with him without suspect; wherefore she answered him frankly that it liked her well and that her sisters would do whatever she wished, especially in this, and bade him make ready everything needful therefor as quickliest he might. restagnone accordingly returned to the two young men, who still importuned him amain to do that whereof he had bespoken them, and told them that, so far as concerned their mistresses, the matter was settled. then, having determined among themselves to go to crete, they sold certain lands they had, under colour of meaning to go a-trading with the price, and having made money of all their other goods, bought a light brigantine and secretly equipped it to the utmost advantage. [footnote : _i.e._ the possession of their mistresses.] meanwhile, ninetta, who well enough knew her sisters' mind, with soft words inflamed them with such a liking for the venture that themseemed they might not live to see the thing accomplished. accordingly, the night come when they were to go aboard the brigantine, the three sisters opened a great coffer of their father's and taking thence a vast quantity of money and jewels, stole out of the house, according to the given order. they found their gallants awaiting them and going straightway all aboard the brigantine, they thrust the oars into the water and put out to sea nor rested till they came, on the following evening, to genoa, where the new lovers for the first time took ease and joyance of their loves. there having refreshed themselves with that whereof they had need, they set out again and sailing from port to port, came, ere it was the eighth day, without any hindrance, to crete, where they bought great and goodly estates near candia and made them very handsome and delightsome dwelling-houses thereon. here they fell to living like lords and passed their days in banquets and joyance and merrymaking, the happiest men in the world, they and their mistresses, with great plenty of servants and hounds and hawks and horses. abiding on this wise, it befell (even as we see it happen all day long that, how much soever things may please, they grow irksome, an one have overgreat plenty thereof) that restagnone, who had much loved ninetta, being now able to have her at his every pleasure, without let or hindrance, began to weary of her, and consequently his love for her began to wane. having seen at entertainment a damsel of the country, a fair and noble young lady, who pleased him exceedingly, he fell to courting her with all his might, giving marvellous entertainments in her honor and plying her with all manner gallantries; which ninetta coming to know, she fell into such a jealousy that he could not go a step but she heard of it and after harassed both him and herself with words and reproaches on account thereof. but, like as overabundance of aught begetteth weariness, even so doth the denial of a thing desired redouble the appetite; accordingly, ninetta's reproaches did but fan the flame of restagnone's new love and in process of time it came to pass that, whether he had the favours of the lady he loved or not, ninetta held it for certain, whoever it was reported it to her; wherefore she fell into such a passion of grief and thence passed into such a fit of rage and despite that the love which she bore restagnone was changed to bitter hatred, and blinded by her wrath, she bethought herself to avenge, by his death, the affront which herseemed she had received. accordingly, betaking herself to an old greek woman, a past mistress in the art of compounding poisons, she induced her with gifts and promises to make her a death-dealing water, which she, without considering farther, gave restagnone one evening to drink he being heated and misdoubting him not thereof; and such was the potency of the poison that, ere morning came, it had slain him. folco and ughetto and their mistresses, hearing of his death and knowing not of what poison he had died,[ ] bewept him bitterly, together with ninetta, and caused bury him honourably. but not many days after it chanced that the old woman, who had compounded the poisoned water for ninetta, was taken for some other misdeed and being put to the torture, confessed to this amongst her other crimes, fully declaring that which had betided by reason thereof; whereupon the duke of crete, without saying aught of the matter, beset folco's palace by surprise one night and without any noise or gainsayal, carried off ninetta prisoner, from whom, without putting her to the torture, he readily got what he would know of the death of restagnone. [footnote : sic (_di che veleno fosse morto_), but this is probably a copyist's error for _che di veleno fosse morto_, _i.e._ that he had died of poison.] folco and ughetto (and from them their ladies) had privy notice from the duke why ninetta had been taken, the which was exceeding grievous to them and they used their every endeavour to save her from the fire, whereto they doubted not she would be condemned, as indeed she richly deserved; but all seemed vain, for that the duke abode firm in willing to do justice upon her. however, maddalena, who was a beautiful young woman and had long been courted by the duke, but had never yet consented to do aught that might pleasure him, thinking that, by complying with his wishes, she might avail to save her sister from the fire, signified to him by a trusty messenger that she was at his commandment in everything, provided two things should ensue thereof, to wit, that she should have her sister again safe and sound and that the thing should be secret. her message pleased the duke, and after long debate with himself if he should do as she proposed, he ultimately agreed thereto and said that he was ready. accordingly, one night, having, with the lady's consent, caused detain folco and ughetto, as he would fain examine them of the matter, he went secretly to couch with maddalena and having first made a show of putting ninetta in a sack and of purposing to let sink her that night in the sea, he carried her with him to her sister, to whom on the morrow he delivered her at parting, in payment of the night he had passed with her, praying her that this,[ ] which had been the first of their loves, might not be the last and charging her send the guilty lady away, lest blame betide himself and it behove him anew proceed against her with rigour. [footnote : _i.e._ that night.] next morning, folco and ughetto, having heard that ninetta had been sacked overnight and believing it, were released and returned home to comfort their mistresses for the death of their sister. however, for all maddalena could do to hide her, folco soon became aware of ninetta's presence in the palace, whereat he marvelled exceedingly and suddenly waxing suspicious,--for that he had heard of the duke's passion for maddalena,--asked the latter how her sister came to be there. maddalena began a long story, which she had devised to account to him therefor, but was little believed of her lover, who was shrewd and constrained her to confess the truth, which, after long parley, she told him. folco, overcome with chagrin and inflamed with rage, pulled out a sword and slew her, whilst she in vain besought mercy; then, fearing the wrath and justice of the duke, he left her dead in the chamber and repairing whereas ninetta was, said to her, with a feigned air of cheerfulness, 'quick, let us begone whither it hath been appointed of thy sister that i shall carry thee, so thou mayst not fall again into the hands of the duke.' ninetta, believing this and eager, in her fearfulness, to begone, set out with folco, it being now night, without seeking to take leave of her sister; whereupon he and she, with such monies (which were but few) as he could lay hands on, betook themselves to the sea-shore and embarked on board a vessel; nor was it ever known whither they went. on the morrow, maddalena being found murdered, there were some who, of the envy and hatred they bore to ughetto, forthright gave notice thereof to the duke, whereupon the latter, who loved maddalena exceedingly, ran furiously to the house and seizing ughetto and his lady, who as yet knew nothing of the matter,--to wit, of the departure of folco and ninetta,--constrained them to confess themselves guilty, together with folco, of his mistress's death. they, apprehending with reason death in consequence of this confession, with great pains corrupted those who had them in keeping, giving them a certain sum of money, which they kept hidden in their house against urgent occasions, and embarking with their guards, without having leisure to take any of their goods, fled by night to rhodes, where they lived no great while after in poverty and distress. to such a pass, then, did restagnone's mad love and ninetta's rage bring themselves and others." the fourth story [day the fourth] gerbino, against the plighted faith of his grandfather, king guglielmo of sicily, attacketh a ship of the king of tunis, to carry off a daughter of his, who being put to death of those on board, he slayeth these latter and is after himself beheaded lauretta, having made an end of her story, was silent, whilst the company bewailed the illhap of the lovers, some blaming ninetta's anger and one saying one thing and another another, till presently the king, raising his head, as if aroused from deep thought, signed to elisa to follow on; whereupon she began modestly, "charming ladies, there are many who believe that love launcheth his shafts only when enkindled of the eyes and make mock of those who hold that one may fall in love by hearsay; but that these are mistaken will very manifestly appear in a story that i purpose to relate, wherein you will see that report not only wrought this, without the lovers having ever set eyes on each other, but it will be made manifest to you that it brought both the one and the other to a miserable death. guglielmo, the second, king of sicily, had (as the sicilians pretend) two children, a son called ruggieri and a daughter called costanza. the former, dying before his father, left a son named gerbino, who was diligently reared by his grandfather and became a very goodly youth and a renowned for prowess and courtesy. nor did his fame abide confined within the limits of sicily, but, resounding in various parts of the world, was nowhere more glorious than in barbary, which in those days was tributary to the king of sicily. amongst the rest to whose ears came the magnificent fame of gerbino's valour and courtesy was a daughter of the king of tunis, who, according to the report of all who had seen her, was one of the fairest creatures ever fashioned by nature and the best bred and of a noble and great soul. she, delighting to hear tell of men of valour, with such goodwill received the tales recounted by one and another of the deeds valiantly done of gerbino and they so pleased her that, picturing to herself the prince's fashion, she became ardently enamoured of him and discoursed more willingly of him than of any other and hearkened to whoso spoke of him. on the other hand, the great renown of her beauty and worth had won to sicily, as elsewhither, and not without great delight nor in vain had it reached the ears of gerbino; nay, it had inflamed him with love of her, no less than that which she herself had conceived for him. wherefore, desiring beyond measure to see her, against he should find a colourable occasion of having his grandfather's leave to go to tunis, he charged his every friend who went thither to make known to her, as best he might, his secret and great love and bring him news of her. this was very dexterously done by one of them, who, under pretence of carrying her women's trinkets to view, as do merchants, throughly discovered gerbino's passion to her and avouched the prince and all that was his to be at her commandment. the princess received the messenger and the message with a glad flavour and answering that she burnt with like love for the prince, sent him one of her most precious jewels in token thereof. this gerbino received with the utmost joy wherewith one can receive whatsoever precious thing and wrote to her once and again by the same messenger, sending her the most costly gifts and holding certain treaties[ ] with her, whereby they should have seen and touched one another, had fortune but allowed it. [footnote : or, in modern parlance, "laying certain plans."] but, things going thus and somewhat farther than was expedient, the young lady on the one hand and gerbino on the other burning with desire, it befell that the king of tunis gave her in marriage to the king of granada, whereat she was beyond measure chagrined, bethinking herself that not only should she be separated from her lover by long distance, but was like to be altogether parted from him; and had she seen a means thereto, she would gladly, so this might not betide, have fled from her father and betaken herself to gerbino. gerbino, in like manner, hearing of this marriage, was beyond measure sorrowful therefor and often bethought himself to take her by force, if it should chance that she went to her husband by sea. the king of tunis, getting some inkling of gerbino's love and purpose and fearing his valour and prowess, sent to king guglielmo, whenas the time came for despatching her to granada, advising him of that which he was minded to do and that, having assurance from him that he should not be hindered therein by gerbino or others, he purposed to do it. the king of sicily, who was an old man and had heard nothing of gerbino's passion and consequently suspected not that it was for this that such an assurance was demanded, freely granted it and in token thereof, sent the king of tunis a glove of his. the latter, having gotten the desired assurance, caused equip a very great and goodly ship in the port of carthage and furnish it with what was needful for those who were to sail therein and having fitted and adorned it for the sending of his daughter into granada, awaited nought but weather. the young lady, who saw and knew all this, despatched one of her servants secretly to palermo, bidding him salute the gallant gerbino on her part and tell him that she was to sail in a few days for granada, wherefore it would now appear if he were as valiant a man as was said and if he loved her as much as he had sundry times declared to her. her messenger did his errand excellent well and returned to tunis, whilst gerbino, hearing this and knowing that his grandfather had given the king of tunis assurance, knew not what to do. however, urged by love and that he might not appear a craven, he betook himself to messina, where he hastily armed two light galleys and manning them with men of approved valour, set sail with them for the coast of sardinia, looking for the lady's ship to pass there. nor was he far out in his reckoning, for he had been there but a few days when the ship hove in sight with a light wind not far from the place where he lay expecting it. gerbino, seeing this, said to his companions, 'gentlemen, an you be the men of mettle i take you for, methinketh there is none of you but hath either felt or feeleth love, without which, as i take it, no mortal can have aught of valour or worth in himself; and if you have been or are enamoured, it will be an easy thing to you to understand my desire. i love and love hath moved me to give you this present pains; and she whom i love is in the ship which you see becalmed yonder and which, beside that thing which i most desire, is full of very great riches. these latter, an ye be men of valour, we may with little difficulty acquire, fighting manfully; of which victory i desire nothing to my share save one sole lady, for whose love i have taken up arms; everything else shall freely be yours. come, then, and let us right boldly assail the ship; god is favourable to our emprise and holdeth it here fast, without vouchsafing it a breeze.' the gallant gerbino had no need of many words, for that the messinese, who were with him being eager for plunder, were already disposed to do that unto which he exhorted them. wherefore, making a great outcry, at the end of his speech, that it should be so, they sounded the trumpets and catching up their arms, thrust the oars into the water and made for the tunis ship. they who were aboard this latter, seeing the galleys coming afar off and being unable to flee,[ ] made ready for defence. the gallant gerbino accosting the ship, let command that the masters thereof should be sent on board the galleys, an they had no mind to fight; but the saracens, having certified themselves who they were and what they sought, declared themselves attacked of them against the faith plighted them by king guglielmo; in token whereof they showed the latter's glove, and altogether refused to surrender themselves, save for stress of battle, or to give them aught that was in the ship. [footnote : _i.e._ for lack of wind.] gerbino, who saw the lady upon the poop, far fairer than he had pictured her to himself, and was more inflamed than ever, replied to the showing of the glove that there were no falcons there at that present and consequently there needed no gloves; wherefore, an they chose not to give up the lady, they must prepare to receive battle. accordingly, without further parley, they fell to casting shafts and stones at one another, and on this wise they fought a great while, with loss on either side. at last, gerbino, seeing that he did little to the purpose, took a little vessel he had brought with him out of sardinia and setting fire therein, thrust it with both the galleys aboard the ship. the saracens, seeing this and knowing that they must of necessity surrender or die, fetched the king's daughter, who wept below, on deck and brought her to the ship's prow; then, calling gerbino, they butchered her before his eyes, what while she called for mercy and succour, and cast her into the sea, saying, 'take her; we give her to thee, such as we may and such as thine unfaith hath merited.' gerbino, seeing their barbarous deed, caused lay himself alongside the ship and recking not of shaft or stone, boarded it, as if courting death, in spite of those who were therein; then,--even as a hungry lion, coming among a herd of oxen, slaughtereth now this, now that, and with teeth and claws sateth rather his fury than his hunger,--sword in hand, hewing now at one, now at another, he cruelly slew many of the saracens; after which, the fire now waxing in the enkindled ship, he caused the sailors fetch thereout what they might, in payment of their pains, and descended thence, having gotten but a sorry victory over his adversaries. then, letting take up the fair lady's body from the sea, long and with many tears he bewept it and steering for sicily, buried it honourably in ustica, a little island over against trapani; after which he returned home, the woefullest man alive. the king of tunis, hearing the heavy news, sent his ambassadors, clad all in black, to king guglielmo, complaining of the ill observance of the faith which he had plighted him. they recounted to him how the thing had passed, whereat king guglielmo was sore incensed and seeing no way to deny them the justice they sought, caused take gerbino; then himself,--albeit there was none of his barons but strove with prayers to move him from his purpose,--condemned him to death and let strike off his head in his presence, choosing rather to abide without posterity than to be held a faithless king. thus, then, as i have told you, did these two lovers within a few days[ ] die miserably a violent death, without having tasted any fruit of their loves." [footnote : _i.e._ of each other.] the fifth story [day the fourth] lisabetta's[ ] brothers slay her lover, who appeareth to her in a dream and showeth her where he is buried, whereupon she privily disinterreth his head and setteth it in a pot of basil. thereover making moan a great while every day, her brothers take it from her and she for grief dieth a little thereafterward [footnote : this is the proper name of the heroine of the story immortalized by keats as "isabella or the pot of basil," and is one of the many forms of the and name _elisabetta_ (elizabeth), _isabetta_ and _isabella_ being others. some texts of the decameron call the heroine _isabetta_, but in the heading only, all with which i am acquainted agreeing in the use of the form _lisabetta_ in the body of the story.] elisa's tale being ended and somedele commended of the king, filomena was bidden to discourse, who, full of compassion for the wretched gerbino and his mistress, after a piteous sigh, began thus: "my story, gracious ladies, will not treat of folk of so high condition as were those of whom elisa hath told, yet peradventure it will be no less pitiful; and what brought me in mind of it was the mention, a little before, of messina, where the case befell. there were then in messina three young brothers, merchants and left very rich by their father, who was a man of san gimignano, and they had an only sister, lisabetta by name, a right fair and well-mannered maiden, whom, whatever might have been the reason thereof, they had not yet married. now these brothers had in one of their warehouses a youth of pisa, called lorenzo, who did and ordered all their affairs and was very comely and agreeable of person; wherefore, lisabetta looking sundry times upon him, it befell that he began strangely to please her; of which lorenzo taking note at one time and another, he in like manner, leaving his other loves, began to turn his thoughts to her; and so went the affair, that, each being alike pleasing to the other, it was no great while before, taking assurance, they did that which each of them most desired. continuing on this wise and enjoying great pleasure and delight one of the other, they knew not how to do so secretly but that, one night, lisabetta, going whereas lorenzo lay, was, unknown to herself, seen of the eldest of her brothers, who, being a prudent youth, for all the annoy it gave him to know this thing, being yet moved by more honourable counsel, abode without sign or word till the morning, revolving in himself various things anent the matter. the day being come, he recounted to his brothers that which he had seen the past night of lisabetta and lorenzo, and after long advisement with them, determined (so that neither to them nor to their sister should any reproach ensue thereof) to pass the thing over in silence and feign to have seen and known nothing thereof till such time as, without hurt or unease to themselves, they might avail to do away this shame from their sight, ere it should go farther. in this mind abiding and devising and laughing with lorenzo as was their wont, it befell that one day, feigning to go forth the city, all three, a-pleasuring, they carried him with them to a very lonely and remote place; and there, the occasion offering, they slew him, whilst he was off his guard, and buried him on such wise that none had knowledge of it; then, returning to messina, they gave out that they had despatched him somewhither for their occasions, the which was the lightlier credited that they were often used to send him abroad about their business. lorenzo returning not and lisabetta often and instantly questioning her brothers of him, as one to whom the long delay was grievous, it befell one day, as she very urgently enquired of him, that one of them said to her, 'what meaneth this? what hast thou to do often of him? an thou question of him with lorenzo, that thou askest thus more, we will make thee such answer as thou deservest.' wherefore the girl, sad and grieving and fearful she knew not of what, abode without more asking; yet many a time anights she piteously called him and prayed him come to her, and whiles with many tears she complained of his long tarrying; and thus, without a moment's gladness, she abode expecting him alway, till one night, having sore lamented lorenzo for that he returned not and being at last fallen asleep, weeping, he appeared to her in a dream, pale and all disordered, with clothes all rent and mouldered, and herseemed he bespoke her thus: 'harkye, lisabetta; thou dost nought but call upon me, grieving for my long delay and cruelly impeaching me with thy tears. know, therefore, that i may never more return to thee, for that, the last day thou sawest me, thy brothers slew me.' then, having discovered to her the place where they had buried him, he charged her no more call him nor expect him and disappeared; whereupon she awoke and giving faith to the vision, wept bitterly. in the morning, being risen and daring not say aught to her brothers, she determined to go to the place appointed and see if the thing were true, as it had appeared to her in the dream. accordingly, having leave to go somedele without the city for her disport, she betook herself thither,[ ] as quickliest she might, in company of one who had been with them[ ] otherwhiles and knew all her affairs; and there, clearing away the dead leaves from the place, she dug whereas herseemed the earth was less hard. she had not dug long before she found the body of her unhappy lover, yet nothing changed nor rotted, and thence knew manifestly that her vision was true, wherefore she was the most distressful of women; yet, knowing that this was no place for lament, she would fain, an she but might, have borne away the whole body, to give it fitter burial; but, seeing that this might not be, she with a knife did off[ ] the head from the body, as best she could, and wrapping it in a napkin, laid it in her maid's lap. then, casting back the earth over the trunk, she departed thence, without being seen of any, and returned home, where, shutting herself in her chamber with her lover's head, she bewept it long and bitterly, insomuch that she bathed it all with her tears, and kissed it a thousand times in every part. then, taking a great and goodly pot, of those wherein they plant marjoram or sweet basil, she set the head therein, folded in a fair linen cloth, and covered it with earth, in which she planted sundry heads of right fair basil of salerno; nor did she ever water these with other water than that of her tears or rose or orange-flower water. moreover she took wont to sit still near the pot and to gaze amorously upon it with all her desire, as upon that which held her lorenzo hid; and after she had a great while looked thereon, she would bend over it and fall to weeping so sore and so long that her tears bathed all the basil, which, by dint of long and assiduous tending, as well as by reason of the fatness of the earth, proceeding from the rotting head that was therein, waxed passing fair and very sweet of savour. [footnote : _i.e._ to the place shown her in the dream.] [footnote : _i.e._ in their service.] [footnote : lit. unhung (_spiccò_).] the damsel, doing without cease after this wise, was sundry times seen of her neighbours, who to her brothers, marvelling at her waste beauty and that her eyes seemed to have fled forth her head [for weeping], related this, saying, 'we have noted that she doth every day after such a fashion.' the brothers, hearing and seeing this and having once and again reproved her therefor, but without avail, let secretly carry away from her the pot, which she, missing, with the utmost instance many a time required, and for that it was not restored to her, stinted not to weep and lament till she fell sick; nor in her sickness did she ask aught other than the pot of basil. the young men marvelled greatly at this continual asking and bethought them therefor to see what was in this pot. accordingly, turning out the earth, they found the cloth and therein the head, not yet so rotted but they might know it, by the curled hair, to be that of lorenzo. at this they were mightily amazed and feared lest the thing should get wind; wherefore, burying the head, without word said, they privily departed messina, having taken order how they should withdraw thence, and betook themselves to naples. the damsel, ceasing never from lamenting and still demanding her pot, died, weeping; and so her ill-fortuned love had end. but, after a while the thing being grown manifest unto many, there was one who made thereon the song that is yet sung, to wit: alack! ah, who can the ill christian be, that stole my pot away?" etc.[ ] [footnote : the following is a translation of the whole of the song in question, as printed, from a ms. in the medicean library, in fanfani's edition of the decameron. alack! ah, who can the ill christian be, that stole my pot away, my pot of basil of salern, from me? 'twas thriv'n with many a spray and i with mine own hand did plant the tree, even on the festal[a] day. 'tis felony to waste another's ware. 'tis felony to waste another's ware; yea, and right grievous sin. and i, poor lass, that sowed myself whilere a pot with flowers therein, slept in its shade, so great it was and fair; but folk, that envious bin, stole it away even from my very door. 'twas stolen away even from my very door. full heavy was my cheer, (ah, luckless maid, would i had died tofore!) who brought[b] it passing dear, yet kept ill ward thereon one day of fear. for him i loved so sore, i planted it with marjoram about. i planted it with marjoram about, when may was blithe and new; yea, thrice i watered it, week in, week out, and watched how well it grew: but now, for sure, away from me 'tis ta'en. ay, now, for sure, away from me 'tis ta'en; i may 't no longer hide. had i but known (alas, regret is vain!) that which should me betide, before my door on guard i would have lain to sleep, my flowers beside. yet might the great god ease me at his will. yea, god most high might ease me, at his will, if but it liked him well, of him who wrought me such unright and ill; he into pangs of hell cast me who stole my basil-pot, that still was full of such sweet smell, its savour did all dole from me away. all dole its savour did from me away; it was so redolent, when, with the risen sun, at early day to water it i went, the folk would marvel all at it and say, "whence comes the sweetest scent?" and i for love of it shall surely die. yea, i for love of it shall surely die, for love and grief and pain. if one would tell me where it is, i'd buy it willingly again. fivescore gold crowns, that in my pouch have i, i'd proffer him full fain, and eke a kiss, if so it liked the swain.] [footnote a: quære--natal?--perhaps meaning her birthday (_lo giorno della festa_).] [footnote b: or "purchased" in the old sense of obtained, acquired (_accattai_).] the sixth story [day the fourth] andrevuola loveth gabriotto and recounteth to him a dream she hath had, whereupon he telleth her one of his own and presently dieth suddenly in her arms. what while she and a waiting woman of hers bear him to his own house, they are taken by the officers of justice and carried before the provost, to whom she discovereth how the case standeth. the provost would fain force her, but she suffereth it not and her father, coming to hear of the matter, procureth her to be set at liberty, she being found innocent; whereupon, altogether refusing to abide longer in the world, she becometh a nun filomela's story was very welcome to the ladies, for that they had many a time heard sing this song, yet could never, for asking, learn the occasion of its making. but the king, having heard the end thereof, charged pamfilo follow on the ordinance; whereupon quoth he, "the dream in the foregoing story giveth me occasion to recount one wherein is made mention of two dreams, which were of a thing to come, even as the former was of a thing [already] betided, and scarce were they finished telling by those who had dreamt them than the accomplishment followed of both. you must know, then, lovesome ladies, that it is an affection common to all alive to see various things in sleep, whereof,--albeit to the sleeper, what while he sleepeth, they all appear most true and he, awakened, accounteth some true, others probable and yet others out of all likelihood,--many are natheless found to be come to pass. by reason whereof many lend to every dream as much belief as they would to things they should see, waking, and for their proper dreams they sorrow or rejoice, according as by these they hope or fear. and contrariwise, there are those who believe none thereof, save after they find themselves fallen into the peril foreshown. of these,[ ] i approve neither the one nor other, for that dreams are neither always true nor always false. that they are not all true, each one of us must often enough have had occasion to know; and that they are not all false hath been already shown in filomena her story, and i also purpose, as i said before, to show it in mine. wherefore i am of opinion that, in the matter of living and doing virtuously, one should have no fear of any dream contrary thereto nor forego good intentions by reason thereof; as for perverse and wicked things, on the other hand, however favourable dreams may appear thereto and how much soever they may hearten him who seeth them with propitious auguries, none of them should be credited, whilst full faith should be accorded unto all that tend to the contrary.[ ] but to come to the story. [footnote : _i.e._ these two classes of folk.] [footnote : _i.e._ to the encouragement of good and virtuous actions and purposes.] there was once in the city of brescia a gentleman called messer negro da ponte carraro, who amongst sundry other children had a daughter named andrevuola, young and unmarried and very fair. it chanced she fell in love with a neighbour of hers, gabriotto by name, a man of mean condition, but full laudable fashions and comely and pleasant of his person, and by the means and with the aid of the serving-maid of the house, she so wrought that not only did gabriotto know himself beloved of her, but was many and many a time brought, to the delight of both parties, into a goodly garden of her father's. and in order that no cause, other than death, should ever avail to sever those their delightsome loves, they became in secret husband and wife, and so stealthily continuing their foregatherings, it befell that the young lady, being one night asleep, dreamt that she was in her garden with gabriotto and held him in her arms, to the exceeding pleasure of each; but, as they abode thus, herseemed she saw come forth of his body something dark and frightful, the form whereof she could not discern; the which took gabriotto and tearing him in her despite with marvellous might from her embrace, made off with him underground, nor ever more might she avail to see either the one or the other. at this she fell into an inexpressible passion of grief, whereby she awoke, and albeit, awaking, she was rejoiced to find that it was not as she had dreamed, nevertheless fear entered into her by reason of the dream she had seen. wherefore, gabriotto presently desiring to visit her that next night, she studied as most she might to prevent his coming; however, seeing his desire and so he might not misdoubt him of otherwhat, she received him in the garden and having gathered great store of roses, white and red (for that it was the season), she went to sit with him at the foot of a very goodly and clear fountain that was there. after they had taken great and long delight together, gabriotto asked her why she would have forbidden his coming that night; whereupon she told him, recounting to him the dream she had seen the foregoing night and the fear she had gotten therefrom. he, hearing this, laughed it to scorn and said that it was great folly to put any faith in dreams, for that they arose of excess of food or lack thereof and were daily seen to be all vain, adding, 'were i minded to follow after dreams, i had not come hither, not so much on account of this of thine as of one i myself dreamt last night; which was that meseemed i was in a fair and delightsome wood, wherein i went hunting and had taken the fairest and loveliest hind was ever seen; for methought she was whiter than snow and was in brief space become so familiar with me that she never left me a moment. moreover, meseemed i held her so dear that, so she might not depart from me, i had put a collar of gold about her neck and held her in hand with a golden chain. after this medreamed that, once upon a time, what while this hind lay couched with its head in my bosom,[ ] there issued i know not whence a greyhound bitch as black as coal, anhungred and passing gruesome of aspect, and made towards me. methought i offered it no resistance, wherefore meseemed it thrust its muzzle into my breast on the left side and gnawed thereat till it won to my heart, which methought it tore from me, to carry it away. therewith i felt such a pain that my sleep was broken and awaking, i straightway clapped my hand to my side, to see if i had aught there; but, finding nothing amiss with me, i made mock of myself for having sought. but, after all, what booteth this dream?[ ] i have dreamed many such and far more frightful, nor hath aught in the world befallen me by reason thereof; wherefore let it pass and let us think to give ourselves a good time.' [footnote : or "lap" (_seno_).] [footnote : lit. what meaneth this? (_che vuol dire questo?_)] the young lady, already sore adread for her own dream, hearing this, waxed yet more so, but hid her fear, as most she might, not to be the occasion of any unease to gabriotto. nevertheless, what while she solaced herself with him, clipping and kissing him again and again and being of him clipped and kissed, she many a time eyed him in the face more than of her wont, misdoubting she knew not what, and whiles she looked about the garden, and she should see aught of black come anywhence. presently, as they abode thus, gabriotto heaved a great sigh and embracing her said, 'alas, my soul, help me, for i die!' so saying, he fell to the ground upon the grass of the lawn. the young lady, seeing this, drew him up into her lap and said, well nigh weeping, 'alack, sweet my lord, what aileth thee?' he answered not, but, panting sore and sweating all over, no great while after departed this life. how grievous, how dolorous was this to the young lady, who loved him more than her life, each one of you may conceive for herself. she bewept him sore and many a time called him in vain; but after she had handled him in every part of his body and found him cold in all, perceiving that he was altogether dead and knowing not what to do or to say, she went, all tearful as she was and full of anguish, to call her maid, who was privy to their loves, and discovered to her misery and her grief. then, after they had awhile made woeful lamentation over gabriotto's dead face, the young lady said to the maid, 'since god hath bereft me of him i love, i purpose to abide no longer on life; but, ere i go about to slay myself, i would fain take fitting means to preserve my honour and the secret of the love that hath been between us twain and that the body, wherefrom the gracious spirit is departed, may be buried.' 'daughter mine,' answered the maid, 'talk not of seeking to slay thyself, for that, if thou have lost him in this world, by slaying thyself thou wouldst lose him in the world to come also, since thou wouldst go to hell, whither i am assured his soul hath not gone; for he was a virtuous youth. it were better far to comfort thyself and think of succouring his soul with prayers and other good works, so haply he have need thereof for any sin committed. the means of burying him are here at hand in this garden and none will ever know of the matter, for none knoweth that he ever came hither. or, an thou wilt not have it so, let us put him forth of the garden and leave him be; he will be found to-morrow morning and carried to his house, where his kinsfolk will have him buried.' the young lady, albeit she was full of bitter sorrow and wept without ceasing, yet gave ear to her maid's counsels and consenting not to the first part thereof, made answer to the second, saying, 'god forbid that i should suffer so dear a youth and one so beloved of me and my husband to be buried after the fashion of a dog or left to lie in the street! he hath had my tears and inasmuch as i may, he shall have those of his kinsfolk, and i have already bethought me of that which we have to do to that end.' therewith she despatched her maid for a piece of cloth of silk, which she had in a coffer of hers, and spreading it on the earth, laid gabriotto's body thereon, with his head upon a pillow. then with many tears she closed his eyes and mouth and weaving him a chaplet of roses, covered him with all they had gathered, he and she; after which she said to the maid, 'it is but a little way hence to his house; wherefore we will carry him thither, thou and i, even as we have arrayed him, and lay him before the door. it will not be long ere it be day and he will be taken up; and although this may be no consolation to his friends, yet to me, in whose arms he died, it will be a pleasure.' so saying, once more with most abundant tears she cast herself upon his face and wept a great while. then, being urged by her maid to despatch, for that the day was at hand, she rose to her feet and drawing from her finger the ring wherewith gabriotto had espoused her, she set it on his and said, weeping, 'dear my lord, if thy soul now seeth my tears or if any sense or cognizance abide in the body, after the departure thereof, benignly receive her last gift, whom, living, thou lovedst so well.' this said, she fell down upon him in a swoon, but, presently coming to herself and rising, she took up, together with her maid, the cloth whereon the body lay and going forth the garden therewith, made for his house. as they went, they were discovered and taken with the dead body by the officers of the provostry, who chanced to be abroad at that hour about some other matter. andrevuola, more desirous of death than of life, recognizing the officers, said frankly, 'i know who you are and that it would avail me nothing to seek to flee; i am ready to go with you before the seignory and there declare how the case standeth; but let none of you dare to touch me, provided i am obedient to you, or to remove aught from this body, an he would not be accused of me.' accordingly, without being touched of any, she repaired, with gabriotto's body, to the palace, where the provost, hearing what was to do, arose and sending for her into his chamber, proceeded to enquire of this that had happened. to this end he caused divers physicians look if the dead man had been done to death with poison or otherwise, who all affirmed that it was not so, but that some imposthume had burst near the heart, the which had suffocated him. the magistrate hearing this and feeling her to be guilty in [but] a small matter, studied to make a show of giving her that which he could not sell her and told her that, an she would consent to his pleasures, he would release her; but, these words availing not, he offered, out of all seemliness, to use force. however, andrevuola, fired with disdain and waxed strong [for indignation], defended herself manfully, rebutting him with proud and scornful words. meanwhile, broad day come and these things being recounted to messer negro, he betook himself, sorrowful unto death, to the palace, in company with many of his friends, and being there acquainted by the provost with the whole matter, demanded resentfully[ ] that his daughter should be restored to him. the provost, choosing rather to accuse himself of the violence he would have done her than to be accused of her, first extolled the damsel and her constancy and in proof thereof, proceeded to tell that which he had done; by reason whereof, seeing her of so excellent a firmness, he had vowed her an exceeding love and would gladly, an it were agreeable to him, who was her father, and to herself, espouse her for his lady, notwithstanding she had had a husband of mean condition. whilst they yet talked, andrevuola presented herself and weeping, cast herself before her father and said, 'father mine, methinketh there is no need that i recount to you the story of my boldness and my illhap, for i am assured that you have heard and know it; wherefore, as most i may, i humbly ask pardon of you for my default, to wit, the having without your knowledge taken him who most pleased me to husband. and this boon i ask of you, not for that my life may be spared me, but to die your daughter and not your enemy.' so saying, she fell weeping at his feet. [footnote : lit. complaining, making complaint (_dolendosi_).] messer negro, who was an old man and kindly and affectionate of his nature, hearing these words, began to weep and with tears in his eyes raised his daughter tenderly to her feet and said, 'daughter mine, it had better pleased me that thou shouldst have had such a husband as, according to my thinking, behoved unto thee; and that thou shouldst have taken such an one as was pleasing unto thee had also been pleasing to me; but that thou shouldst have concealed him, of thy little confidence in me, grieveth me, and so much the more as i see thee to have lost him, ere i knew it. however, since the case is so, that which had he lived, i had gladly done him, to content thee, to wit, honour, as to my son-in-law, be it done him, now he is dead.' then, turning to his sons and his kinsfolk, he commanded that great and honourable obsequies should be prepared for gabriotto. meanwhile, the kinsmen and kinswomen of the young man, hearing the news, had flocked thither, and with them well nigh all the men and women in the city. therewith, the body, being laid out amiddleward the courtyard upon andrevuola's silken cloth and strewn, with all her roses, was there not only bewept by her and his kinsfolk, but publicly mourned by well nigh all the ladies of the city and by many men, and being brought forth of the courtyard of the seignory, not as that of a plebeian, but as that of a nobleman, it was with the utmost honour borne to the sepulchre upon the shoulders of the most noble citizens. some days thereafterward, the provost ensuing that which he had demanded, messer negro propounded it to his daughter, who would hear nought thereof, but, her father being willing to comply with her in this, she and her maid made themselves nuns in a convent very famous for sanctity and there lived honourably a great while after." the seventh story [day the fourth] simona loveth pasquino and they being together in a garden, the latter rubbeth a leaf of sage against his teeth and dieth. she, being taken and thinking to show the judge how her lover died, rubbeth one of the same leaves against her teeth and dieth on like wise pamfilo having delivered himself of his story, the king, showing no compassion for andrevuola, looked at emilia and signed to her that it was his pleasure she should with a story follow on those who had already told; whereupon she, without delay, began as follows: "dear companions, the story told by pamfilo putteth me in mind to tell you one in nothing like unto his save that like as andrevuola lost her beloved in a garden, even so did she of whom i have to tell, and being taken in like manner as was andrevuola, freed herself from the court, not by dint of fortitude nor constancy, but by an unlooked-for death. and as hath otherwhile been said amongst us, albeit love liefer inhabiteth the houses of the great, yet not therefor doth he decline the empery of those of the poor; nay, whiles in these latter he so manifesteth his power that he maketh himself feared, as a most puissant seignior, of the richer sort. this, if not in all, yet in great part, will appear from my story, with which it pleaseth me to re-enter our own city, wherefrom this day, discoursing diversely of divers things and ranging over various parts of the world, we have so far departed. there was, then, no great while ago, in florence a damsel very handsome and agreeable, according to her condition, who was the daughter of a poor father and was called simona; and although it behoved her with her own hands earn the bread she would eat and sustain her life by spinning wool, she was not therefor of so poor a spirit but that she dared to admit into her heart love, which,--by means of the pleasing words and fashions of a youth of no greater account than herself, who went giving wool to spin for a master of his, a wool-monger,--had long made a show of wishing to enter there. having, then, received him into her bosom with the pleasing aspect of the youth who loved her whose name was pasquino, she heaved a thousand sighs, hotter than fire, at every hank of yarn she wound about the spindle, bethinking her of him who had given it her to spin and ardently desiring, but venturing not to do more. he, on his side, grown exceeding anxious that his master's wool should be well spun, overlooked simona's spinning more diligently than that of any other, as if the yarn spun by her alone and none other were to furnish forth the whole cloth; wherefore, the one soliciting and the other delighting to be solicited, it befell that, he growing bolder than of his wont and she laying aside much of the timidity and shamefastness she was used to feel, they gave themselves up with a common accord to mutual pleasures, which were so pleasing to both that not only did neither wait to be bidden thereto of the other, but each forewent other in the matter of invitation. ensuing this their delight from day to day and waxing ever more enkindled for continuance, it chanced one day that pasquino told simona he would fain have her find means to come to a garden, whither he wished to carry her so they might there foregather more at their ease and with less suspect. simona answered that she would well and accordingly on sunday, after eating, giving her father to believe that she meant to go a-pardoning to san gallo,[ ] she betook herself, with a friend of hers, called lagina, to the garden appointed her of pasquino. there she found him with a comrade of his, whose name was puccino, but who was commonly called stramba,[ ] and an amorous acquaintance being quickly clapped up between the latter and lagina, simona and her lover withdrew to one part of the garden, to do their pleasure, leaving stramba and lagina in another. [footnote : _i.e._ to attend the ecclesiastical function called a pardon, with which word, used in this sense, meyerbeer's opera of dinorah (properly le pardon de ploërmel) has familiarized opera-goers. a pardon is a sort of minor jubilee of the roman catholic church, held in honour of some local saint, at which certain indulgences and remissions of sins (hence the name) are granted to the faithful attending the services of the occasion.] [footnote : _i.e._ bandy-legs.] now in that part of the garden, whither pasquino and simona had betaken themselves, was a very great and goodly bush of sage, at the foot whereof they sat down and solaced themselves together a great while, holding much discourse of a collation they purposed to make there at their leisure. presently, pasquino turned to the great sage-bush and plucking a leaf thereof, began to rub his teeth and gums withal, avouching that sage cleaned them excellent well of aught that might be left thereon after eating. after he had thus rubbed them awhile, he returned to the subject of the collation, of which he had already spoken, nor had he long pursued his discourse when he began altogether to change countenance and well nigh immediately after lost sight and speech, and in a little while he died. simona, seeing this, fell to weeping and crying out and called stramba and lagina, who ran thither in haste and seeing pasquino not only dead, but already grown all swollen and full of dark spots about his face and body, stramba cried out of a sudden, 'ah, wicked woman! thou hast poisoned him.' making a great outcry, he was heard of many who dwelt near the garden and who, running to the clamour, found pasquino dead and swollen. hearing stramba lamenting and accusing simona of having poisoned him of her malice, whilst she, for dolour of the sudden mishap that had carried off her lover, knew not how to excuse herself, being as it were beside herself, they all concluded that it was as he said; and accordingly she was taken and carried off, still weeping sore, to the provost's palace, where, at the instance of stramba and other two comrades of pasquino, by name atticciato and malagevole, who had come up meanwhile, a judge addressed himself without delay to examine her of the fact and being unable to discover that she had done malice in the matter or was anywise guilty, he bethought himself, in her presence, to view the dead body and the place and manner of the mishap, as recounted to him by her, for that he apprehended it not very well by her words. accordingly, he let bring her, without any stir, whereas pasquino's body lay yet, swollen as it were a tun, and himself following her thither, marvelled at the dead man and asked her how it had been; whereupon, going up to the sage-bush, she recounted to him all the foregoing story and to give him more fully to understand how the thing had befallen, she did even as pasquino had done and rubbed one of the sage-leaves against her teeth. then,--whilst her words were, in the judge's presence, flouted by stramba and atticciato and the other friends and comrades of pasquino as frivolous and vain and they all denounced her wickedness with the more instance, demanding nothing less than that the fire should be the punishment of such perversity,--the wretched girl, who abode all confounded for dolour of her lost lover and fear of the punishment demanded by stramba fell, for having rubbed the sage against her teeth, into that same mischance, whereinto her lover had fallen [and dropped dead], to the no small wonderment of as many as were present. o happy souls, to whom it fell in one same day to terminate at once your fervent love and your mortal life! happier yet, an ye went together to one same place! and most happy, if folk love in the other life and ye love there as you loved here below! but happiest beyond compare,--at least in our judgment who abide after her on life,--was simona's soul, whose innocence fortune suffered not to fall under the testimony of stramba and atticciato and malagevole, wool-carders belike or men of yet meaner condition, finding her a more honourable way, with a death like unto that of her lover, to deliver herself from their calumnies and to follow the soul, so dearly loved of her, of her pasquino. the judge, in a manner astonied, as were likewise as many as were there, at this mischance and unknowing what to say, abode long silent; then, recollecting himself, he said, 'it seemeth this sage is poisonous, the which is not wont to happen of sage. but, so it may not avail to offend on this wise against any other, be it cut down even to the roots and cast into the fire.' this the keeper of the garden proceeded to do in the judge's presence, and no sooner had he levelled the great bush with the ground than the cause of the death of the two unfortunate lovers appeared; for thereunder was a toad of marvellous bigness, by whose pestiferous breath they concluded the sage to have become venomous. none daring approach the beast, they made a great hedge of brushwood about it and there burnt it, together with the sage. so ended the judge's inquest upon the death of the unfortunate pasquino, who, together with his simona, all swollen as they were, was buried by stramba and atticciato and guccio imbratta and malagevole in the church of st. paul, whereof it chanced they were parishioners." the eighth story [day the fourth] girolamo loveth salvestra and being constrained by his mother's prayers to go to paris, returneth and findeth his mistress married; whereupon he entereth her house by stealth and dieth by her side; and he being carried to a church, salvestra dieth beside him emilia's story come to an end, neifile, by the king's commandment, began thus: "there are some, noble ladies, who believe themselves to know more than other folk, albeit, to my thinking, they know less, and who, by reason thereof, presume to oppose their judgment not only to the counsels of men, but even to set it up against the very nature of things; of which presumption very grave ills have befallen aforetime, nor ever was any good known to come thereof. and for that of all natural things love is that which least brooketh contrary counsel or opposition and whose nature is such that it may lightlier consume of itself than be done away by advisement, it hath come to my mind to narrate to you a story of a lady, who, seeking to be wiser than pertained unto her and than she was, nay, than the matter comported in which she studied to show her wit, thought to tear out from an enamoured heart a love which had belike been set there of the stars, and so doing, succeeded in expelling at once love and life from her son's body. there was, then, in our city, according to that which the ancients relate, a very great and rich merchant, whose name was lionardo sighieri and who had by his wife a son called girolamo, after whose birth, having duly set his affairs in order, he departed this life. the guardians of the boy, together with his mother, well and loyally ordered his affairs, and he, growing up with his neighbour's children, became familiar with a girl of his own age, the daughter of the tailor, more than with any other of the quarter. as he waxed in age, use turned to love so great and so ardent that he was never easy save what time he saw her, and certes she loved him no less than she was loved of him. the boy's mother, observing this, many a time chid and rebuked him therefor and after, girolamo availing not to desist therefrom, complained thereof to his guardians, saying to them, as if she thought, thanks to her son's great wealth, to make an orange-tree of a bramble, 'this boy of ours, albeit he is yet scarce fourteen years old, is so enamoured of the daughter of a tailor our neighbour, by name salvestra, that, except we remove her from his sight, he will peradventure one day take her to wife, without any one's knowledge, and i shall never after be glad; or else he will pine away from her, if he see her married to another; wherefore meseemeth, to avoid this, you were best send him somewhither far from here, about the business of the warehouse; for that, he being removed from seeing her, she will pass out of his mind and we may after avail to give him some well-born damsel to wife.' the guardians answered that the lady said well and that they would do this to the best of their power; wherefore, calling the boy into the warehouse, one of them began very lovingly to bespeak him thus, 'my son, thou art now somewhat waxen in years and it were well that thou shouldst begin to look for thyself to thine affairs; wherefore it would much content us that thou shouldst go sojourn awhile at paris, where thou wilt see how great part of thy wealth is employed, more by token that thou wilt there become far better bred and mannered and more of worth than thou couldst here, seeing the lords and barons and gentlemen who are there in plenty and learning their usances; after which thou mayst return hither.' the youth hearkened diligently and answered curtly that he was nowise disposed to do this, for that he believed himself able to fare as well at florence as another. the worthy men, hearing this, essayed him again with sundry discourse, but, failing to get other answer of him, told his mother, who, sore provoked thereat, gave him a sound rating, not because of his unwillingness to go to paris, but of his enamourment; after which, she fell to cajoling him with fair words, coaxing him and praying him softly be pleased to do what his guardians wished; brief, she contrived to bespeak him to such purpose that he consented to go to france and there abide a year and no more. accordingly, ardently enamoured as he was, he betook himself to paris and there, being still put off from one day to another, he was kept two years; at the end of which time, returning, more in love than ever, he found his salvestra married to an honest youth, a tent maker. at this he was beyond measure woebegone; but, seeing no help for it, he studied to console himself therefor and having spied out where she dwelt, began, after the wont of young men in love, to pass before her, expecting she should no more have forgotten him than he her. but the case was otherwise; she had no more remembrance of him than if she had never seen him; or, if indeed she remembered aught of him, she feigned the contrary; and of this, in a very brief space of time, girolamo became aware, to his no small chagrin. nevertheless, he did all he might to bring himself to her mind; but, himseeming he wrought nothing, he resolved to speak with her, face to face, though he should die for it. accordingly, having learned from a neighbour how her house stood, one evening that she and her husband were gone to keep wake with their neighbours, he entered therein by stealth and hiding himself behind certain tent cloths that were spread there, waited till, the twain having returned and gotten them to bed, he knew her husband to be asleep; whereupon he came whereas he had seen salvestra lay herself and putting his hand upon her breast, said softly, 'sleepest thou yet, o my soul?' the girl, who was awake, would have cried out; but he said hastily, 'for god's sake, cry not, for i am thy girolamo.' she, hearing this, said, all trembling, 'alack, for god's sake, girolamo, get thee gone; the time is past when it was not forbidden unto our childishness to be lovers. i am, as thou seest, married and it beseemeth me no more to have regard to any man other than my husband; wherefore i beseech thee, by god the only, to begone, for that, if my husband heard thee, even should no other harm ensue thereof, yet would it follow that i might never more avail to live with him in peace or quiet, whereas now i am beloved of him and abide with him in weal and in tranquility.' the youth, hearing these words, was grievously endoloured and recalled to her the time past and his love no whit grown less for absence, mingling many prayers and many great promises, but obtained nothing; wherefore, desiring to die, he prayed her at last that, in requital of so much love, she would suffer him couch by her side, so he might warm himself somewhat, for that he was grown chilled, awaiting her, promising her that he would neither say aught to her nor touch her and would get him gone, so soon as he should be a little warmed. salvestra, having some little compassion of him, granted him this he asked, upon the conditions aforesaid, and he accordingly lay down beside her, without touching her. then, collecting into one thought the long love he had borne her and her present cruelty and his lost hope, he resolved to live no longer; wherefore, straitening in himself his vital spirits,[ ] he clenched his hands and died by her side, without word or motion. [footnote : _ristretti in sè gli spiriti._ an obscure passage; perhaps "holding his breath" is meant; but in this case we should read "_lo spirito_" instead of "_gli spiriti_."] after a while the young woman, marvelling at his continence and fearing lest her husband should awake, began to say, 'alack, girolamo, why dost thou not get thee gone?' hearing no answer, she concluded that he had fallen asleep and putting out her hand to awaken him, found him cold to the touch as ice, whereat she marvelled sore; then, nudging him more sharply and finding that he stirred not, she felt him again and knew that he was dead; whereat she was beyond measure woebegone and abode a great while, unknowing what she should do. at last she bethought herself to try, in the person of another, what her husband should say was to do [in such a case]; wherefore, awakening him, she told him, as having happened to another, that which had presently betided herself and after asked him what counsel she should take thereof,[ ] if it should happen to herself. the good man replied that himseemed the dead man should be quietly carried to his house and there left, without bearing any ill will thereof to the woman, who, it appeared to him, had nowise done amiss. then said salvestra, 'and so it behoveth us do'; and taking his hand, made him touch the dead youth; whereupon, all confounded, he arose, without entering into farther parley with his wife, and kindled a light; then, clothing the dead body in its own garments, he took it, without any delay, on his shoulders and carried it, his innocence aiding him, to the door of girolamo's house, where he set it down and left it. [footnote : _i.e._ what course she should take in the matter, _consiglio_ used as before (see notes, pp. and ) in this special sense.] when the day came and girolamo was found dead before his own door, great was outcry, especially on the part of his mother, and the physicians having examined him and searched his body everywhere, but finding no wound nor bruise whatsoever on him, it was generally concluded that he had died of grief, as was indeed the case. then was the body carried into a church and the sad mother, repairing thither with many other ladies, kinswomen and neighbours, began to weep without stint and make sore moan over him, according to our usance. what while the lamentation was at it highest, the good man, in whose house he had died, said to salvestra, 'harkye, put some mantlet or other on thy head and get thee to the church whither girolamo hath been carried and mingle with the women and hearken to that which is discoursed of the matter; and i will do the like among the men, so we may hear if aught be said against us.' the thing pleased the girl, who was too late grown pitiful and would fain look upon him, dead, whom, living, she had not willed to pleasure with one poor kiss, and she went thither. a marvellous thing it is to think how uneath to search out are the ways of love! that heart, which girolamo's fair fortune had not availed to open, his illhap opened and the old flames reviving all therein, whenas she saw the dead face it[ ] melted of a sudden into such compassion that she pressed between the women, veiled as she was in the mantlet, and stayed not till she won to the body, and there, giving a terrible great shriek, she cast herself, face downward, on the dead youth, whom she bathed not with many tears, for that no sooner did she touch him than grief bereaved her of life, even as it had bereft him. [footnote : _i.e._ her heart.] the women would have comforted her and bidden her arise, not yet knowing her; but after they had bespoken her awhile in vain, they sought to lift her and finding her motionless, raised her up and knew her at once for salvestra and for dead; whereupon all who were there, overcome with double pity, set up a yet greater clamour of lamentation. the news soon spread abroad among the men without the church and came presently to the ears of her husband, who was amongst them and who, without lending ear to consolation or comfort from any, wept a great while; after which he recounted to many of those who were there the story of that which had befallen that night between the dead youth and his wife; and so was the cause of each one's death made everywhere manifest, the which was grievous unto all. then, taking up the dead girl and decking her, as they use to deck the dead, they laid her beside girolamo on the same bier and there long bewept her; after which the twain were buried in one same tomb, and so these, whom love had not availed to conjoin on life, death conjoined with an inseparable union." the ninth story [day the fourth] sir guillaume de roussillon giveth his wife to eat the heart of sir guillaume de guardestaing by him slain and loved of her, which she after coming to know, casteth herself from a high casement to the ground and dying, is buried with her lover neifile having made an end of her story, which had awakened no little compassion in all the ladies her companions, the king, who purposed not to infringe dioneo his privilege, there being none else to tell but they twain, began, "gentle ladies, since you have such compassion upon ill-fortuned loves, it hath occurred to me to tell you a story whereof it will behove you have no less pity than of the last, for that those to whom that which i shall tell happened were persons of more account than those of whom it hath been spoken and yet more cruel was the mishap that befell them. you must know, then, that according to that which the provençals relate, there were aforetime in provence two noble knights, each of whom had castles and vassals under him, called the one sir guillaume de roussillon and the other sir guillaume de guardestaing, and for that they were both men of great prowess in arms, they loved each other with an exceeding love and were wont to go still together and clad in the same colours to every tournament or jousting or other act of arms. although they abode each in his own castle and were distant, one from other, a good half score miles, yet it came to pass that, sir guillaume de roussillon having a very fair and lovesome lady to wife, sir guillaume de guardestaing, notwithstanding the friendship and fellowship that was between them, become beyond measure enamoured of her and so wrought, now with one means and now with another, that the lady became aware of his passion and knowing him for a very valiant knight, it pleased her and she began to return his love, insomuch that she desired and tendered nothing more than him nor awaited otherwhat than to be solicited of him; the which was not long in coming to pass and they foregathered once and again. loving each other amain and conversing together less discreetly than behoved, it befell that the husband became aware of their familiarity and was mightily incensed thereat, insomuch that the great love he bore to guardestaing was turned into mortal hatred; but this he knew better to keep hidden than the two lovers had known to conceal their love and was fully resolved in himself to kill him. roussillon being in this mind, it befell that a great tourneying was proclaimed in france, the which he forthright signified to guardestaing and sent to bid him come to him, an it pleased him, so they might take counsel together if and how they should go thither; whereto the other very joyously answered that he would without fail come to sup with him on the ensuing day. roussillon, hearing this, thought the time come whenas he might avail to kill him and accordingly on the morrow he armed himself and mounting to horse with a servant of his, lay at ambush, maybe a mile from his castle, in a wood whereas guardestaing must pass. there after he had awaited him a good while, he saw him come, unarmed and followed by two servants in like case, as one who apprehends nothing from him; and when he saw him come whereas he would have him, he rushed out upon him, lance in hand, full of rage and malice, crying, 'traitor, thou art dead!' and to say thus and to plunge the lance into his breast were one and the same thing. guardestaing, without being able to make any defence or even to say a word, fell from his horse, transfixed of the lance, and a little after died, whilst his servants, without waiting to learn who had done this, turned their horses' heads and fled as quickliest they might, towards their lord's castle. roussillon dismounted and opening the dead man's breast with a knife, with his own hands tore out his heart, which he let wrap in the pennon of a lance and gave to one of his men to carry. then, commanding that none should dare make words of the matter, he remounted, it being now night, and returned to his castle. the lady, who had heard that guardestaing was to be there that evening to supper and looked for him with the utmost impatience, seeing him not come, marvelled sore and said to her husband, 'how is it, sir, that guardestaing is not come?' 'wife,' answered he, 'i have had [word] from him that he cannot be here till to-morrow'; whereat the lady abode somewhat troubled. roussillon then dismounted and calling the cook, said to him, 'take this wild boar's heart and look thou make a dainty dish thereof, the best and most delectable to eat that thou knowest, and when i am at table, send it to me in a silver porringer.' the cook accordingly took the heart and putting all his art thereto and all his diligence, minced it and seasoning it with store of rich spices, made of it a very dainty ragout. when it was time, sir guillaume sat down to table with his wife and the viands came; but he ate little, being hindered in thought for the ill deed he had committed. presently the cook sent him the ragout, which he caused set before the lady, feigning himself disordered[ ] that evening and commending the dish to her amain. the lady, who was nowise squeamish, tasted thereof and finding it good, ate it all; which when the knight saw, he said to her, 'wife, how deem you of this dish?' 'in good sooth, my lord,' answered she, 'it liketh me exceedingly.' whereupon, 'so god be mine aid,' quoth roussillon; 'i do indeed believe it you, nor do i marvel if that please you, dead, which, alive, pleased you more than aught else.' the lady, hearing this, hesitated awhile, then said, 'how? what have you made me eat?' 'this that you have eaten,' answered the knight, 'was in very truth the heart of sir guillaume de guardestaing, whom you, disloyal wife as you are, so loved; and know for certain that it is his very heart, for that i tore it from his breast with these hands a little before my return.' [footnote : or surfeited (_svogliato_).] it needeth not to ask if the lady were woebegone, hearing this of him whom she loved more than aught else; and after awhile she said, 'you have done the deed of a disloyal and base knight, as you are; for, if i, unenforced of him, made him lord of my love and therein offended against you, not he, but i should have borne the penalty thereof. but god forfend that ever other victual should follow upon such noble meat the heart of so valiant and so courteous a gentleman as was sir guillaume de guardestaing!' then, rising to her feet, without any manner of hesitation, she let herself fall backward through a window which was behind her and which was exceeding high above the ground; wherefore, as she fell, she was not only killed, but well nigh broken in pieces. sir guillaume, seeing this, was sore dismayed and himseemed he had done ill; wherefore, being adread of the country people and of the count of provence, he let saddle his horses and made off. on the morrow it was known all over the country how the thing had passed; whereupon the two bodies were, with the utmost grief and lamentation, taken up by guardestaing's people and those of the lady and laid in one same sepulchre in the chapel of the latter's own castle; and thereover were verses written, signifying who these were that were buried therewithin and the manner and occasion of their death."[ ] [footnote : this is the well-known story of the troubadour guillem de cabestanh or cabestaing, whose name boccaccio alters to guardastagno or guardestaing.] the tenth story [day the fourth] a physician's wife putteth her lover for dead in a chest, which two usurers carry off to their own house, gallant and all. the latter, who is but drugged, cometh presently to himself and being discovered, is taken for a thief; but the lady's maid avoucheth to the seignory that she herself had put him into the chest stolen by the two usurers, whereby he escapeth the gallows and the thieves are amerced in certain monies filostrato having made an end of his telling, it rested only with dioneo to accomplish his task, who, knowing this and it being presently commanded him of the king, began as follows: 'the sorrows that have been this day related of ill fortuned loves have saddened not only your eyes and hearts, ladies, but mine also; wherefore i have ardently longed for an end to be made thereof. now that, praised be god, they are finished (except i should choose to make an ill addition to such sorry ware, from which god keep me!), i will, without farther ensuing so dolorous a theme, begin with something blither and better, thereby perchance affording a good argument for that which is to be related on the ensuing day. you must know, then, fairest lasses, that there was in salerno, no great while since, a very famous doctor in surgery, by name master mazzeo della montagna, who, being already come to extreme old age, took to wife a fair and gentle damsel of his city and kept better furnished with sumptuous and rich apparel and jewels and all that can pleasure a lady than any woman of the place. true it is she went a-cold most of her time, being kept of her husband ill covered abed; for, like as messer ricardo di chinzica (of whom we already told) taught his wife to observe saints' days and holidays, even so the doctor pretended to her that once lying with a woman necessitated i know not how many days' study to recruit the strength and the like toys; whereof she abode exceeding ill content and like a discreet and high-spirited woman as she was, bethought herself, so she might the better husband the household good, to betake herself to the highway and seek to spend others' gear. to this end, considering divers young men, at last she found one to her mind and on him she set all her hope; whereof he becoming aware and she pleasing him mightily, he in like manner turned all his love upon her. the spark in question was called ruggieri da jeroli, a man of noble birth, but of lewd life and blameworthy carriage, insomuch that he had left himself neither friend nor kinsman who wished him well or cared to see him and was defamed throughout all salerno for thefts and other knaveries of the vilest; but of this the lady recked little, he pleasing her for otherwhat, and with the aid of a maid of hers, she wrought on such wise that they came together. after they had taken some delight, the lady proceeded to blame his past way of life and to pray him, for the love of her, to desist from these ill fashions; and to give him the means of doing this, she fell to succouring him, now with one sum of money and now with another. on this wise they abode together, using the utmost discretion, till it befell that a sick man was put into the doctor's hands, who had a gangrened leg, and master mazzeo, having examined the case, told the patient's kinsfolk that, except a decayed bone he had in his leg were taken out, needs must he have the whole limb cut off or die, and that, by taking out the bone, he might recover, but that he would not undertake him otherwise than for a dead man; to which those to whom the sick man pertained agreed and gave the latter into his hands for such. the doctor, judging that the patient might not brook the pain nor would suffer himself to be operated, without an opiate, and having appointed to set about the matter at evensong, let that morning distil a certain water of his composition, which being drunken by the sick man, should make him sleep so long as he deemed necessary for the performing of the operation upon him, and fetching it home, set it in his chamber, without telling any what it was. the hour of vespers come and the doctor being about to go to the patient in question, there came to him a messenger from certain very great friends of his at malfi, charging him fail not for anything to repair thither incontinent, for that there had been a great fray there, in which many had been wounded. master mazzeo accordingly put off the tending of the leg until the ensuing morning and going aboard a boat, went off to malfi, whereupon his wife, knowing that he would not return home that night, let fetch ruggieri, as of her wont, and bringing him into her chamber, locked him therewithin, against certain other persons of the house should be gone to sleep. ruggieri, then, abiding in the chamber, awaiting his mistress, and being,--whether for fatigue endured that day or salt meat that he had eaten or maybe for usance,--sore, athirst, caught sight of the flagon of water, which the doctor had prepared for the sick man and which stood in the window, and deeming it drinking water, set it to his mouth and drank it all off; nor was it long ere a great drowsiness took him and he fell asleep. the lady came to the chamber as first she might and finding ruggieri asleep, nudged him and bade him in a low voice arise, but to no effect, for he replied not neither stirred anywhit; whereat she was somewhat vexed and nudged him more sharply, saying, 'get up, slugabed! an thou hadst a mind to sleep, thou shouldst have betaken thee to thine own house and not come hither.' ruggieri, being thus pushed, fell to the ground from a chest whereon he lay and gave no more sign of life than a dead body; whereupon the lady, now somewhat alarmed, began to seek to raise him up and to shake him more roughly, tweaking him by the nose and plucking him by the beard, but all in vain; he had tied his ass to a fast picket.[ ] at this she began to fear lest he were dead; nevertheless she proceeded to pinch him sharply and burn his flesh with a lighted taper, but all to no purpose; wherefore, being no doctress, for all her husband was a physician, she doubted not but he was dead in very deed. loving him over all else as she did, it needeth no asking if she were woebegone for this and daring not make any outcry, she silently fell a-weeping over him and bewailing so sore a mishap. [footnote : a proverbial way of saying that he was fast asleep.] after awhile, fearing to add shame to her loss, she bethought herself that it behoved her without delay find a means of carrying the dead man forth of the house and knowing not how to contrive this, she softly called her maid and discovering to her her misadventure sought counsel of her. the maid marvelled exceedingly and herself pulled and pinched ruggieri, but, finding him without sense or motion, agreed with her mistress that he was certainly dead and counselled her put him forth of the house. quoth the lady, 'and where can we put him, so it may not be suspected, whenas he shall be seen to-morrow morning, that he hath been brought out hence?' 'madam,' answered the maid, 'i saw, this evening at nightfall, over against the shop of our neighbour yonder the carpenter, a chest not overbig, the which, an the owner have not taken it in again, will come very apt for our affair; for that we can lay him therein, after giving him two or three slashes with a knife, and leave him be. i know no reason why whoso findeth him should suppose him to have been put there from this house rather than otherwhence; nay, it will liefer be believed, seeing he was a young man of lewd life, that he hath been slain by some enemy of his, whilst going about to do some mischief or other, and after clapped in the chest.' the maid's counsel pleased the lady, save that she would not hear of giving him any wound, saying that for naught in the world would her heart suffer her to do that. accordingly she sent her to see if the chest were yet whereas she had noted it and she presently returned and said, 'ay.' then, being young and lusty, with the aid of her mistress, she took ruggieri on her shoulders and carrying him out,--whilst the lady forewent her, to look if any came,--clapped him into the chest and shutting down the lid, left him there. now it chanced that, a day or two before, two young men, who lent at usance, had taken up their abode in a house a little farther and lacking household gear, but having a mind to gain much and spend little, had that day espied the chest in question and had plotted together, if it should abide there the night, to carry it off to their own house. accordingly, midnight come, they sallied forth and finding the chest still there, without looking farther, they hastily carried it off, for all it seemed to them somewhat heavy, to their own house, where they set it down beside a chamber in which their wives slept and there leaving it, without concerning themselves for the nonce to settle it overnicely, betook them to bed. presently, the morning drawing near, ruggieri, who had slept a great while, having by this time digested the sleeping draught and exhausted its effects, awoke and albeit his sleep was broken and his senses in some measure restored, there abode yet a dizziness in his brain, which held him stupefied, not that night only, but some days after. opening his eyes and seeing nothing, he put out his hands hither and thither and finding himself in the chest, bethought himself and said, 'what is this? where am i? am i asleep or awake? algates i mind me that i came this evening into my mistress's chamber and now meseemeth i am in a chest. what meaneth this? can the physician have returned or other accident befallen, by reason whereof the lady hath hidden me here, i being asleep? methinketh it must have been thus; assuredly it was so.' accordingly, he addressed himself to abide quiet and hearken if he could hear aught and after he had abidden thus a great while, being somewhat ill at ease in the chest, which was small, and the side whereon he lay irking him, he would have turned over to the other and wrought so dexterously that, thrusting his loins against one of the sides of the chest, which had not been set on a level place, he caused it first to incline to one side and after topple over. in falling, it made a great noise, whereat the women who slept therenigh awoke and being affrighted, were silent for fear. ruggieri was sore alarmed at the fall of the chest, but, finding that it had opened in the fall, chose rather, if aught else should betide, to be out of it than to abide therewithin. accordingly, he came forth and what with knowing not where he was and what with one thing and another, he fell to groping about the house, so haply he should find a stair or a door, whereby he might get him gone. the women, hearing this, began to say, 'who is there?' but ruggieri, knowing not the voice, answered not; whereupon they proceeded to call the two young men, who, for that they had overwatched themselves, slept fast and heard nothing of all this. thereupon the women, waxing more fearful, arose and betaking themselves to the windows, fell a-crying, 'thieves! thieves!' at this sundry of the neighbours ran up and made their way, some by the roof and some by one part and some by another, into the house; and the young men also, awaking for the noise, arose and seized ruggieri, who finding himself there, was in a manner beside himself for wonderment and saw no way of escape. then they gave him into the hands of the officers of the governor of the city, who had now run thither at the noise and carried him before their chief. the latter, for that he was held of all a very sorry fellow, straightway put him to the question and he confessed to having entered the usurers' house to steal; whereupon the governor thought to let string him up by the neck without delay. the news was all over salerno by the morning that ruggieri had been taken in the act of robbing the money-lenders' house, which the lady and her maid hearing, they were filled with such strange and exceeding wonderment that they were like to persuade themselves that they had not done, but had only dreamed of doing, that which they had done overnight; whilst the lady, to boot, was so concerned at the news of the danger wherein ruggieri was that she was like to go mad. soon after half tierce[ ] the physician, having returned from malfi and wishing to medicine his patient, called for his prepared water and finding the flagon empty, made a great outcry, saying that nothing could abide as it was in his house. the lady, who was troubled with another great chagrin, answered angrily, saying 'what wouldst thou say, doctor, of grave matter, whenas thou makest such an outcry anent a flagonlet of water overset? is there no more water to be found in the world?' 'wife,' rejoined the physician, 'thou thinkest this was common water; it was not so; nay, it was a water prepared to cause sleep'; and told her for what occasion he had made it. when she heard this, she understood forthright that ruggieri had drunken the opiate and had therefore appeared to them dead and said to her husband, 'doctor, we knew it not; wherefore do you make yourself some more'; and the physician, accordingly, seeing he might not do otherwise, let make thereof anew. [footnote : _i.e._ about half-past seven a.m.] a little after, the maid, who had gone by her mistress's commandment to learn what should be reported of ruggieri, returned and said to her, 'madam, every one missaith of ruggieri; nor, for aught i could hear, is there friend or kinsman who hath risen up or thinketh to rise up to assist him, and it is held certain that the prefect of police will have him hanged to-morrow. moreover, i have a strange thing to tell you, to wit, meseemeth i have discovered how he came into the money-lenders' house, and hear how. you know the carpenter overagainst whose shop was the chest wherein we laid him; he was but now at the hottest words in the world with one to whom it seemeth the chest belonged; for the latter demanded of him the price of his chest, and the carpenter replied that he had not sold it, but that it had that night been stolen from him. whereto, "not so," quoth the other, "nay, thou soldest it to the two young men, the money-lenders yonder, as they told me yesternight, when i saw it in their house what time ruggieri was taken." "they lie," answered the carpenter. "i never sold it to them; but they stole it from me yesternight. let us go to them." so they went off with one accord to the money-lenders' house, and i came back hither. on this wise, as you may see, i conclude that ruggieri was transported whereas he was found; but how he came to life again i cannot divine.' the lady now understood very well how the case stood and telling the maid what she had heard from the physician, besought her help to save ruggieri, for that she might, an she would, at once save him and preserve her honour. quoth she, 'madam, teach me how, and i will gladly do anything.' whereupon the lady, whose wits were sharpened by the urgency of the case, having promptly bethought herself of that which was to do, particularly acquainted the maid therewith, who first betook herself to the physician and weeping, began to say to him, 'sir, it behoveth me ask you pardon of a great fault, which i have committed against you.' 'in what?' asked the doctor, and she, never giving over weeping, answered, 'sir, you know what manner young man is ruggieri da jeroli. he took a liking to me awhile agone and partly for fear and partly for love, needs must i become his mistress. yesternight, knowing that you were abroad, he cajoled me on such wise that i brought him into your house to lie with me in my chamber, and he being athirst and i having no whither more quickly to resort for water or wine, unwilling as i was that your lady, who was in the saloon, should see me, i remembered me to have seen a flagon of water in your chamber. accordingly, i ran for it and giving him the water to drink, replaced the flagon whence i had taken it, whereof i find you have made a great outcry in the house. and certes i confess i did ill; but who is there doth not ill bytimes? indeed, i am exceeding grieved to have done it, not so much for the thing itself as for that which hath ensued of it and by reason whereof ruggieri is like to lose his life. wherefore i pray you, as most i may, pardon me and give me leave to go succour ruggieri inasmuch as i can.' the physician, hearing this, for all he was angry, answered jestingly, 'thou hast given thyself thine own penance therefor, seeing that, whereas thou thoughtest yesternight to have a lusty young fellow who would shake thy skincoats well for thee, thou hadst a sluggard; wherefore go and endeavour for the deliverance of thy lover; but henceforth look thou bring him not into the house again, or i will pay thee for this time and that together.' the maid, thinking she had fared well for the first venue, betook herself, as quickliest she might, to the prison, where ruggieri lay and coaxed the gaoler to let her speak with the prisoner, whom after she had instructed what answers he should make to the prefect of police, an he would fain escape, she contrived to gain admission to the magistrate himself. the latter, for that she was young and buxom, would fain, ere he would hearken to her, cast his grapnel aboard the good wench, whereof she, to be the better heard, was no whit chary; then, having quitted herself of the grinding due,[ ] 'sir,' said she, 'you have here ruggieri da jeroli taken for a thief; but the truth is not so.' then, beginning from the beginning, she told him the whole story; how she, being his mistress, had brought him into the physician's house and had given him the drugged water to drink, unknowing what it was, and how she had put him for dead into the chest; after which she told him the talk she had heard between the master carpenter and the owner of the chest, showing him thereby how ruggieri had come into the money-lenders' house. [footnote : or "having risen from the grinding" (_levatasi dal macinio_).] the magistrate, seeing it an easy thing to come at the truth of the matter, first questioned the physician if it were true of the water and found that it was as she had said; whereupon he let summon the carpenter and him to whom the chest belonged and the two money-lenders and after much parley, found that the latter had stolen the chest overnight and put it in their house. ultimately he sent for ruggieri and questioned him where he had lain that night, whereto he replied that where he had lain he knew not; he remembered indeed having gone to pass the night with master mazzeo's maid, in whose chamber he had drunken water for a sore thirst he had; but what became of him after he knew not, save that, when he awoke, he found himself in the money-lenders' house in a chest. the prefect, hearing these things and taking great pleasure therein, caused the maid and ruggieri and the carpenter and the money-lenders repeat their story again and again; and in the end, seeing ruggieri to be innocent, he released him and amerced the money-lenders in half a score ounces for that they had stolen the chest. how welcome this was to ruggieri, none need ask, and it was beyond measure pleasing to his mistress, who together with her lover and the precious maid, who had proposed to give him the slashes with the knife, many a time after laughed and made merry of the matter, still continuing their loves and their disport from good to better; the which i would well might so betide myself, save always the being put in the chest." * * * * * if the former stories had saddened the hearts of the lovesome ladies, this last one of dioneo's made them laugh heartily, especially when he spoke of the prefect casting his grapnel aboard the maid, that they were able thus to recover themselves of the melancholy caused by the others. but the king, seeing that the sun began to grow yellow and that the term of his seignory was come, with very courteous speech excused himself to the fair ladies for that which he had done, to wit, that he had caused discourse of so sorrowful a matter as that of lovers' infelicity; which done, he rose to his feet and taking from his head the laurel wreath, whilst the ladies waited to see on whom he should bestow it, set it daintily on fiammetta's fair head, saying, "i make over this crown to thee, as to her who will, better than any other, know how with to-morrow's pleasance to console these ladies our companions of to-day's woefulness." fiammetta, whose locks were curled and long and golden and fell over her white and delicate shoulders and whose soft-rounded face was all resplendent with white lilies and vermeil roses commingled, with two eyes in her head as they were those of a peregrine falcon and a dainty little mouth, the lips whereof seemed twin rubies, answered, smiling, "and i, filostrato, i take it willingly, and that thou mayst be the better cognizant of that which thou hast done, i presently will and command that each prepare to discourse to-morrow of that which hath happily betided lovers after sundry cruel and misfortunate adventures." her proposition[ ] was pleasing unto all and she, after summoning the seneschal and taking counsel with him of things needful, arising from session, blithely dismissed all the company until supper-time. accordingly, they all proceeded, according to their various appetites, to take their several pleasures, some wandering about the garden, whose beauties were not such as might lightly tire, and other some betaking themselves towards the mills which wrought therewithout, whilst the rest fared some hither and some thither, until the hour of supper, which being come, they all foregathered, as of their wont, anigh the fair fountain and there supped with exceeding pleasance and well served. presently, arising thence, they addressed themselves, as of their wont, to dancing and singing, and filomena leading off the dance, the queen said, "filostrato, i purpose not to depart from the usance of those who have foregone me in the sovranty, but, like as they have done, so i intend that a song be sung at my commandment; and as i am assured that thy songs are even such as are thy stories, it is our pleasure that, so no more days than this be troubled with thine ill fortunes, thou sing such one thereof as most pleaseth thee." filostrato replied that he would well and forthright proceeded to sing on this wise: [footnote : _i.e._ the theme proposed by her.] weeping, i demonstrate how sore with reason doth my heart complain of love betrayed and plighted faith in vain. love, whenas first there was of thee imprest thereon[ ] her image for whose sake i sigh, sans hope of succour aye, so full of virtue didst thou her pourtray, that every torment light accounted i that through thee to my breast grown full of drear unrest and dole, might come; but now, alack! i'm fain to own my error, not withouten pain. yea, of the cheat first was i made aware, seeing myself of her forsaken sheer, in whom i hoped alone; for, when i deemed myself most fairly grown into her favour and her servant dear, without her thought or care of my to-come despair, i found she had another's merit ta'en to heart and put me from her with disdain. whenas i knew me banished from my stead, straight in my heart a dolorous plaint there grew, that yet therein hath power, and oft i curse the day and eke the hour when first her lovesome visage met my view, graced with high goodlihead; and more enamouréd than eye, my soul keeps up its dying strain, faith, ardour, hope, blaspheming still amain. how void my misery is of all relief thou mayst e'en feel, so sore i call thee, sire, with voice all full of woe; ay, and i tell thee that it irks me so that death for lesser torment i desire. come, death, then; shear the sheaf of this my life of grief and with thy stroke my madness eke assain; go where i may, less dire will be my bane. no other way than death is left my spright, ay, and none other solace for my dole; then give it[ ] me straightway, love; put an end withal to my dismay: ah, do it; since fate's spite hath robbed me of delight; gladden thou her, lord, with my death, love-slain, as thou hast cheered her with another swain. my song, though none to learn thee lend an ear, i reck the less thereof, indeed, that none could sing thee even as i; one only charge i give thee, ere i die, that thou find love and unto him alone show fully how undear this bitter life and drear is to me, craving of his might he deign some better harbourage i may attain. weeping i demonstrate how sore with reason doth my heart complain of love betrayed and plighted faith in vain. [footnote : _i.e._ on my heart.] [footnote : _i.e._ death.] the words of this song clearly enough discovered the state of filostrato's mind and the cause thereof, the which belike the countenance of a certain lady who was in the dance had yet plainlier declared, had not the shades of the now fallen night hidden the blushes that rose to her face. but, when he had made an end of his song, many others were sung, till such time as the hour of sleep arrived, whereupon, at the queen's commandment, each of the ladies withdrew to her chamber. here endeth the fourth day of the decameron _day the fifth_ here beginneth the fifth day of the decameron wherein under the governance of fiammetta is discoursed of that which hath happily betided lovers after sundry cruel and misfortunate adventures the east was already all white and the rays of the rising sun had made it light through all our hemisphere, when fiammetta, allured by the sweet song of the birds that blithely chanted the first hour of the day upon the branches, arose and let call all the other ladies and the three young men; then, with leisured pace descending into the fields, she went a-pleasuring with her company about the ample plain upon the dewy grasses, discoursing with them of one thing and another, until the sun was somewhat risen, when, feeling that its rays began to grow hot, she turned their steps to their abiding-place. there, with excellent wines and confections, she let restore the light fatigue had and they disported themselves in the delightsome garden until the eating hour, which being come and everything made ready by the discreet seneschal, they sat blithely down to meat, such being the queen's pleasure, after they had sung sundry roundelays and a ballad or two. having dined orderly and with mirth, not unmindful of their wonted usance of dancing, they danced sundry short dances to the sound of songs and tabrets, after which the queen dismissed them all until the hour of slumber should be past. accordingly, some betook themselves to sleep, whilst others addressed themselves anew to their diversion about the fair garden; but all, according to the wonted fashion, assembled together again, a little after none, near the fair fountain, whereas it pleased the queen. then she, having seated herself in the chief room, looked towards pamfilo and smilingly charged him make a beginning with the fair-fortuned stories; whereto he willingly addressed himself and spoke as follows: the first story [day the fifth] cimon, loving, waxeth wise and carrieth off to sea iphigenia his mistress. being cast into prison at rhodes, he is delivered thence by lysimachus and in concert with him carrieth off iphigenia and cassandra on their wedding-day, with whom the twain flee into crete, where the two ladies become their wives and whence they are presently all four recalled home "many stories, delightsome ladies, apt to give beginning to so glad a day as this will be, offer themselves unto me to be related; whereof one is the most pleasing to my mind, for that thereby, beside the happy issue which is to mark this day's discourses, you may understand how holy, how puissant and how full of all good is the power of love, which many, unknowing what they say, condemn and vilify with great unright; and this, an i err not, must needs be exceeding pleasing to you, for that i believe you all to be in love. there was, then, in the island of cyprus, (as we have read aforetime in the ancient histories of the cypriots,) a very noble gentleman, by name aristippus, who was rich beyond any other of the country in all temporal things and might have held himself the happiest man alive, had not fortune made him woeful in one only thing, to wit, that amongst his other children he had a son who overpassed all the other youths of his age in stature and goodliness of body, but was a hopeless dullard and well nigh an idiot. his true name was galesus, but for that neither by toil of teacher nor blandishment nor beating of his father nor study nor endeavour of whatsoever other had it been found possible to put into his head any inkling of letters or good breeding and that he had a rough voice and an uncouth and manners more befitting a beast than a man, he was of well nigh all by way of mockery called cimon, which in their tongue signified as much as brute beast in ours. his father brooked his wastrel life with the most grievous concern and having presently given over all hope of him, he bade him begone to his country house[ ] and there abide with his husbandmen, so he might not still have before him the cause of his chagrin; the which was very agreeable to cimon, for that the manners and usages of clowns and churls were much more to his liking than those of the townsfolk. [footnote : or farm (_villa_).] cimon, then, betaking himself to the country and there employing himself in the things that pertained thereto, it chanced one day, awhile after noon, as he passed from one farm to another, with his staff on his shoulder, that he entered a very fair coppice which was in those parts and which was then all in leaf, for that it was the month of may. passing therethrough, he happened (even as his fortune guided him thither) upon a little mead compassed about with very high trees, in one corner whereof was a very clear and cool spring, beside which he saw a very fair damsel asleep upon the green grass, with so thin a garment upon her body that it hid well nigh nothing of her snowy flesh. she was covered only from the waist down with a very white and light coverlet; and at her feet slept on like wise two women and a man, her servants. when cimon espied the young lady, he halted and leaning upon his staff, fell, without saying a word, to gazing most intently upon her with the utmost admiration, no otherwise than as he had never yet seen a woman's form, whilst in his rude breast, wherein for a thousand lessonings no least impression of civil pleasance had availed to penetrate, he felt a thought awaken which intimated to his gross and material spirit that this maiden was the fairest thing that had been ever seen of any living soul. thence he proceeded to consider her various parts,--commending her hair, which he accounted of gold, her brow, her nose, her mouth, her throat and her arms, and above all her breast, as yet but little upraised,--and grown of a sudden from a churl a judge of beauty, he ardently desired in himself to see the eyes, which, weighed down with deep sleep, she kept closed. to this end, he had it several times in mind to awaken her; but, for that she seemed to him beyond measure fairer than the other women aforetime seen of him, he misdoubted him she must be some goddess. now he had wit enough to account things divine worthy of more reverence than those mundane; wherefore he forbore, waiting for her to awake of herself; and albeit the delay seemed overlong to him, yet, taken as he was with an unwonted pleasure, he knew not how to tear himself away. it befell, then, that, after a long while, the damsel, whose name was iphigenia, came to herself, before any of her people, and opening her eyes, saw cimon (who, what for his fashion and uncouthness and his father's wealth and nobility, was known in a manner to every one in the country) standing before her, leant on his staff, marvelled exceedingly and said, 'cimon, what goest thou seeking in this wood at this hour?' he made her no answer, but, seeing her eyes open, began to look steadfastly upon them, himseeming there proceeded thence a sweetness which fulfilled him with a pleasure such as he had never before felt. the young lady, seeing this, began to misdoubt her lest his so fixed looking upon her should move his rusticity to somewhat that might turn to her shame; wherefore, calling her women, she rose up, saying, 'cimon, abide with god.' to which he replied, 'i will begone with thee'; and albeit the young lady, who was still in fear of him, would have declined his company, she could not win to rid herself of him till he had accompanied her to her own house. thence he repaired to his father's house [in the city,] and declared to him that he would on no wise consent to return to the country; the which was irksome enough to aristippus and his kinsfolk; nevertheless they let him be, awaiting to see what might be the cause of his change of mind. love's arrow having, then, through iphigenia's beauty, penetrated into cimon's heart, whereinto no teaching had ever availed to win an entrance, in a very brief time, proceeding from one idea to another, he made his father marvel and all his kinsfolk and every other that knew him. in the first place he besought his father that he would cause him go bedecked with clothes and every other thing, even as his brothers, the which aristippus right gladly did. then, consorting with young men of condition and learning the fashions and carriage that behoved unto gentlemen and especially unto lovers, he first, to the utmost wonderment of every one, in a very brief space of time, not only learned the first [elements of] letters, but became very eminent among the students of philosophy, and after (the love which he bore iphigenia being the cause of all this) he not only reduced his rude and rustical manner of speech to seemliness and civility, but became a past master of song and sound[ ] and exceeding expert and doughty in riding and martial exercises, both by land and by sea. in short, not to go recounting every particular of his merits, the fourth year was not accomplished from the day of his first falling in love, ere he was grown the sprightliest and most accomplished gentleman of all the young men in the island of cyprus, ay, and the best endowed with every particular excellence. what, then, charming ladies, shall we say of cimon? certes, none other thing than that the lofty virtues implanted by heaven in his generous soul had been bounden with exceeding strong bonds of jealous fortune and shut in some straitest corner of his heart, all which bonds love, as a mightier than fortune, broke and burst in sunder and in its quality of awakener and quickener of drowsed and sluggish wits, urged forth into broad daylight the virtues aforesaid, which had till then been overdarkened with a barbarous obscurity, thus manifestly discovering from how mean a room it can avail to uplift those souls that are subject unto it and to what an eminence it can conduct them with its beams. [footnote : _i.e._ of music, vocal and instrumental.] although cimon, loving iphigenia as he did, might exceed in certain things, as young men in love very often do, nevertheless aristippus, considering that love had turned him from a dunce into a man, not only patiently bore with the extravagances into which it might whiles lead him, but encouraged him to ensue its every pleasure. but cimon, (who refused to be called galesus, remembering that iphigenia had called him by the former name,) seeking to put an honourable term to his desire, once and again caused essay cipseus, iphigenia's father, so he should give him his daughter to wife; but cipseus still answered that he had promised her to pasimondas, a young nobleman of rhodes, to whom he had no mind to fail of his word. the time coming the covenanted nuptials of iphigenia and the bridegroom having sent for her, cimon said to himself, 'now, o iphigenia, is the time to prove how much thou are beloved of me. by thee am i become a man and so i may but have thee, i doubt not to become more glorious than any god; and for certain i will or have thee or die.' accordingly, having secretly recruited certain young noblemen who were his friends and let privily equip a ship with everything apt for naval battle, he put out to sea and awaited the vessel wherein iphigenia was to be transported to her husband in rhodes. the bride, after much honour done of her father to the bridegroom's friends, took ship with the latter, who turned their prow towards rhodes and departed. on the following day, cimon, who slept not, came out upon them with his ship and cried out, in a loud voice, from the prow, to those who were on board iphigenia's vessel, saying, 'stay, strike your sails or look to be beaten and sunken in the sea.' cimon's adversaries had gotten up their arms on deck and made ready to defend themselves; whereupon he, after speaking the words aforesaid, took a grappling-iron and casting it upon the poop of the rhodians, who were making off at the top of their speed, made it fast by main force to the prow of his own ship. then, bold as a lion, he leapt on board their ship, without waiting for any to follow him, as if he held them all for nought, and love spurring him, he fell upon his enemies with marvellous might, cutlass in hand, striking now this one and now that and hewing them down like sheep. the rhodians, seeing this, cast down their arms and all as with one voice confessed themselves prisoners; whereupon quoth cimon to them, 'young men, it was neither lust of rapine nor hate that i had against you made me depart cyprus to assail you, arms in hand, in mid sea. that which moved me thereunto was the desire of a thing which to have gotten is a very grave matter to me and to you a very light one to yield me in peace; it is, to wit, iphigenia, whom i loved over all else and whom, availing not to have of her father on friendly and peaceful wise, love hath constrained me to win from you as an enemy and by force of arms. wherefor i mean to be to her that which your friend pasimondas should have been. give her to me, then, and begone and god's grace go with you.' the rhodians, more by force constrained than of freewill, surrendered iphigenia, weeping, to cimon, who, seeing her in tears, said to her, 'noble lady, be not disconsolate; i am thy cimon, who by long love have far better deserved to have thee than pasimondas by plighted faith.' thereupon he caused carry her aboard his own ship and returning to his companions, let the rhodians go, without touching aught else of theirs. then, glad beyond any man alive to have gotten so dear a prey, after devoting some time to comforting the weeping lady, he took counsel with his comrades not to return to cyprus at that present; wherefore, of one accord, they turned the ship's head towards crete, where well nigh every one, and especially cimon, had kinsfolk, old and new, and friends in plenty and where they doubted not to be in safety with iphigenia. but fortune the unstable, which had cheerfully enough vouchsafed unto cimon the acquisition of the lady, suddenly changed the inexpressible joyance of the enamoured youth into sad and bitter mourning; for it was not four full told hours since he had left the rhodians when the night (which cimon looked to be more delightsome than any he had ever known) came on and with it a very troublous and tempestuous shift of weather, which filled all the sky with clouds and the sea with ravening winds, by reason whereof none could see what to do or whither to steer, nor could any even keep the deck to do any office. how sore concerned was cimon for this it needeth not to ask; himseemed the gods had vouchsafed him his desire but to make death the more grievous to him, whereof, without that, he had before recked little. his comrades lamented on like wise, but iphigenia bewailed herself over all, weeping sore and fearing every stroke of the waves; and in her chagrin she bitterly cursed cimon's love and blamed his presumption, avouching that the tempest had arisen for none other thing but that the gods chose not that he, who would fain against their will have her to wife, should avail to enjoy his presumptuous desire, but, seeing her first die, should after himself perish miserably. amidst such lamentations and others yet more grievous, the wind waxing hourly fiercer and the seamen knowing not what to do, they came, without witting whither they went or availing to change their course, near to the island of rhodes, and unknowing that it was rhodes, they used their every endeavour to get to land thereon, an it were possible, for the saving of their lives. in this fortune was favourable to them and brought them into a little bight of the sea, where the rhodians whom cimon had let go had a little before arrived with their ship; nor did they perceive that they had struck the island of rhodes till the dawn broke and made the sky somewhat clearer, when they found themselves maybe a bowshot distant from the ship left of them the day before. at this cimon was beyond measure chagrined and fearing lest that should betide them which did in very deed ensue, bade use every endeavour to issue thence and let fortune after carry them whither it should please her, for that they could be nowhere in worse case than there. accordingly, they made the utmost efforts to put to sea, but in vain; for the wind blew so mightily against them that not only could they not avail to issue from the little harbour, but whether they would or no, it drove them ashore. no sooner were they come thither than they were recognized by the rhodian sailors, who had landed from their ship, and one of them ran nimbly to a village hard by, whither the young rhodian gentlemen had betaken themselves, and told the latter that, as luck would have it,[ ] cimon and iphigenia were come thither aboard their ship, driven, like themselves, by stress of weather. they, hearing this, were greatly rejoiced and repairing in all haste to the sea-shore, with a number of the villagers, took cimon, together with iphigenia and all his company, who had now landed and taken counsel together to flee into some neighbouring wood, and carried them to the village. the news coming to pasimondas, he made his complaint to the senate of the island and according as he had ordered it with them, lysimachus, in whom the chief magistracy of the rhodians was for that year vested, coming thither from the city with a great company of men-at-arms, haled cimon and all his men to prison. on such wise did the wretched and lovelorn cimon lose his iphigenia, scantwhile before won of him, without having taken of her more than a kiss or two; whilst she herself was received by many noble ladies of rhodes and comforted as well for the chagrin had of her seizure as for the fatigue suffered by reason of the troubled sea; and with them she abode against the day appointed for her nuptials. [footnote : _per fortuna._ this may also be rendered "by tempest," _fortuna_ being a name for a squall or hurricane, which boccaccio uses elsewhere in the same sense.] as for cimon and his companions, their lives were granted them, in consideration of the liberty given by them to the young rhodians the day before,--albeit pasimondas used his utmost endeavour to procure them to be put to death,--and they were condemned to perpetual prison, wherein, as may well be believed, they abode woebegone and without hope of any relief. however, whilst pasimondas, as most he might, hastened the preparations for his coming nuptials, fortune, as if repenting her of the sudden injury done to cimon, brought about a new circumstance for his deliverance, the which was on this wise. pasimondas had a brother called ormisdas, less in years, but not in merit, than himself, who had been long in treaty for the hand of a fair and noble damsel of the city, by name cassandra, whom lysimachus ardently loved, and the match had sundry times been broken off by divers untoward accidents. now pasimondas, being about to celebrate his own nuptials with the utmost splendour, bethought himself that it were excellently well done if he could procure ormisdas likewise to take wife on the same occasion, not to resort afresh to expense and festival making. accordingly, he took up again the parleys with cassandra's parents and brought them to a successful issue; wherefore he and his brother agreed, in concert with them, that ormisdas should take cassandra to wife on the same day whenas himself took iphigenia. lysimachus hearing this, it was beyond measure displeasing to him, for that he saw himself bereaved of the hope which he cherished, that, an ormisdas took her not, he should certainly have her. however, like a wise man, he kept his chagrin hidden and fell to considering on what wise he might avail to hinder this having effect, but could see no way possible save the carrying her off. this seemed easy to him to compass for the office which he held, but he accounted the deed far more dishonourable than if he had not held the office in question. ultimately, however, after long deliberation, honour gave place to love and he determined, come what might of it, to carry off cassandra. then, bethinking himself of the company he must have and the course he must hold to do this, he remembered him of cimon, whom he had in prison with his comrades, and concluded that he might have no better or trustier companion than cimon in this affair. accordingly, that same night he had him privily into his chamber and proceeded to bespeak him on this wise: 'cimon, like as the gods are very excellent and bountiful givers of things to men, even so are they most sagacious provers of their virtues, and those, whom they find resolute and constant under all circumstances, they hold deserving, as the most worthy, of the highest recompenses. they have been minded to have more certain proof of thy worth than could be shown by thee within the limits of thy father's house, whom i know to be abundantly endowed with riches; wherefore, first, with the poignant instigations of love they brought thee from a senseless animal to be a man, and after with foul fortune and at this present with prison dour, they would fain try if thy spirit change not from that which it was, whenas thou wast scantwhile glad of the gotten prize. if that[ ] be the same as it was erst, they never yet vouchsafed thee aught so gladsome as that which they are presently prepared to bestow on thee and which, so thou mayst recover thy wonted powers and resume thy whilom spirit, i purpose to discover to thee. [footnote : _i.e._ thy spirit.] pasimondas, rejoicing in thy misadventure and a diligent promoter of thy death, bestirreth himself as most he may to celebrate his nuptials with thine iphigenia, so therein he may enjoy the prize which fortune first blithely conceded thee and after, growing troubled, took from thee of a sudden. how much this must grieve thee, an thou love as i believe, i know by myself, to whom ormisdas his brother prepareth in one same day to do a like injury in the person of cassandra, whom i love over all else. to escape so great an unright and annoy of fortune, i see no way left open of her to us, save the valour of our souls and the might of our right hands, wherein it behoveth us take our swords and make us a way to the carrying off of our two mistresses, thee for the second and me for the first time. if, then, it be dear to thee to have again--i will not say thy liberty, whereof methinketh thou reckest little without thy lady, but--thy mistress, the gods have put her in thy hands, an thou be willing to second me in my emprize.' all cimon's lost spirit was requickened in him by these words and he replied, without overmuch consideration, 'lysimachus, thou canst have no stouter or trustier comrade than myself in such an enterprise, an that be to ensue thereof for me which thou avouchest; wherefore do thou command me that which thou deemest should be done of me, and thou shalt find thyself wonder-puissantly seconded.' then said lysimachus, 'on the third day from this the new-married wives will for the first time enter their husbands' houses, whereinto thou with thy companions armed and i with certain of my friends, in whom i put great trust, will make our way towards nightfall and snatching up our mistresses out of the midst of the guests, will carry them off to a ship, which i have caused secretly equip, slaying whosoever shall presume to offer opposition.' the devise pleased cimon and he abode quiet in prison until the appointed time. the wedding-day being come, great and magnificent was the pomp of the festival and every part of the two brothers' house was full of mirth and merrymaking; whereupon lysimachus, having made ready everything needful, divided cimon and his companions, together with his own friends, all armed under their clothes, into three parties and having first kindled them to his purpose with many words, secretly despatched one party to the harbour, so none might hinder their going aboard the ship, whenas need should be. then, coming with the other twain, whenas it seemed to him time, to pasimondas his house, he left one party of them at the door, so as none might shut them up therewithin or forbid them the issue, and with cimon and the rest went up by the stairs. coming to the saloon where the new-wedded brides were seated orderly at meat with many other ladies, they rushed in upon them and overthrowing the tables, took each his mistress and putting them in the hands of their comrades, bade straightway carry them to the ship that was in waiting. the brides fell a-weeping and shrieking, as did likewise the other ladies and the servants, and the whole house was of a sudden full of clamour and lamentation. cimon and lysimachus and their companions, drawing their swords, made for the stairs, without any opposition, all giving way to them, and as they descended, pasimondas presented himself before them, with a great cudgel in his hand, being drawn thither by the outcry; but cimon dealt him a swashing blow on the head and cleaving it sheer in sunder, laid him dead at his feet. the wretched ormisdas, running to his brother's aid, was on like wise slain by one of cimon's strokes, and divers others who sought to draw nigh them were in like manner wounded and beaten off by the companions of the latter and lysimachus, who, leaving the house full of blood and clamour and weeping and woe, drew together and made their way to the ship with their prizes, unhindered of any. here they embarked with their mistresses and all their companions, the shore being now full of armed folk come to the rescue of the ladies, and thrusting the oars into the water, made off, rejoicing, about their business. coming presently to crete, they were there joyfully received by many, both friends and kinsfolk, and espousing their mistresses with great pomp, gave themselves up to the glad enjoyment of their purchase. loud and long were the clamours and differences in cyprus and in rhodes by reason of their doings; but, ultimately, their friends and kinsfolk, interposing in one and the other place, found means so to adjust matters that, after some exile, cimon joyfully returned to cyprus with iphigenia, whilst lysimachus on like wise returned to rhodes with cassandra, and each lived long and happily with his mistress in his own country." the second story [day the fifth] costanza loveth martuccio gomito and hearing that he is dead, embarketh for despair alone in a boat, which is carried by the wind to susa. finding her lover alive at tunis, she discovereth herself to him and he, being great in favour with the king for counsels given, espouseth her and returneth rich with her to lipari the queen, seeing pamfilo's story at an end, after she had much commended it, enjoined emilia to follow on, telling another, and she accordingly began thus: "every one must naturally delight in those things wherein he seeth rewards ensue according to the affections;[ ] and for that love in the long run deserveth rather happiness than affliction, i shall, intreating of the present theme, obey the queen with much greater pleasure to myself than i did the king in that of yesterday. [footnote : syn. inclinations (_affezioni_). this is a somewhat obscure passage, owing to the vagueness of the word _affezioni_ (syn. _affetti_) in this position, and may be rendered, with about equal probability, in more than one way.] you must know, then, dainty dames, that near unto sicily is an islet called lipari, wherein, no great while agone, was a very fair damsel called costanza, born of a very considerable family there. it chanced that a young man of the same island, called martuccio gomito, who was very agreeable and well bred and of approved worth[ ] in his craft,[ ] fell in love with her; and she in like manner so burned for him that she was never easy save whenas she saw him. martuccio, wishing to have her to wife, caused demand her of her father, who answered that he was poor and that therefore he would not give her to him. the young man, enraged to see himself rejected for poverty, in concert with certain of his friends and kinsmen, equipped a light ship and swore never to return to lipari, except rich. accordingly, he departed thence and turning corsair, fell to cruising off the coast of barbary and plundering all who were weaker than himself; wherein fortune was favourable enough to him, had he known how to set bounds to his wishes; but, it sufficing him not to have waxed very rich, he and his comrades, in a brief space of time, it befell that, whilst they sought to grow overrich, he was, after a long defence, taken and plundered with all his companions by certain ships of the saracens, who, after scuttling the vessel and sacking the greater part of the crew, carried martuccio to tunis, where he was put in prison and long kept in misery. [footnote : or "eminent" (_valoroso_), _i.e._ in modern parlance, "a man of merit and talent."] [footnote : _valoroso nel suo mestiere._ it does not appear that martuccio was a craftsman and it is possible, therefore, that boccaccio intended the word _mestiere_ to be taken in the sense (to me unknown) of "condition" or "estate," in which case the passage would read, "a man of worth for (_i.e._ as far as comported with) his [mean] estate"; and this seems a probable reading.] the news was brought to lipari, not by one or by two, but by many and divers persons, that he and all on board the bark had been drowned; whereupon the girl, who had been beyond measure woebegone for her lover's departure, hearing that he was dead with the others, wept sore and resolved in herself to live no longer; but, her heart suffering her not to slay herself by violence, she determined to give a new occasion[ ] to her death.[ ] accordingly, she issued secretly forth of her father's house one night and betaking herself to the harbour, happened upon a fishing smack, a little aloof from the other ships, which, for that its owners had but then landed therefrom, she found furnished with mast and sail and oars. in this she hastily embarked and rowed herself out to sea; then, being somewhat skilled in the mariner's art, as the women of that island mostly are, she made sail and casting the oars and rudder adrift, committed herself altogether to the mercy of the waves, conceiving that it must needs happen that the wind would either overturn a boat without lading or steersman or drive it upon some rock and break it up, whereby she could not, even if she would, escape, but must of necessity be drowned. accordingly, wrapping her head in a mantle, she laid herself, weeping, in the bottom of the boat. [footnote : lit. necessity (_necessità_).] [footnote : _i.e._ to use a new (or strange) fashion of exposing herself to an inevitable death (_nuova necessità dare alla sua morte_).] but it befell altogether otherwise than as she conceived, for that, the wind being northerly and very light and there being well nigh no sea, the boat rode it out in safety and brought her on the morrow, about vespers, to a beach near a town called susa, a good hundred miles beyond tunis. the girl, who, for aught that might happen, had never lifted nor meant to lift her head, felt nothing of being ashore more than at sea;[ ] but, as chance would have it, there was on the beach, whenas the bark struck upon it, a poor woman in act to take up from the sun the nets of the fishermen her masters, who, seeing the bark, marvelled how it should be left to strike full sail upon the land. thinking that the fishermen aboard were asleep, she went up to the bark and seeing none therein but the damsel aforesaid, who slept fast, called her many times and having at last aroused her and knowing her by her habit for a christian, asked her in latin how she came there in that bark all alone. the girl, hearing her speak latin, misdoubted her a shift of wind must have driven her back to lipari and starting suddenly to her feet, looked about her, but knew not the country, and seeing herself on land, asked the good woman where she was; to which she answered, 'daughter mine, thou art near unto susa in barbary.' the girl, hearing this, was woeful for that god had not chosen to vouchsafe her the death she sought, and being in fear of shame and knowing not what to do, she seated herself at the foot of her bark and fell a-weeping. [footnote : _i.e._ knew not whether she was ashore or afloat, so absorbed was she in her despair.] the good woman, seeing this, took pity upon her and brought her, by dint of entreaty, into a little hut of hers and there so humoured her that she told her how she came thither; whereupon, seeing that she was fasting, she set before her her own dry bread and somewhat of fish and water and so besought her that she ate a little. costanza after asked her who she was that she spoke latin thus; to which she answered that she was from trapani and was called carapresa and served certain christian fishermen there. the girl, hearing the name of carapresa, albeit she was exceeding woebegone and knew not what reason moved her thereunto, took it unto herself for a good augury to have heard this name[ ] and began to hope, without knowing what, and somewhat to abate of her wish to die. then, without discovering who or whence she was, she earnestly besought the good woman to have pity, for the love of god, on her youth and give her some counsel how she might escape any affront being offered her. [footnote : or "augured well from the hearing of the name." _carapresa_ signifies "a dear or precious prize, gain or capture."] carapresa, like a good woman as she was, hearing this, left her in her hut, whilst she hastily gathered up her nets; then, returning to her, she wrapped her from head to foot in her own mantle and carried her to susa, where she said to her, 'costanza, i will bring thee into the house of a very good saracen lady, whom i serve oftentimes in her occasions and who is old and pitiful. i will commend thee to her as most i may and i am very certain that she will gladly receive thee and use thee as a daughter; and do thou, abiding with her, study thine utmost, in serving her, to gain her favour, against god send thee better fortune.' and as she said, so she did. the lady, who was well stricken in years, hearing the woman's story, looked the girl in the face and fell a-weeping; then taking her by the hand, she kissed her on the forehead and carried her into her house, where she and sundry other women abode, without any man, and wrought all with their hands at various crafts, doing divers works of silk and palm-fibre and leather. costanza soon learned to do some of these and falling to working with the rest, became in such favour with the lady and the others that it was a marvellous thing; nor was it long before, with their teaching, she learnt their language. what while she abode thus at susa, being now mourned at home for lost and dead, it befell that, one mariabdela[ ] being king of tunis, a certain youth of great family and much puissance in granada, avouching that that kingdom belonged to himself, levied a great multitude of folk and came upon king mariabdela, to oust him from the kingship. this came to the ears of martuccio gomito in prison and he knowing the barbary language excellent well and hearing that the king was making great efforts for his defence, said to one of those who had him and his fellows in keeping, 'an i might have speech of the king, my heart assureth me that i could give him a counsel, by which he should gain this his war.' the keeper reported these words to his chief, and he carried them incontinent to the king, who bade fetch martuccio and asked him what might be his counsel; whereto he made answer on this wise, 'my lord, if, what time i have otherwhiles frequented these your dominions, i have noted aright the order you keep in your battles, meseemeth you wage them more with archers than with aught else; wherefore, if a means could be found whereby your adversary's bowmen should lack of arrows, whilst your own had abundance thereof, methinketh your battle would be won.' 'without doubt,' answered the king, 'and this might be compassed, i should deem myself assured of victory.' whereupon, 'my lord,' quoth martuccio, 'an you will, this may very well be done, and you shall hear how. you must let make strings for your archers' bows much thinner than those which are everywhere commonly used and after let make arrows, the notches whereof shall not serve but for these thin strings. this must be so secretly done that your adversary should know nought thereof; else would he find a remedy therefor; and the reason for which i counsel you thus is this. after your enemy's archers and your own shall have shot all their arrows, you know that, the battle lasting, it will behove your foes to gather up the arrows shot by your men and the latter in like manner to gather theirs; but the enemy will not be able to make use of your arrows, by reason of the strait notches which will not take their thick strings, whereas the contrary will betide your men of the enemy's arrows, for that the thin strings will excellently well take the wide-notched arrows; and so your men will have abundance of ammunition, whilst the others will suffer default thereof.' [footnote : this name is apparently a distortion of the arabic _amir abdullah_.] the king, who was a wise prince, was pleased with martuccio's counsel and punctually following it, found himself thereby to have won his war. wherefore martuccio became in high favour with him and rose in consequence to great and rich estate. the report of these things spread over the land and it came presently to costanza's ears that martuccio gomito, whom she had long deemed dead, was alive, whereupon the love of him, that was now grown cool in her heart, broke out of a sudden into fresh flame and waxed greater than ever, whilst dead hope revived in her. therewithal she altogether discovered her every adventure to the good lady, with whom she dwelt, and told her that she would fain go to tunis, so she might satisfy her eyes of that whereof her ears had made them desireful, through the reports received. the old lady greatly commended her purpose and taking ship with her, carried her, as if she had been her mother, to tunis, where they were honourably entertained in the house of a kinswoman of hers. there she despatched carapresa, who had come with them, to see what she could learn of martuccio, and she, finding him alive and in great estate and reporting this to the old gentlewoman, it pleased the latter to will to be she who should signify unto martuccio that his costanza was come thither to him; wherefore, betaking herself one day whereas he was, she said to him, 'martuccio, there is come to my house a servant of thine from lipari, who would fain speak with thee privily there; wherefore, not to trust to others, i have myself, at his desire, come to give thee notice thereof.' he thanked her and followed her to her house, where when costanza saw him, she was like to die of gladness and unable to contain herself, ran straightway with open arms to throw herself on his neck; then, embracing him, without availing to say aught, she fell a-weeping tenderly, both for compassion of their past ill fortunes and for present gladness. martuccio, seeing his mistress, abode awhile dumb for amazement, then said sighing, 'o my costanza, art thou then yet alive? it is long since i heard that thou wast lost; nor in our country was aught known of thee.' so saying, he embraced her, weeping, and kissed her tenderly. costanza then related to him all that had befallen her and the honourable treatment which she had received from the gentlewoman with whom she dwelt; and martuccio, after much discourse, taking leave of her, repaired to the king his master and told him all, to wit, his own adventures and those of the damsel, adding that, with his leave, he meant to take her to wife, according to our law. the king marvelled at these things and sending for the damsel and hearing from her that it was even as martuccio had avouched, said to her, 'then hast thou right well earned him to husband.' then, letting bring very great and magnificent gifts, he gave part thereof to her and part to martuccio, granting them leave to do one with the other that which was most pleasing unto each of them; whereupon martuccio, having entreated the gentlewoman who had harboured costanza with the utmost honour and thanked her for that which she had done to serve her and bestowed on her such gifts as sorted with her quality, commended her to god and took leave of her, he and his mistress, not without many tears from the latter. then, with the king's leave, they embarked with carapresa on board a little ship and returned with a fair wind to lipari, where so great was the rejoicing that it might never be told. there martuccio took costanza to wife and held great and goodly nuptials; after which they long in peace and repose had enjoyment of their loves." the third story [day the fifth] pietro boccamazza, fleeing with agnolella, falleth among thieves; the girl escapeth through a wood and is led [by fortune] to a castle, whilst pietro is taken by the thieves, but presently, escaping from their hands, winneth, after divers adventures, to the castle where his mistress is and espousing her, returneth with her to rome there was none among all the company but commended emilia's story, which the queen seeing to be finished, turned to elisa and bade her follow on. accordingly, studious to obey, she began: "there occurreth to my mind, charming ladies, an ill night passed by a pair of indiscreet young lovers; but, for that many happy days ensued thereon, it pleaseth me to tell the story, as one that conformeth to our proposition. there was, a little while agone, at rome,--once the head, as it is nowadays the tail of the world,[ ]--a youth, called pietro boccamazza, of a very worshipful family among those of the city, who fell in love with a very fair and lovesome damsel called agnolella, the daughter of one gigliuozzo saullo, a plebeian, but very dear to the romans, and loving her, he contrived so to do that the girl began to love him no less than he loved her; whereupon, constrained by fervent love and himseeming he might no longer brook the cruel pain that the desire he had of her gave him, he demanded her in marriage; which no sooner did his kinsfolk know than they all repaired to him and chid him sore for that which he would have done; and on the other hand they gave gigliuozzo to understand that he should make no account of pietro's words, for that, an he did this, they would never have him for friend or kinsman. pietro seeing that way barred whereby alone he deemed he might avail to win to his desire, was like to die of chagrin, and had gigliuozzo consented, he would have taken his daughter to wife, in despite of all his kindred. however, he determined, an it liked the girl, to contrive to give effect to their wishes, and having assured himself, by means of an intermediary, that this was agreeable to her, he agreed with her that she should flee with him from rome. [footnote : clement v. early in the fourteenth century removed the papal see to avignon, where it continued to be during the reigns of the five succeeding popes, rome being in the meantime abandoned by the papal court, till gregory xi, in the year again took up his residence at the latter city. it is apparently to this circumstance that boccaccio alludes in the text.] accordingly, having taken order for this, pietro arose very early one morning and taking horse with the damsel, set out for anagni, where he had certain friends in whom he trusted greatly. they had no leisure to make a wedding of it, for that they feared to be followed, but rode on, devising of their love and now and again kissing one another. it chanced that, when they came mayhap eight miles from rome, the way not being overwell known to pietro, they took a path to the left, whereas they should have kept to the right; and scarce had they ridden more than two miles farther when they found themselves near a little castle, wherefrom, as soon as they were seen, there issued suddenly a dozen footmen. the girl, espying these, whenas they were already close upon them, cried out, saying, 'pietro, let us begone, for we are attacked'; then, turning her rouncey's head, as best she knew, towards a great wood hard by, she clapped her spurs fast to his flank and held on to the saddlebow, whereupon the nag, feeling himself goaded, bore her into the wood at a gallop. pietro, who went gazing more at her face than at the road, not having become so quickly aware as she of the new comers, was overtaken and seized by them, whilst he still looked, without yet perceiving them, to see whence they should come. they made him alight from his hackney and enquired who he was, which he having told, they proceeded to take counsel together and said, 'this fellow is of the friends of our enemies; what else should we do but take from him these clothes and this nag and string him up to one of yonder oaks, to spite the orsini?' they all fell in with this counsel and bade pietro put off his clothes, which as he was in act to do, foreboding him by this of the ill fate which awaited him, it chanced that an ambush of good five-and-twenty footmen started suddenly out upon the others, crying, 'kill! kill!' the rogues, taken by surprise, let pietro be and turned to stand upon their defence, but, seeing themselves greatly outnumbered by their assailants, betook themselves to flight, whilst the others pursued them. pietro, seeing this, hurriedly caught up his gear and springing on his hackney, addressed himself, as best he might, to flee by the way he had seen his mistress take; but finding her not and seeing neither road nor footpath in the wood neither perceiving any horse's hoof marks, he was the woefullest man alive; and as soon as himseemed he was safe and out of reach of those who had taken him, as well as of the others by whom they had been assailed, he began to drive hither and thither about the wood, weeping and calling; but none answered him and he dared not turn back and knew not where he might come, an he went forward, more by token that he was in fear of the wild beasts that use to harbour in the woods, at once for himself and for his mistress, whom he looked momently to see strangled of some bear or some wolf. on this wise, then, did the unlucky pietro range all day about the wood, crying and calling, whiles going backward, when as he thought to go forward, until, what with shouting and weeping and fear and long fasting, he was so spent that he could no more and seeing the night come and knowing not what other course to take, he dismounted from his hackney and tied the latter to a great oak, into which he climbed, so he might not be devoured of the wild beasts in the night. a little after the moon rose and the night being very clear and bright, he abode there on wake, sighing and weeping and cursing his ill luck, for that he durst not go to sleep, lest he should fall, albeit, had he had more commodity thereof, grief and the concern in which he was for his mistress would not have suffered him to sleep. meanwhile, the damsel, fleeing, as we have before said, and knowing not whither to betake herself, save whereas it seemed good to her hackney to carry her, fared on so far into the wood that she could not see where she had entered, and went wandering all day about that desert place, no otherwise than as pietro had done, now pausing [to hearken] and now going on, weeping the while and calling and making moan of her illhap. at last, seeing that pietro came not and it being now eventide, she happened on a little path, into which her hackney turned, and following it, after she had ridden some two or more miles she saw a little house afar off. thither she made her way as quickliest she might and found there a good man sore stricken in years and a woman, his wife alike old, who, seeing her alone, said to her, 'daughter, what dost thou alone at this hour in these parts?' the damsel replied, weeping, that she had lost her company in the wood and enquired how near she was to anagni. 'daughter mine,' answered the good man, 'this is not the way to go to anagni; it is more than a dozen miles hence.' quoth the girl, 'and how far is it hence to any habitations where i may have a lodging for the night?' to which the good man answered, 'there is none anywhere so near that thou mayst come thither by daylight.' then said the damsel, 'since i can go no otherwhere, will it please you harbour me here to-night for the love of god?' 'young lady,' replied the old man, 'thou art very welcome to abide with us this night; algates, we must warn you that there are many ill companies, both of friends and of foes that come and go about these parts both by day and by night, who many a time do us sore annoy and great mischief; and if, by ill chance, thou being here, there come any of them and seeing thee, fair and young as thou art, should offer to do thee affront and shame, we could not avail to succour thee therefrom. we deem it well to apprise thee of this, so that, an it betide, thou mayst not be able to complain of us.' the girl, seeing that it was late, albeit the old man's words affrighted her, said, 'an it please god, he will keep both you and me from that annoy; and even if it befall me, it were a much less evil to be maltreated of men than to be mangled of the wild beasts in the woods.' so saying, she alighted from the rouncey and entered the poor man's house, where she supped with him on such poor fare as they had and after, all clad as she was, cast herself, together with them, on a little bed of theirs. she gave not over sighing and bewailing her own mishap and that of pietro all night, knowing not if she might hope other than ill of him; and when it drew near unto morning, she heard a great trampling of folk approaching, whereupon she arose and betaking herself to a great courtyard, that lay behind the little house, saw in a corner a great heap of hay, in which she hid herself, so she might not be so quickly found, if those folk should come thither. hardly had she made an end of hiding herself when these, who were a great company of ill knaves, came to the door of the little house and causing open to them, entered and found agnolella's hackney yet all saddled and bridled; whereupon they asked who was there and the good man, not seeing the girl, answered, 'none is here save ourselves; but this rouncey, from whomsoever it may have escaped, came hither yestereve and we brought it into the house, lest the wolves should eat it.' 'then,' said the captain of the troop, 'since it hath none other master, it is fair prize for us.' thereupon they all dispersed about the little house and some went into the courtyard, where, laying down their lances and targets, it chanced that one of them, knowing not what else to do, cast his lance into the hay and came very near to slay the hidden girl and she to discover herself, for that the lance passed so close to her left breast that the steel tore a part of her dress, wherefore she was like to utter a great cry, fearing to be wounded; but, remembering where she was, she abode still, all fear-stricken. presently, the rogues, having dressed the kids and other meat they had with them and eaten and drunken, went off, some hither and some thither, about their affairs, and carried with them the girl's hackney. when they had gone some distance, the good man asked his wife, 'what befell of our young woman, who came thither yestereve? i have seen nothing of her since we arose.' the good wife replied that she knew not and went looking for her, whereupon the girl, hearing that the rogues were gone, came forth of the hay, to the no small contentment of her host, who, rejoiced to see that she had not fallen into their hands, said to her, it now growing day, 'now that the day cometh, we will, an it please thee, accompany thee to a castle five miles hence, where thou wilt be in safety; but needs must thou go afoot, for yonder ill folk, that now departed hence, have carried off thy rouncey.' the girl concerned herself little about the nag, but besought them for god's sake to bring her to the castle in question, whereupon they set out and came thither about half tierce. now this castle belonged to one of the orsini family, by name lionello di campodifiore, and there by chance was his wife, a very pious and good lady, who, seeing the girl, knew her forthright and received her with joy and would fain know orderly how she came thither. agnolella told her all and the lady, who knew pietro on like wise, as being a friend of her husband's, was grieved for the ill chance that had betided and hearing where he had been taken, doubted not but he was dead; wherefore she said to agnolella, 'since thou knowest not what is come of pietro, thou shalt abide here till such time as i shall have a commodity to send thee safe to rome.' meanwhile pietro abode, as woebegone as could be, in the oak, and towards the season of the first sleep, he saw a good score of wolves appear, which came all about his hackney, as soon as they saw him. the horse, scenting them, tugged at his bridle, till he broke it, and would have fled, but being surrounded and unable to escape, he defended himself a great while with his teeth and his hoofs. at last, however, he was brought down and strangled and quickly disembowelled by the wolves, which took all their fill of his flesh and having devoured him, made off, without leaving aught but the bones, whereat pietro, to whom it seemed he had in the rouncey a companion and a support in his troubles, was sore dismayed and misdoubted he should never avail to win forth of the wood. however, towards daybreak, being perished with cold in the oak and looking still all about him, he caught sight of a great fire before him, mayhap a mile off, wherefore, as soon as it was grown broad day, he came down from the oak, not without fear, and making for the fire, fared on till he came to the place, where he found shepherds eating and making merry about it, by whom he was received for compassion. after he had eaten and warmed himself, he acquainted them with his misadventure and telling them how he came thither alone, asked them if there was in those parts a village or castle, to which he might betake himself. the shepherds answered that some three miles thence there was a castle belonging to lionello di campodifiore, whose lady was presently there; whereat pietro was much rejoiced and besought them that one of them should accompany him to the castle, which two of them readily did. there he found some who knew him and was in act to enquire for a means of having search made about the forest for the damsel, when he was bidden to the lady's presence and incontinent repaired to her. never was joy like unto his, when he saw agnolella with her, and he was all consumed with desire to embrace her, but forbore of respect for the lady, and if he was glad, the girl's joy was no less great. the gentle lady, having welcomed him and made much of him and heard from him what had betided him, chid him amain of that which he would have done against the will of his kinsfolk; but, seeing that he was e'en resolved upon this and that it was agreeable to the girl also, she said in herself, 'why do i weary myself in vain? these two love and know each other and both are friends of my husband. their desire is an honourable one and meseemeth it is pleasing to god, since the one of them hath scaped the gibbet and the other the lance-thrust and both the wild beasts of the wood; wherefore be it as they will.' then, turning to the lovers, she said to them, 'if you have it still at heart to be man and wife, it is my pleasure also; be it so, and let the nuptials be celebrated here at lionello's expense. i will engage after to make peace between you and your families.' accordingly, they were married then and there, to the great contentment of pietro and the yet greater satisfaction of agnolella, and the gentle lady made them honourable nuptials, in so far as might be in the mountains. there, with the utmost delight, they enjoyed the first-fruits of their love and a few days after, they took horse with the lady and returned, under good escort, to rome, where she found pietro's kinsfolk sore incensed at that which he had done, but contrived to make his peace with them, and he lived with his agnolella in all peace and pleasance to a good old age." the fourth story [day the fifth] ricciardo manardi, being found by messer lizio da valbona with his daughter, espouseth her and abideth in peace with her father elisa holding her peace and hearkening to the praises bestowed by the ladies her companions upon her story, the queen charged filostrato tell one of his own, whereupon he began, laughing, "i have been so often rated by so many of you ladies for having imposed on you matter for woeful discourse and such as tended to make you weep, that methinketh i am beholden, an i would in some measure requite you that annoy, to relate somewhat whereby i may make you laugh a little; and i mean therefore to tell you, in a very short story, of a love that, after no worse hindrance than sundry sighs and a brief fright, mingled with shame, came to a happy issue. it is, then, noble ladies, no great while ago since there lived in romagna a gentleman of great worth and good breeding, called messer lizio da valbona, to whom, well nigh in his old age, it chanced there was born of his wife, madam giacomina by name, a daughter, who grew up fair and agreeable beyond any other of the country; and for that she was the only child that remained to her father and mother, they loved and tendered her exceeding dear and guarded her with marvellous diligence, looking to make some great alliance by her. now there was a young man of the manardi of brettinoro, comely and lusty of his person, by name ricciardo, who much frequented messer lizio's house and conversed amain with him and of whom the latter and his lady took no more account than they would have taken of a son of theirs. now, this ricciardo, looking once and again upon the young lady and seeing her very fair and sprightly and commendable of manners and fashions, fell desperately in love with her, but was very careful to keep his love secret. the damsel presently became aware thereof and without anywise seeking to shun the stroke, began on like wise to love him; whereat ricciardo was mightily rejoiced. he had many a time a mind to speak to her, but kept silence of misdoubtance; however, one day, taking courage and opportunity, he said to her, 'i prithee, caterina, cause me not die of love.' to which she straightway made answer, 'would god thou wouldst not cause _me_ die!' this answer added much courage and pleasure to ricciardo and he said to her, 'never shall aught that may be agreeable to thee miscarry[ ] for me; but it resteth with thee to find a means of saving thy life and mine.' 'ricciardo,' answered she, 'thou seest how straitly i am guarded; wherefore, for my part, i cannot see how thou mayst avail to come at me; but, if thou canst see aught that i may do without shame to myself, tell it me and i will do it.' ricciardo, having bethought himself of sundry things, answered promptly, 'my sweet caterina, i can see no way, except that thou lie or make shift to come upon the gallery that adjoineth thy father's garden, where an i knew that thou wouldst be anights, i would without fail contrive to come to thee, how high soever it may be.' 'if thou have the heart to come thither,' rejoined caterina, 'methinketh i can well enough win to be there.' ricciardo assented and they kissed each other once only in haste and went their ways. [footnote : lit. stand (_stare_), _i.e._ abide undone.] next day, it being then near the end of may, the girl began to complain before her mother that she had not been able to sleep that night for the excessive heat. quoth the lady, 'of what heat dost thou speak, daughter? nay, it was nowise hot.' 'mother mine,' answered caterina, 'you should say "to my seeming," and belike you would say sooth; but you should consider how much hotter are young girls than ladies in years.' 'daughter mine,' rejoined the lady, 'that is true; but i cannot make it cold and hot at my pleasure, as belike thou wouldst have me do. we must put up with the weather, such as the seasons make it; maybe this next night will be cooler and thou wilt sleep better.' 'god grant it may be so!' cried caterina. 'but it is not usual for the nights to go cooling, as it groweth towards summer.' 'then what wouldst thou have done?' asked the mother; and she answered, 'an it please my father and you, i would fain have a little bed made in the gallery, that is beside his chamber and over his garden, and there sleep. there i should hear the nightingale sing and having a cooler place to lie in, i should fare much better than in your chamber.' quoth the mother, 'daughter, comfort thyself; i will tell thy father, and as he will, so will we do.' messer lizio hearing all this from his wife, said, for that he was an old man and maybe therefore somewhat cross-grained, 'what nightingale is this to whose song she would sleep? i will yet make her sleep to the chirp of the crickets.' caterina, coming to know this, more of despite than for the heat, not only slept not that night, but suffered not her mother to sleep, still complaining of the great heat. accordingly, next morning, the latter repaired to her husband and said to him, 'sir, you have little tenderness for yonder girl; what mattereth it to you if she lie in the gallery? she could get no rest all night for the heat. besides, can you wonder at her having a mind to hear the nightingale sing, seeing she is but a child? young folk are curious of things like themselves. messer lizio, hearing this, said, 'go to, make her a bed there, such as you think fit, and bind it about with some curtain or other, and there let her lie and hear the nightingale sing to her heart's content.' the girl, learning this, straightway let make a bed in the gallery and meaning to lie there that same night, watched till she saw ricciardo and made him a signal appointed between them, by which he understood what was to be done. messer lizio, hearing the girl gone to bed, locked a door that led from his chamber into the gallery and betook himself likewise to sleep. as for ricciardo, as soon as he heard all quiet on every hand, he mounted a wall, with the aid of a ladder, and thence, laying hold of certain toothings of another wall, he made his way, with great toil and danger, if he had fallen, up to the gallery, where he was quietly received by the girl with the utmost joy. then, after many kisses, they went to bed together and took delight and pleasure one of another well nigh all that night, making the nightingale sing many a time. the nights being short and the delight great and it being now, though they thought it not, near day, they fell asleep without any covering, so overheated were they what with the weather and what with their sport, caterina having her right arm entwined about ricciardo's neck and holding him with the left hand by that thing which you ladies think most shame to name among men. as they slept on this wise, without awaking, the day came on and messer lizio arose and remembering him that his daughter lay in the gallery, opened the door softly, saying in himself, 'let us see how the nightingale hath made caterina sleep this night.' then, going in, he softly lifted up the serge, wherewith the bed was curtained about, and saw his daughter and ricciardo lying asleep, naked and uncovered, embraced as it hath before been set out; whereupon, having recognized ricciardo, he went out again and repairing to his wife's chamber, called to her, saying, 'quick, wife, get thee up and come see, for that thy daughter hath been so curious of the nightingale that she hath e'en taken it and hath it in hand.' 'how can that be?' quoth she; and he answered, 'thou shalt see it, an thou come quickly.' accordingly, she made haste to dress herself and quietly followed her husband to the bed, where, the curtain being drawn, madam giacomina might plainly see how her daughter had taken and held the nightingale, which she had so longed to hear sing; whereat the lady, holding herself sore deceived of ricciardo, would have cried out and railed at him; but messer lizio said to her, 'wife, as thou holdest my love dear, look thou say not a word, for, verily, since she hath gotten it, it shall be hers. ricciardo is young and rich and gently born; he cannot make us other than a good son-in-law. an he would part from me on good terms, needs must he first marry her, so it will be found that he hath put the nightingale in his own cage and not in that of another.' the lady was comforted to see that her husband was not angered at the matter and considering that her daughter had passed a good night and rested well and had caught the nightingale, to boot, she held her tongue. nor had they abidden long after these words when ricciardo awoke and seeing that it was broad day, gave himself over for lost and called caterina, saying, 'alack, my soul, how shall we do, for the day is come and hath caught me here?' whereupon messer lizio came forward and lifting the curtain, answered, 'we shall do well.' when ricciardo saw him, himseemed the heart was torn out of his body and sitting up in bed, he said, 'my lord, i crave your pardon for god's sake. i acknowledged to have deserved death, as a disloyal and wicked man; wherefore do you with me as best pleaseth you; but, i prithee, an it may be, have mercy on my life and let me not die.' 'ricciardo,' answered messer lizio, 'the love that i bore thee and the faith i had in thee merited not this return; yet, since thus it is and youth hath carried thee away into such a fault, do thou, to save thyself from death and me from shame, take caterina to thy lawful wife, so that, like as this night she hath been thine, she may e'en be thine so long as she shall live. on this wise thou mayst gain my pardon and thine own safety; but, an thou choose not to do this, commend thy soul to god.' whilst these words were saying, caterina let go the nightingale and covering herself, fell to weeping sore and beseeching her father to pardon ricciardo, whilst on the other hand she entreated her lover to do as messer lizio wished, so they might long pass such nights together in security. but there needed not overmany prayers, for that, on the one hand, shame of the fault committed and desire to make amends for it, and on the other, the fear of death and the wish to escape,--to say nothing of his ardent love and longing to possess the thing beloved,--made ricciardo freely and without hesitation avouch himself ready to do that which pleased messer lizio; whereupon the latter borrowed of madam giacomina one of her rings and there, without budging, ricciardo in their presence took caterina to his wife. this done, messer lizio and his lady departed, saying, 'now rest yourselves, for belike you have more need thereof than of rising.' they being gone, the young folk clipped each other anew and not having run more than half a dozen courses overnight, they ran other twain ere they arose and so made an end of the first day's tilting. then they arose and ricciardo having had more orderly conference with messer lizio, a few days after, as it beseemed, he married the damsel over again, in the presence of their friends and kinsfolk, and brought her with great pomp to his own house. there he held goodly and honourable nuptials and after went long nightingale-fowling with her to his heart's content, in peace and solace, both by night and by day." the fifth story [day the fifth] guidotto da cremona leaveth to giacomino da pavia a daughter of his and dieth. giannole di severino and minghino di mingole fall in love with the girl at faenza and come to blows on her account. ultimately she is proved to be giannole's sister and is given to minghino to wife all the ladies, hearkening to the story of the nightingale, had laughed so much that, though filostrato had made an end of telling, they could not yet give over laughing. but, after they had laughed awhile, the queen said to filostrato, "assuredly, if thou afflictedest us ladies yesterday, thou hast so tickled us to-day that none of us can deservedly complain of thee." then, addressing herself to neifile, she charged her tell, and she blithely began to speak thus: "since filostrato, discoursing, hath entered into romagna, it pleaseth me on like wise to go ranging awhile therein with mine own story. i say, then, that there dwelt once in the city of fano two lombards, whereof the one was called guidotto da cremona and the other giacomino da pavia, both men advanced in years, who had in their youth been well nigh always soldiers and engaged in deeds of arms. guidotto, being at the point of death and having nor son nor other kinsmen nor friend in whom he trusted more than in giacomino, left him a little daughter he had, of maybe ten years of age, and all that he possessed in the world, and after having bespoken him at length of his affairs, he died. in those days it befell that the city of faenza, which had been long in war and ill case, was restored to somewhat better estate and permission to sojourn there was freely conceded to all who had a mind to return thither; wherefore giacomino, who had abidden there otherwhile and had a liking for the place, returned thither with all his good and carried with him the girl left him by guidotto, whom he loved and entreated as his own child. the latter grew up and became as fair a damsel as any in the city, ay, and as virtuous and well bred as she was fair; wherefore she began to be courted of many, but especially two very agreeable young men of equal worth and condition vowed her a very great love, insomuch that for jealousy they came to hold each other in hate out of measure. they were called, the one giannole di severino and the other minghino di mingole; nor was there either of them but would gladly have taken the young lady, who was now fifteen years old, to wife, had it been suffered of his kinsfolk; wherefore, seeing her denied to them on honourable wise, each cast about to get her for himself as best he might. now giacomino had in his house an old serving-wench and a serving-man, crivello by name, a very merry and obliging person, with whom giannole clapped up a great acquaintance and to whom, whenas himseemed time, he discovered his passion, praying him to be favourable to him in his endeavour to obtain his desire and promising him great things an he did this; whereto quoth crivello, 'look you, i can do nought for thee in this matter other than that, when next giacomino goeth abroad to supper, i will bring thee whereas she may be; for that, an i offered to say a word to her in thy favour, she would never stop to listen to me. if this like thee, i promise it to thee and will do it; and do thou after, an thou know how, that which thou deemest shall best serve thy purpose.' giannole answered that he desired nothing more and they abode on this understanding. meanwhile minghino, on his part, had suborned the maidservant and so wrought with her that she had several times carried messages to the girl and had well night inflamed her with love of him; besides which she had promised him to bring him in company with her, so soon as giacomino should chance to go abroad of an evening for whatever cause. not long after this it chanced that, by crivello's contrivance, giacomino went to sup with a friend of his, whereupon crivello gave giannole to know thereof and appointed with him that, whenas he made a certain signal, he should come and would find the door open. the maid, on her side, knowing nothing of all this, let minghino know that giacomino was to sup abroad and bade him abide near the house, so that, whenas he saw a signal which she should make he might come and enter therein. the evening come, the two lovers, knowing nothing of each other's designs, but each misdoubting of his rival, came, with sundry companions armed, to enter into possession. minghino, with his troop took up his quarters in the house of a friend of his, a neighbour of the young lady's; whilst giannole and his friends stationed themselves at a little distance from the house. meanwhile, crivello and the maid, giacomino being gone, studied each to send the other away. quoth he to her, 'why dost thou not get thee to bed? why goest thou still wandering about the house?' 'and thou,' retorted she, 'why goest thou not for thy master? what awaitest thou here, now that thou hast supped?' and so neither could make other avoid the place; but crivello, seeing the hour come that he had appointed with giannole said in himself, 'what reck i of her? an she abide not quiet, she is like to smart for it.' accordingly, giving the appointed signal, he went to open the door, whereupon giannole, coming up in haste with two companions, entered and finding the young lady in the saloon, laid hands on her to carry her off. the girl began to struggle and make a great outcry, as likewise did the maid, which minghino hearing, he ran thither with his companions and seeing the young lady being presently dragged out at the door, they pulled out their swords and cried all, 'ho, traitors, ye are dead men! the thing shall not go thus. what is this violence?' so saying, they fell to hewing at them, whilst the neighbors, issuing forth at the clamour with lights and arms, began to blame giannole's behaviour and to second minghino; wherefore, after long contention, the latter rescued the young lady from his rival and restored her to giacomino's house. but, before the fray was over, up came the town-captain's officers and arrested many of them; and amongst the rest minghino and giannole and crivello were taken and carried off to prison. after matters were grown quiet again, giacomino returned home and was sore chagrined at that which had happened; but, enquiring how it had come about and finding that the girl was nowise at fault, he was somewhat appeased and determined in himself to marry her as quickliest he might, so the like should not again betide. next morning, the kinsfolk of the two young men, hearing the truth of the case and knowing the ill that might ensue thereof for the imprisoned youths, should giacomino choose to do that which he reasonably might, repaired to him and prayed him with soft words to have regard, not so much to the affront which he had suffered from the little sense of the young men as to the love and goodwill which they believed he bore to themselves who thus besought him, submitting themselves and the young men who had done the mischief to any amends it should please him take. giacomino, who had in his time seen many things and was a man of sense, answered briefly, 'gentlemen, were i in mine own country, as i am in yours, i hold myself so much your friend that neither in this nor in otherwhat would i do aught save insomuch as it should please you; besides, i am the more bounden to comply with your wishes in this matter, inasmuch as you have therein offended against yourselves, for that the girl in question is not, as belike many suppose, of cremona nor of pavia; nay, she is a faentine,[ ] albeit neither i nor she nor he of whom i had her might ever learn whose daughter she was; wherefore, concerning that whereof you pray me, so much shall be done by me as you yourselves shall enjoin me.' [footnote : _i.e._ a native of faenza (_faentina_).] the gentlemen, hearing this, marvelled and returning thanks to giacomino for his gracious answer, prayed him that it would please him tell them how she came to his hands and how he knew her to be a faentine; whereto quoth he, 'guidotto da cremona, who was my friend and comrade, told me, on his deathbed, that, when this city was taken by the emperor frederick and everything given up to pillage, he entered with his companions into a house and found it full of booty, but deserted by its inhabitants, save only this girl, who was then some two years old or thereabouts and who, seeing him mount the stairs, called him "father"; whereupon, taking compassion upon her, he carried her off with him to fano, together with all that was in the house, and dying there, left her to me with what he had, charging me marry her in due time and give her to her dowry that which had been hers. since she hath come to marriageable age, i have not yet found an occasion of marrying her to my liking, though i would gladly do it, rather than that another mischance like that of yesternight should betide me on her account.' now among the others there was a certain guiglielmino da medicina, who had been with guidotto in that affair[ ] and knew very well whose house it was that he had plundered, and he, seeing the person in question[ ] there among the rest, accosted him, saying, 'bernabuccio, hearest thou what giacomino saith?' 'ay do i,' answered bernabuccio, 'and i was presently in thought thereof, more by token that i mind me to have lost a little daughter of the age whereof giacomino speaketh in those very troubles.' quoth guiglielmino, 'this is she for certain, for that i was once in company with guidotto, when i heard him tell where he had done the plundering and knew it to be thy house that he had sacked; wherefore do thou bethink thee if thou mayst credibly recognize her by any token and let make search therefor; for thou wilt assuredly find that she is thy daughter.' [footnote : _a questo fatto_, _i.e._ at the storm of faenza.] [footnote : _i.e._ the owner of the plundered house.] accordingly, bernabuccio bethought himself and remembered that she should have a little cross-shaped scar over her left ear, proceeding from a tumour, which he had caused cut for her no great while before that occurrence; whereupon, without further delay, he accosted giacomino, who was still there, and besought him to carry him to his house and let him see the damsel. to this he readily consented and carrying him thither, let bring the girl before him. when bernabuccio set eyes on her, himseemed he saw the very face of her mother, who was yet a handsome lady; nevertheless, not contenting himself with this, he told giacomino that he would fain of his favour have leave to raise her hair a little above her left ear, to which the other consented. accordingly, going up to the girl, who stood shamefast, he lifted up her hair with his right hand and found the cross; whereupon, knowing her to be indeed his daughter, he fell to weeping tenderly and embracing her, notwithstanding her resistance; then, turning to giacomino, 'brother mine,' quoth he, 'this is my daughter; it was my house guidotto plundered and this girl was, in the sudden alarm, forgotten there of my wife and her mother; and until now we believed that she had perished with the house, which was burned me that same day.' the girl, hearing this, and seeing him to be a man in years, gave credence to his words and submitting herself to his embraces, as moved by some occult instinct, fell a-weeping tenderly with him. bernabuccio presently sent for her mother and other her kinswomen and for her sisters and brothers and presented her to them all, recounting the matter to them; then, after a thousand embraces, he carried her home to his house with the utmost rejoicing, to the great satisfaction of giacomino. the town-captain, who was a man of worth, learning this and knowing that giannole, whom he had in prison, was bernabuccio's son and therefore the lady's own brother, determined indulgently to overpass the offence committed by him and released with him minghino and crivello and the others who were implicated in the affair. moreover, he interceded with bernabuccio and giacomino concerning these matters and making peace between the two young men, gave the girl, whose name was agnesa, to minghino to wife, to the great contentment of all their kinsfolk; whereupon minghino, mightily rejoiced, made a great and goodly wedding and carrying her home, lived with her many years after in peace and weal." the sixth story [day the fifth] gianni di procida being found with a young lady, whom he loved and who had been given to king frederick of sicily, is bound with her to a stake to be burnt; but, being recognized by ruggieri dell' oria, escapeth and becometh her husband neifile's story, which had much pleased the ladies, being ended, the queen bade pampinea address herself to tell another, and she accordingly, raising her bright face, began: "exceeding great, charming ladies, is the might of love and exposeth lovers to sore travails, ay, and to excessive and unforeseen perils, as may be gathered from many a thing that hath been related both to-day and otherwhiles; nevertheless, it pleaseth me yet again to demonstrate it to you with a story of an enamoured youth. ischia is an island very near naples, and therein, among others, was once a very fair and sprightly damsel, by name restituta, who was the daughter of a gentleman of the island called marino bolgaro and whom a youth named gianni, a native of a little island near ischia, called procida, loved more than his life, as she on like wise loved him. not only did he come by day from procida to see her, but oftentimes anights, not finding a boat, he had swum from procida to ischia, at the least to look upon the walls of her house, an he might no otherwise. during the continuance of this so ardent love, it befell that the girl, being all alone one summer day on the sea-shore, chanced, as she went from rock to rock, loosening shell-fish from the stones with a knife, upon a place hidden among the cliffs, where, at once for shade and for the commodity of a spring of very cool water that was there, certain young men of sicily, coming from naples, had taken up their quarters with a pinnace they had. they, seeing that she was alone and very handsome and was yet unaware of them, took counsel together to seize her and carry her off and put their resolve into execution. accordingly, they took her, for all she made a great outcry, and carrying her aboard the pinnace, made the best of their way to calabria, where they fell to disputing of whose she should be. brief, each would fain have her; wherefore, being unable to agree among themselves and fearing to come to worse and to mar their affairs for her, they took counsel together to present her to frederick, king of sicily, who was then a young man and delighted in such toys. accordingly, coming to palermo, they made gift of the damsel to the king, who, seeing her to be fair, held her dear; but, for that he was presently somewhat infirm of his person, he commanded that, against he should be stronger, she should be lodged in a very goodly pavilion, belonging to a garden of his he called la cuba, and there tended; and so it was done. great was the outcry in ischia for the ravishment of the damsel and what most chagrined them was that they could not learn who they were that had carried her off; but gianni, whom the thing concerned more than any other, not looking to get any news of this in ischia and learning in what direction the ravishers had gone, equipped another pinnace and embarking therein, as quickliest as he might, scoured all the coast from la minerva to la scalea in calabria, enquiring everywhere for news of the girl. being told at la scalea that she had been carried off to palermo by some sicilian sailors, he betook himself thither, as quickliest he might, and there, after much search, finding that she had been presented to the king and was by him kept under ward at la cuba, he was sore chagrined and lost well nigh all hope, not only of ever having her again, but even of seeing her. nevertheless, detained by love, having sent away his pinnace and seeing that he was known of none there, he abode behind and passing often by la cuba, he chanced one day to catch sight of her at a window and she saw him, to the great contentment of them both. gianni, seeing the place lonely, approached as most he might and bespeaking her, was instructed by her how he must do, an he would thereafterward have further speech of her. he then took leave of her, having first particularly examined the ordinance of the place in every part, and waited till a good part of the night was past, when he returned thither and clambering up in places where a woodpecker had scarce found a foothold, he made his way into the garden. there he found a long pole and setting it against the window which his mistress had shown him, climbed up thereby lightly enough. the damsel, herseeming she had already lost her honour, for the preservation whereof she had in times past been somewhat coy to him, thinking that she could give herself to none more worthily than to him and doubting not to be able to induce him to carry her off, had resolved in herself to comply with him in every his desire; wherefore she had left the window open, so he might enter forthright. accordingly, gianni, finding it open, softly made his way into the chamber and laid himself beside the girl, who slept not and who, before they came to otherwhat, discovered to him all her intent, instantly beseeching him to take her thence and carry her away. gianni answered that nothing could be so pleasing to him as this and promised that he would without fail, as soon as he should have taken his leave of her, put the matter in train on such wise that he might carry her away with him, the first time he returned thither. then, embracing each other with exceeding pleasure, they took that delight beyond which love can afford no greater, and after reiterating it again and again, they fell asleep, without perceiving it, in each other's arms. meanwhile, the king, who had at first sight been greatly taken with the damsel, calling her to mind and feeling himself well of body, determined, albeit it was nigh upon day, to go and abide with her awhile. accordingly, he betook himself privily to la cuba with certain of his servants and entering the pavilion, caused softly open the chamber wherein he knew the girl slept. then, with a great lighted flambeau before him, he entered therein and looking upon the bed, saw her and gianni lying asleep and naked in each other's arms; whereas he was of a sudden furiously incensed and flamed up into such a passion of wrath that it lacked of little but he had, without saying a word, slain them both then and there with a dagger he had by his side. however, esteeming it a very base thing of any man, much more a king, to slay two naked folk in their sleep, he contained himself and determined to put them to death in public and by fire; wherefore, turning to one only companion he had with him, he said to him, 'how deemest thou of this vile woman, on whom i had set my hope?' and after he asked him if he knew the young man who had dared enter his house to do him such an affront and such an outrage; but he answered that he remembered not ever to have seen him. the king then departed the chamber, full of rage, and commanded that the two lovers should be taken and bound, naked as they were, and that, as soon as it was broad day, they should be carried to palermo and there bound to a stake, back to back, in the public place, where they should be kept till the hour of tierce, so they might be seen of all, and after burnt, even as they had deserved; and this said, he returned to his palace at palermo, exceeding wroth. the king gone, there fell many upon the two lovers and not only awakened them, but forthright without any pity took them and bound them; which when they saw, it may lightly be conceived if they were woeful and feared for their lives and wept and made moan. according to the king's commandment, they were carried to palermo and bound to a stake in the public place, whilst the faggots and the fire were made ready before their eyes, to burn them at the hour appointed. thither straightway flocked all the townsfolk, both men and women, to see the two lovers; the men all pressed to look upon the damsel and like as they praised her for fair and well made in every part of her body, even so, on the other hand, the women, who all ran to gaze upon the young man, supremely commended him for handsome and well shapen. but the wretched lovers, both sore ashamed, stood with bowed heads and bewailed their sorry fortune, hourly expecting the cruel death by fire. whilst they were thus kept against the appointed hour, the default of them committed, being bruited about everywhere, came to the ears of ruggieri dell' oria, a man of inestimable worth and then the king's admiral, whereupon he repaired to the place where they were bound and considering first the girl, commended her amain for beauty, then, turning to look upon the young man, knew him without much difficulty and drawing nearer to him, asked him if he were not gianni di procida. the youth, raising his eyes and recognizing the admiral, answered, 'my lord, i was indeed he of whom you ask; but i am about to be no more.' the admiral then asked him what had brought him to that pass, and he answered, 'love and the king's anger.' the admiral caused him tell his story more at large and having heard everything from him as it had happened, was about to depart, when gianni called him back and said to him, 'for god's sake, my lord, an it may be, get me one favour of him who maketh me to abide thus.' 'what is that?' asked ruggieri; and gianni said, 'i see i must die, and that speedily, and i ask, therefore, by way of favour,--as i am bound with my back to this damsel, whom i have loved more than my life, even as she hath loved me, and she with her back to me,--that we may be turned about with our faces one to the other, so that, dying, i may look upon her face and get me gone, comforted.' 'with all my heart,' answered ruggieri, laughing; 'i will do on such wise that thou shalt yet see her till thou grow weary of her sight.' then, taking leave of him, he charged those who were appointed to carry the sentence into execution that they should proceed no farther therein, without other commandment of the king, and straightway betook himself to the latter, to whom, albeit he saw him sore incensed, he spared not to speak his mind, saying, 'king, in what have the two young folk offended against thee, whom thou hast commanded to be burned yonder in the public place?' the king told him and ruggieri went on, 'the offence committed by them deserveth it indeed, but not from thee; for, like as defaults merit punishment, even so do good offices merit recompense, let alone grace and clemency. knowest thou who these are thou wouldst have burnt?' the king answered no, and ruggieri continued, 'then i will have thee know them, so thou mayst see how discreetly[ ] thou sufferest thyself to be carried away by the transports of passion. the young man is the son of landolfo di procida, own brother to messer gian di procida,[ ] by whose means thou art king and lord of this island, and the damsel is the daughter of marino bolgaro, to whose influence thou owest it that thine officers have not been driven forth of ischia. moreover, they are lovers who have long loved one another and constrained of love, rather than of will to do despite to thine authority, have done this sin, if that can be called sin which young folk do for love. wherefore, then, wilt thou put them to death, whenas thou shouldst rather honour them with the greatest favours and boons at thy commandment?' [footnote : iron., meaning "with how little discretion."] [footnote : gianni (giovanni) di procida was a sicilian noble, to whose efforts in stirring up the island to revolt against charles of anjou was mainly due the popular rising known as the sicilian vespers (a.d. ) which expelled the french usurper from sicily and transferred the crown to the house of arragon. the frederick (a.d. - ) named in the text was the fourth prince of the latter dynasty.] the king, hearing this and certifying himself that ruggieri spoke sooth, not only forbore from proceeding to do worse, but repented him of that which he had done, wherefore he commanded incontinent that the two lovers should be loosed from the stake and brought before him; which was forthright done. therewith, having fully acquainted himself with their case, he concluded that it behoved him requite them the injury he had done them with gifts and honour; wherefore he let clothe them anew on sumptuous wise and finding them of one accord, caused gianni to take the damsel to wife. then, making them magnificent presents, he sent them back, rejoicing, to their own country, where they were received with the utmost joyance and delight." the seventh story [day the fifth] teodoro, being enamoured of violante, daughter of messer amerigo his lord, getteth her with child and is condemned to be hanged; but, being recognized and delivered by his father, as they are leading him to the gallows, scourging him the while, he taketh violante to wife the ladies, who abode all fearful in suspense to know if the lovers should be burnt, hearing of their escape, praised god and were glad; whereupon the queen, seeing that pampinea had made an end of her story, imposed on lauretta the charge of following on, who blithely proceeded to say: "fairest ladies, in the days when good king william[ ] ruled over sicily, there was in that island a gentleman hight messer amerigo abate of trapani, who, among other worldly goods, was very well furnished with children; wherefore, having occasion for servants and there coming thither from the levant certain galleys of genoese corsairs, who had, in their cruises off the coast of armenia, taken many boys, he bought some of these latter, deeming them turks, and amongst them one, teodoro by name, of nobler mien and better bearing than the rest, who seemed all mere shepherds. teodoro, although entreated as a slave, was brought up in the house with messer amerigo's children and conforming more to his own nature than to the accidents of fortune, approved himself so accomplished and well-bred and so commended himself to messer amerigo that he set him free and still believing him to be a turk, caused baptize him and call him pietro and made him chief over all his affairs, trusting greatly in him. [footnote : william ii. (a.d. - ), the last (legitimate) king of the norman dynasty in sicily, called the good, to distinguish him from his father, william the bad.] as messer amerigo's children grew up, there grew up with them a daughter of his, called violante, a fair and dainty damsel, who, her father tarrying overmuch to marry her, became by chance enamoured of pietro and loving him and holding his manners and fashions in great esteem, was yet ashamed to discover this to him. but love spared her that pains, for that pietro, having once and again looked upon her by stealth, had become so passionately enamoured of her that he never knew ease save whenas he saw her; but he was sore afraid lest any should become aware thereof, himseeming that in this he did other than well. the young lady, who took pleasure in looking upon him, soon perceived this and to give him more assurance, showed herself exceeding well pleased therewith, as indeed she was. on this wise they abode a great while, daring not to say aught to one another, much as each desired it; but, whilst both, alike enamoured, languished enkindled in the flames of love, fortune, as if it had determined of will aforethought that this should be, furnished them with an occasion of doing away the timorousness that baulked them. messer amerigo had, about a mile from trapani, a very goodly place,[ ] to which his lady was wont ofttimes to resort by way of pastime with her daughter and other women and ladies. thither accordingly they betook themselves one day of great heat, carrying pietro with them, and there abiding, it befell, as whiles we see it happen in summer time, that the sky became of a sudden overcast with dark clouds, wherefore the lady set out with her company to return to trapani, so they might not be there overtaken of the foul weather, and fared on as fast as they might. but pietro and violante, being young, outwent her mother and the rest by a great way, urged belike, no less by love than by fear of the weather, and they being already so far in advance that they were hardly to be seen, it chanced that, of a sudden, after many thunderclaps, a very heavy and thick shower of hail began to fall, wherefrom the lady and her company fled into the house of a husbandman. [footnote : apparently a pleasure-garden, without a house attached in which they might have taken shelter from the rain.] pietro and the young lady, having no readier shelter, took refuge in a little old hut, well nigh all in ruins, wherein none dwelt, and there huddled together under a small piece of roof, that yet remained whole. the scantness of the cover constrained them to press close one to other, and this touching was the means of somewhat emboldening their minds to discover the amorous desires that consumed them both; and pietro first began to say, 'would god this hail might never give over, so but i might abide as i am!' 'indeed,' answered the girl, 'that were dear to me also.' from these words they came to taking each other by the hands and pressing them and from that to clipping and after to kissing, it hailing still the while; and in short, not to recount every particular, the weather mended not before they had known the utmost delights of love and had taken order to have their pleasure secretly one of the other. the storm ended, they fared on to the gate of the city, which was near at hand, and there awaiting the lady, returned home with her. thereafter, with very discreet and secret ordinance, they foregathered again and again in the same place, to the great contentment of them both, and the work went on so briskly that the young lady became with child, which was sore unwelcome both to the one and the other; wherefore she used many arts to rid herself, contrary to the course of nature, of her burden, but could nowise avail to accomplish it. therewithal, pietro, fearing for his life, bethought himself to flee and told her, to which she answered, 'an thou depart, i will without fail kill myself.' whereupon quoth pietro, who loved her exceedingly, 'lady mine, how wilt thou have me abide here? thy pregnancy will discover our default and it will lightly be pardoned unto thee; but i, poor wretch, it will be must needs bear the penalty of thy sin and mine own.' 'pietro,' replied she, 'my sin must indeed be discovered; but be assured that thine will never be known, an thou tell not thyself.' then said he, 'since thou promisest me this, i will remain; but look thou keep thy promise to me.' after awhile, the young lady, who had as most she might, concealed her being with child, seeing that, for the waxing of her body, she might no longer dissemble it, one day discovered her case to her mother, beseeching her with many tears to save her; whereupon the lady, beyond measure woeful, gave her hard words galore and would know of her how the thing had come about. violante, in order that no harm might come to pietro, told her a story of her own devising, disguising the truth in other forms. the lady believed it and to conceal her daughter's default, sent her away to a country house of theirs. there, the time of her delivery coming and the girl crying out, as women use to do, what while her mother never dreamed that messer amerigo, who was well nigh never wont to do so, should come thither, it chanced that he passed, on his return from hawking, by the chamber where his daughter lay and marvelling at the outcry she made, suddenly entered the chamber and demanded what was to do. the lady, seeing her husband come unawares, started up all woebegone and told him that which had befallen the girl. but he, less easy of belief than his wife had been, declared that it could not be true that she knew not by whom she was with child and would altogether know who he was, adding that, by confessing it, she might regain his favour; else must she make ready to die without mercy. the lady did her utmost to persuade her husband to abide content with that which she had said; but to no purpose. he flew out into a passion and running, with his naked sword in his hand, at his daughter, who, what while her mother held her father in parley, had given birth to a male child, said, 'either do thou discover by whom the child was begotten, or thou shalt die without delay.' the girl, fearing death, broke her promise to pietro and discovered all that had passed between him and her; which when the gentleman heard, he fell into a fury of anger and hardly withheld himself from slaying her. however, after he had said to her that which his rage dictated to him, he took horse again and returning to trapani, recounted the affront that pietro had done him to a certain messer currado, who was captain there for the king. the latter caused forthright seize pietro, who was off his guard, and put him to the torture, whereupon he confessed all and being a few days after sentenced by the captain to be flogged through the city and after strung up by the neck, messer amerigo (whose wrath had not been done away by the having brought pietro to death,) in order that one and the same hour should rid the earth of the two lovers and their child, put poison in a hanap with wine and delivering it, together with a naked poniard, to a serving-man of his, said to him, 'carry these two things to violante and bid her, on my part, forthright take which she will of these two deaths, poison or steel; else will i have her burned alive, even as she hath deserved, in the presence of as many townsfolk as be here. this done, thou shalt take the child, a few days agone born of her, and dash its head against the wall and after cast it to the dogs to eat.' this barbarous sentence passed by the cruel father upon his daughter and his grandchild, the servant, who was more disposed to ill than to good, went off upon his errand. meanwhile, pietro, as he was carried to the gallows by the officers, being scourged of them the while, passed, according as it pleased those who led the company, before a hostelry wherein were three noblemen of armenia, who had been sent by the king of that country ambassadors to rome, to treat with the pope of certain matters of great moment, concerning a crusade that was about to be undertaken, and who had lighted down there to take some days' rest and refreshment. they had been much honoured by the noblemen of trapani and especially by messer amerigo, and hearing those pass who led pietro, they came to a window to see. now pietro was all naked to the waist, with his hands bounden behind his back, and one of the three ambassadors, a man of great age and authority, named fineo, espied on his breast a great vermeil spot, not painted, but naturally imprinted on his skin, after the fashion of what women here call _roses_. seeing this, there suddenly recurred to his memory a son of his who had been carried off by corsairs fifteen years agone upon the coast of lazistan and of whom he had never since been able to learn any news; and considering the age of the poor wretch who was scourged, he bethought himself that, if his son were alive, he must be of such an age as pietro appeared to him. wherefore he began to suspect by that token that it must be he and bethought himself that, were he indeed his son, he should still remember him of his name and that of his father and of the armenian tongue. accordingly, as he drew near, he called out, saying, 'ho, teodoro!' pietro, hearing this, straightway lifted up his head and fineo, speaking in armenian, said to him, 'what countryman art thou and whose son?' the sergeants who had him in charge halted with him, of respect for the nobleman, so that pietro answered, saying, 'i was of armenia and son to one fineo and was brought hither, as a little child, by i know not what folk.' fineo, hearing this, knew him for certain to be the son whom he had lost, wherefore he came down, weeping, with his companions, and ran to embrace him among all the sergeants; then, casting over his shoulders a mantle of the richest silk, which he had on his own back, he besought the officer who was escorting him to execution to be pleased to wait there till such time as commandment should come to him to carry the prisoner back; to which he answered that he would well. now fineo had already learned the reason for which pietro was being led to death, report having noised it abroad everywhere; wherefore he straightway betook himself, with his companions and their retinue, to messer currado and bespoke him thus: 'sir, he whom you have doomed to die, as a slave, is a free man and my son and is ready to take to wife her whom it is said he hath bereft of her maidenhead; wherefore may it please you to defer the execution till such time as it may be learned if she will have him to husband, so, in case she be willing, you may not be found to have done contrary to the law.' messer currado, hearing that the condemned man was fineo's son, marvelled and confessing that which the latter said to be true, was somewhat ashamed of the unright of fortune and straightway caused carry pietro home; then, sending for messer amerigo, he acquainted him with these things. messer amerigo, who by this believed his daughter and grandson to be dead, was the woefullest man in the world for that which he had done, seeing that all might very well have been set right, so but violante were yet alive. nevertheless, he despatched a runner whereas his daughter was, to the intent that, in case his commandment had not been done, it should not be carried into effect. the messenger found the servant sent by messer amerigo rating the lady, before whom he had laid the poniard and the poison, for that she made not her election as speedily [as he desired], and would have constrained her to take the one or the other. but, hearing his lord's commandment, he let her be and returning to messer amerigo, told him how the case stood, to the great satisfaction of the latter, who, betaking himself whereas fineo was, excused himself, well nigh with tears, as best he knew, of that which had passed, craving pardon therefor and evouching that, an teodoro would have his daughter to wife, he was exceeding well pleased to give her to him. fineo gladly received his excuses and answered, 'it is my intent that my son shall take your daughter to wife; and if he will not, let the sentence passed upon him take its course.' accordingly, being thus agreed, they both repaired whereas teodoro abode yet all fearful of death, albeit he was rejoiced to have found his father again, and questioned him of his mind concerning this thing. when he heard that, an he would, he might have violante to wife, such was his joy that himseemed he had won from hell to heaven at one bound, and he answered that this would be to him the utmost of favours, so but it pleased both of them. thereupon they sent to know the mind of the young lady, who, whereas she abode in expectation of death, the woefullest woman alive, hearing that which had betided and was like to betide teodoro, after much parley, began to lend some faith to their words and taking a little comfort, answered that, were she to ensue her own wishes in the matter, no greater happiness could betide her than to be the wife of teodoro; algates, she would do that which her father should command her. accordingly, all parties being of accord, the two lovers were married with the utmost magnificence, to the exceeding satisfaction of all the townsfolk; and the young lady, heartening herself and letting rear her little son, became ere long fairer than ever. then, being risen from childbed, she went out to meet fineo, whose return was expected from rome, and paid him reverence as to a father; whereupon he, exceeding well pleased to have so fair a daughter-in-law, caused celebrate their nuptials with the utmost pomp and rejoicing and receiving her as a daughter, ever after held her such. and after some days, taking ship with his son and her and his little grandson, he carried them with him into lazistan, where the two lovers abode in peace and happiness, so long as life endured unto them." the eighth story [day the fifth] nastagio degli onesti, falling in love with a lady of the traversari family, spendeth his substance without being beloved in return, and betaking himself, at the instance of his kinsfolk, to chiassi, he there seeth a horseman give chase to a damsel and slay her and cause her be devoured of two dogs. therewithal he biddeth his kinsfolk and the lady whom he loveth to a dinner, where his mistress seeth the same damsel torn in pieces and fearing a like fate, taketh nastagio to husband no sooner was lauretta silent than filomena, by the queen's commandment, began thus: "lovesome ladies, even as pity is in us commended, so also is cruelty rigorously avenged by divine justice; the which that i may prove to you and so engage you altogether to purge yourselves therefrom, it pleaseth me tell you a story no less pitiful than delectable. in ravenna, a very ancient city of romagna, there were aforetime many noblemen and gentlemen, and amongst the rest a young man called nastagio degli onesti, who had, by the death of his father and an uncle of his, been left rich beyond all estimation and who, as it happeneth often with young men, being without a wife, fell in love with a daughter of messer paolo traversari, a young lady of much greater family than his own, hoping by his fashions to bring her to love him in return. but these, though great and goodly and commendable, not only profited him nothing; nay, it seemed they did him harm, so cruel and obdurate and intractable did the beloved damsel show herself to him, being grown belike, whether for her singular beauty or the nobility of her birth, so proud and disdainful that neither he nor aught that pleased him pleased her. this was so grievous to nastagio to bear that many a time, for chagrin, being weary of complaining, he had it in his thought to kill himself, but held his hand therefrom; and again and again he took it to heart to let her be altogether or have her, an he might, in hatred, even as she had him. but in vain did he take such a resolve, for that, the more hope failed him, the more it seemed his love redoubled. accordingly, he persisted both in loving and in spending without stint or measure, till it seemed to certain of his friends and kinsfolk that he was like to consume both himself and his substance; wherefore they besought him again and again and counselled him depart ravenna and go sojourn awhile in some other place, for that, so doing, he would abate both his passion and his expenditure. nastagio long made light of this counsel, but, at last, being importuned of them and able no longer to say no, he promised to do as they would have him and let make great preparations, as he would go into france or spain or some other far place. then, taking horse in company with many of his friends, he rode out of ravenna and betook himself to a place called chiassi, some three miles from the city, where, sending for tents and pavilions, he told those who had accompanied him thither that he meant to abide and that they might return to ravenna. accordingly, having encamped there, he proceeded to lead the goodliest and most magnificent life that was aye, inviting now these, now those others, to supper and to dinner, as he was used. it chanced one day, he being come thus well nigh to the beginning of may and the weather being very fair, that, having entered into thought of his cruel mistress, he bade all his servants leave him to himself, so he might muse more at his leisure, and wandered on, step by step, lost in melancholy thought, till he came [unwillingly] into the pine-wood. the fifth hour of the day was well nigh past and he had gone a good half mile into the wood, remembering him neither of eating nor of aught else, when himseemed of a sudden he heard a terrible great wailing and loud cries uttered by a woman; whereupon, his dulcet meditation being broken, he raised his head to see what was to do and marvelled to find himself among the pines; then, looking before him, he saw a very fair damsel come running, naked through a thicket all thronged with underwood and briers, towards the place where he was, weeping and crying sore for mercy and all dishevelled and torn by the bushes and the brambles. at her heels ran two huge and fierce mastiffs, which followed hard upon her and ofttimes bit her cruelly, whenas they overtook her; and after them he saw come riding upon a black courser a knight arrayed in sad-coloured armour, with a very wrathful aspect and a tuck in his hand, threatening her with death in foul and fearsome words. this sight filled nastagio's mind at once with terror and amazement and after stirred him to compassion of the ill-fortuned lady, wherefrom arose a desire to deliver her, an but he might, from such anguish and death. finding himself without arms, he ran to take the branch of a tree for a club, armed wherewith, he advanced to meet the dogs and the knight. when the latter saw this, he cried out to him from afar off, saying, 'nastagio, meddle not; suffer the dogs and myself to do that which this wicked woman hath merited.' as he spoke, the dogs, laying fast hold of the damsel by the flanks, brought her to a stand and the knight, coming up, lighted down from his horse; whereupon nastagio drew near unto him and said, 'i know not who thou mayst be, that knowest me so well; but this much i say to see that it is a great felony for an armed knight to seek to slay a naked woman and to set the dogs on her, as she were a wild beast; certes, i will defend her as most i may.' 'nastagio,' answered the knight, 'i was of one same city with thyself and thou wast yet a little child when i, who hight messer guido degli anastagi, was yet more passionately enamoured of this woman than thou art presently of yonder one of the traversari and my ill fortune for her hard-heartedness and barbarity came to such a pass that one day i slew myself in despair with this tuck thou seest in my hand and was doomed to eternal punishment. nor was it long ere she, who was beyond measure rejoiced at my death, died also and for the sin of her cruelty and of the delight had of her in my torments (whereof she repented her not, as one who thought not to have sinned therein, but rather to have merited reward,) was and is on like wise condemned to the pains of hell. wherein no sooner was she descended than it was decreed unto her and to me, for penance thereof,[ ] that she should flee before me and that i, who once loved her so dear, should pursue her, not as a beloved mistress, but as a mortal enemy, and that, as often as i overtook her, i should slay her with this tuck, wherewith i slew myself, and ripping open her loins, tear from her body, as thou shalt presently see, that hard and cold heart, wherein nor love nor pity might ever avail to enter, together with the other entrails, and give them to the dogs to eat. nor is it a great while after ere, as god's justice and puissance will it, she riseth up again, as she had not been dead, and beginneth anew her woeful flight, whilst the dogs and i again pursue her. and every friday it betideth that i come up with her here at this hour and wreak on her the slaughter that thou shalt see; and think not that we rest the other days; nay, i overtake her in other places, wherein she thought and wrought cruelly against me. thus, being as thou seest, from her lover grown her foe, it behoveth me pursue her on this wise as many years as she was cruel to me months. wherefore leave me to carry the justice of god into effect and seek not to oppose that which thou mayst not avail to hinder.' [footnote : _i.e._ of her sin.] nastagio, hearing these words, drew back, grown all adread, with not an hair on his body but stood on end, and looking upon the wretched damsel, began fearfully to await that which the knight should do. the latter, having made an end of his discourse, ran, tuck in hand, as he were a ravening dog, at the damsel, who, fallen on her knees and held fast by the two mastiffs, cried him mercy, and smiting her with all his might amiddleward the breast, pierced her through and through. no sooner had she received this stroke than she fell grovelling on the ground, still weeping and crying out; whereupon the knight, clapping his hand to his hunting-knife, ripped open her loins and tearing forth her heart and all that was thereabout, cast them to the two mastiffs, who devoured them incontinent, as being sore anhungred. nor was it long ere, as if none of these things had been, the damsel of a sudden rose to her feet and began to flee towards the sea, with the dogs after her, still rending her; and in a little while they had gone so far that nastagio could see them no more. the latter, seeing these things, abode a great while between pity and fear, and presently it occurred to his mind that this might much avail him, seeing that it befell every friday; wherefore, marking the place, he returned to his servants and after, whenas it seemed to him fit, he sent for sundry of his kinsmen and friends and said to them, 'you have long urged me leave loving this mine enemy and put an end to my expenditure, and i am ready to do it, provided you will obtain me a favour; the which is this, that on the coming friday you make shift to have messer paolo traversari and his wife and daughter and all their kinswomen and what other ladies soever it shall please you here to dinner with me. that for which i wish this, you shall see then.' this seemed to them a little thing enough to do, wherefore, returning to ravenna, they in due time invited those whom nastagio would have to dine with him, and albeit it was no easy matter to bring thither the young lady whom he loved, natheless she went with the other ladies. meanwhile, nastagio let make ready a magnificent banquet and caused set the tables under the pines round about the place where he had witnessed the slaughter of the cruel lady. the time come, he seated the gentlemen and the ladies at table and so ordered it that his mistress should be placed right over against the spot where the thing should befall. accordingly, hardly was the last dish come when the despairful outcry of the hunted damsel began to be heard of all, whereat each of the company marvelled and enquired what was to do, but none could say; whereupon all started to their feet and looking what this might be, they saw the woeful damsel and the knight and the dogs; nor was it long ere they were all there among them. great was the clamor against both dogs and knight, and many rushed forward to succour the damsel; but the knight, bespeaking them as he had bespoken nastagio, not only made them draw back, but filled them all with terror and amazement. then did he as he had done before, whereat all the ladies that were there (and there were many present who had been kinswomen both to the woeful damsel and to the knight and who remembered them both of his love and of his death) wept as piteously as if they had seen this done to themselves. the thing carried to its end and the damsel and the knight gone, the adventure set those who had seen it upon many and various discourses; but of those who were the most affrighted was the cruel damsel beloved of nastagio, who had distinctly seen and heard the whole matter and understood that these things concerned her more than any other who was there, remembering her of the cruelty she had still used towards nastagio; wherefore herseemed she fled already before her enraged lover and had the mastiffs at her heels. such was the terror awakened in her thereby that,--so this might not betide her,--no sooner did she find an opportunity (which was afforded her that same evening) than, turning her hatred into love, she despatched to nastagio a trusty chamberwoman of hers, who besought him that it should please him to go to her, for that she was ready to do all that should be his pleasure. he answered that this was exceeding agreeable to him, but that, so it pleased her, he desired to have his pleasure of her with honour, to wit, by taking her to wife. the damsel, who knew that it rested with none other than herself that she had not been his wife, made answer to him that it liked her well; then, playing the messenger herself, she told her father and mother that she was content to be nastagio's wife, whereat they were mightily rejoiced, and he, espousing her on the ensuing sunday and celebrating his nuptials, lived with her long and happily. nor was this affright the cause of that good only; nay, all the ladies of ravenna became so fearful by reason thereof, that ever after they were much more amenable than they had before been to the desires of the men." the ninth story [day the fifth] federigo degli alberighi loveth and is not loved. he wasteth his substance in prodigal hospitality till there is left him but one sole falcon, which, having nought else, he giveth his mistress to eat, on her coming to his house; and she, learning this, changeth her mind and taking him to husband, maketh him rich again filomena having ceased speaking, the queen, seeing that none remained to tell save only herself and dioneo, whose privilege entitled him to speak last, said, with blithe aspect, "it pertaineth now to me to tell and i, dearest ladies, will willingly do it, relating a story like in part to the foregoing, to the intent that not only may you know how much the love of you[ ] can avail in gentle hearts, but that you may learn to be yourselves, whenas it behoveth, bestowers of your guerdons, without always suffering fortune to be your guide, which most times, as it chanceth, giveth not discreetly, but out of all measure. [footnote : syn. your charms (_la vostra vaghezza_).] you must know, then, that coppo di borghese domenichi, who was of our days and maybe is yet a man of great worship and authority in our city and illustrious and worthy of eternal renown, much more for his fashions and his merit than for the nobility of his blood, being grown full of years, delighted oftentimes to discourse with his neighbours and others of things past, the which he knew how to do better and more orderly and with more memory and elegance of speech than any other man. amongst other fine things of his, he was used to tell that there was once in florence a young man called federigo, son of messer filippo alberighi and renowned for deeds of arms and courtesy over every other bachelor in tuscany, who, as betideth most gentlemen, became enamoured of a gentlewoman named madam giovanna, in her day held one of the fairest and sprightliest ladies that were in florence; and to win her love, he held jousts and tourneyings and made entertainments and gave gifts and spent his substance without any stint; but she, being no less virtuous than fair, recked nought of these things done for her nor of him who did them. federigo spending thus far beyond his means and gaining nought, his wealth, as lightly happeneth, in course of time came to an end and he abode poor, nor was aught left him but a poor little farm, on whose returns he lived very meagrely, and to boot a falcon he had, one of the best in the world. wherefore, being more in love than ever and himseeming he might no longer make such a figure in the city as he would fain do, he took up his abode at campi, where his farm was, and there bore his poverty with patience, hawking whenas he might and asking of no one. federigo being thus come to extremity, it befell one day that madam giovanna's husband fell sick and seeing himself nigh upon death, made his will, wherein, being very rich, he left a son of his, now well grown, his heir, after which, having much loved madam giovanna, he substituted her to his heir, in case his son should die without lawful issue, and died. madam giovanna, being thus left a widow, betook herself that summer, as is the usance of our ladies, into the country with her son to an estate of hers very near that of federigo; wherefore it befell that the lad made acquaintance with the latter and began to take delight in hawks and hounds, and having many a time seen his falcon flown and being strangely taken therewith, longed sore to have it, but dared not ask it of him, seeing it so dear to him. the thing standing thus, it came to pass that the lad fell sick, whereat his mother was sore concerned, as one who had none but him and loved him with all her might, and abode about him all day, comforting him without cease; and many a time she asked him if there were aught he desired, beseeching him tell it her, for an it might be gotten, she would contrive that he should have it. the lad, having heard these offers many times repeated, said, 'mother mine, an you could procure me to have federigo's falcon, methinketh i should soon be whole.' the lady hearing this, bethought herself awhile and began to consider how she should do. she knew that federigo had long loved her and had never gotten of her so much as a glance of the eye; wherefore quoth she in herself, 'how shall i send or go to him to seek of him this falcon, which is, by all i hear, the best that ever flew and which, to boot, maintaineth him in the world? and how can i be so graceless as to offer to take this from a gentleman who hath none other pleasure left?' perplexed with this thought and knowing not what to say, for all she was very certain of getting the bird, if she asked for it, she made no reply to her son, but abode silent. however, at last, the love of her son so got the better of her that she resolved in herself to satisfy him, come what might, and not to send, but to go herself for the falcon and fetch it to him. accordingly she said to him, 'my son, take comfort and bethink thyself to grow well again, for i promise thee that the first thing i do to-morrow morning i will go for it and fetch it to thee.' the boy was rejoiced at this and showed some amendment that same day. next morning, the lady, taking another lady to bear her company, repaired, by way of diversion, to federigo's little house and enquired for the latter, who, for that it was no weather for hawking nor had been for some days past, was then in a garden he had, overlooking the doing of certain little matters of his, and hearing that madam giovanna asked for him at the door, ran thither, rejoicing and marvelling exceedingly. she, seeing him come, rose and going with womanly graciousness to meet him, answered his respectful salutation with 'give you good day, federigo!' then went on to say, 'i am come to make thee amends for that which thou hast suffered through me, in loving me more than should have behooved thee; and the amends in question is this that i purpose to dine with thee this morning familiarly, i and this lady my companion.' 'madam,' answered federigo humbly, 'i remember me not to have ever received any ill at your hands, but on the contrary so much good that, if ever i was worth aught, it came about through your worth and the love i bore you; and assuredly, albeit you have come to a poor host, this your gracious visit is far more precious to me than it would be an it were given me to spend over again as much as that which i have spent aforetime.' so saying, he shamefastly received her into his house and thence brought her into his garden, where, having none else to bear her company, he said to her, 'madam, since there is none else here, this good woman, wife of yonder husbandman, will bear you company, whilst i go see the table laid.' never till that moment, extreme as was his poverty, had he been so dolorously sensible of the straits to which he had brought himself for the lack of those riches he had spent on such disorderly wise. but that morning, finding he had nothing wherewithal he might honourably entertain the lady, for love of whom he had aforetime entertained folk without number, he was made perforce aware of his default and ran hither and thither, perplexed beyond measure, like a man beside himself, inwardly cursing his ill fortune, but found neither money nor aught he might pawn. it was now growing late and he having a great desire to entertain the gentle lady with somewhat, yet choosing not to have recourse to his own labourer, much less any one else, his eye fell on his good falcon, which he saw on his perch in his little saloon; whereupon, having no other resource, he took the bird and finding him fat, deemed him a dish worthy of such a lady. accordingly, without more ado, he wrung the hawk's neck and hastily caused a little maid of his pluck it and truss it and after put it on the spit and roast it diligently. then, the table laid and covered with very white cloths, whereof he had yet some store, he returned with a blithe countenance to the lady in the garden and told her that dinner was ready, such as it was in his power to provide. accordingly, the lady and her friend, arising, betook themselves to table and in company with federigo, who served them with the utmost diligence, ate the good falcon, unknowing what they did. presently, after they had risen from table and had abidden with him awhile in cheerful discourse, the lady, thinking it time to tell that wherefor she was come, turned to federigo and courteously bespoke him, saying, 'federigo, i doubt not a jot but that, when thou hearest that which is the especial occasion of my coming hither, thou wilt marvel at my presumption, remembering thee of thy past life and of my virtue, which latter belike thou reputedst cruelty and hardness of heart; but, if thou hadst or hadst had children, by whom thou mightest know how potent is the love one beareth them, meseemeth certain that thou wouldst in part hold me excused. but, although thou hast none, i, who have one child, cannot therefore escape the common laws to which other mothers are subject and whose enforcements it behoveth me ensue, need must i, against my will and contrary to all right and seemliness, ask of thee a boon, which i know is supremely dear to thee (and that with good reason, for that thy sorry fortune hath left thee none other delight, none other diversion, none other solace), to wit, thy falcon, whereof my boy is so sore enamoured that, an i carry it not to him, i fear me his present disorder will be so aggravated that there may presently ensue thereof somewhat whereby i shall lose him. wherefore i conjure thee,--not by the love thou bearest me and whereto thou art nowise beholden, but by thine own nobility, which in doing courtesy hath approved itself greater than in any other,--that it please thee give it to me, so by the gift i may say i have kept my son alive and thus made him for ever thy debtor.' federigo, hearing what the lady asked and knowing that he could not oblige her, for that he had given her the falcon to eat, fell a-weeping in her presence, ere he could answer a word. the lady at first believed that his tears arose from grief at having to part from his good falcon and was like to say that she would not have it. however, she contained herself and awaited what federigo should reply, who, after weeping awhile, made answer thus: 'madam, since it pleased god that i should set my love on you, i have in many things reputed fortune contrary to me and have complained of her; but all the ill turns she hath done me have been a light matter in comparison with that which she doth me at this present and for which i can never more be reconciled to her, considering that you are come hither to my poor house, whereas you deigned not to come what while i was rich, and seek of me a little boon, the which she hath so wrought that i cannot grant you; and why this cannot be i will tell you briefly. when i heard that you, of your favour, were minded to dine with me, i deemed it a light thing and a seemly, having regard to your worth and the nobility of your station, to honour you, as far as in me lay, with some choicer victual than that which is commonly set before other folk; wherefore, remembering me of the falcon which you ask of me and of his excellence, i judged him a dish worthy of you. this very morning, then, you have had him roasted upon the trencher, and indeed i had accounted him excellently well bestowed; but now, seeing that you would fain have had him on other wise, it is so great a grief to me that i cannot oblige you therein that methinketh i shall never forgive myself therefor.' so saying, in witness of this, he let cast before her the falcon's feathers and feet and beak. the lady, seeing and hearing this, first blamed him for having, to give a woman to eat, slain such a falcon, and after inwardly much commended the greatness of his soul, which poverty had not availed nor might anywise avail to abate. then, being put out of all hope of having the falcon and fallen therefore in doubt of her son's recovery, she took her leave and returned, all disconsolate, to the latter, who, before many days had passed, whether for chagrin that he could not have the bird or for that his disorder was e'en fated to bring him to that pass, departed this life, to the inexpressible grief of his mother. after she had abidden awhile full of tears and affliction, being left very rich and yet young, she was more than once urged by her brothers to marry again, and albeit she would fain not have done so, yet, finding herself importuned and calling to mind federigo's worth and his last magnificence, to wit, the having slain such a falcon for her entertainment, she said to them, 'i would gladly, an it liked you, abide as i am; but, since it is your pleasure that i take a [second] husband, certes i will never take any other, an i have not federigo degli alberighi.' whereupon her brothers, making mock of her, said 'silly woman that thou art, what is this thou sayest? how canst thou choose him, seeing he hath nothing in the world?' 'brothers mine,' answered she, 'i know very well that it is as you say; but i would liefer have a man that lacketh of riches than riches that lack of a man.' her brethren, hearing her mind and knowing federigo for a man of great merit, poor though he was, gave her, with all her wealth, to him, even as she would; and he, seeing himself married to a lady of such worth and one whom he had loved so dear and exceeding rich, to boot, became a better husband of his substance and ended his days with her in joy and solace." the tenth story [day the fifth] pietro di vinciolo goeth to sup abroad, whereupon his wife letteth fetch her a youth to keep her company, and her husband returning, unlooked for, she hideth her gallant under a hen-coop. pietro telleth her how there had been found in the house of one arcolano, with whom he was to have supped, a young man brought in by his wife, and she blameth the latter. presently, an ass, by mischance, setteth foot on the fingers of him who is under the coop and he roareth out, whereupon pietro runneth thither and espying him, discovereth his wife's unfaith, but ultimately cometh to an accord with her for his own lewd ends the queen's story come to an end and all having praised god for that he had rewarded federigo according to his desert, dioneo, who never waited for commandment, began on this wise: "i know not whether to say if it be a casual vice, grown up in mankind through perversity of manners and usances, or a defect inherent in our nature, that we laugh rather at things ill than at good works, especially when they concern us not. wherefore, seeing that the pains i have otherwhiles taken and am now about to take aim at none other end than to rid you of melancholy and afford you occasion for laughter and merriment,--albeit the matter of my present story may be in part not altogether seemly, nevertheless, lovesome lasses, for that it may afford diversion, i will e'en tell it you, and do you, hearkening thereunto, as you are wont to do, whenas you enter into gardens, where, putting out your dainty hands, you cull the roses and leave the thorns be. on this wise must you do with my story, leaving the naughty man of whom i shall tell you to his infamy and ill-luck go with him, what while you laugh merrily at the amorous devices of his wife, having compassion, whenas need is, of the mischances of others. there was, then, in perugia, no great while agone, a rich man called pietro di vinciolo, who, belike more to beguile others and to abate the general suspect in which he was had of all the perugians, than for any desire of his own, took him a wife, and fortune in this was so far conformable to his inclination that the wife he took was a thickset, red-haired, hot-complexioned wench, who would liefer have had two husbands than one, whereas she happened upon one who had a mind far more disposed to otherwhat than to her. becoming, in process of time, aware of this and seeing herself fair and fresh and feeling herself buxom and lusty, she began by being sore incensed thereat and came once and again to unseemly words thereof with her husband, with whom she was well nigh always at variance. then, seeing that this might result rather in her own exhaustion than in the amendment of her husband's depravity, she said in herself, 'yonder caitiff forsaketh me to go of his ribaldries on pattens through the dry, and i will study to carry others on shipboard through the wet. i took him to husband and brought him a fine great dowry, knowing him to be a man and supposing him desireful of that whereunto men are and should be fain; and had i not believed that he would play the part of a man, i had never taken him. he knew that i was a woman; why, then, did he take me to wife, if women were not to his mind? this is not to be suffered. were i minded to renounce the world, i should have made myself a nun; but, if, choosing to live in the world, as i do, i look for delight or pleasure from yonder fellow, i may belike grow old, expecting in vain, and whenas i shall be old, i shall in vain repent and bemoan myself of having wasted my youth, which latter he himself is a very good teacher and demonstrator how i should solace, showing me by example how i should delect myself with that wherein he delighteth, more by token that this were commendable in me, whereas in him it is exceeding blameworthy, seeing that i should offend against the laws alone, whereas he offendeth against both law and nature.' accordingly, the good lady, having thus bethought herself and belike more than once, to give effect privily to these considerations, clapped up an acquaintance with an old woman who showed like saint verdiana, that giveth the serpents to eat, and still went to every pardoning, beads in hand, nor ever talked of aught but the lives of the holy fathers or of the wounds of st. francis and was of well nigh all reputed a saint, and whenas it seemed to her time, frankly discovered to her her intent. 'daughter mine,' replied the beldam, 'god who knoweth all knoweth that thou wilt do exceeding well, and if for nought else, yet shouldst thou do it, thou and every other young woman, not to lose the time of your youth, for that to whoso hath understanding, there is no grief like that of having lost one's time. and what a devil are we women good for, once we are old, save to keep the ashes about the fire-pot? if none else knoweth it and can bear witness thereof, that do and can i; for, now that i am old, i recognize without avail, but not without very sore and bitter remorse of mind, the time that i let slip, and albeit i lost it not altogether (for that i would not have thee deem me a ninny), still i did not what i might have done; whereof whenas i remember me, seeing myself fashioned as thou seest me at this present, so that thou wouldst find none to give me fire to my tinder,[ ] god knoweth what chagrin i feel. with men it is not so; they are born apt for a thousand things, not for this alone, and most part of them are of much more account old than young; but women are born into the world for nothing but to do this and bear children, and it is for this that they are prized; the which, if from nought else, thou mayst apprehend from this, that we women are still ready for the sport; more by token that one woman would tire out many men at the game, whereas many men cannot tire one woman; and for that we are born unto this, i tell thee again that thou wilt do exceeding well to return thy husband a loaf for his bannock, so thy soul may have no cause to reproach thy flesh in thine old age. each one hath of this world just so much as he taketh to himself thereof, and especially is this the case with women, whom it behoveth, much more than men, make use of their time, whilst they have it; for thou mayst see how, when we grow old, nor husband nor other will look at us; nay, they send us off to the kitchen to tell tales to the cat and count the pots and pans; and what is worse, they tag rhymes on us and say, "tidbits for wenches young; gags[ ] for the old wife's tongue." [footnote : _i.e._ she was grown so repulsively ugly in her old age, that no one cared to do her even so trifling a service as giving her a spark in tinder to light her fire withal.] [footnote : or chokebits (_stranguglioni_).] and many another thing to the like purpose. and that i may hold thee no longer in parley, i tell thee in fine that thou couldst not have discovered thy mind to any one in the world who can be more useful to thee than i, for that there is no man so high and mighty but i dare tell him what behoveth, nor any so dour or churlish but i know how to supple him aright and bring him to what i will. wherefore do thou but show me who pleaseth thee and after leave me do; but one thing i commend to thee, daughter mine, and that is, that thou be mindful of me, for that i am a poor body and would have thee henceforth a sharer in all my pardonings and in all the paternosters i shall say, so god may make them light and candles for thy dead.'[ ] [footnote : _i.e._ that they may serve to purchase remission from purgatory for the souls of her dead relatives, instead of the burning of candles and tapers, which is held by the roman catholic church to have that effect.] with this she made an end of her discourse, and the young lady came to an understanding with her that, whenas she chanced to spy a certain young spark who passed often through that quarter and whose every feature she set out to her, she should know what she had to do; then, giving her a piece of salt meat, she dismissed her with god's blessing; nor had many days passed ere the old woman brought her him of whom she had bespoken her privily into her chamber, and a little while after, another and another, according as they chanced to take the lady's fancy, who stinted not to indulge herself in this as often as occasion offered, though still fearful of her husband. it chanced one evening that, her husband being to sup abroad with a friend of his, ercolano by name, she charged the old woman bring her a youth, who was one of the goodliest and most agreeable of all perugia, which she promptly did; but hardly had the lady seated herself at table to sup with her gallant, when, behold, pietro called out at the door to have it opened to him. she, hearing this, gave herself up for lost, but yet desiring, an she might, to conceal the youth and not having the presence of mind to send him away or hide him elsewhere, made him take refuge under a hen-coop, that was in a shed adjoining the chamber where they were at supper, and cast over him the sacking of a pallet-bed that she had that day let empty. this done, she made haste to open to her husband, to whom quoth she, as soon as he entered the house, 'you have very soon despatched this supper of yours!' 'we have not so much as tasted it,' replied he; and she said, 'how was that?' quoth he, 'i will tell thee. scarce were we seated at table, ercolano and his wife and i, when we heard some one sneeze hard by, whereof we took no note the first time nor the second; but, he who sneezed sneezing yet a third time and a fourth and a fifth and many other times, it made us all marvel; whereupon ercolano, who was somewhat vexed with his wife for that she had kept us a great while standing at the door, without opening to us, said, as if in a rage, "what meaneth this? who is it sneezeth thus?" and rising from table, made for a stair that stood near at hand and under which, hard by the stairfoot, was a closure of planks, wherein to bestow all manner things, as we see those do every day who set their houses in order. himseeming it was from this that came the noise of sneezing, he opened a little door that was therein and no sooner had he done this than there issued forth thereof the frightfullest stench of sulphur that might be. somewhat of this smell had already reached us and we complaining thereof, the lady had said, "it is because i was but now in act to bleach my veils with sulphur and after set the pan, over which i had spread them to catch the fumes, under the stair, so that it yet smoketh thereof." as soon as the smoke was somewhat spent, ercolano looked into the cupboard and there espied him who had sneezed and who was yet in act to sneeze, for that the fumes of the sulphur constrained him thereto, and indeed they had by this time so straitened his breast that, had he abidden a while longer, he had never sneezed nor done aught else again. ercolano, seeing him, cried out, "now, wife, i see why, whenas we came hither awhile ago, we were kept so long at the door, without its being opened to us; but may i never again have aught that shall please me, an i pay thee not for this!" the lady, hearing this and seeing that her sin was discovered, stayed not to make any excuse, but started up from table and made off i know not whither. ercolano, without remarking his wife's flight, again and again bade him who sneezed come forth; but the latter, who was now at the last gasp, offered not to stir, for all that he could say; whereupon, taking him by one foot, he haled him forth of his hiding-place and ran for a knife to kill him; but i, fearing the police on mine own account, arose and suffered him not to slay him or do him any hurt; nay, crying out and defending him, i gave the alarm to certain of the neighbours, who ran thither and taking the now half-dead youth, carried him forth the house i know not whither. wherefore, our supper being disturbed by these things, i have not only not despatched it, nay, i have, as i said, not even tasted it.' the lady, hearing this, knew that there were other women as wise as herself, albeit illhap bytimes betided some of them thereof, and would fain have defended ercolano's wife with words; but herseeming that, by blaming others' defaults, she might make freer way for her own, she began to say, 'here be fine doings! a holy and virtuous lady indeed she must be! she, to whom, as i am an honest woman, i would have confessed myself, so spiritually minded meseemed she was! and the worst of it is that she, being presently an old woman, setteth a mighty fine example to the young. accursed by the hour she came into the world and she also, who suffereth herself to live, perfidious and vile woman that she must be, the general reproach and shame of all the ladies of this city, who, casting to the winds her honour and the faith plighted to her husband and the world's esteem, is not ashamed to dishonour him, and herself with him, for another man, him who is such a man and so worshipful a citizen and who used her so well! so god save me, there should be no mercy had of such women as she; they should be put to death; they should be cast alive into the fire and burned to ashes.' then, bethinking her of her gallant, whom she had hard by under the coop, she began to exhort pietro to betake himself to bed, for that it was time; but he, having more mind to eat than to sleep, enquired if there was aught for supper. 'supper, quotha!' answered the lady. 'truly, we are much used to get supper, whenas thou art abroad! a fine thing, indeed! dost thou take me for ercolano's wife? alack, why dost thou not go to sleep for to-night? how far better thou wilt do!' now it chanced that, certain husbandmen of pietro's being come that evening with sundry matters from the farm and having put up their asses, without watering them, in a little stable adjoining the shed, one of the latter, being sore athirst, slipped his head out of the halter and making his way out of the stable, went smelling to everything, so haply he might find some water, and going thus, he came presently full on the hen-coop, under which was the young man. the latter having, for that it behoved him abide on all fours, put out the fingers of one hand on the ground beyond the coop, such was his luck, or rather let us say, his ill luck, that the ass set his hoof on them, whereupon the youth, feeling an exceeding great pain, set up a terrible outcry. pietro, hearing this, marvelled and perceived that the noise came from within the house; wherefore he went out into the shed and hearing the other still clamouring, for that the ass had not lifted up his hoof from his fingers, but still trod hard upon them, said, 'who is there?' then, running to the hen-coop, he raised it and espied the young man, who, beside the pain he suffered from his fingers that were crushed by the ass's hoof, was all a-trembling for fear lest pietro should do him a mischief. the latter, knowing him for one whom he had long pursued for his lewd ends, asked him what he did there, whereto he answered him nothing, but prayed him for the love of god do him no harm. quoth pietro, 'arise and fear not that i will do thee any hurt; but tell me how thou comest here and for what purpose.' the youth told him all, whereupon pietro, no less rejoiced to have found him than his wife was woeful, taking him by the hand, carried him into the chamber, where the lady awaited him with the greatest affright in the world, and seating himself overagainst her, said, 'but now thou cursedst ercolano's wife and avouchedst that she should be burnt and that she was the disgrace of all you women; why didst thou not speak of thyself? or, an thou choosedst not to speak of thyself, how could thy conscience suffer thee to speak thus of her, knowing thyself to have done even as did she? certes, none other thing moved thee thereunto save that you women are all made thus and look to cover your own doings with others' defaults; would fire might come from heaven to burn you all up, perverse generation that you are!' the lady, seeing that, in the first heat of the discovery, he had done her no harm other than in words and herseeming she saw that he was all agog with joy for that he held so goodly a stripling by the hand, took heart and said, 'of this much, indeed, i am mighty well assured, that thou wouldst have fire come from heaven to burn us women all up, being, as thou art, as fain to us as a dog to cudgels; but, by christ his cross, thou shalt not get thy wish. however, i would fain have a little discourse with thee, so i may know of what thou complainest. certes, it were a fine thing an thou shouldst seek to even me with ercolano's wife, who is a beat-breast, a smell-sin,[ ] and hath of her husband what she will and is of him held dear as a wife should be, the which is not the case with me. for, grant that i am well clad and shod of thee, thou knowest but too well how i fare for the rest and how long it is since thou hast lain with me; and i had liefer go barefoot and rags to my back and be well used of thee abed than have all these things, being used as i am of thee. for understand plainly, pietro; i am a woman like other women and have a mind unto that which other women desire; so that, an i procure me thereof, not having it from thee, thou hast no call to missay of me therefor; at the least, i do thee this much honour that i have not to do with horseboys and scald-heads.' [footnote : _i.e._ a hypocritical sham devotee, covering a lewd life with an appearance of sanctity.] pietro perceived that words were not like to fail her for all that night; wherefore, as one who recked little of her, 'wife,' said he, 'no more for the present; i will content thee aright of this matter; but thou wilt do us a great courtesy to let us have somewhat to sup withal, for that meseemeth this lad, like myself, hath not yet supped.' 'certes, no,' answered the lady, 'he hath not yet supped; for we were sitting down to table, when thou camest in thine ill hour.' 'go, then,' rejoined pietro, 'contrive that we may sup, and after i will order this matter on such wise that thou shalt have no cause to complain.' the lady, finding that her husband was satisfied, arose and caused straightway reset the table; then, letting bring the supper she had prepared, she supped merrily in company with her caitiff of a husband and the young man. after supper, what pietro devised for the satisfaction of all three hath escaped my mind; but this much i know that on the following morning the youth was escorted back to the public place, not altogether certain which he had the more been that night, wife or husband. wherefore, dear my ladies, this will i say to you, 'whoso doth it to you, do you it to him'; and if you cannot presently, keep it in mind till such time as you can, so he may get as good as he giveth." * * * * * dioneo having made an end of his story, which had been less laughed at by the ladies [than usual], more for shamefastness than for the little delight they took therein, the queen, seeing the end of her sovranty come, rose to her feet and putting off the laurel crown, set it blithely on elisa's head, saying, "with you, madam, henceforth it resteth to command." elisa, accepting the honour, did even as it had been done before her, in that, having first, to the satisfaction of the company, taken order with the seneschal for that whereof there was need for the time of her governance, she said, "we have many a time heard how, by dint of smart sayings and ready repartees and prompt advisements, many have availed with an apt retort[ ] to take the edge off other folks' teeth or to fend off imminent perils; and, for that the matter is goodly and may be useful,[ ] i will that to-morrow, with god's aid, it be discoursed within these terms, to wit, of whoso, being assailed with some jibing speech, hath vindicated himself or hath with some ready reply or advisement escaped loss, peril or shame." [footnote : lit. a due or deserved bite (_debito morso_). i mention this to show the connection with teeth.] [footnote : an ellipsis of a kind common in boccaccio and indeed in all the old italian writers, meaning "it may be useful to enlarge upon the subject in question."] this was much commended of all, whereupon the queen, rising to her feet, dismissed them all until supper time. the honourable company, seeing her risen, stood up all and each, according to the wonted fashion, applied himself to that which was most agreeable to him. but, the crickets having now given over singing, the queen let call every one and they betook themselves to supper, which being despatched with merry cheer, they all gave themselves to singing and making music, and emilia having, at the queen's commandment, set up a dance, dioneo was bidden sing a song, whereupon he straightway struck up with "mistress aldruda, come lift up your fud-a, for i bring you, i bring you, good tidings." whereat all the ladies fell a-laughing and especially the queen, who bade him leave that and sing another. quoth dioneo, "madam, had i a tabret, i would sing 'come truss your coats, i prithee, mistress burdock,' or 'under the olive the grass is'; or will you have me say 'the waves of the sea do great evil to me'? but i have no tabret, so look which you will of these others. will it please you have 'come forth unto us, so it may be cut down, like a may in the midst of the meadows'?" "nay," answered the queen; "give us another." "then," said dioneo, "shall i sing, 'mistress simona, embarrel, embarrel! it is not the month of october'?" quoth the queen, laughing, "ill luck to thee, sing us a goodly one, an thou wilt, for we will none of these." "nay, madam," rejoined dioneo, "fash not yourself; but which then like you better? i know more than a thousand. will you have 'this my shell an i prick it not well,' or 'fair and softly, husband mine' or 'i'll buy me a cock, a cock of an hundred pounds sterling'?"[ ] therewithal the queen, somewhat provoked, though all the other ladies laughed, said, "dioneo, leave jesting and sing us a goodly one; else shalt thou prove how i can be angry." hearing this, he gave over his quips and cranks and forthright fell a-singing after this fashion: [footnote : the songs proposed by dioneo are all apparently of a light, if not a wanton, character and "not fit to be sung before ladies."] o love, the amorous light that beameth from yon fair one's lovely eyes hath made me thine and hers in servant-guise. the splendour of her lovely eyes, it wrought that first thy flames were kindled in my breast, passing thereto through mine; yea, and thy virtue first unto my thought her visage fair it was made manifest, which picturing, i twine and lay before her shrine all virtues, that to her i sacrifice, become the new occasion of my sighs. thus, dear my lord, thy vassal am i grown and of thy might obediently await grace for my lowliness; yet wot i not if wholly there be known the high desire that in my breast thou'st set and my sheer faith, no less, of her who doth possess my heart so that from none beneath the skies, save her alone, peace would i take or prize. wherefore i pray thee, sweet my lord and sire, discover it to her and cause her taste some scantling of thy heat to-me-ward,--for thou seest that in the fire, loving, i languish and for torment waste by inches at her feet,-- and eke in season meet commend me to her favour on such wise as i would plead for thee, should need arise.[ ] [footnote : this singularly naïve give-and-take fashion of asking a favour of a god recalls the old scotch epitaph cited by mr. george macdonald: here lie i martin elginbrodde: hae mercy o' my soul, lord god; as i wad do, were i lord god and ye were martin elginbrodde.] dioneo, by his silence, showing that his song was ended, the queen let sing many others, having natheless much commended his. then, somedele of the night being spent and the queen feeling the heat of the day to be now overcome of the coolness of the night, she bade each at his pleasure betake himself to rest against the ensuing day. here endeth the fifth day of the decameron _day the sixth_ here beginneth the sixth day of the decameron wherein under the governance of elisa is discoursed of whoso being assailed with some jibing speech hath vindicated himself or hath with some ready reply or advisement escaped loss, peril or shame the moon, being now in the middest heaven, had lost its radiance and every part of our world was bright with the new coming light, when, the queen arising and letting call her company, they all with slow step fared forth and rambled over the dewy grass to a little distance from the fair hill, holding various discourse of one thing and another and debating of the more or less goodliness of the stories told, what while they renewed their laughter at the various adventures related therein, till such time as the sun mounting high and beginning to wax hot, it seemed well to them all to turn homeward. wherefore, reversing their steps, they returned to the palace and there, by the queen's commandment, the tables being already laid and everything strewn with sweet-scented herbs and fair flowers, they addressed themselves to eat, ere the heat should grow greater. this being joyously accomplished, ere they did otherwhat, they sang divers goodly and pleasant canzonets, after which some went to sleep, whilst some sat down to play at chess and other some at tables and dioneo fell to singing, in concert with lauretta, of troilus and cressida. then, the hour come for their reassembling after the wonted fashion,[ ] they all, being summoned on the part of the queen, seated themselves, as of their usance, about the fountain; but, as she was about to call for the first story, there befell a thing that had not yet befallen there, to wit, that a great clamour was heard by her and by all, made by the wenches and serving-men in the kitchen. [footnote : lit. for their returning to consistory (_del dovere a concistoro tornare_).] the seneschal, being called and questioned who it was that cried thus and what might be the occasion of the turmoil, answered that the clamour was between licisca and tindaro, but that he knew not the cause thereof, being but then come thither to make them bide quiet, whenas he had been summoned on her part. the queen bade him incontinent fetch thither the two offenders and they being come, enquired what was the cause of their clamour; whereto tindaro offering to reply, licisca, who was well in years and somewhat overmasterful, being heated with the outcry she had made, turned to him with an angry air and said, "mark this brute of a man who dareth to speak before me, whereas i am! let me speak." then, turning again to the queen, "madam," quoth she, "this fellow would teach me, forsooth, to know sicofante's wife and neither more nor less than as if i had not been familiar with her, would fain give me to believe that, the first night her husband lay with her, squire maul[ ] made his entry into black hill[ ] by force and with effusion of blood; and i say that it is not true; nay, he entered there in peace and to the great contentment of those within. marry, this fellow is simple enough to believe wenches to be such ninnies that they stand to lose their time, abiding the commodity of their fathers and brothers, who six times out of seven tarry three or four years more than they should to marry them. well would they fare, forsooth, were they to wait so long! by christ his faith (and i should know what i say, when i swear thus) i have not a single gossip who went a maid to her husband; and as for the wives, i know full well how many and what tricks they play their husbands; and this blockhead would teach me to know women, as if i had been born yesterday." [footnote : _messer mazza_, _i.e._ veretrum.] [footnote : _monte nero_, _i.e._ vas muliebre.] what while licisca spoke, the ladies kept up such a laughing that you might have drawn all their teeth; and the queen imposed silence upon her a good half dozen times, but to no purpose; she stinted not till she had said her say. when she had at last made an end of her talk, the queen turned to dioneo and said, laughing, "dioneo, this is a matter for thy jurisdiction; wherefore, when we shall have made an end of our stories, thou shalt proceed to give final judgment thereon." whereto he answered promptly, "madam, the judgment is already given, without hearing more of the matter; and i say that licisca is in the right and opine that it is even as she saith and that tindaro is an ass." licisca, hearing this, fell a-laughing and turning to tindaro, said, "i told thee so; begone and god go with thee; thinkest thou thou knowest better than i, thou whose eyes are not yet dry?[ ] gramercy, i have not lived here below for nothing, no, not i!" and had not the queen with an angry air imposed silence on her and sent her and tindaro away, bidding her make no more words or clamour, an she would not be flogged, they had had nought to do all that day but attend to her. when they were gone, the queen called on filomena to make a beginning with the day's stories and she blithely began thus: [footnote : _i.e._ who are yet a child, in modern parlance, "thou whose lips are yet wet with thy mother's milk."] the first story [day the sixth] a gentleman engageth to madam oretta to carry her a-horseback with a story, but, telling it disorderly, is prayed by her to set her down again "young ladies, like as stars, in the clear nights, are the ornaments of the heavens and the flowers and the leaf-clad shrubs, in the spring, of the green fields and the hillsides, even so are praiseworthy manners and goodly discourse adorned by sprightly sallies, the which, for that they are brief, beseem women yet better than men, inasmuch as much speaking is more forbidden to the former than to the latter. yet, true it is, whatever the cause, whether it be the meanness of our[ ] understanding or some particular grudge borne by heaven to our times, that there be nowadays few or no women left who know how to say a witty word in due season or who, an it be said to them, know how to apprehend it as it behoveth; the which is a general reproach to our whole sex. however, for that enough hath been said aforetime on the subject by pampinea,[ ] i purpose to say no more thereof; but, to give you to understand how much goodliness there is in witty sayings, when spoken in due season, it pleaseth me to recount to you the courteous fashion in which a lady imposed silence upon a gentleman. [footnote : _i.e._ women's.] [footnote : see ante, p. , introduction to the last story of the first day.] as many of you ladies may either know by sight or have heard tell, there was not long since in our city a noble and well-bred and well-spoken gentlewoman, whose worth merited not that her name be left unsaid. she was called, then, madam oretta and was the wife of messer geri spina. she chanced to be, as we are, in the country, going from place to place, by way of diversion, with a company of ladies and gentlemen, whom she had that day entertained to dinner at her house, and the way being belike somewhat long from the place whence they set out to that whither they were all purposed to go afoot, one of the gentlemen said to her, 'madam oretta, an you will, i will carry you a-horseback great part of the way we have to go with one of the finest stories in the world.' 'nay, sir,' answered the lady, 'i pray you instantly thereof; indeed, it will be most agreeable to me.' master cavalier, who maybe fared no better, sword at side than tale on tongue, hearing this, began a story of his, which of itself was in truth very goodly; but he, now thrice or four or even half a dozen times repeating one same word, anon turning back and whiles saying, 'i said not aright,' and often erring in the names and putting one for another, marred it cruelly, more by token that he delivered himself exceedingly ill, having regard to the quality of the persons and the nature of the incidents of his tale. by reason whereof, madam oretta, hearkening to him, was many a time taken with a sweat and failing of the heart, as she were sick and near her end, and at last, being unable to brook the thing any more and seeing the gentleman engaged in an imbroglio from which he was not like to extricate himself, she said to him pleasantly, 'sir, this horse of yours hath too hard a trot; wherefore i pray you be pleased to set me down.' the gentleman, who, as it chanced, understood a hint better than he told a story, took the jest in good part and turning it off with a laugh, fell to discoursing of other matters and left unfinished the story that he had begun and conducted so ill." the second story [day the sixth] cisti the baker with a word of his fashion maketh messer geri spina sensible of an indiscreet request of his madam oretta's saying was greatly commended of all, ladies and men, and the queen bidding pampinea follow on, she began thus: "fair ladies, i know not of mine own motion to resolve me which is the more at fault, whether nature in fitting to a noble soul a mean body or fortune in imposing a mean condition upon a body endowed with a noble soul, as in one our townsman cisti and in many another we may have seen it happen; which cisti being gifted with a very lofty spirit, fortune made him a baker. and for this, certes, i should curse both nature and fortune like, did i not know the one to be most discreet and the other to have a thousand eyes, albeit fools picture her blind; and i imagine, therefore, that, being exceeding well-advised, they do that which is oftentimes done of human beings, who, uncertain of future events, bury their most precious things, against their occasions, in the meanest places of their houses, as being the least suspect, and thence bring them forth in their greatest needs, the mean place having the while kept them more surely than would the goodly chamber. and so, meseemeth, do the governors of the world hide oftentimes their most precious things under the shadow of crafts and conditions reputed most mean, to the end that, bringing them forth therefrom in time of need, their lustre may show the brighter. which how cisti the baker made manifest, though in but a trifling matter, restoring to messer geri spina (whom the story but now told of madam oretta, who was his wife, hath recalled to my memory) the eyes of the understanding, it pleaseth me to show you in a very short story. i must tell you, then, that pope boniface, with whom messer geri spina was in very great favour, having despatched to florence certain of his gentlemen on an embassy concerning sundry important matters of his, they lighted down at the house of messer geri and he treating the pope's affairs in company with them, it chanced, whatever might have been the occasion thereof, that he and they passed well nigh every morning afoot before santa maria ughi, where cisti the baker had his bakehouse and plied his craft in person. now, albeit fortune had appointed cisti a humble enough condition, she had so far at the least been kind to him therein that he was grown very rich and without ever choosing to abandon it for any other, lived very splendidly, having, amongst his other good things, the best wines, white and red, that were to be found in florence or in the neighbouring country. seeing messer geri and the pope's ambassadors pass every morning before his door and the heat being great, he bethought himself that it were a great courtesy to give them to drink of his good white wine; but, having regard to his own condition and that of messer geri, he deemed it not a seemly thing to presume to invite them, but determined to bear himself on such wise as should lead messer geri to invite himself. accordingly, having still on his body a very white doublet and an apron fresh from the wash, which bespoke him rather a miller than a baker, he let set before his door, every morning, towards the time when he looked for messer geri and the ambassadors to pass, a new tinned pail of fair water and a small pitcher of new bolognese ware, full of his good white wine, together with two beakers, which seemed of silver, so bright they were, and seated himself there, against they should pass, when, after clearing his throat once or twice, he fell to drinking of that his wine with such a relish that he had made a dead man's mouth water for it. messer geri, having seen him do thus one and two mornings, said on the third, 'how now, cisti? is it good?' whereupon he started to his feet and said, 'ay is it, sir; but how good i cannot give you to understand, except you taste thereof.' messer geri, in whom either the nature of the weather or belike the relish with which he saw cisti drink had begotten a thirst, turned to the ambassadors and said, smiling, 'gentlemen, we shall do well to taste this honest man's wine; belike it is such that we shall not repent thereof.' accordingly, he made with them towards cisti, who let bring a goodly settle out of his bakehouse and praying them sit, said to their serving-men, who pressed forward to rinse the beakers, 'stand back, friends, and leave this office to me, for that i know no less well how to skink than to wield the baking-peel; and look you not to taste a drop thereof.' so saying, he with his own hands washed out four new and goodly beakers and letting bring a little pitcher of his good wine, busied himself with giving messer geri and his companions to drink, to whom the wine seemed the best they had drunken that great while; wherefore they commended it greatly, and well nigh every morning, whilst the ambassadors abode there, messer geri went thither to drink in company with them. after awhile, their business being despatched and they about to depart, messer geri made them a magnificent banquet, whereto he bade a number of the most worshipful citizens and amongst the rest, cisti, who would, however, on no condition go thither; whereupon messer geri bade one of his serving-men go fetch a flask of the baker's wine and give each guest a half beaker thereof with the first course. the servant, despiteful most like for that he had never availed to drink of the wine, took a great flagon, which when cisti saw, 'my son,' said he, 'messer geri sent thee not to me.' the man avouched again and again that he had, but, getting none other answer, returned to messer geri and reported it to him. quoth he, 'go back to him and tell him that i do indeed send thee to him; and if he still make thee the same answer, ask him to whom i send thee, [an it be not to him.]' accordingly, the servant went back to the baker and said to him, 'cisti, for certain messer geri sendeth me to thee and none other.' 'for certain, my son,' answered the baker, 'he doth it not.' 'then,' said the man, 'to whom doth he send me?' 'to the arno,' replied cisti; which answer when the servant reported to messer geri, the eyes of his understanding were of a sudden opened and he said to the man, 'let me see what flask thou carriedst thither.' when he saw the great flagon aforesaid, he said, 'cisti saith sooth,' and giving the man a sharp reproof, made him take a sortable flask, which when cisti saw, 'now,' quoth he, 'i know full well that he sendeth thee to me,' and cheerfully filled it unto him. then, that same day, he let fill a little cask with the like wine and causing carry it softly to messer geri's house, went presently thither and finding him there, said to him, 'sir. i would not have you think that the great flagon of this morning frightened me; nay, but, meseeming that which i have of these past days shown you with my little pitchers had escaped your mind, to wit, that this is no household wine,[ ] i wished to recall it to you. but, now, for that i purpose no longer to be your steward thereof, i have sent it all to you; henceforward do with it as it pleaseth you.' messer geri set great store by cisti's present and rendering him such thanks as he deemed sortable, ever after held him for a man of great worth and for friend." [footnote : lit. family wine (_vin da famiglia_), _i.e._ no wine for servants' or general drinking, but a choice vintage, to be reserved for special occasions.] the third story [day the sixth] madam nonna de' pulci, with a ready retort to a not altogether seemly pleasantry, imposeth silence on the bishop of florence pampinea having made an end of her story and both cisti's reply and his liberality having been much commended of all, it pleased the queen that the next story should be told by lauretta, who blithely began as follows, "jocund ladies, first pampinea and now filomena have spoken truly enough touching our little worth and the excellence of pithy sayings, whereto that there may be no need now to return, i would fain remind you, over and above that which hath been said on the subject, that the nature of smart sayings is such that they should bite upon the hearer, not as the dog, but as the sheep biteth; for that, an a trait bit like a dog, it were not a trait, but an affront. the right mean in this was excellently well hit both by madam oretta's speech and cisti's reply. it is true that, if a smart thing be said by way of retort, and the answerer biteth like a dog, having been bitten on like wise, meseemeth he is not to be blamed as he would have been, had this not been the case; wherefore it behoveth us look how and with whom, no less than when and where, we bandy jests; to which considerations, a prelate of ours, taking too little heed, received at least as sharp a bite as he thought to give, as i shall show you in a little story. messer antonio d'orso, a learned and worthy prelate, being bishop of florence, there came thither a catalan gentleman, called messer dego della ratta, marshal for king robert, who, being a man of a very fine person and a great amorist, took a liking to one among other florentine ladies, a very fair lady and granddaughter to a brother of the said bishop, and hearing that her husband, albeit a man of good family, was very sordid and miserly, agreed with him to give him five hundred gold florins, so he would suffer him lie a night with his wife. accordingly, he let gild so many silver poplins,[ ] a coin which was then current, and having lain with the lady, though against her will, gave them to the husband. the thing after coming to be known everywhere, the sordid wretch of a husband reaped both loss and scorn, but the bishop, like a discreet man as he was, affected to know nothing of the matter. wherefore, he and the marshal consorting much together, it chanced, as they rode side by side with each other, one st. john's day, viewing the ladies on either side of the way where the mantle is run for,[ ] the prelate espied a young lady,--of whom this present pestilence hath bereft us and whom all you ladies must have known, madam nonna de' pulci by name, cousin to messer alessio rinucci, a fresh and fair young woman, both well-spoken and high-spirited, then not long before married in porta san piero,--and pointed her out to the marshal; then, being near her, he laid his hand on the latter's shoulder and said to her, 'nonna, how deemest thou of this gallant? thinkest thou thou couldst make a conquest of him?' it seemed to the lady that those words somewhat trenched upon her honour and were like to sully it in the eyes of those (and there were many there) who heard them; wherefore, not thinking to purge away the soil, but to return blow for blow, she promptly answered, 'maybe, sir, he would not make a conquest of me; but, in any case, i should want good money.' the marshal and the bishop, hearing this, felt themselves alike touched to the quick by her speech, the one as the author of the cheat put upon the bishop's brother's granddaughter and the other as having suffered the affront in the person of his kinswoman, and made off, shamefast and silent, without looking at one another or saying aught more to her that day. thus, then, the young lady having been bitten, it was not forbidden her to bite her biter with a retort." [footnote : a silver coin of about the size and value of our silver penny, which, when gilded, would pass muster well enough for a gold florin, unless closely examined.] [footnote : _il palio_, a race anciently run at florence on st. john's day, as that of the barberi at rome during the carnival.] the fourth story [day the sixth] chichibio, cook to currado gianfigliazzi, with a ready word spoken to save himself, turneth his master's anger into laughter and escapeth the punishment threatened him by the latter lauretta being silent and nonna having been mightily commended of all, the queen charged neifile to follow on, and she said, "although, lovesome ladies, a ready wit doth often furnish folk with words both prompt and useful and goodly, according to the circumstances, yet fortune whiles cometh to the help of the fearful and putteth of a sudden into their mouths such answers as might never of malice aforethought be found of the speaker, as i purpose to show you by my story. currado gianfigliazzi, as each of you ladies may have both heard and seen, hath still been a noble citizen of our city, liberal and magnificent, and leading a knightly life, hath ever, letting be for the present his weightier doings, taken delight in hawks and hounds. having one day with a falcon of his brought down a crane and finding it young and fat, he sent it to a good cook he had, a venetian hight chichibio, bidding him roast it for supper and dress it well. chichibio, who looked the new-caught gull he was, trussed the crane and setting it to the fire, proceeded to cook it diligently. when it was all but done and gave out a very savoury smell, it chanced that a wench of the neighbourhood, brunetta by name, of whom chichibio was sore enamoured, entered the kitchen and smelling the crane and seeing it, instantly besought him to give her a thigh thereof. he answered her, singing, and said, 'thou shalt not have it from me, mistress brunetta, thou shalt not have it from me.' whereat she, being vexed, said to him, 'by god his faith, an thou give it me not, thou shalt never have of me aught that shall pleasure thee.' in brief, many were the words between them and at last, chichibio, not to anger his mistress, cut off one of the thighs of the crane and gave it her. the bird being after set before messer currado and certain stranger guests of his, lacking a thigh, and the former marvelling thereat, he let call chichibio and asked him what was come of the other thigh; whereto the liar of a venetian answered without hesitation, 'sir, cranes have but one thigh and one leg.' 'what a devil?' cried currado in a rage. 'they have but one thigh and one leg? have i never seen a crane before?' 'sir,' replied chichibio, 'it is as i tell you, and whenas it pleaseth you, i will cause you see it in the quick.' currado, out of regard for the strangers he had with him, chose not to make more words of the matter, but said, 'since thou sayst thou wilt cause me see it in the quick, a thing i never yet saw or heard tell of, i desire to see it to-morrow morning, in which case i shall be content; but i swear to thee, by christ his body, that, an it be otherwise, i will have thee served on such wise that thou shalt still have cause to remember my name to thy sorrow so long as thou livest.' there was an end of the talk for that night; but, next morning, as soon as it was day, currado, whose anger was nothing abated for sleep, arose, still full of wrath, and bade bring the horses; then, mounting chichibio upon a rouncey, he carried him off towards a watercourse, on whose banks cranes were still to be seen at break of day, saying, 'we shall soon see who lied yestereve, thou or i.' chichibio, seeing that his master's wrath yet endured and that needs must be made good his lie and knowing not how he should avail thereunto, rode after currado in the greatest fright that might be, and fain would he have fled, so but he might. but, seeing no way of escape, he looked now before him and now behind and now on either side and took all he saw for cranes standing on two feet. presently, coming near to the river, he chanced to catch sight, before any other, of a round dozen of cranes on the bank, all perched on one leg, as they use to do, when they sleep; whereupon he straightway showed them to currado, saying, 'now, sir, if you look at those that stand yonder, you may very well see that i told you the truth yesternight, to wit, that cranes have but one thigh and one leg.' currado, seeing them, answered, 'wait and i will show thee that they have two,' and going somewhat nearer to them, he cried out, 'ho! ho!' at this the cranes, putting down the other leg, all, after some steps, took to flight; whereupon currado said to him, 'how sayst thou now, malapert knave that thou art? deemest thou they have two legs?' chichibio, all confounded and knowing not whether he stood on his head or his heels,[ ] answered, 'ay, sir; but you did not cry, "ho! ho!" to yesternight's crane; had you cried thus, it would have put out the other thigh and the other leg, even as did those yonder.' this reply so tickled currado that all his wrath was changed into mirth and laughter and he said, 'chichibio, thou art in the right; indeed, i should have done it.' thus, then, with his prompt and comical answer did chichibio avert ill luck and made his peace with his master." [footnote : lit. knowing not whence himself came.] the fifth story [day the sixth] messer forese da rabatta and master giotto the painter coming from mugello, each jestingly rallieth the other on his scurvy favour neifile being silent and the ladies having taken much pleasure in chichibio's reply, pamfilo, by the queen's desire, spoke thus: "dearest ladies, it chanceth often that, like as fortune whiles hideth very great treasures of worth and virtue under mean conditions, as hath been a little before shown by pampinea, even so, under the sorriest of human forms are marvellous wits found to have been lodged by nature; and this very plainly appeared in two townsmen of ours, of whom i purpose briefly to entertain you. for that the one, who was called messer forese da rabatta, though little of person and misshapen, with a flat camoys face, that had been an eyesore on the shoulders of the foulest cadger in florence, was yet of such excellence in the interpretation of the laws, that he was of many men of worth reputed a very treasury of civil right; whilst the other, whose name was giotto, had so excellent a genius that there was nothing of all which nature, mother and mover of all things, presenteth unto us by the ceaseless revolution of the heavens, but he with pencil and pen and brush depicted it and that so closely that not like, nay, but rather the thing itself it seemed, insomuch that men's visual sense is found to have been oftentimes deceived in things of his fashion, taking that for real which was but depictured. wherefore, he having brought back to the light this art, which had for many an age lain buried under the errors of certain folk who painted more to divert the eyes of the ignorant than to please the understanding of the judicious, he may deservedly be styled one of the chief glories of florence, the more so that he bore the honours he had gained with the utmost humility and although, while he lived, chief over all else in his art, he still refused to be called master, which title, though rejected by him, shone so much the more gloriously in him as it was with greater eagerness greedily usurped by those who knew less than he, or by his disciples. yet, great as was his skill, he was not therefore anywise goodlier of person or better favoured than messer forese. but, to come to my story: i must tell you that messer forese and giotto had each his country house at mugello and the former, having gone to visit his estates, at that season of the summer when the courts hold holiday, and returning thence on a sorry cart-horse, chanced to fall in with the aforesaid giotto, who had been on the same errand and was then on his way back to florence nowise better equipped than himself in horse and accoutrements. accordingly, they joined company and fared on softly, like old men as they were. presently, it chanced, as we often see it happen in summer time, that a sudden shower overtook them, from which, as quickliest they might, they took shelter in the house of a husbandman, a friend and acquaintance of both of them. after awhile, the rain showing no sign of giving over and they wishing to reach florence by daylight, they borrowed of their host two old homespun cloaks and two hats, rusty with age, for that there were no better to be had, and set out again upon their way. when they had gone awhile and were all drenched and bemired with the splashing that their hackneys kept up with their hoofs--things which use not to add worship to any one's looks,--the weather began to clear a little and the two wayfarers, who had long fared on in silence, fell to conversing together. messer forese, as he rode, hearkening to giotto, who was a very fine talker, fell to considering his companion from head to foot and seeing him everywise so ill accoutred and in such scurvy case, burst out laughing and without taking any thought to his own plight, said to him, 'how sayst thou, giotto? an there encountered us here a stranger who had never seen thee, thinkest thou he would believe thee to be, as thou art, the finest painter in the world?' 'ay, sir,' answered giotto forthright, 'methinketh he might e'en believe it whenas, looking upon you, he should believe that you knew your a b c.' messer forese, hearing this, was sensible of his error and saw himself paid with money such as the wares he had sold."[ ] [footnote : or, as we should say, "in his own coin."] the sixth story [day the sixth] michele scalza proveth to certain young men that the cadgers of florence are the best gentlemen of the world or the maremma and winneth a supper the ladies yet laughed at giotto's prompt retort, when the queen charged fiammetta follow on and she proceeded to speak thus: "young ladies, the mention by pamfilo of the cadgers of florence, whom peradventure you know not as doth he, hath brought to my mind a story, wherein, without deviating from our appointed theme, it is demonstrated how great is their nobility; and it pleaseth me, therefore, to relate it. it is no great while since there was in our city a young man called michele scalza, who was the merriest and most agreeable man in the world and he had still the rarest stories in hand, wherefore the young florentines were exceeding glad to have his company whenas they made a party of pleasure amongst themselves. it chanced one day, he being with certain folk at monte ughi, that the question was started among them of who were the best and oldest gentlemen of florence. some said the uberti, others the lamberti, and one this family and another that, according as it occurred to his mind; which scalza hearing, he fell a-laughing and said, 'go to, addlepates that you are! you know not what you say. the best gentlemen and the oldest, not only of florence, but of all the world or the maremma,[ ] are the cadgers,[ ] a matter upon which all the phisopholers and every one who knoweth them, as i do, are of accord; and lest you should understand it of others, i speak of the cadgers your neighbors of santa maria maggiore.' [footnote : a commentator notes that the adjunction to the world of the maremma (cf. elijer goff, "the irish question has for some centuries been enjoyed by _the universe and other parts_") produces a risible effect and gives the reader to understand that scalza broaches the question only by way of a joke. the same may be said of the jesting inversion of the word philosophers (phisopholers, fisofoli) in the next line.] [footnote : _baronci_, the florentine name for what we should call professional beggars, "mumpers, chanters and abrahammen," called _bari_ and _barocci_ in other parts of italy. this story has been a prodigious stumbling-block to former translators, not one of whom appears to have had the slightest idea of boccaccio's meaning.] when the young men, who looked for him to say otherwhat, heard this, they all made mock of him and said, 'thou gullest us, as if we knew not the cadgers, even as thou dost.' 'by the evangels,' replied scalza, 'i gull you not; nay, i speak the truth, and if there be any here who will lay a supper thereon, to be given to the winner and half a dozen companions of his choosing, i will willingly hold the wager; and i will do yet more for you, for i will abide by the judgment of whomsoever you will.' quoth one of them, called neri mannini, 'i am ready to try to win the supper in question'; whereupon, having agreed together to take piero di fiorentino, in whose house they were, to judge, they betook themselves to him, followed by all the rest, who looked to see scalza lose and to make merry over his discomfiture, and recounted to him all that had passed. piero, who was a discreet young man, having first heard neri's argument, turned to scalza and said to him, 'and thou, how canst thou prove this that thou affirmest?' 'how, sayest thou?' answered scalza. 'nay, i will prove it by such reasoning that not only thou, but he who denieth it, shall acknowledge that i speak sooth. you know that, the ancienter men are, the nobler they are; and so was it said but now among these. now the cadgers are more ancient than any one else, so that they are nobler; and showing you how they are the most ancient, i shall undoubtedly have won the wager. you must know, then, that the cadgers were made by god the lord in the days when he first began to learn to draw; but the rest of mankind were made after he knew how to draw. and to assure yourselves that in this i say sooth, do but consider the cadgers in comparison with other folk; whereas you see all the rest of mankind with faces well composed and duly proportioned, you may see the cadgers, this with a visnomy very long and strait and with a face out of all measure broad; one hath too long and another too short a nose and a third hath a chin jutting out and turned upward and huge jawbones that show as they were those of an ass, whilst some there be who have one eye bigger than the other and other some who have one set lower than the other, like the faces that children used to make, whenas they first begin to learn to draw. wherefore, as i have already said, it is abundantly apparent that god the lord made them, what time he was learning to draw; so that they are more ancient and consequently nobler than the rest of mankind.' at this, both piero, who was the judge, and neri, who had wagered the supper, and all the rest, hearing scalza's comical argument and remembering themselves,[ ] fell all a-laughing and affirmed that he was in the right and had won the supper, for that the cadgers were assuredly the noblest and most ancient gentlemen that were to be found not in florence alone, but in the world or the maremma. wherefore it was very justly said of pamfilo, seeking to show the foulness of messer forese's visnomy, that it would have showed notably ugly on one of the cadgers." [footnote : _i.e._ of the comical fashion of the cadgers.] the seventh story [day the sixth] madam filippa, being found by her husband with a lover of hers and brought to justice, delivereth herself with a prompt and pleasant answer and causeth modify the statute fiammetta was now silent and all laughed yet at the novel argument used by scalza for the ennoblement over all of the cadgers, when the queen enjoined filostrato to tell and he accordingly began to say, "it is everywise a fine thing, noble ladies, to know how to speak well, but i hold it yet goodlier to know how to do it whereas necessity requireth it, even as a gentlewoman, of whom i purpose to entertain you, knew well how to do on such wise that not only did she afford her hearers matter for mirth and laughter, but did herself loose from the toils of an ignominious death, as you shall presently hear. there was, then, aforetime, in the city of prato, a statute in truth no less blameworthy than cruel, which, without making any distinction, ordained that any woman found by her husband in adultery with any her lover should be burnt, even as she who should be discovered to have sold her favours for money. what while this statute was in force, it befell that a noble and beautiful lady, by name madam filippa, who was of a singularly amorous complexion, was one night found by rinaldo de' pugliesi her husband, in her own chamber in the arms of lazzerino de' guazzagliotri, a noble and handsome youth of that city, whom she loved even as herself. rinaldo, seeing this, was sore enraged and scarce contained himself from falling upon them and slaying them; and but that he feared for himself, an he should ensue the promptings of his anger, he had certainly done it. however, he forbore from this, but could not refrain from seeking of the law of prato that which it was not permitted him to accomplish with his own hand, to wit, the death of his wife. having, therefore, very sufficient evidence to prove the lady's default, no sooner was the day come than, without taking other counsel, he lodged an accusation against her and caused summon her before the provost. madam filippa, being great of heart, as women commonly are who are verily in love, resolved, although counselled to the contrary by many of her friends and kinsfolk, to appear, choosing rather, confessing the truth, to die with an undaunted spirit, than, meanly fleeing, to live an outlaw in exile and confess herself unworthy of such a lover as he in whose arms she had been the foregoing night. wherefore, presenting herself before the provost, attended by a great company of men and ladies and exhorted of all to deny the charge, she demanded, with a firm voice and an assured air, what he would with her. the magistrate, looking upon her and seeing her very fair and commendable of carriage and according as her words testified, of a lofty spirit, began to have compassion of her, fearing lest she should confess somewhat wherefore it should behoove him, for his own honour's sake, condemn her to die. however, having no choice but to question her of that which was laid to her charge, he said to her, 'madam, as you see, here is rinaldo your husband, who complaineth of you, avouching himself to have found you in adultery with another man and demanding that i should punish you therefor by putting you to death, according to the tenor of a statute which here obtaineth; but this i cannot do, except you confess it; wherefore look well what you answer and tell me if that be true whereof your husband impeacheth you.' the lady, no wise dismayed, replied very cheerfully, 'sir, true it is that rinaldo is my husband and that he found me last night in the arms of lazzarino, wherein, for the great and perfect love i bear him, i have many a time been; nor am i anywise minded to deny this. but, as i am assured you know, laws should be common to all and made with the consent of those whom they concern; and this is not the case with this statute, which is binding only upon us unhappy women, who might far better than men avail to satisfy many; more by token that, when it was made, not only did no woman yield consent thereunto, but none of us was even cited to do so; wherefore it may justly be styled naught. however, an you choose, to the prejudice of my body and of your own soul, to be the executor of this unrighteous law, it resteth with you to do so; but, ere you proceed to adjudge aught, i pray you do me one slight favour, to wit, that you question my husband if at all times and as often as it pleased him, without ever saying him nay, i have or not vouchsafed him entire commodity of myself.' rinaldo, without waiting to be questioned of the provost, straightway made answer that undoubtedly the lady had, at his every request, accorded him his every pleasure of herself; whereupon, 'then, my lord provost,' straightway rejoined she, 'if he have still taken of me that which was needful and pleasing to him, what, i ask you, was or am i to do with that which remaineth over and above his requirements? should i cast it to the dogs? was it not far better to gratify withal a gentleman who loveth me more than himself, than to leave it waste or spoil?' now well nigh all the people of prato had flocked thither to the trial of such a matter and of so fair and famous a lady, and hearing so comical a question, they all, after much laughter, cried out as with one voice that she was in the right of it and that she said well. moreover, ere they departed thence, at the instance of the provost, they modified the cruel statute and left it to apply to those women only who should for money make default to their husbands. thereupon rinaldo, having taken nought but shame by so fond an emprise, departed the court, and the lady returned in triumph to her own house, joyful and free and in a manner raised up out of the fire." the eighth story [day the sixth] fresco exhorteth his niece not to mirror herself in the glass, if, as she saith, it irketh her to see disagreeable folk the story told by filostrato at first touched the hearts of the listening ladies with some little shamefastness and they gave token thereof by a modest redness that appeared upon their faces; but, after looking one at another, they hearkened thereto, tittering the while and scarce able to abstain from laughing. as soon as he was come to the end thereof, the queen turned to emilia and bade her follow on, whereupon, sighing no otherwise than as she had been aroused from a dream, she began, "lovesome lasses, for that long thought hath held me far from here, i shall, to obey our queen content myself with [relating] a story belike much slighter than that which i might have bethought myself to tell, had my mind been present here, recounting to you the silly default of a damsel, corrected by an uncle of hers with a jocular retort, had she been woman enough to have apprehended it. a certain fresco da celatico, then, had a niece familiarly called ciesca,[ ] who, having a comely face and person (though none of those angelical beauties that we have often seen aforetime), set so much store by herself and accounted herself so noble that she had gotten a habit of carping at both men and women and everything she saw, without anywise taking thought to herself, who was so much more fashous, froward and humoursome than any other of her sex that nothing could be done to her liking. beside all this, she was so prideful that, had she been of the blood royal of france, it had been overweening; and when she went abroad, she gave herself so many airs that she did nought but make wry faces, as if there came to her a stench from whomsoever she saw or met. but, letting be many other vexatious and tiresome fashions of hers, it chanced one day that she came back to the house, where fresco was, and seating herself near him, all full of airs and grimaces, did nothing but puff and blow; whereupon quoth he, 'what meaneth this, ciesca, that, to-day being a holiday, thou comest home so early?' to which she answered, all like to die away with affectation, 'it is true i have come back soon, for that i believe there were never in this city so many disagreeable and tiresome people, both men and women, as there are to-day; there passeth none about the streets but is hateful to me as ill-chance, and i do not believe there is a woman in the world to whom it is more irksome to see disagreeable folk than it is to me; wherefore i have returned thus early, not to see them.' 'my lass,' rejoined fresco, to whom his niece's airs and graces were mighty displeasing, 'if disagreeable folk be so distasteful to thee as thou sayest, never mirror thyself in the glass, so thou wouldst live merry.' but she, emptier than a reed, albeit herseemed she was a match for solomon in wit, apprehended fresco's true speech no better than a block; nay, she said that she chose to mirror herself in the glass like other women; and so she abode in her folly and therein abideth yet." [footnote : an abbreviation of francesca.] the ninth story [day the sixth] guido cavalcanti with a pithy speech courteously flouteth certain florentine gentlemen who had taken him by surprise the queen, seeing emilia delivered of her story and that it rested with none other than herself to tell, saving him who was privileged to speak last, began thus, "although, sprightly ladies, you have this day taken out of my mouth at the least two stories, whereof i had purposed to relate one, i have yet one left to tell, the end whereof compriseth a saying of such a fashion that none, peradventure, of such pertinence, hath yet been cited to us. you must know, then, that there were in our city, of times past, many goodly and commendable usances, whereof none is left there nowadays, thanks to the avarice that hath waxed therein with wealth and hath banished them all. among these there was a custom to the effect that the gentlemen of the various quarters of florence assembled together in divers places about the town and formed themselves into companies of a certain number, having a care to admit thereinto such only as might aptly bear the expense, whereof to-day the one and to-morrow the other, and so all in turn, hold open house, each his day, for the whole company. at these banquets they often entertained both stranger gentlemen, whenas there came any thither, and those of the city; and on like wise, once at the least in the year, they clad themselves alike and rode in procession through the city on the most notable days and whiles they held passes of arms, especially on the chief holidays or whenas some glad news of victory or the like came to the city. amongst these companies was one of messer betto brunelleschi, whereinto the latter and his companions had studied amain to draw guido, son of messer cavalcante de' cavalcanti, and not without cause; for that, besides being one of the best logicians in the world and an excellent natural philosopher (of which things, indeed, they recked little), he was very sprightly and well-bred and a mighty well-spoken man and knew better than any other to do everything that he would and that pertained unto a gentleman, more by token that he was very rich and knew wonder-well how to entertain whomsoever he deemed deserving of honour. but messer betto had never been able to win and to have him, and he and his companions believed that this betided for that guido, being whiles engaged in abstract speculations, became much distraught from mankind; and for that he inclined somewhat to the opinion of the epicureans, it was reported among the common folk that these his speculations consisted only in seeking if it might be discovered that god was not. it chanced one day that guido set out from orto san michele and came by way of the corso degli ademari, the which was oftentimes his road, to san giovanni, round about which there were at that present divers great marble tombs (which are nowadays at santa reparata) and many others. as he was between the columns of porphyry there and the tombs in question and the door of the church, which was shut, messer betto and his company, coming a-horseback along the piazza di santa reparata, espied him among the tombs and said, 'let us go plague him.' accordingly, spurring their horses, they charged all down upon him in sport and coming upon him ere he was aware of them, said to him, 'guido, thou refusest to be of our company; but, harkye, whenas thou shalt have found that god is not, what wilt thou have accomplished?' guido, seeing himself hemmed in by them, answered promptly, 'gentlemen, you may say what you will to me in your own house'; then, laying his hand on one of the great tombs aforesaid and being very nimble of body, he took a spring and alighting on the other side, made off, having thus rid himself of them. the gentlemen abode looking one upon another and fell a-saying that he was a crack-brain and that this that he had answered them amounted to nought seeing that there where they were they had no more to do than all the other citizens, nor guido himself less than any of themselves. but messer betto turned to them and said, 'it is you who are the crackbrains, if you have not apprehended him. he hath courteously and in a few words given us the sharpest rebuke in the world; for that, an you consider aright, these tombs are the houses of the dead, seeing they are laid and abide therein, and these, saith he, are our house, meaning thus to show us that we and other foolish and unlettered men are, compared with him and other men of learning, worse than dead folk; wherefore, being here, we are in our own house.' thereupon each understood what guido had meant to say and was abashed nor ever plagued him more, but held messer betto thenceforward a gentleman of a subtle wit and an understanding." the tenth story [day the sixth] fra cipolla promiseth certain country folk to show them one of the angel gabriel's feathers and finding coals in place thereof, avoucheth these latter to be of those which roasted st. lawrence each of the company being now quit of his[ ] story, dioneo perceived that it rested with him to tell; whereupon, without awaiting more formal commandment, he began on this wise, silence having first been imposed on those who commended guido's pregnant retort: "charming ladies, albeit i am privileged to speak of that which most liketh me, i purpose not to-day to depart from the matter whereof you have all very aptly spoken; but, ensuing in your footsteps, i mean to show you how cunningly a friar of the order of st. anthony, by name fra cipolla, contrived with a sudden shift to extricate himself from a snare[ ] which had been set for him by two young men; nor should it irk you if, for the complete telling of the story, i enlarge somewhat in speaking, an you consider the sun, which is yet amiddleward in the sky. [footnote : "or her."] [footnote : lit. to avoid or elude a scorn (_fuggire uno scorno_).] certaldo, as you may have heard, is a burgh of val d' elsa situate in our country, which, small though it be, was once inhabited by gentlemen and men of substance; and thither, for that he found good pasture there, one of the friars of the order of st. anthony was long used to resort once a year, to get in the alms bestowed by simpletons upon him and his brethren. his name was fra cipolla and he was gladly seen there, no less belike, for his name's sake[ ] than for other reasons, seeing that these parts produce onions that are famous throughout all tuscany. this fra cipolla was little of person, red-haired and merry of countenance, the jolliest rascal in the world, and to boot, for all he was no scholar, he was so fine a talker and so ready of wit that those who knew him not would not only have esteemed him a great rhetorician, but had avouched him to be tully himself or may be quintilian; and he was gossip or friend or well-wisher[ ] to well nigh every one in the country. [footnote : _cipolla_ means onion.] [footnote : the term "well-wisher" (_benivogliente_), when understood in relation to a woman, is generally equivalent (at least with the older italian writers) to "lover." see ante, passim.] one august among others he betook himself thither according to his wont, and on a sunday morning, all the goodmen and goodwives of the villages around being come to hear mass at the parish church, he came forward, whenas it seemed to him time, and said, 'gentlemen and ladies, it is, as you know, your usance to send every year to the poor of our lord baron st. anthony of your corn and of your oats, this little and that much, according to his means and his devoutness, to the intent that the blessed st. anthony may keep watch over your beeves and asses and swine and sheep; and besides this, you use to pay, especially such of you as are inscribed into our company, that small due which is payable once a year. to collect these i have been sent by my superior, to wit, my lord abbot; wherefore, with the blessing of god, you shall, after none, whenas you hear the bells ring, come hither without the church, where i will make preachment to you after the wonted fashion and you shall kiss the cross; moreover, for that i know you all to be great devotees of our lord st. anthony, i will, as an especial favour show you a very holy and goodly relic, which i myself brought aforetime from the holy lands beyond seas; and that is one of the angel gabriel's feathers, which remained in the virgin mary's chamber, whenas he came to announce to her in nazareth.' this said, he broke off and went on with his mass. now, when he said this, there were in the church, among many others, two roguish young fellows, hight one giovanni del bragioniera and the other biagio pizzini, who, after laughing with one another awhile over fra cipolla's relic, took counsel together, for all they were great friends and cronies of his, to play him some trick in the matter of the feather in question. accordingly, having learned that he was to dine that morning with a friend of his in the burgh, they went down into the street as soon as they knew him to be at table, and betook themselves to the inn where he had alighted, purposing that biagio should hold his servant in parley, whilst giovanni should search his baggage for the feather aforesaid, whatever it might be, and carry it off, to see what he should say to the people of the matter. fra cipolla had a servant, whom some called guccio[ ] balena,[ ] others guccio imbratta[ ] and yet others guccia porco[ ] and who was such a scurvy knave that lipo topo[ ] never wrought his like, inasmuch as his master used oftentimes to jest of him with his cronies and say, 'my servant hath in him nine defaults, such that, were one of them in solomon or aristotle or seneca, it would suffice to mar all their worth, all their wit and all their sanctity. consider, then, what a man he must be, who hath all nine of them and in whom there is neither worth nor wit nor sanctity.' being questioned whiles what were these nine defaults and having put them into doggerel rhyme, he would answer, 'i will tell you. he's a liar, a sloven, a slugabed; disobedient, neglectful, ill bred; o'erweening, foul-spoken, a dunderhead; beside which he hath divers other peccadilloes, whereof it booteth not to speak. but what is most laughable of all his fashions is that, wherever he goeth, he is still for taking a wife and hiring a house; for, having a big black greasy beard, him-seemeth he is so exceeding handsome and agreeable that he conceiteth himself all the women who see him fall in love with him, and if you let him alone, he would run after them all till he lost his girdle.[ ] sooth to say, he is of great assistance to me, for that none can ever seek to speak with me so secretly but he must needs hear his share; and if it chance that i be questioned of aught, he is so fearful lest i should not know how to answer, that he straightway answereth for me both ay and no, as he judgeth sortable.' [footnote : diminutive of contempt of arrigo, contracted from arriguccio, _i.e._ mean little arrigo.] [footnote : _i.e._ whale.] [footnote : _i.e._ dirt.] [footnote : _i.e._ hog.] [footnote : a painter of boccaccio's time, of whom little or nothing seems to be known.] [footnote : _perpendo lo coreggia._ the exact meaning of this passage is not clear. the commentators make sundry random shots at it, but, as usual, only succeed in making confusion worse confounded. it may perhaps be rendered, "till his wind failed him."] now fra cipolla, in leaving him at the inn, had bidden him look well that none touched his gear, and more particularly his saddle-bags, for that therein were the sacred things. but guccio, who was fonder of the kitchen than the nightingale of the green boughs, especially if he scented some serving-wench there, and who had seen in that of the inn a gross fat cookmaid, undersized and ill-made, with a pair of paps that showed like two manure-baskets and a face like a cadger's, all sweaty, greasy and smoky, leaving fra cipolla's chamber and all his gear to care for themselves, swooped down upon the kitchen, even as the vulture swoopeth upon carrion, and seating himself by the fire, for all it was august, entered into discourse with the wench in question, whose name was nuta, telling her that he was by rights a gentleman and had more than nine millions of florins, beside that which he had to give others, which was rather more than less, and that he could do and say god only knew what. moreover, without regard to his bonnet, whereon was grease enough to have seasoned the caldron of altopascio,[ ] and his doublet all torn and pieced and enamelled with filth about the collar and under the armpits, with more spots and patches of divers colours than ever had turkey or india stuffs, and his shoes all broken and hose unsewn, he told her, as he had been the sieur de châtillon,[ ] that he meant to clothe her and trick her out anew and deliver her from the wretchedness of abiding with others,[ ] and bring her to hope of better fortune, if without any great wealth in possession, and many other things, which, for all he delivered them very earnestly, all turned to wind and came to nought, as did most of his enterprises. [footnote : said by the commentators to have been an abbey, where they made cheese-soup for all comers twice a week; hence "the caldron of altopascio" became a proverb; but _quære_ is not the name altopascio (high feeding) a fancy one?] [footnote : it does not appear to which member of this great house boccaccio here alludes, but the châtillons were always rich and magnificent gentlemen, from gaucher de châtillon, who followed philip augustus to the third crusade, to the great admiral de coligny.] [footnote : sic (_star con altrui_); but "being in the service of or dependent upon others" seems to be the probable meaning.] the two young men, accordingly, found guccio busy about nuta, whereat they were well pleased, for that it spared them half their pains, and entering fra cipolla's chamber, which they found open, the first thing that came under their examination was the saddle-bags wherein was the feather. in these they found, enveloped in a great taffetas wrapper, a little casket and opening this latter, discovered therein a parrot's tail-feather, which they concluded must be that which the friar had promised to show the people of certaldo. and certes he might lightly cause it to be believed in those days, for that the refinements of egypt had not yet made their way save into a small part of tuscany, as they have since done in very great abundance, to the undoing of all italy; and wherever they may have been some little known, in those parts they were well nigh altogether unknown of the inhabitants; nay the rude honesty of the ancients yet enduring there, not only had they never set eyes on a parrot, but were far from having ever heard tell of such a bird. the young men, then, rejoiced at finding the feather, laid hands on it and not to leave the casket empty, filled it with some coals they saw in a corner of the room and shut it again. then, putting all things in order as they had found them, they made off in high glee with the feather, without having been seen, and began to await what fra cipolli should say, when he found the coals in place thereof. the simple men and women who were in the church, hearing that they were to see the angel gabriel's feather after none, returned home, as soon as mass was over, and neighbor telling it to neighbor and gossip to gossip, no sooner had they all dined than so many men and women flocked to the burgh that it would scarce hold them, all looking eagerly to see the aforesaid feather. fra cipolla, having well dined and after slept awhile, arose a little after none and hearing of the great multitude of country folk come to see the feather, sent to bid guccio imbratta come thither with the bells and bring his saddle-bags. guccio, tearing himself with difficulty away from the kitchen and nuta, betook himself with the things required to the appointed place, whither coming, out of breath, for that the water he had drunken had made his belly swell amain, he repaired, by his master's commandment, to the church door and fell to ringing the bells lustily. when all the people were assembled there, fra cipolla, without observing that aught of his had been meddled with, began his preachment and said many words anent his affairs; after which, thinking to come to the showing of the angel gabriel's feather, he first recited the confiteor with the utmost solemnity and let kindle a pair of flambeaux; then, pulling off his bonnet, he delicately unfolded the taffetas wrapper and brought out the casket. having first pronounced certain ejaculations in praise and commendation of the angel gabriel and of his relic, he opened the casket and seeing it full of coals, suspected not guccio balena of having played him this trick, for that he knew him not to be man enough; nor did he curse him for having kept ill watch lest others should do it, but silently cursed himself for having committed to him the care of his gear, knowing him, as he did, to be negligent, disobedient, careless and forgetful. nevertheless, without changing colour, he raised his eyes and hands to heaven and said, so as to be heard of all, 'o god, praised be still thy puissance!' then, shutting the casket and turning to the people, 'gentlemen and ladies,' quoth he, 'you must know that, whilst i was yet very young, i was dispatched by my superior to those parts where the sun riseth and it was expressly commanded me that i should seek till i found the privileges of porcellana, which, though they cost nothing to seal, are much more useful to others than to us. on this errand i set out from venice and passed through borgo de' greci,[ ] whence, riding through the kingdom of algarve and baldacca,[ ] i came to parione,[ ] and from there, not without thirst, i came after awhile into sardinia. but what booteth it to set out to you in detail all the lands explored by me? passing the straits of san giorgio,[ ] i came into truffia[ ] and buffia,[ ] countries much inhabited and with great populations, and thence into the land of menzogna,[ ] where i found great plenty of our brethren and of friars of other religious orders, who all went about those parts, shunning unease for the love of god, recking little of others' travail, whenas they saw their own advantage to ensue, and spending none other money than such as was uncoined.[ ] thence i passed into the land of the abruzzi, where the men and women go in clogs over the mountains, clothing the swine in their own guts;[ ] and a little farther i found folk who carried bread on sticks and wine in bags. from this i came to the mountains of the bachi, where all the waters run down hill; and in brief, i made my way so far inward that i won at last even to india pastinaca,[ ] where i swear to you, by the habit i wear on my back, that i saw hedge-bills[ ] fly, a thing incredible to whoso hath not seen it. but of this maso del saggio will confirm me, whom i found there a great merchant, cracking walnuts and selling the shells by retail. [footnote : apparently the neapolitan town of that name.] [footnote : the name of a famous tavern in florence (_florio_).] [footnote : _quære_ a place in florence? one of the commentators, with characteristic carelessness, states that the places mentioned in the preachment of fra cipolla (an amusing specimen of the patter-sermon of the mendicant friar of the middle ages, that ecclesiastical cheap jack of his day) are all names of streets or places of florence, a statement which, it is evident to the most cursory reader, is altogether inaccurate.] [footnote : apparently the island of that name near venice.] [footnote : _i.e._ nonsense-land.] [footnote : _i.e._ land of tricks or cozenage.] [footnote : _i.e._ falsehood, lie-land.] [footnote : _i.e._ paying their way with fine words, instead of coin.] [footnote : _i.e._ making sausages of them.] [footnote : _bachi_, drones or maggots. _pastinaca_ means "parsnip" and is a meaningless addition of fra cipolla's fashion.] [footnote : a play of words upon the primary meaning (winged things) of the word _pennate_, hedge-bills.] being unable to find that which i went seeking, for that thence one goeth thither by water, i turned back and arrived in those holy countries, where, in summer-years, cold bread is worth four farthings a loaf and the hot goeth for nothing. there i found the venerable father my lord blamemenot anitpleaseyou, the very worshipful patriarch of jerusalem, who, for reverence of the habit i have still worn of my lord baron st. anthony, would have me see all the holy relics that he had about him and which were so many that, an i sought to recount them all to you, i should not come to an end thereof in several miles. however, not to leave you disconsolate, i will tell you some thereof. first, he showed me the finger of the holy ghost, as whole and sound as ever it was, and the forelock of the seraph that appeared to st. francis and one of the nails of the cherubim and one of the ribs of the verbum caro[ ] get-thee-to-the-windows and some of the vestments of the holy catholic faith and divers rays of the star that appeared to the three wise men in the east and a vial of the sweat of st. michael, whenas he fought with the devil, and the jawbone of the death of st. lazarus and others. and for that i made him a free gift of the steeps[ ] of monte morello in the vernacular and of some chapters of the caprezio,[ ] which he had long gone seeking, he made me a sharer in his holy relics and gave me one of the teeth of the holy rood and somewhat of the sound of the bells of solomon's temple in a vial and the feather of the angel gabriel, whereof i have already bespoken you, and one of the pattens of st. gherardo da villa magna, which not long since at florence i gave to gherardo di bonsi, who hath a particular devotion for that saint; and he gave me also of the coals wherewith the most blessed martyr st. lawrence was roasted; all which things i devoutly brought home with me and yet have. true it is that my superior hath never suffered me to show them till such time as he should be certified if they were the very things or not. but now that, by certain miracles performed by them and by letters received from the patriarch, he hath been made certain of this, he hath granted me leave to show them; and i, fearing to trust them to others, still carry them with me. [footnote : _i.e._ the word [made] flesh. get-thee-to-the-windows is only a patter tag.] [footnote : or slopes or coasts (_piaggie_).] [footnote : ?] now i carry the angel gabriel's feather, so it may not be marred, in one casket, and the coals wherewith st. lawrence was roasted in another, the which are so like one to other, that it hath often happened to me to take one for the other, and so hath it betided me at this present, for that, thinking to bring hither the casket wherein was the feather, i have brought that wherein are the coals. the which i hold not to have been an error; nay, meseemeth certain that it was god's will and that he himself placed the casket with the coals in my hands, especially now i mind me that the feast of st. lawrence is but two days hence; wherefore god, willing that, by showing you the coals wherewith he was roasted, i should rekindle in your hearts the devotion it behoveth you have for him, caused me take, not the feather, as i purposed, but the blessed coals extinguished by the sweat of that most holy body. so, o my blessed children, put off your bonnets and draw near devoutly to behold them; but first i would have you knew that whoso is scored with these coals, in the form of the sign of the cross, may rest assured, for the whole year to come, that fire shall not touch him but he shall feel it.' having thus spoken, he opened the casket, chanting the while a canticle in praise of st. lawrence, and showed the coals, which after the simple multitude had awhile beheld with reverent admiration, they all crowded about fra cipolla and making him better offerings than they were used, besought him to touch them withal. accordingly, taking the coals in hand, he fell to making the biggest crosses for which he could find room upon their white smocks and doublets and upon the veils of the women, avouching that how much soever the coals diminished in making these crosses, they after grew again in the casket, as he had many a time proved. on this wise he crossed all the people of certaldo, to his no small profit, and thus, by his ready wit and presence of mind, he baffled those who, by taking the feather from him, had thought to baffle him and who, being present at his preachment and hearing the rare shift employed by him and from how far he had taken it and with what words, had so laughed that they thought to have cracked their jaws. then, after the common folk had departed, they went up to him and with all the mirth in the world discovered to him that which they had done and after restored him his feather, which next year stood him in as good stead as the coals had done that day." * * * * * this story afforded unto all the company alike the utmost pleasure and solace, and it was much laughed of all at fra cipolla, and particularly of his pilgrimage and the relics seen and brought back by him. the queen, seeing the story and likewise her sovantry at an end, rose to her feet and put off the crown, which she set laughingly on dioneo's head, saying, "it is time, dioneo, that thou prove awhile what manner charge it is to have ladies to govern and guide; be thou, then, king and rule on such wise that, in the end, we may have reason to give ourselves joy of thy governance." dioneo took the crown and answered, laughing, "you may often enough have seen much better kings than i, i mean chess-kings; but, an you obey me as a king should in truth be obeyed, i will cause you enjoy that without which assuredly no entertainment is ever complete in its gladness. but let that talk be; i will rule as best i know." then, sending for the seneschal, according to the wonted usance, he orderly enjoined him of that which he should do during the continuance of his seignory and after said, "noble ladies, it hath in divers manners been devised of human industry[ ] and of the various chances [of fortune,] insomuch that, had not dame licisca come hither a while agone and found me matter with her prate for our morrow's relations, i misdoubt me i should have been long at pains to find a subject of discourse. as you heard, she avouched that she had not a single gossip who had come to her husband a maid and added that she knew right well how many and what manner tricks married women yet played their husbands. but, letting be the first part, which is a childish matter, methinketh the second should be an agreeable subject for discourse; wherefore i will and ordain it that, since licisca hath given us occasion therefor, it be discoursed to-morrow of the tricks which, or for love or for their own preservation, women have heretofore played their husbands, with or without the latter's cognizance thereof." [footnote : _industria_ in the old sense of ingenuity, skilful procurement, etc.] it seemed to some of the ladies that to discourse of such a matter would ill beseem them and they prayed him, therefore, to change the theme proposed; wherefore answered he, "ladies, i am no less cognizant than yourselves of that which i have ordained, and that which you would fain allege to me availed not to deter me from ordaining it, considering that the times are such that, provided men and women are careful to eschew unseemly actions, all liberty of discourse is permitted. know you not that, for the malignity of the season, the judges have forsaken the tribunals, that the laws, as well divine as human, are silent and full licence is conceded unto every one for the preservation of his life? wherefore, if your modesty allow itself some little freedom in discourse, not with intent to ensue it with aught of unseemly in deeds, but to afford yourselves and others diversion, i see not with what plausible reason any can blame you in the future. moreover, your company, from the first day of our assembling until this present, hath been most decorous, nor, for aught that hath been said here, doth it appear to me that its honour hath anywise been sullied. again, who is there knoweth not your virtue? which, not to say mirthful discourse, but even fear of death i do not believe could avail to shake. and to tell you the truth, whosoever should hear that you shrank from devising bytimes of these toys would be apt to suspect that you were guilty in the matter and were therefore unwilling to discourse thereof. to say nothing of the fine honour you would do me in that, i having been obedient unto all, you now, having made me your king, seek to lay down the law to me, and not to discourse of the subject which i propose. put off, then, this misdoubtance, apter to mean minds than to yours, and good luck to you, let each of you bethink herself of some goodly story to tell." when the ladies heard this, they said it should be as he pleased; whereupon he gave them all leave to do their several pleasures until supper-time. the sun was yet high, for that the discoursement[ ] had been brief; wherefor dioneo having addressed himself to play at tables with the other young men, elisa called the other ladies apart and said to them, "since we have been here, i have still wished to carry you to a place very near at hand, whither methinketh none of you hath ever been and which is called the ladies' valley, but have never yet found an occasion of bringing you thither unto to-day; wherefore, as the sun is yet high, i doubt not but, an it please you come thither, you will be exceeding well pleased to have been there." they answered that they were ready and calling one of their maids, set out upon their way, without letting the young men know aught thereof; nor had they gone much more than a mile, when they came to the ladies' valley. they entered therein by a very strait way, on one side whereof ran a very clear streamlet, and saw it as fair and as delectable, especially at that season whenas the heat was great, as most might be conceived. according to that which one of them after told me, the plain that was in the valley was as round as if it had been traced with the compass, albeit it seemed the work of nature and not of art, and was in circuit a little more than half a mile, encompassed about with six little hills not over-high, on the summit of each of which stood a palace builded in guise of a goodly castle. the sides of these hills went sloping gradually downward to the plain on such wise as we see in amphitheatres, the degrees descend in ordered succession from the highest to the lowest, still contracting their circuit; and of these slopes those which looked toward the south were all full of vines and olives and almonds and cherries and figs and many another kind of fruit-bearing trees, without a span thereof being wasted; whilst those which faced the north star[ ] were all covered with thickets of dwarf oaks and ashes and other trees as green and straight as might be. the middle plain, which had no other inlet than that whereby the ladies were come thither, was full of firs and cypresses and laurels and various sorts of pines, as well arrayed and ordered as if the best artist in that kind had planted them; and between these little or no sun, even at its highest, made its way to the ground, which was all one meadow of very fine grass, thick-sown with flowers purpurine and others. moreover, that which afforded no less delight than otherwhat was a little stream, which ran down from a valley that divided two of the hills aforesaid and falling over cliffs of live rock, made a murmur very delectable to hear, what while it showed from afar, as it broke over the stones, like so much quicksilver jetting out, under pressure of somewhat, into fine spray. as it came down into the little plain, it was there received into a fair channel and ran very swiftly into the middest thereof, where it formed a lakelet, such as the townsfolk made whiles, by way of fishpond, in their gardens, whenas they have a commodity thereof. this lakelet was no deeper than a man's stature, breast high, and its waters being exceeding clear and altogether untroubled with any admixture, it showed its bottom to be of a very fine gravel, the grains whereof whoso had nought else to do might, an he would, have availed to number; nor, looking into the water, was the bottom alone to be seen, nay, but so many fish fleeting hither and thither that, over and above the pleasure thereof, it was a marvel to behold; nor was it enclosed with other banks than the very soil of the meadow, which was the goodlier thereabout in so much as it received the more of its moisture. the water that abounded over and above the capacity of the lake was received into another channel, whereby, issuing forth of the little valley, it ran off into the lower parts. [footnote : _i.e._ the tale-telling.] [footnote : lit. the northern chariot (_carro di tramontana_); _quære_ the great bear?] hither then came the young ladies and after they had gazed all about and much commended the place, they took counsel together to bathe, for that the heat was great and that they saw the lakelet before them and were in no fear of being seen. accordingly, bidding their serving maid abide over against the way whereby one entered there and look if any should come and give them notice thereof, they stripped themselves naked, all seven, and entered the lake, which hid their white bodies no otherwise than as a thin glass would do with a vermeil rose. then, they being therein and no troubling of the water ensuing thereof, they fell, as best they might, to faring hither and thither in pursuit of the fish, which had uneath where to hide themselves, and seeking to take them with the naked hand. after they had abidden awhile in such joyous pastime and had taken some of the fish, they came forth of the lakelet and clad themselves anew. then, unable to commend the place more than they had already done and themseeming time to turn homeward, they set out, with soft step, upon their way, discoursing much of the goodliness of the valley. they reached the palace betimes and there found the young men yet at play where they had left them; to whom quoth pampinea, laughing. "we have e'en stolen a march on you to-day." "how?" asked dioneo. "do you begin to do deeds ere you come to say words?"[ ] "ay, my lord," answered she and related to him at large whence they came and how the place was fashioned and how far distant thence and that which they had done. the king, hearing tell of the goodliness of the place and desirous of seeing it, caused straightway order the supper, which being dispatched to the general satisfaction, the three young men, leaving the ladies, betook themselves with their servants to the valley and having viewed it in every part, for that none of them had ever been there before, extolled it for one of the goodliest things in the world. then, for that it grew late, after they had bathed and donned their clothes, they returned home, where they found the ladies dancing a round, to the accompaniment of a song sung by fiammetta. [footnote : alluding to the subject fixed for the next day's discourse, as who should say, "have you begun already to play tricks upon us men in very deed, ere you tell about them in words?"] the dance ended, they entered with them into a discourse of the ladies' valley and said much in praise and commendation thereof. moreover, the king, sending for the seneschal, bade him look that the dinner be made ready there on the following morning and have sundry beds carried thither, in case any should have a mind to lie or sleep there for nooning; after which he let bring lights and wine and confections and the company having somedele refreshed themselves, he commanded that all should address themselves to dancing. then, pamfilo having, at his commandment, set up a dance, the king turned to elisa and said courteously to her, "fair damsel, thou has to-day done me the honour of the crown and i purpose this evening to do thee that of the song; wherefore look thou sing such an one as most liketh thee." elisa answered, smiling, that she would well and with dulcet voice began on this wise: love, from thy clutches could i but win free, hardly, methinks, again shall any other hook take hold on me. i entered in thy wars a youngling maid, thinking thy strife was utmost peace and sweet, and all my weapons on the ground i laid, as one secure, undoubting of defeat; but thou, false tyrant, with rapacious heat, didst fall on me amain with all the grapnels of thine armoury. then, wound about and fettered with thy chains, to him, who for my death in evil hour was born, thou gav'st me, bounden, full of pains and bitter tears; and syne within his power he hath me and his rule's so harsh and dour no sighs can move the swain nor all my wasting plaints to set me free. my prayers, the wild winds bear them all away; he hearkeneth unto none and none will hear; wherefore each hour my torment waxeth aye; i cannot die, albeit life irks me drear. ah, lord, have pity on my heavy cheer; do that i seek in vain and give him bounden in thy chains to me. an this thou wilt not, at the least undo the bonds erewhen of hope that knitted were; alack, o lord, thereof to thee i sue, for, an thou do it, yet to waxen fair again i trust, as was my use whilere, and being quit of pain myself with white flowers and with red besee. elisa ended her song with a very plaintive sigh, and albeit all marvelled at the words thereof, yet was there none who might conceive what it was that caused her sing thus. but the king, who was in a merry mood, calling for tindaro, bade him bring out his bagpipes, to the sound whereof he let dance many dances; after which, a great part of the night being now past, he bade each go sleep. here endeth the sixth day of the decameron _day the seventh_ here beginneth the seventh day of the decameron wherein under the governance of dioneo is discoursed of the tricks which or for love or for their own preservation women have heretofore played their husbands with or without the latter's cognizance thereof every star was already fled from the parts of the east, save only that which we style lucifer and which shone yet in the whitening dawn, when the seneschal, arising, betook himself, with a great baggage-train, to the ladies' valley, there to order everything, according to commandment had of his lord. the king, whom the noise of the packers and of the beasts had awakened, tarried not long after his departure to rise and being risen, caused arouse all the ladies and likewise the young men; nor had the rays of the sun yet well broken forth, when they all entered upon the road. never yet had the nightingales and the other birds seemed to them to sing so blithely as they did that morning, what while, accompanied by their carols, they repaired to the ladies' valley, where they were received by many more, which seemed to them to make merry for their coming. there, going round about the place and reviewing it all anew, it appeared to them so much fairer than on the foregoing day as the season of the day was more sorted to its goodliness. then, after they had broken their fast with good wine and confections, not to be behindhand with the birds in the matter of song, they fell a-singing and the valley with them, still echoing those same songs which they did sing, whereto all the birds, as if they would not be outdone, added new and dulcet notes. presently, the dinner-hour being come and the tables spread hard by the fair lakelet under the thickset laurels and other goodly trees, they seated themselves there, as it pleased the king, and eating, watched the fish swim in vast shoals about the lake, which gave bytimes occasion for talk as well as observation. when they had made an end of dining and the meats and tables were removed, they fell anew to singing more blithely than ever; after which, beds having been spread in various places about the little valley and all enclosed about by the discreet seneschal with curtains and canopies of french serge, whoso would might with the king's permission, go sleep; whilst those who had no mind to sleep might at their will take pleasure of their other wonted pastimes. but, after awhile, all being now arisen and the hour come when they should assemble together for story-telling, carpets were, at the king's commandment, spread upon the grass, not far from the place where they had eaten, and all having seated themselves thereon hard by the lake, the king bade emilia begin; whereupon she blithely proceeded to speak, smiling, thus: the first story [day the seventh] gianni lotteringhi heareth knock at his door by night and awakeneth his wife, who giveth him to believe that it is a phantom; whereupon they go to exorcise it with a certain orison and the knocking ceaseth "my lord, it had been very agreeable to me, were such your pleasure, that other than i should have given a beginning to so goodly a matter as is that whereof we are to speak; but, since it pleaseth you that i give all the other ladies assurance by my example, i will gladly do it. moreover, dearest ladies, i will study to tell a thing that may be useful to you in time to come, for that, if you others are as fearful as i, and especially of phantoms, (though what manner of thing they may be god knoweth i know not, nor ever found i any woman who knew it, albeit all are alike adread of them,) you may, by noting well my story, learn a holy and goodly orison of great virtue for the conjuring them away, should they come to you. there was once in florence, in the quarter of san brancazio, a wool-comber called gianni lotteringhi, a man more fortunate in his craft than wise in other things, for that, savoring of the simpleton, he was very often made captain of the laudsingers[ ] of santa maria novella and had the governance of their confraternity, and he many a time had other little offices of the same kind, upon which he much valued himself. this betided him for that, being a man of substance, he gave many a good pittance to the clergy, who, getting of him often, this a pair of hose, that a gown and another a scapulary, taught him in return store of goodly orisons and gave him the paternoster in the vulgar tongue, the song of saint alexis, the lamentations of saint bernard, the canticles of madam matilda and the like trumpery, all which he held very dear and kept very diligently for his soul's health. now he had a very fair and lovesome lady to wife, by name mistress tessa, who was the daughter of mannuccio dalla cuculia and was exceeding discreet and well advised. she, knowing her husband's simplicity and being enamoured of federigo di neri pegolotti, a brisk and handsome youth, and he of her, took order with a serving-maid of hers that he should come speak with her at a very goodly country house which her husband had at camerata, where she sojourned all the summer and whither gianni came whiles to sup and sleep, returning in the morning to his shop and bytimes to his laudsingers. [footnote : see p. , note .] federigo, who desired this beyond measure, taking his opportunity, repaired thither on the day appointed him towards vespers and gianni not coming thither that evening, supped and lay the night in all ease and delight with the lady, who, being in his arms, taught him that night a good half dozen of her husband's lauds. then, neither she nor federigo purposing that this should be the last, as it had been the first time [of their foregathering], they took order together on this wise, so it should not be needful to send the maid for him each time, to wit, that every day, as he came and went to and from a place he had a little farther on, he should keep his eye on a vineyard that adjoined the house, where he would see an ass's skull set up on one of the vine poles, which whenas he saw with the muzzle turned towards florence, he should without fail and in all assurance betake himself to her that evening after dark; and if he found the door shut he should knock softly thrice and she would open to him; but that, whenas he saw the ass's muzzle turned towards fiesole, he should not come, for that gianni would be there; and doing on this wise, they foregathered many a time. but once, amongst other times, it chanced that, federigo being one night to sup with mistress tessa and she having let cook two fat capons, gianni, who was not expected there that night, came thither very late, whereat the lady was much chagrined and having supped with her husband on a piece of salt pork, which she had let boil apart, caused the maid wrap the two boiled capons in a white napkin and carry them, together with good store of new-laid eggs and a flask of good wine, into a garden she had, whither she could go, without passing through the house, and where she was wont to sup whiles with her lover, bidding her lay them at the foot of a peach-tree that grew beside a lawn there. but such was her trouble and annoy that she remembered not to bid the maid wait till federigo should come and tell him that gianni was there and that he should take the viands from the garden; wherefore, she and gianni betaking themselves to bed and the maid likewise, it was not long before federigo came to the door and knocked softly once. the door was so near to the bedchamber that gianni heard it incontinent, as also did the lady; but she made a show of being asleep, so her husband might have no suspicion of her. after waiting a little, federigo knocked a second time, whereupon gianni, marvelling, nudged his wife somewhat and said, 'tessa, hearest thou what i hear? meseemeth there is a knocking at our door.' the lady, who had heard it much better than he, made a show of awaking and said, 'eh? how sayst thou?' 'i say,' answered gianni, 'that meseemeth there is a knocking at our door.' 'knocking!' cried she. 'alack, gianni mine, knowst thou not what it is? it is a phantom, that hath these last few nights given me the greatest fright that ever was, insomuch that, whenas i hear it, i put my head under the clothes and dare not bring it out again until it is broad day.' quoth gianni, 'go to, wife; have no fear, if it be so; for i said the _te lucis_ and the _intemerata_ and such and such other pious orisons, before we lay down, and crossed the bed from side to side, in the name of the father, the son and the holy ghost, so that we have no need to fear, for that, what power soever it have, it cannot avail to harm us.' the lady, fearing lest federigo should perchance suspect otherwhat and be angered with her, determined at all hazards to arise and let him know that gianni was there; wherefore quoth she to her husband, 'that is all very well; thou sayst thy words, thou; but, for my part, i shall never hold myself safe nor secure, except we exorcise it, since thou art here.' 'and how is it to be exorcised?' asked he; and she, 'i know full well how to exorcise it; for, the other day, when i went to the pardon at fiesole, a certain anchoress (the very holiest of creatures, gianni mine, god only can say how holy she is,) seeing me thus fearful, taught me a pious and effectual orison and told me that she had made trial of it several times, ere she became a recluse, and that it had always availed her. god knoweth i should never have dared go alone to make proof of it; but, now that thou art here, i would have us go exorcise the phantom.' gianni answered that he would well and accordingly they both arose and went softly to the door, without which federigo, who now began to misdoubt him of somewhat, was yet in waiting. when they came thither, the lady said to gianni, 'do thou spit, whenas i shall bid thee.' and he answered, 'good.' then she began the conjuration and said, 'phantom, phantom that goest by night, with tail upright[ ] thou cam'st to us; now get thee gone with tail upright. begone into the garden to the foot of the great peach tree; there shalt thou find an anointed twice-anointed one[ ] and an hundred turds of my sitting hen;[ ] set thy mouth to the flagon and get thee gone again and do thou no hurt to my gianni nor to me.' then to her husband, 'spit, gianni,' quoth she, and he spat. federigo, who heard all this from without and was now quit of jealousy, had, for all his vexation, so great a mind to laugh that he was like to burst, and when gianni spat, he said under his breath '[would it were] thy teeth!' [footnote : _i.e._ pene arrecto.] [footnote : _i.e._ a fattened capon well larded.] [footnote : _i.e._ eggs.] the lady, having thrice conjured the phantom on this wise, returned to bed with her husband, whilst federigo, who had not supped, looking to sup with her, and had right well apprehended the words of the conjuration, betook himself to the garden and finding the capons and wine and eggs at the foot of the great peach-tree, carried them off to his house and there supped at his ease; and after, when he next foregathered with the lady, he had a hearty laugh with her anent the conjuration aforesaid. some say indeed that the lady had actually turned the ass's skull towards fiesole, but that a husbandman, passing through the vineyard, had given it a blow with a stick and caused it spin round and it had become turned towards florence, wherefore federigo, thinking himself summoned, had come thither, and that the lady had made the conjuration on this wise: 'phantom, phantom, get thee gone in god's name; for it was not i turned the ass's head; but another it was, god put him to shame! and i am here with my gianni in bed'; whereupon he went away and abode without supper or lodging. but a neighbour of mine, a very ancient lady, telleth me that, according to that which she heard, when a child, both the one and the other were true; but that the latter happened, not to gianni lotteringhi, but to one gianni di nello, who abode at porta san piero and was no less exquisite a ninny than the other. wherefore, dear my ladies, it abideth at your election to take whether of the two orisons most pleaseth you, except you will have both. they have great virtue in such cases, as you have had proof in the story you have heard; get them, therefore, by heart and they may yet avail you." the second story [day the seventh] peronella hideth a lover of hers in a vat, upon her husband's unlooked for return, and hearing from the latter that he hath sold the vat, avoucheth herself to have sold it to one who is presently therewithin, to see if it be sound; whereupon the gallant, jumping out of the vat, causeth the husband scrape it out for him and after carry it home to his house emilia's story was received with loud laughter and the conjuration commended of all as goodly and excellent; and this come to an end, the king bade filostrato follow on, who accordingly began, "dearest ladies, so many are the tricks that men, and particularly husbands, play you, that, if some woman chance whiles to put a cheat upon her husband, you should not only be blithe that this hath happened and take pleasure in coming to know it or hearing it told of any, but should yourselves go telling it everywhere, so men may understand that, if they are knowing, women, on their part, are no less so! the which cannot be other than useful unto you, for that, when one knoweth that another is on the alert, he setteth himself not overlightly to cozen him. who, then, can doubt but that which we shall say to-day concerning this matter, coming to be known of men, may be exceeding effectual in restraining them from cozening you ladies, whenas they find that you likewise know how to cozen, an you will? i purpose, therefore, to tell you the trick which, on the spur of the moment, a young woman, albeit she was of mean condition, played her husband for her own preservation. in naples no great while agone there was a poor man who took to wife a fair and lovesome damsel called peronella, and albeit he with his craft, which was that of a mason, and she by spinning, earned but a slender pittance, they ordered their life as best they might. it chanced one day that a young gallant of the neighbourhood saw this peronella and she pleasing him mightily, he fell in love with her and importuned her one way and another till he became familiar with her and they took order with each other on this wise, so they might be together; to wit, seeing that her husband arose every morning betimes to go to work or to find work, they agreed that the young man should be whereas he might see him go out, and that, as soon as he was gone,--the street where she abode, which was called avorio, being very solitary,--he should come to her house. on this wise they did many times; but one morning, the good man having gone out and giannello strignario (for so was the lover named) having entered the house and being with peronella, it chanced that, after awhile, the husband returned home, whereas it was his wont to be abroad all day, and finding the door locked within, knocked and after fell a-saying in himself, 'o my god, praised be thou ever! for, though thou hast made me poor, at least thou hast comforted me with a good and honest damsel to wife. see how she locked the door within as soon as i was gone out, so none might enter to do her any annoy.' peronella, knowing her husband by his way of knocking, said to her lover, 'alack, giannello mine, i am a dead woman! for here is my husband, whom god confound, come back and i know not what this meaneth, for never yet came he back hither at this hour; belike he saw thee whenas thou enteredst here. but, for the love of god, however the case may be, get thee into yonder vat, whilst i go open to him, and we shall see what is the meaning of his returning home so early this morning.' accordingly, giannello betook himself in all haste into the vat, whilst peronella, going to the door, opened to her husband and said to him, with an angry air, 'what is to do now, that thou returnest home so soon this morning? meseemeth thou hast a mind to do nought to-day, that i see thee come back, tools in hand; and if thou do thus, on what are we to live? whence shall we get bread? thinkest thou i will suffer thee pawn my gown and my other poor clothes? i, who do nothing but spin day and night, till the flesh is come apart from my nails, so i may at the least have so much oil as will keep our lamp burning! husband, husband, there is not a neighbour's wife of ours but marvelleth thereat and maketh mock of me for the pains i give myself and all that i endure; and thou, thou returnest home to me, with thy hands a-dangle, whenas thou shouldst be at work.' so saying, she fell a-weeping and went on to say, 'alack, woe is me, unhappy woman that i am! in what an ill hour was i born, at what an ill moment did i come hither! i who might have had a young man of such worth and would none of him, so i might come to this fellow here, who taketh no thought to her whom he hath brought home! other women give themselves a good time with their lovers, for there is none [i know] but hath two and some three, and they enjoy themselves and show their husbands the moon for the sun. but i, wretch that i am! because i am good and occupy myself not with such toys, i suffer ill and ill hap. i know not why i do not take me a lover, as do other women. understand well, husband mine, that had i a mind to do ill, i could soon enough find the wherewithal, for there be store of brisk young fellows who love me and wish me well and have sent to me, proffering money galore or dresses and jewels, at my choice; but my heart would never suffer me to do it, for that i was no mother's daughter of that ilk; and here thou comest home to me, whenas thou shouldst be at work.' 'good lack, wife,' answered the husband, 'fret not thyself, for god's sake; thou shouldst be assured that i know what manner of woman thou art, and indeed this morning i have in part had proof thereof. it is true that i went out to go to work; but it seemeth thou knowest not, as i myself knew not, that this is the feast-day of san galeone and there is no work doing; that is why i am come back at this hour; but none the less i have provided and found a means how we shall have bread for more than a month, for i have sold yonder man thou seest here with me the vat which, as thou knowest, hath this long while cumbered the house; and he is to give me five lily-florins[ ] for it.' quoth peronella, 'so much the more cause have i to complain; thou, who art a man and goest about and should be versed in the things of the world, thou hast sold a vat for five florins, whilst i, a poor silly woman who hath scarce ever been without the door, seeing the hindrance it gave us in the house, have sold it for seven to an honest man, who entered it but now, as thou camest back, to see if it were sound!' when the husband heard this, he was more than satisfied and said to him who had come for the vat, 'good man, begone in peace; for thou hearest that my wife hath sold the vat for seven florins, whereas thou wast to give me but five for it.' 'good,' replied the other and went his way; whereupon quoth peronella to her husband, 'since thou art here, come up and settle with him thyself.' giannello, who abode with his ears pricked up to hear if it behoved him fear or be on his guard against aught, hearing his mistress's words, straightway scrambled out of the vat and cried out, as if he had heard nothing of the husband's return, 'where art thou, good wife?' whereupon the goodman, coming up, answered, 'here am i; what wouldst thou have?' 'who art thou?' asked giannello. 'i want the woman with whom i made the bargain for this vat.' quoth the other, 'you may deal with me in all assurance, for i am her husband.' then said giannello, 'the vat appeareth to me sound enough; but meseemeth you have kept dregs or the like therein, for it is all overcrusted with i know not what that is so hard and dry that i cannot remove aught thereof with my nails; wherefore i will not take it, except i first see it clean.' 'nay,' answered peronella, 'the bargain shall not fall through for that; my husband will clean it all out.' 'ay will i,' rejoined the latter, and laying down his tools, put off his coat; then, calling for a light and a scraper, he entered the vat and fell to scraping. peronella, as if she had a mind to see what he did, thrust her head and one of her arms, shoulder and all, in at the mouth of the vat, which was not overbig, and fell to saying, 'scrape here' and 'there' and 'there also' and 'see, here is a little left.' [footnote : so called from the figure of a lily stamped on the coin; cf. our rose-nobles.] whilst she was thus engaged in directing her husband and showing him where to scrape, giannello, who had scarce yet that morning done his full desire, when they were interrupted by the mason's coming, seeing that he could not as he would, bethought himself to accomplish it as he might; wherefore, boarding her, as she held the mouth of the vat all closed up, on such wise as in the ample plains the unbridled stallions, afire with love, assail the mares of parthia, he satisfied his juvenile ardour, the which enterprise was brought to perfection well nigh at the same moment as the scraping of the vat; whereupon he dismounted and peronella withdrawing her head from the mouth of the vat, the husband came forth thereof. then said she to her gallant, 'take this light, good man, and look if it be clean to thy mind.' giannello looked in and said that it was well and that he was satisfied and giving the husband seven florins, caused carry the vat to his own house." the third story [day the seventh] fra rinaldo lieth with his gossip and being found of her husband closeted with her in her chamber, they give him to believe that he was in act to conjure worms from his godson filostrato had not known to speak so obscurely of the mares of parthia but that the roguish ladies laughed thereat, making believe to laugh at otherwhat. but, when the king saw that his story was ended, he bade elisa tell, who accordingly, with obedient readiness, began, "charming ladies, emilia's conjuration of the phantom hath brought to my memory the story of another conjuration, which latter, though it be not so goodly as hers, nevertheless, for that none other bearing upon our subject occurreth to me at this present, i will proceed to relate. you must know that there was once in siena a very agreeable young man and of a worshipful family, by name rinaldo, who was passionately enamored of a very beautiful lady, a neighbour of his and the wife of a rich man, and flattered himself that, could he but find means to speak with her unsuspected, he might avail to have of her all that he should desire. seeing none other way and the lady being great with child, he bethought himself to become her gossip and accordingly, clapping up an acquaintance with her husband, he offered him, on such wise as appeared to him most seemly, to be godfather to his child. his offer was accepted and he being now become madam agnesa's gossip and having a somewhat more colourable excuse for speaking with her, he took courage and gave her in so many words to know that of his intent which she had indeed long before gathered from his looks; but little did this profit him, although the lady was nothing displeased to have heard him. not long after, whatever might have been the reason, it came to pass that rinaldo turned friar and whether or not he found the pasturage to his liking, he persevered in that way of life; and albeit, in the days of his becoming a monk, he had for awhile laid on one side the love he bore his gossip, together with sundry other vanities of his, yet, in process of time, without quitting the monk's habit, he resumed them[ ] and began to delight in making a show and wearing fine stuffs and being dainty and elegant in all his fashions and making canzonets and sonnets and ballads and in singing and all manner other things of the like sort. but what say i of our fra rinaldo, of whom we speak? what monks are there that do not thus? alack, shame that they are of the corrupt world, they blush not to appear fat and ruddy in the face, dainty in their garb and in all that pertaineth unto them, and strut along, not like doves, but like very turkey-cocks, with crest erect and breast puffed out; and what is worse (to say nothing of having their cells full of gallipots crammed with electuaries and unguents, of boxes full of various confections, of phials and flagons of distilled waters and oils, of pitchers brimming with malmsey and cyprus and other wines of price, insomuch that they seem to the beholder not friars' cells, but rather apothecaries' or perfumers' shops) they think no shame that folk should know them to be gouty, conceiving that others see not nor know that strict fasting, coarse viands and spare and sober living make men lean and slender and for the most part sound of body, and that if indeed some sicken thereof, at least they sicken not of the gout, whereto it is used to give, for medicine, chastity and everything else that pertaineth to the natural way of living of an honest friar. yet they persuade themselves that others know not that,--let alone the scant and sober living,--long vigils, praying and discipline should make men pale and mortified and that neither st. dominic nor st. francis, far from having four gowns for one, clad themselves in cloth dyed in grain nor in other fine stuffs, but in garments of coarse wool and undyed, to keep out the cold and not to make a show. for which things, as well as for the souls of the simpletons who nourish them, there is need that god provide. [footnote : _i.e._ the discarded vanities aforesaid.] fra rinaldo, then, having returned to his former appetites, began to pay frequent visits to his gossip and waxing in assurance, proceeded to solicit her with more than his former instancy to that which he desired of her. the good lady, seeing herself hard pressed and fra rinaldo seeming to her belike goodlier than she had thought him aforetime, being one day sore importuned of him, had recourse to that argument which all women use who have a mind to yield that which is asked of them and said, 'how now, fra rinaldo? do monks such things?' 'madam,' answered he, 'when as i shall have this gown off my back,--and i can put it off mighty easily,--i shall appear to you a man fashioned like other men and not a monk.' the lady pulled a demure face and said, 'alack, wretched me! you are my gossip; how can i do this? it were sadly ill, and i have heard many a time that it is a very great sin; but, certes, were it not for this, i would do that which you wish.' quoth fra rinaldo, 'you are a simpleton, if you forbear for this; i do not say that it is not a sin, but god pardoneth greater than this to whoso repenteth. but tell me, who is more akin to your child, i who held him at baptism or your husband who begat him?' 'my husband is more akin to him,' answered the lady; whereupon, 'you say sooth,' rejoined the friar. 'and doth not your husband lie with you?' 'ay doth he,' replied she. 'then,' said fra rinaldo, 'i, who am less akin to your child than is your husband, may lie with you even as doth he.' the lady, who knew no logic and needed little persuasion, either believed or made a show of believing that the friar spoke the truth and answered, 'who might avail to answer your learned words?' and after, notwithstanding the gossipship, she resigned herself to do his pleasure; nor did they content themselves with one bout, but foregathered many and many a time, having the more commodity thereof under cover of the gossipship, for that there was less suspicion. but once, amongst other times, it befell that fra rinaldo, coming to the lady's house and finding none with her but a little maid of hers, who was very pretty and agreeable, despatched his comrade with the latter to the pigeon-loft, to teach her her paternoster, and entered with the lady, who had her child in her hand, into her bedchamber, where they locked themselves in and fell to taking their pleasure upon a daybed that was there. as they were thus engaged, it chanced that the husband came home and making for the bedchamber-door, unperceived of any, knocked and called to the lady, who, hearing this, said to the friar, 'i am a dead woman, for here is my husband, and now he will certainly perceive what is the reason of our familiarity.' now rinaldo was stripped to his waistcoat, to wit, he had put off his gown and his scapulary, and hearing this, answered, 'you say sooth; were i but dressed, there might be some means; but, if you open to him and he find me thus, there can be no excuse for us.' the lady, seized with a sudden idea, said, 'harkye, dress yourself and when you are dressed, take your godchild in your arms and hearken well to that which i shall say to him, so your words may after accord with mine, and leave me do.' then, to the good man, who had not yet left knocking, 'i come to thee,' quoth she and rising, opened the chamber-door and said, with a good countenance, 'husband mine, i must tell thee that fra rinaldo, our gossip, is come hither and it was god sent him to us; for, certes, but for his coming, we should to-day have lost our child.' the good simple man, hearing this, was like to swoon and said, 'how so?' 'o husband mine,' answered agnesa, 'there took him but now of a sudden a fainting-fit, that methought he was dead, and i knew not what to do or say; but just then fra rinaldo our gossip came in and taking him in his arms, said, "gossip, these be worms he hath in his body, the which draw near to his heart and would infallibly kill him; but have no fear, for i will conjure them and make them all die; and ere i go hence, you shall see the child whole again as ever you saw him." and for that we had need of thee to repeat certain orisons and that the maid could not find thee, he caused his comrade say them in the highest room of our house, whilst he and i came hither and locked ourselves in, so none should hinder us, for that none other than the child's mother might be present at such an office. indeed, he hath the child yet in his arms and methinketh he waiteth but for his comrade to have made an end of saying the orisons and it will be done, for that the boy is already altogether restored to himself.' the good simple man, believing all this, was so straitened with concern for his child that it never entered his mind to suspect the cheat put upon him by his wife; but, heaving a great sigh, he said, 'i will go see him.' 'nay,' answered she, 'thou wouldst mar that which hath been done. wait; i will go see an thou mayst come in and call thee.' meanwhile, fra rinaldo, who had heard everything and had dressed himself at his leisure, took the child in his arms and called out, as soon as he had ordered matters to his mind, saying, 'harkye, gossip, hear i not my gossip your husband there?' 'ay, sir,' answered the simpleton; whereupon, 'then,' said the other, 'come hither.' the cuckold went to him and fra rinaldo said to him, 'take your son by the grace of god whole and well, whereas i deemed but now you would not see him alive at vespers; and look you let make a waxen image of his bigness and set it up, to the praise and glory of god, before the statue of our lord st. ambrose, through whose intercession he hath vouchsafed to restore him unto you.' the child, seeing his father, ran to him and caressed him, as little children used to do, whilst the latter, taking him, weeping, in his arms, no otherwise than as he had brought him forth of the grave, fell to kissing him and returning thanks to his gossip for that he had made him whole. meanwhile, fra rinaldo's comrade, who had by this taught the serving-wench not one, but maybe more than four paternosters, and had given her a little purse of white thread, which he had from a nun, and made her his devotee, hearing the cuckold call at his wife's chamber-door, had softly betaken himself to a place whence he could, himself unseen, both see and hear what should betide and presently, seeing that all had passed off well, came down and entering the chamber, said, 'fra rinaldo, i have despatched all four of the orisons which you bade me say.' 'brother mine,' answered the friar, 'thou hast a good wind and hast done well; i, for my part, had said but two thereof, when my gossip came; but god the lord, what with thy pains and mine, hath shown us such favour that the child is healed.' therewithal the cuckold let bring good wines and confections and entertained his gossip and the latter's comrade with that whereof they had more need than of aught else. then, attending them to the door, he commended them to god and letting make the waxen image without delay, he sent to hang it up with the others[ ] before the statue of st. ambrose, but not that of milan."[ ] [footnote : _i.e._ the other ex votos.] [footnote : there is apparently some satirical allusion here, which i cannot undertake to explain.] the fourth story [day the seventh] tofano one night shutteth his wife out of doors, who, availing not to re-enter by dint of entreaties, feigneth to cast herself into a well and casteth therein a great stone. tofano cometh forth of the house and runneth thither, whereupon she slippeth in and locking him out, bawleth reproaches at him from the window the king no sooner perceived elisa's story to be ended than, turning without delay to lauretta, he signified to her his pleasure that she should tell; whereupon she, without hesitation, began thus, "o love, how great and how various is thy might! how many thy resources and thy devices! what philosopher, what craftsman[ ] could ever have availed or might avail to teach those shifts, those feints, those subterfuges which thou on the spur of the moment suggestest to whoso ensueth in thy traces! certes, all others' teaching is halting compared with thine, as may very well have been apprehended by the devices which have already been set forth and to which, lovesome ladies, i will add one practised by a woman of a simple wit enough and such as i know none but love could have taught her. [footnote : syn. professor of the liberal arts (_artista_).] there was once, then, in arezzo, a rich man called tofano and he was given to wife a very fair lady, by name madam ghita, of whom, without knowing why, he quickly waxed jealous. the lady, becoming aware of this, was despited thereat and questioned him once and again of the reason of his jealousy; but he was able to assign her none, save such as were general and naught; wherefore it occurred to her mind to cause him die of the disease whereof he stood without reason in fear. accordingly, perceiving that a young man, who was much to her taste, sighed for her, she proceeded discreetly to come to an understanding with him and things being so far advanced between them that there lacked but with deeds to give effect to words, she cast about for a means of bringing this also to pass; wherefore, having already remarked, amongst her husband's other ill usances, that he delighted in drinking, she began not only to commend this to him, but would often artfully incite him thereto. this became so much his wont that, well nigh whensoever it pleased her, she led him to drink even to intoxication, and putting him to bed whenas she saw him well drunken, she a first time foregathered with her lover, with whom many a time thereafter she continued to do so in all security. indeed, she grew to put such trust in her husband's drunkenness that not only did she make bold to bring her gallant into the house, but went whiles to pass a great part of the night with him in his own house, which was not very far distant. the enamoured lady continuing on this wise, it befell that the wretched husband came to perceive that she, whilst encouraging him to drink, natheless herself drank never; wherefore suspicion took him that it might be as in truth it was, to wit, that she made him drunken, so she might after do her pleasure what while he slept, and wishing to make proof of this, an it were so, he one evening, not having drunken that day, feigned himself, both in words and fashions, the drunkenest man that was aye. the lady, believing this and judging that he needed no more drink, put him to bed in all haste and this done, betook herself, as she was used to do whiles, to the house of her lover, where she abode till midnight. as for tofano, no sooner did he know the lady to have left the house than he straightway arose and going to the doors, locked them from within; after which he posted himself at the window, so he might see her return and show her that he had gotten wind of her fashions; and there he abode till such time as she came back. the lady, returning home and finding herself locked out, was beyond measure woeful and began to essay an she might avail to open the door by force, which, after tofano had awhile suffered, 'wife,' quoth he, 'thou weariest thyself in vain, for thou canst nowise come in here again. go, get thee back whereas thou hast been till now and be assured that thou shalt never return thither till such time as i shall have done thee, in respect of this affair, such honour as beseemeth thee in the presence of thy kinsfolk and of the neighbours.' the lady fell to beseeching him for the love of god that it would please him open to her, for that she came not whence he supposed, but from keeping vigil with a she-neighbour of hers, for that the nights were long and she could not sleep them all out nor watch at home alone. however, prayers profited her nought, for that her brute of a husband was minded to have all the aretines[ ] know their shame, whereas none as yet knew it; wherefore, seeing that prayers availed her not, she had recourse to threats and said, 'an thou open not to me, i will make thee the woefullest man alive.' 'and what canst thou do to me?' asked tofano, and mistress tessa, whose wits love had already whetted with his counsels, replied, 'rather than brook the shame which thou wouldst wrongfully cause me suffer, i will cast myself into this well that is herenigh, where when i am found dead, there is none will believe otherwise than that thou, for very drunkenness, hast cast me therein; wherefore it will behove thee flee and lose all thou hast and abide in banishment or have thy head cut off for my murderer, as thou wilt in truth have been.' [footnote : _i.e._ inhabitants of arezzo.] tofano was nowise moved by these words from his besotted intent; wherefore quoth she to him, 'harkye now, i can no longer brook this thy fashery, god pardon it thee! look thou cause lay up[ ] this distaff of mine that i leave here.' so saying, the night being so dark that one might scarce see other by the way, she went up to the well and taking a great stone that lay thereby, cried out, 'god pardon me!' and let it drop into the water. the stone, striking the water, made a very great noise, which when tofano heard, he verily believed that she had cast herself in; wherefore, snatching up the bucket and the rope, he rushed out of the house and ran to the well to succour her. the lady, who had hidden herself near the door, no sooner saw him run to the well than she slipped into the house and locked herself in; then, getting her to the window, 'you should water your wine, whenas you drink it,' quoth she, 'and not after and by night.' tofano, hearing this, knew himself to have been fooled and returned to the door, but could get no admission and proceeded to bid her open to him; but she left speaking softly, as she had done till then, and began, well nigh at a scream, to say, 'by christ his cross, tiresome sot that thou art, thou shalt not enter here to-night; i cannot brook these thy fashions any longer; needs must i let every one see what manner of man thou art and at what hour thou comest home anights.' tofano, on his side, flying into a rage, began to rail at her and bawl; whereupon the neighbours, hearing the clamour, arose, both men and women, and coming to the windows, asked what was to do. the lady answered, weeping, 'it is this wretch of a man, who still returneth to me of an evening, drunken, or falleth asleep about the taverns and after cometh home at this hour; the which i have long suffered, but, it availing me not and i being unable to put up with it longer, i have bethought me to shame him therefor by locking him out of doors, to see and he will mend himself thereof.' [footnote : _riporre_, possibly a mistake for _riportare_, to fetch back.] tofano, on the other hand, told them, like an ass as he was, how the case stood and threatened her sore; but she said to the neighbours, 'look you now what a man he is! what would you say, were i in the street, as he is, and he in the house, as am i? by god his faith, i doubt me you would believe he said sooth. by this you may judge of his wits; he saith i have done just what methinketh he hath himself done. he thought to fear me by casting i know not what into the well; but would god he had cast himself there in good sooth and drowned himself, so he might have well watered the wine which he hath drunken to excess.' the neighbours, both men and women, all fell to blaming tofano, holding him at fault, and chid him for that which he said against the lady; and in a short time the report was so noised abroad from neighbour to neighbour that it reached the ears of the lady's kinsfolk, who came thither and hearing the thing from one and another of the neighbours, took tofano and gave him such a drubbing that they broke every bone in his body. then, entering the house, they took the lady's gear and carried her off home with them, threatening tofano with worse. the latter, finding himself in ill case and seeing that his jealousy had brought him to a sorry pass, for that he still loved his wife heartily,[ ] procured certain friends to intercede for him and so wrought that he made his peace with the lady and had her home again with him, promising her that he would never be jealous again. moreover, he gave her leave to do her every pleasure, provided she wrought so discreetly that he should know nothing thereof; and on this wise, like a crack-brained churl as he was, he made peace after suffering damage. so long live love and death to war and all its company!" [footnote : lit. wished her all his weal.] the fifth story [day the seventh] a jealous husband, in the guise of a priest, confesseth his wife, who giveth him to believe that she loveth a priest, who cometh to her every night; and whilst the husband secretly keepeth watch at the door for the latter, the lady bringeth in a lover of hers by the roof and lieth with him lauretta having made an end of her story and all having commended the lady for that she had done aright and even as befitted her wretch of a husband, the king, to lose no time, turned to fiammetta and courteously imposed on her the burden of the story-telling; whereupon she began thus, "most noble ladies, the foregoing story moveth me to tell you, on like wise, of a jealous husband, accounting, as i do, all that their wives do unto such,--particularly whenas they are jealous without cause,--to be well done and holding that, if the makers of the laws had considered everything, they should have appointed none other penalty unto women who offend in this than that which they appoint unto whoso offendeth against other in self-defence; for that jealous men are plotters against the lives of young women and most diligent procurers of their deaths. wives abide all the week mewed up at home, occupying themselves with domestic offices and the occasions of their families and households, and after they would fain, like every one else, have some solace and some rest on holidays and be at leisure to take some diversion even as do the tillers of the fields, the artisans of the towns and the administrators of the laws, according to the example of god himself, who rested from all his labours the seventh day, and to the intent of the laws, both human and divine, which, looking to the honour of god and the common weal of all, have distinguished working days from those of repose. but to this jealous men will on no wise consent; nay, those days which are gladsome for all other women they make wretcheder and more doleful than the others to their wives, keeping them yet closelier straitened and confined; and what a misery and a languishment this is for the poor creatures those only know who have proved it. wherefore, to conclude, i say that what a woman doth to a husband who is jealous without cause should certes not be condemned, but rather commended. there was, then, in arimino a merchant, very rich both in lands and monies, who, having to wife a very fair lady, became beyond measure jealous of her; nor had he other cause for this save that, as he loved her exceedingly and held her very fair and saw that she studied with all her might to please him, even so he imagined that every man loved her and that she appeared fair to all and eke that she studied to please others as she did himself, which was the reasoning of a man of nought and one of little sense. being grown thus jealous, he kept such strict watch over her and held her in such constraint that belike many there be of those who are condemned to capital punishment who are less straitly guarded of their gaolers; for, far from being at liberty to go to weddings or entertainments or to church or indeed anywise to set foot without the house, she dared not even stand at the window nor look abroad on any occasion; wherefore her life was most wretched and she brooked this annoy with the more impatience as she felt herself the less to blame. accordingly, seeing herself unjustly suspected of her husband, she determined, for her own solacement, to find a means (an she but might) of doing on such wise that he should have reason for his ill usage of her. and for that she might not station herself at the window and so had no opportunity of showing herself favourable to the suit of any one who might take note of her, as he passed along her street, and pay his court to her,--knowing that in the adjoining house there was a certain young man both handsome and agreeable,--she bethought herself to look if there were any hole in the wall that parted the two houses and therethrough to spy once and again till such time as she should see the youth aforesaid and find an occasion of speaking with him and bestowing on him her love, so he would accept thereof, purposing, if a means could be found, to foregather with him bytimes and on this wise while away her sorry life till such time as the demon [of jealousy] should take leave of her husband. accordingly, she went spying about the walls of the house, now in one part and now in another, whenas her husband was abroad, and happened at last upon a very privy place where the wall was somewhat opened by a fissure and looking therethrough, albeit she could ill discover what was on the other side, algates she perceived that the opening gave upon a bedchamber there and said in herself, 'should this be the chamber of filippo,' to wit, the youth her neighbour, 'i were half sped.' then, causing secretly enquire of this by a maid of hers, who had pity upon her, she found that the young man did indeed sleep in that chamber all alone; wherefore, by dint of often visiting the crevice and dropping pebbles and such small matters, whenas she perceived him to be there, she wrought on such wise that he came to the opening, to see what was to do; whereupon she called to him softly. he, knowing her voice, answered her, and she, profiting by the occasion, discovered to him in brief all her mind; whereat the youth was mightily content and made shift to enlarge the hole from his side on such wise that none could perceive it; and therethrough they many a time bespoke one another and touched hands, but could go no farther, for the jealous vigilance of the husband. after awhile, the feast of the nativity drawing near, the lady told her husband that, an it pleased him, she would fain go to church on christmas morning and confess and take the sacrament, as other christians did. quoth he, 'and what sin hast thou committed that thou wouldst confess?' 'how?' answered the lady. 'thinkest thou that i am a saint, because thou keepest me mewed up? thou must know well enough that i commit sins like all others that live in this world; but i will not tell them to thee, for that thou art not a priest.' the jealous wretch took suspicion at these words and determined to seek to know what sins she had committed; wherefore, having bethought himself of a means whereby he might gain his end, he answered that he was content, but that he would have her go to no other church than their parish chapel and that thither she must go betimes in the morning and confess herself either to their chaplain or to such priest as the latter should appoint her and to none other and presently return home. herseemed she half apprehended his meaning; but without saying otherwhat, she answered that she would do as he said. accordingly, christmas day come, the lady arose at daybreak and attiring herself, repaired to the church appointed her of her husband, who, on his part, betook himself to the same place and reached it before her. having already taken order with the chaplain of that which he had a mind to do, he hastily donned one of the latter's gowns, with a great flapped cowl, such as we see priests wear, and drawing the hood a little over his face, seated himself in the choir. the lady, entering the chapel, enquired for the chaplain, who came and hearing from her that she would fain confess, said that he could not hear her, but would send her one of his brethren. accordingly, going away, he sent her the jealous man, in an ill hour for the latter, who came up with a very grave air, and albeit the day was not over bright and he had drawn the cowl far over his eyes, knew not so well to disguise himself but he was readily recognized by the lady, who, seeing this, said in herself, 'praised be god! from a jealous man he is turned priest; but no matter; i will e'en give him what he goeth seeking.' accordingly, feigning not to know him, she seated herself at his feet. my lord jealousy had put some pebbles in his mouth, to impede his speech somewhat, so his wife might not know him by his voice, himseeming he was in every other particular so thoroughly disguised that he was nowise fearful of being recognized by her. to come to the confession, the lady told him, amongst other things, (having first declared herself to be married,) that she was enamoured of a priest, who came every night to lie with her. when the jealous man heard this, himseemed he had gotten a knife-thrust in the heart, and had not desire constrained him to know more, he had abandoned the confession and gone away. standing fast, then, he asked the lady, 'how! doth not your husband lie with you?' 'ay doth he, sir,' replied she. 'how, then,' asked the jealous man, 'can the priest also lie with you?' 'sir,' answered she, 'by what art he doth it i know not, but there is not a door in the house so fast locked but it openeth so soon as he toucheth it; and he telleth me that, whenas he cometh to the door of my chamber, before opening it, he pronounceth certain words, by virtue whereof my husband incontinent falleth asleep, and so soon as he perceiveth him to be fast, he openeth the door and cometh in and lieth with me; and this never faileth.' quoth the mock priest, 'madam, this is ill done, and it behoveth you altogether to refrain therefrom.' 'sir,' answered the lady, 'methinketh i could never do that, for that i love him too well.' 'then,' said the other, 'i cannot shrive you.' quoth she, 'i am grieved for that; but i came not hither to tell you lies; an i thought i could do it, i would tell you so.' 'in truth, madam,' replied the husband, 'i am concerned for you, for that i see you lose your soul at this game; but, to do you service, i will well to take the pains of putting up my special orisons to god in your name, the which maybe shall profit you, and i will send you bytimes a little clerk of mine, to whom you shall say if they have profited you or not; and if they have profited you, we will proceed farther.' 'sir,' answered the lady, 'whatever you do, send none to me at home, for, should my husband come to know of it, he is so terribly jealous that nothing in the world would get it out of his head that your messenger came hither for nought[ ] but ill, and i should have no peace with him this year to come.' quoth the other, 'madam, have no fear of that, for i will certainly contrive it on such wise that you shall never hear a word of the matter from him.' then said she, 'so but you can engage to do that, i am content.' then, having made her confession and gotten her penance, she rose to her feet and went off to hear mass; whilst the jealous man, (ill luck go with him!) withdrew, bursting with rage, to put off his priest's habit, and returned home, impatient to find a means of surprising the priest with his wife, so he might play the one and the other an ill turn. [footnote : boccaccio writes carelessly "for _aught_" (_altro_), which makes nonsense of the passage.] presently the lady came back from church and saw plainly enough from her husband's looks that she had given him an ill christmas; albeit he studied, as most he might, to conceal that which he had done and what himseemed he had learned. then, being inwardly resolved to lie in wait near the street-door that night and watch for the priest's coming, he said to the lady, 'needs must i sup and lie abroad to-night, wherefore look thou lock the street-door fast, as well as that of the midstair and that of thy chamber, and get thee to bed, whenas it seemeth good to thee.' the lady answered, 'it is well,' and betaking herself, as soon as she had leisure, to the hole in the wall, she made the wonted signal, which when filippo heard, he came to her forthright. she told him how she had done that morning and what her husband had said to her after dinner and added, 'i am certain he will not leave the house, but will set himself to watch the door; wherefore do thou find means to come hither to me to-night by the roof, so we may lie together.' the young man was mightily rejoiced at this and answered, 'madam, leave me do.' accordingly, the night come, the jealous man took his arms and hid himself by stealth in a room on the ground floor, whilst the lady, whenas it seemed to her time,--having caused lock all the doors and in particular that of the midstair, so he might not avail to come up,--summoned the young man, who came to her from his side by a very privy way. thereupon they went to bed and gave themselves a good time, taking their pleasure one of the other till daybreak, when the young man returned to his own house. meanwhile, the jealous man stood to his arms well nigh all night beside the street-door, sorry and supperless and dying of cold, and waited for the priest to come till near upon day, when, unable to watch any longer, he returned to the ground floor room and there fell asleep. towards tierce he awoke and the street door being now open, he made a show of returning from otherwhere and went up into his house and dined. a little after, he sent a lad, as he were the priest's clerkling that had confessed her, to the lady to ask if she wot of were come thither again. she knew the messenger well enough and answered that he had not come thither that night and that if he did thus, he might haply pass out of her mind, albeit she wished it not. what more should i tell you? the jealous man abode on the watch night after night, looking to catch the priest at his entering in, and the lady still had a merry life with her lover the while. at length the cuckold, able to contain himself no longer, asked his wife, with an angry air, what she had said to the priest the morning she had confessed herself to him. she answered that she would not tell him, for that it was neither a just thing nor a seemly; whereupon, 'vile woman that thou art!' cried he. 'in despite of thee i know what thou saidst to him, and needs must i know the priest of whom thou art so mightily enamoured and who, by means of his conjurations, lieth with thee every night; else will i slit thy weasand.' she replied that it was not true that she was enamoured of any priest. 'how?' cried the husband, 'saidst thou not thus and thus to the priest who confessed thee?' and she, 'thou couldst not have reported it better, not to say if he had told it thee, but if thou hadst been present; ay, i did tell him this.' 'then,' rejoined the jealous man, 'tell me who is this priest, and that quickly.' the lady fell a-smiling and answered, 'it rejoiceth me mightily to see a wise man led by the nose by a woman, even as one leadeth a ram by the horns to the shambles, albeit thou art no longer wise nor hast been since the hour when, unknowing why, thou sufferedst the malignant spirit of jealousy to enter thy breast; and the sillier and more besotted thou art, so much the less is my glory thereof. deemest thou, husband mine, i am as blind of the eyes of the body as thou of those of the mind? certes, no; i perceived at first sight who was the priest that confessed me and know that thou wast he; but i had it at heart to give thee that which thou wentest seeking, and in sooth i have done it. wert thou as wise as thou thinkest to be, thou wouldst not have essayed by this means to learn the secrets of thy good wife, but wouldst, without taking vain suspicion, have recognized that which she confessed to thee to be the very truth, without her having sinned in aught. i told thee that i loved a priest, and wast not thou, whom i am much to blame to love as i do, become a priest? i told thee that no door of my house could abide locked, whenas he had a mind to lie with me; and what door in the house was ever kept against thee, whenas thou wouldst come whereas i might be? i told thee that the priest lay with me every night, and when was it that thou layest not with me? and whenassoever thou sentest thy clerk to me, which was thou knowest, as often as thou layest from me, i sent thee word that the priest had not been with me. what other than a crack-brain like thee, who has suffered thyself to be blinded by thy jealousy, had failed to understand these things? thou hast abidden in the house, keeping watch anights, and thoughtest to have given me to believe that thou wast gone abroad to sup and sleep. bethink thee henceforth and become a man again, as thou wast wont to be; and make not thyself a laughing stock to whoso knoweth thy fashions, as do i, and leave this unconscionable watching that thou keepest; for i swear to god that, an the fancy took me to make thee wear the horns, i would engage, haddest thou an hundred eyes, as thou hast but two, to do my pleasure on such wise that thou shouldst not be ware thereof.' the jealous wretch, who thought to have very adroitly surprised his wife's secrets, hearing this, avouched himself befooled and without answering otherwhat, held the lady for virtuous and discreet; and whenas it behoved him to be jealous, he altogether divested himself of his jealousy, even as he had put it on, what time he had no need thereof. wherefore the discreet lady, being in a manner licensed to do her pleasures, thenceforward no longer caused her lover to come to her by the roof, as go the cats, but e'en brought him in at the door, and dealing advisedly, many a day thereafter gave herself a good time and led a merry life with him." the sixth story [day the seventh] madam isabella, being in company with leonetto her lover, is visited by one messer lambertuccio, of whom she is beloved; her husband returning, [unexpected,] she sendeth lambertuccio forth of the house, whinger in hand, and the husband after escorteth leonetto home the company were wonder-well pleased with fiammetta's story, all affirming that the lady had done excellently well and as it behoved unto such a brute of a man, and after it was ended, the king bade pampinea follow on, who proceeded to say, "there are many who, speaking ignorantly, avouch that love bereaveth folk of their senses and causeth whoso loveth to become witless. meseemeth this is a foolish opinion, as hath indeed been well enough shown by the things already related, and i purpose yet again to demonstrate it. in our city, which aboundeth in all good things, there was once a young lady both gently born and very fair, who was the wife of a very worthy and notable gentleman; and as it happeneth often that folk cannot for ever brook one same food, but desire bytimes to vary their diet, this lady, her husband not altogether satisfying her, became enamoured of a young man called leonetto and very well bred and agreeable, for all he was of no great extraction. he on like wise fell in love with her, and as you know that seldom doth that which both parties desire abide without effect, it was no great while before accomplishment was given to their loves. now it chanced that, she being a fair and engaging lady, a gentleman called messer lambertuccio became sore enamoured of her, whom, for that he seemed to her a disagreeable man and a tiresome, she could not for aught in the world bring herself to love. however, after soliciting her amain with messages and it availing him nought, he sent to her threatening her, for that he was a notable man, to dishonour her, an she did not his pleasure; wherefore she, fearful and knowing his character, submitted herself to do his will. it chanced one day that the lady, whose name was madam isabella, being gone, as is our custom in summer-time, to abide at a very goodly estate she had in the country and her husband having ridden somewhither to pass some days abroad, she sent for leonetto to come and be with her, whereat he was mightily rejoiced and betook himself thither incontinent. meanwhile messer lambertuccio, hearing that her husband was gone abroad, took horse and repairing, all alone, to her house, knocked at the door. the lady's waiting-woman, seeing him, came straight to her mistress, who was closeted with leonetto, and called to her, saying, 'madam, messer lambertuccio is below, all alone.' the lady, hearing this, was the woefullest woman in the world, but, as she stood in great fear of messer lambertuccio, she besought leonetto not to take it ill to hide himself awhile behind the curtains of her bed till such time as the other should be gone. accordingly, leonetto, who feared him no less than did the lady, hid himself there and she bade the maid go open to messer lambertuccio, which being done, he lighted down in the courtyard and making his palfrey fast to a staple there, went up into the house. the lady put on a cheerful countenance and coming to the head of the stair, received him with as good a grace as she might and asked him what brought him thither; whereupon he caught her in his arms and clipped her and kissed her, saying, 'my soul, i understood that your husband was abroad and am come accordingly to be with you awhile.' after these words, they entered a bedchamber, where they locked themselves in, and messer lambertuccio fell to taking delight of her. as they were thus engaged, it befell, altogether out of the lady's expectation, that her husband returned, whom when the maid saw near the house, she ran in haste to the lady's chamber and said, 'madam, here is my lord come back; methinketh he is already below in the courtyard.' when the lady heard this, bethinking her that she had two men in the house and knowing that there was no hiding messer lambertuccio, by reason of his palfrey which was in the courtyard, she gave herself up for lost. nevertheless, taking a sudden resolution, she sprang hastily down from the bed and said to messer lambertuccio, 'sir, an you wish me anywise well and would save me from death, do that which i shall bid you. take your hanger naked in your hand and go down the stair with an angry air and all disordered and begone, saying, "i vow to god that i will take him elsewhere." and should my husband offer to detain you or question you of aught, do you say no otherwhat than that which i have told you, but take horse and look you abide not with him on any account.' the gentleman answered that he would well, and accordingly, drawing his hanger, he did as she had enjoined him, with a face all afire what with the swink he had furnished and with anger at the husband's return. the latter was by this dismounted in the courtyard and marvelled to see the palfrey there; then, offering to go up into the house, he saw messer lambertuccio come down and wondering both at his words and his air, said, 'what is this, sir?' messer lambertuccio putting his foot in the stirrup and mounting to horse, said nought but, 'cock's body, i shall find him again otherwhere,' and made off. the gentleman, going up, found his wife at the stairhead, all disordered and fearful, and said to her, 'what is all this? whom goeth messer lambertuccio threatening thus in such a fury?' the lady, withdrawing towards the chamber where leonetto was, so he might hear her, answered, 'sir, never had i the like of this fright. there came fleeing hither but now a young man, whom i know not, followed by messer lambertuccio, hanger in hand, and finding by chance the door of this chamber open, said to me, all trembling, "for god's sake, madam, help me, that i be not slain in your arms." i rose to my feet and was about to question him who he was and what ailed him, when, behold, in rushed messer lambertuccio, saying, "where art thou, traitor?" i set myself before the chamber-door and hindered him from entering; and he was in so far courteous that, after many words, seeing it pleased me not that he should enter there, he went his way down, as you have seen.' quoth the husband, 'wife, thou didst well, it were too great a reproach to us, had a man been slain in our house, and messer lambertuccio did exceeding unmannerly to follow a person who had taken refuge here.' then he asked where the young man was, and the lady answered, 'indeed sir, i know not where he hath hidden himself.' then said the husband 'where art thou? come forth in safety.' whereupon leonetto, who had heard everything, came forth all trembling for fear, (as indeed he had had a great fright,) of the place where he had hidden himself, and the gentleman said to him, 'what hast thou to do with messer lambertuccio?' 'sir,' answered he, 'i have nothing in the world to do with him, wherefore methinketh assuredly he is either not in his right wits or he hath mistaken me for another; for that no sooner did he set eyes on me in the road not far from this house than he forthright clapped his hand to his hanger and said, "traitor, thou art a dead man!" i stayed not to ask why, but took to my heels as best i might and made my way hither, where, thanks to god and to this gentlewoman, i have escaped.' quoth the husband, 'go to; have no fears; i will bring thee to thine own house safe and sound, and thou canst after seek out what thou hast to do with him.' accordingly, when they had supped, he mounted him a-horseback and carrying him back to florence, left him in his own house. as for leonetto, that same evening, according as he had been lessoned of the lady, he privily bespoke messer lambertuccio and took such order with him, albeit there was much talk of the matter thereafterward, the husband never for all that became aware of the cheat that had been put on him by his wife." the seventh story [day the seventh] lodovico discovereth to madam beatrice the love he beareth her, whereupon she sendeth egano her husband into the garden, in her own favour, and lieth meanwhile with lodovico, who, presently arising, goeth and cudgelleth egano in the garden madam isabella's presence of mind, as related by pampinea, was held admirable by all the company; but, whilst they yet marvelled thereat, filomena, whom the king had appointed to follow on, said, "lovesome ladies, and i mistake not, methinketh i can tell you no less goodly a story on the same subject, and that forthright. you must know, then, that there was once in paris a florentine gentleman, who was for poverty turned merchant and had thriven so well in commerce that he was grown thereby very rich. he had by his lady one only son, whom he had named lodovico, and for that he might concern himself with his father's nobility and not with trade, he had willed not to place him in any warehouse, but had sent him to be with other gentlemen in the service of the king of france, where he learned store of goodly manners and other fine things. during his sojourn there, it befell that certain gentlemen, who were returned from visiting the holy sepulchre, coming in upon a conversation between certain young men, of whom lodovico was one, and hearing them discourse among themselves of the fair ladies of france and england and other parts of the world, one of them began to say that assuredly, in all the lands he had traversed and for all the ladies he had seen, he had never beheld the like for beauty of madam beatrice, the wife of messer egano de' gulluzzi of bologna; to which all his companions, who had with him seen her at bologna, agreed. lodovico, who had never yet been enamoured of any woman, hearkening to this, was fired with such longing to see her that he could hold his thought to nothing else and being altogether resolved to journey to bologna for that purpose and there, if she pleased him, to abide awhile, he feigned to his father that he had a mind to go visit the holy sepulchre, the which with great difficulty he obtained of him. accordingly, taking the name of anichino, he set out for bologna, and on the day following [his arrival,] as fortune would have it, he saw the lady in question at an entertainment, where she seemed to him fairer far than he had imagined her; wherefore, falling most ardently enamoured of her, he resolved never to depart bologna till he should have gained her love. then, devising in himself what course he should take to this end, he bethought himself, leaving be all other means, that, an he might but avail to become one of her husband's servants, whereof he entertained many, he might peradventure compass that which he desired. accordingly, having sold his horses and disposed as best might be of his servants, bidding them make a show of knowing him not, he entered into discourse with his host and told him that he would fain engage for a servant with some gentleman of condition, could such an one be found. quoth the host, 'thou art the right serving-man to please a gentleman of this city, by name egano, who keepeth many and will have them all well looking, as thou art. i will bespeak him of the matter.' as he said, so he did, and ere he took leave of egano, he had brought anichino to an accord with him, to the exceeding satisfaction of the latter, who, abiding with egano and having abundant opportunity of seeing his lady often, proceeded to serve him so well and so much to his liking that he set such store by him that he could do nothing without him and committed to him the governance, not of himself alone, but of all his affairs. it chanced one day that, egano being gone a-fowling and having left anichino at home, madam beatrice (who was not yet become aware of his love for her, albeit, considering him and his fashions, she had ofttimes much commended him to herself and he pleased her,) fell to playing chess with him and he, desiring to please her, very adroitly contrived to let himself be beaten, whereat the lady was marvellously rejoiced. presently, all her women having gone away from seeing them play and left them playing alone, anichino heaved a great sigh, whereupon she looked at him and said, 'what aileth thee, anichino? doth it irk thee that i should beat thee?' 'madam,' answered he, 'a far greater thing than that was the cause of my sighing.' quoth the lady, 'prithee, as thou wishest me well, tell it me.' when anichino heard himself conjured, 'as thou wishest me well,' by her whom he loved over all else, he heaved a sigh yet heavier than the first; wherefore the lady besought him anew that it would please him tell her the cause of his sighing. 'madam,' replied anichino, 'i am sore fearful lest it displease you, if i tell it you, and moreover i misdoubt me you will tell it again to others.' whereto rejoined she, 'certes, it will not displease me, and thou mayst be assured that, whatsoever thou sayest to me i will never tell to any, save whenas it shall please thee.' quoth he, 'since you promise me this, i will e'en tell it you.' then, with tears in his eyes, he told her who he was and what he had heard of her and when and how he was become enamoured of her and why he had taken service with her husband and after humbly besought her that it would please her have compassion on him and comply with him in that his secret and so fervent desire, and in case she willed not to do this, that she should suffer him to love her, leaving him be in that his then present guise. o singular blandness of the bolognese blood! how art thou still to be commended in such circumstance! never wast thou desirous of tears or sighs; still wast thou compliant unto prayers and amenable unto amorous desires! had i words worthy to commend thee, my voice should never weary of singing thy praises. the gentle lady, what while anichino spoke, kept her eyes fixed on him and giving full credence to his words, received, by the prevalence of his prayers, the love of him with such might into her heart that she also fell a-sighing and presently answered, 'sweet my anichino, be of good courage; neither presents nor promises nor solicitations of nobleman or gentleman or other (for i have been and am yet courted of many) have ever availed to move my heart to love any one of them; but thou, in this small space of time that thy words have lasted, hast made me far more thine than mine own. methinketh thou hast right well earned my love, wherefore i give it thee and promise thee that i will cause thee have enjoyment thereof ere this next night be altogether spent. and that this may have effect, look thou come to my chamber about midnight. i will leave the door open; thou knowest which side the bed i lie; do thou come thither and if i sleep, touch me so i may awake, and i will ease thee of this so long desire that thou hast had. and that thou mayst believe this that i say, i will e'en give thee a kiss by way of arles.' accordingly, throwing her arms about his neck, she kissed him amorously and he on like wise kissed her. these things said, he left her and went to do certain occasions of his, awaiting with the greatest gladness in the world the coming of the night. presently, egano returned from fowling and being weary, betook himself to bed, as soon as he had supper, and after him the lady, who left the chamber-door open, as she had promised. thither, at the appointed hour, came anichino and softly entering the chamber, shut the door again from within; then, going up to the bed on the side where the lady lay, he put his hand to her breast and found her awake. as soon as she felt him come, she took his hand in both her own and held it fast; then, turning herself about in the bed, she did on such wise that egano, who was asleep, awoke; whereupon quoth she to him, 'i would not say aught to thee yestereve, for that meseemed thou was weary; but tell me, egano, so god save thee, whom holdest thou thy best and trustiest servant and him who most loveth thee of those whom thou hast in the house?' 'wife,' answered egano, 'what is this whereof thou askest me? knowest thou it not? i have not nor had aye any in whom i so trusted and whom i loved as i love and trust in anichino. but why dost thou ask me thereof?' anichino, seeing egano awake and hearing talk of himself, was sore afraid lest the lady had a mind to cozen him and offered again and again to draw his hand away, so he might begone; but she held it so fast that he could not win free. then said she to egano, 'i will tell thee. i also believed till to-day that he was even such as thou sayest and that he was more loyal to thee than any other, but he hath undeceived me; for that, what while thou wentest a-fowling to-day, he abode here, and whenas it seemed to him time, he was not ashamed to solicit me to yield myself to his pleasures, and i, so i might make thee touch and see this thing and that it might not behove me certify thee thereof with too many proofs, replied that i would well and that this very night, after midnight, i would go into our garden and there await him at the foot of the pine. now for my part i mean not to go thither; but thou, an thou have a mind to know thy servant's fidelity, thou mayst lightly do it by donning a gown and a veil of mine and going down yonder to wait and see if he will come thither, as i am assured he will.' egano hearing this, answered, 'certes, needs must i go see,' and rising, donned one of the lady's gowns, as best he knew in the dark; then, covering his head with a veil, he betook himself to the garden and proceeded to await anichino at the foot of the pine. as for the lady, as soon as she knew him gone forth of the chamber, she arose and locked the door from within, whilst anichino, (who had had the greatest fright he had ever known and had enforced himself as most he might to escape from the lady's hands, cursing her and her love and himself who had trusted in her an hundred thousand times,) seeing this that she had done in the end, was the joyfullest man that was aye. then, she having returned to bed, he, at her bidding, put off his clothes and coming to bed to her, they took delight and pleasure together a pretty while; after which, herseeming he should not abide longer, she caused him arise and dress himself and said to him, 'sweetheart, do thou take a stout cudgel and get thee to the garden and there, feigning to have solicited me to try me, rate egano, as he were i, and ring me a good peal of bells on his back with the cudgel, for that thereof will ensue to us marvellous pleasance and delight.' anichino accordingly repaired to the garden, with a sallow-stick in his hand, and egano, seeing him draw near the pine, rose up and came to meet him, as he would receive him with the utmost joy; whereupon quoth anichino, 'ah, wicked woman, art thou then come hither, and thinkest thou i would do my lord such a wrong? a thousand times ill come to thee!' then, raising the cudgel, he began to lay on to him. egano, hearing this and seeing the cudgel, took to his heels, without saying a word, whilst anichino still followed after him, saying, 'go to, god give thee an ill year, vile woman that thou art! i will certainly tell it to egano to-morrow morning.' egano made his way back to the chamber as quickliest he might, having gotten sundry good clouts, and being questioned of the lady if anichino had come to the garden, 'would god he had not!' answered he. 'for that, taking me for thee, he hath cudgelled me to a mummy and given me the soundest rating that was aye bestowed upon lewd woman. certes, i marvelled sore at him that he should have said these words to thee, with intent to do aught that might be a shame to me; but, for that he saw thee so blithe and gamesome, he had a mind to try thee.' then said the lady, 'praised be god that he hath tried me with words and thee with deeds! methinketh he may say that i suffered his words more patiently than thou his deeds. but, since he is so loyal to thee, it behoveth thee hold him dear and do him honour.' 'certes,' answered egano, 'thou sayst sooth'; and reasoning by this, he concluded that he had the truest wife and the trustiest servant that ever gentleman had; by reason whereof, albeit both he and the lady made merry more than once with anichino over this adventure, the latter and his mistress had leisure enough of that which belike, but for this, they would not have had, to wit, to do that which afforded them pleasance and delight, that while it pleased anichino abide with egano in bologna." the eighth story [day the seventh] a man waxeth jealous of his wife, who bindeth a piece of packthread to her great toe anights, so she may have notice of her lover's coming. one night her husband becometh aware of this device and what while he pursueth the lover, the lady putteth another woman to bed in her room. this latter the husband beateth and cutteth off her hair, then fetcheth his wife's brothers, who, finding his story [seemingly] untrue, give him hard words it seemed to them all that madam beatrice had been extraordinarily ingenious in cozening her husband and all agreed that anichino's fright must have been very great, whenas, being the while held fast by the lady, he heard her say that he had required her of love. but the king, seeing filomena silent, turned to neifile and said to her, "do you tell"; whereupon she, smiling first a little, began, "fair ladies, i have a hard task before me if i desire to pleasure you with a goodly story, as those of you have done, who have already told; but, with god's aid, i trust to discharge myself thereof well enough. you must know, then, that there was once in our city a very rich merchant called arriguccio berlinghieri, who, foolishly thinking, as merchants yet do every day, to ennoble himself by marriage, took to wife a young gentlewoman ill sorting with himself, by name madam sismonda, who, for that he, merchant-like, was much abroad and sojourned little with her, fell in love with a young man called ruberto, who had long courted her, and clapped up a lover's privacy with him. using belike over-little discretion in her dealings with her lover, for that they were supremely delightsome to her, it chanced that, whether arriguccio scented aught of the matter or how else soever it happened, the latter became the most jealous man alive and leaving be his going about and all his other concerns, applied himself well nigh altogether to the keeping good watch over his wife; nor would he ever fall asleep, except he first felt her come into the bed; by reason whereof the lady suffered the utmost chagrin, for that on no wise might she avail to be with her ruberto. however, after pondering many devices for finding a means to foregather with him and being to boot continually solicited thereof by him, it presently occurred to her to do on this wise; to wit, having many a time observed that arriguccio tarried long to fall asleep, but after slept very soundly, she determined to cause ruberto come about midnight to the door of the house and to go open to him and abide with him what while her husband slept fast. and that she might know when he should be come, she bethought herself to hang a twine out of the window of her bedchamber, which looked upon the street, on such wise that none might perceive it, one end whereof should well nigh reach the ground, whilst she carried the other end along the floor of the room to the bed and hid it under the clothes, meaning to make it fast to her great toe, whenas she should be abed. accordingly, she sent to acquaint ruberto with this and charged him, when he came, to pull the twine, whereupon, if her husband slept, she would let it go and come to open to him; but, if he slept not, she would hold it fast and draw it to herself, so he should not wait. the device pleased ruberto and going thither frequently, he was whiles able to foregather with her and whiles not. on this wise they continued to do till, one night, the lady being asleep, it chanced that her husband stretched out his foot in bed and felt the twine, whereupon he put his hand to it and finding it made fast to his wife's toe, said in himself, 'this should be some trick'; and presently perceiving that the twine led out of window, he held it for certain. accordingly, he cut it softly from the lady's toe and making it fast to his own, abode on the watch to see what this might mean. he had not waited long before up came ruberto and pulled at the twine, as of his wont; whereupon arriguccio started up; but, he not having made the twine well fast to his toe and ruberto pulling hard, it came loose in the latter's hand, whereby he understood that he was to wait and did so. as for arriguccio, he arose in haste and taking his arms, ran to the door, to see who this might be and do him a mischief, for, albeit a merchant, he was a stout fellow and a strong. when he came to the door, he opened it not softly as the lady was used to do, which when ruberto, who was await, observed, he guessed how the case stood, to wit, that it was arriguccio who opened the door, and accordingly made off in haste and the other after him. at last, having fled a great way and arriguccio stinting not from following him, ruberto, being also armed, drew his sword and turned upon his pursuer, whereupon they fell to blows, the one attacking and the other defending himself. meanwhile, the lady, awaking, as arriguccio opened the chamber-door, and finding the twine cut from her toe, knew incontinent that her device was discovered, whereupon, perceiving that her husband had run after her lover, she arose in haste and foreseeing what might happen, called her maid, who knew all, and conjured her to such purpose that she prevailed with her to take her own place in the bed, beseeching her patiently to endure, without discovering herself, whatsoever buffets arriguccio might deal her, for that she would requite her therefor on such wise that she should have no cause to complain; after which she did out the light that burnt in the chamber and going forth thereof, hid herself in another part of the house and there began to await what should betide. meanwhile, the people of the quarter, aroused by the noise of the affray between arriguccio and ruberto, arose and fell a-railing at them; whereupon the husband, fearing to be known, let the youth go, without having availed to learn who he was or to do him any hurt, and returned to his house, full of rage and despite. there, coming into the chamber, he cried out angrily, saying, 'where art thou, vile woman? thou hast done out the light, so i may not find thee; but thou art mistaken.' then, coming to the bedside, he seized upon the maid, thinking to take his wife, and laid on to her so lustily with cuffs and kicks, as long as he could wag his hands and feet, that he bruised all her face, ending by cutting off her hair, still giving her the while the hardest words that were ever said to worthless woman. the maid wept sore, as indeed she had good cause to do, and albeit she said whiles, 'alas, mercy, for god's sake!' and 'oh, no more!' her voice was so broken with sobs and arriguccio was so hindered with his rage that he never discerned it to be that of another woman than his wife. having, then, as we have said, beaten her to good purpose and cut off her hair, he said to her, 'wicked woman that thou art, i mean not to touch thee otherwise, but shall now go fetch thy brothers and acquaint them with thy fine doings and after bid them come for thee and deal with thee as they shall deem may do them honour and carry thee away; for assuredly in this house thou shalt abide no longer.' so saying, he departed the chamber and locking the door from without, went away all alone. as soon as madam sismonda, who had heard all, was certified of her husband's departure, she opened the door and rekindling the light, found her maid all bruised and weeping sore; whereupon she comforted her as best she might and carried her back to her own chamber, where she after caused privily tend her and care for her and so rewarded her of arriguccio's own monies that she avouched herself content. no sooner had she done this than she hastened to make the bed in her own chamber and all restablished it and set it in such order as if none had lain there that night; after which she dressed and tired herself, as if she had not yet gone to bed; then, lighting a lamp, she took her clothes and seated herself at the stairhead, where she proceeded to sew and await the issue of the affair. meanwhile arriguccio betook himself in all haste to the house of his wife's brothers and there knocked so long and so loudly that he was heard and it was opened to him. the lady's three brothers and her mother, hearing that it was arriguccio, rose all and letting kindle lights, came to him and asked what he went seeking at that hour and alone. whereupon, beginning from the twine he had found tied to wife's toe, he recounted to them all that he had discovered and done, and to give them entire proof of the truth of his story, he put into their hands the hair he thought to have cut from his wife's head, ending by requiring them to come for her and do with her that which they should judge pertinent to their honour, for that he meant to keep her no longer in his house. the lady's brothers, hearing this and holding it for certain, were sore incensed against her and letting kindle torches, set out to accompany arriguccio to his house, meaning to do her a mischief; which their mother seeing, she followed after them, weeping and entreating now the one, now the other not to be in such haste to believe these things of their sister, without seeing or knowing more of the matter, for that her husband might have been angered with her for some other cause and have maltreated her and might now allege this in his own excuse, adding that she marvelled exceedingly how this [whereof he accused her] could have happened, for that she knew her daughter well, as having reared her from a little child, with many other words to the like purpose. when they came to arriguccio's house, they entered and proceeded to mount the stair, whereupon madam sismonda, hearing them come, said, 'who is there?' to which one of her brothers answered, 'thou shalt soon know who it is, vile woman that thou art!' 'god aid us!' cried she. 'what meaneth this?' then, rising to her feet, 'brothers mine,' quoth she, 'you are welcome; but what go you all three seeking at this hour?' the brothers,--seeing her seated sewing, with no sign of beating on her face, whereas arriguccio avouched that he had beaten her to a mummy,--began to marvel and curbing the violence of their anger, demanded of her how that had been whereof arriguccio accused her, threatening her sore, and she told them not all. quoth she, 'i know not what you would have me say nor of what arriguccio can have complained to you of me.' arriguccio, seeing her thus, eyed her as if he had lost his wits, remembering that he had dealt her belike a thousand buffets on the face and scratched her and done her all the ill in the world, and now he beheld her as if nothing of all this had been. her brothers told her briefly what they had heard from arriguccio, twine and beating and all, whereupon she turned to him and said, 'alack, husband mine, what is this i hear? why wilt thou make me pass, to thine own great shame, for an ill woman, where as i am none, and thyself for a cruel and wicked man, which thou art not? when wast thou in this house to-night till now, let alone with me? when didst thou beat me? for my part, i have no remembrance of it.' 'how, vile woman that thou art!' cried he. 'did we not go to bed together here? did i not return hither, after running after thy lover? did i not deal thee a thousand buffets and cut off thy hair?' 'thou wentest not to bed in this house to-night,' replied sismonda. 'but let that pass, for i can give no proof thereof other than mine own true words, and let us come to that which thou sayest, to wit, that thou didst beat me and cut off my hair. me thou hast never beaten, and do all who are here and thou thyself take note of me, if i have any mark of beating in any part of my person. indeed, i should not counsel thee make so bold as to lay a hand on me, for, by christ his cross, i would mar thy face for thee! neither didst thou cut off my hair, for aught that i felt or saw; but haply thou didst it on such wise that i perceived it not; let me see if i have it shorn or no.' then, putting off her veil from her head, she showed that she had her hair unshorn and whole. her mother and brothers, seeing and hearing all this, turned upon her husband and said to him, 'what meanest thou, arriguccio? this is not that so far which thou camest to tell us thou hadst done, and we know not how thou wilt make good the rest.' arriguccio stood as one in a trance and would have spoken; but, seeing that it was not as he thought he could show, he dared say nothing; whereupon the lady, turning to her brothers, said to them, 'brothers mine, i see he hath gone seeking to have me do what i have never yet chosen to do, to wit, that i should acquaint you with his lewdness and his vile fashions, and i will do it. i firmly believe that this he hath told you hath verily befallen him and that he hath done as he saith; and you shall hear how. this worthy man, to whom in an ill hour for me you gave me to wife, who calleth himself a merchant and would be thought a man of credit, this fellow, forsooth, who should be more temperate than a monk and chaster than a maid, there be few nights but he goeth fuddling himself about the taverns, foregathering now with this lewd woman and now with that and keeping me waiting for him, on such wise as you find me, half the night and whiles even till morning. i doubt not but that, having well drunken, he went to bed with some trull of his and waking, found the twine on her foot and after did all these his fine feats whereof he telleth, winding up by returning to her and beating her and cutting off her hair; and not being yet well come to himself, he fancied (and i doubt not yet fancieth) that he did all this to me; and if you look him well in the face, you will see he is yet half fuddled. algates, whatsoever he may have said of me, i will not have you take it to yourselves except as a drunken man's talk, and since i forgive him, do you also pardon him.' her mother, hearing this, began to make an outcry and say, 'by christ his cross, daughter mine, it shall not pass thus! nay, he should rather be slain for a thankless, ill-conditioned dog, who was never worthy to have a girl of thy fashion to wife. marry, a fine thing, forsooth! he could have used thee no worse, had he picked thee up out of the dirt! devil take him if thou shalt abide at the mercy of the spite of a paltry little merchant of asses' dung! they come to us out of their pigstyes in the country, clad in homespun frieze, with their bag-breeches and pen in arse, and as soon as they have gotten a leash of groats, they must e'en have the daughters of gentlemen and right ladies to wife and bear arms and say, "i am of such a family" and "those of my house did thus and thus." would god my sons had followed my counsel in the matter, for that they might have stablished thee so worshipfully in the family of the counts guidi, with a crust of bread to thy dowry! but they must needs give thee to this fine jewel of fellow, who, whereas thou art the best girl in florence and the modestest, is not ashamed to knock us up in the middle of the night, to tell us that thou art a strumpet, as if we knew thee not. but, by god his faith, an they would be ruled by me, he should get such a trouncing therefor that he should stink for it!' then, turning to the lady's brothers, 'my sons,' said she, 'i told you this could not be. have you heard how your fine brother-in-law here entreateth your sister? four-farthing[ ] huckster that he is! were i in your shoes, he having said what he hath of her and doing that which he doth, i would never hold myself content nor appeased till i had rid the earth of him; and were i a man, as i am a woman, i would trouble none other than myself to despatch his business. confound him for a sorry drunken beast, that hath no shame!' [footnote : or, in modern parlance, "twopennny-halfpenny."] the young men, seeing and hearing all this, turned upon arriguccio and gave him the soundest rating ever losel got; and ultimately they said to him. 'we pardon thee this as to a drunken man; but, as thou tenderest thy life, look henceforward we hear no more news of this kind, for, if aught of the like come ever again to our ears, we will pay thee at once for this and for that.' so saying, they went their ways, leaving arriguccio all aghast, as it were he had taken leave of his wits, unknowing in himself whether that which he had done had really been or whether he had dreamed it; wherefore he made no more words thereof, but left his wife in peace. thus the lady, by her ready wit, not only escaped the imminent peril [that threatened her,] but opened herself a way to do her every pleasure in time to come, without evermore having any fear of her husband." the ninth story [day the seventh] lydia, wife of nicostratus, loveth pyrrhus, who, so he may believe it, requireth of her three things, all which she doth. moreover, she solaceth herself with him in the presence of nicostratus and maketh the latter believe that that which he hath seen is not real neifile's story so pleased the ladies that they could neither give over to laugh at nor to talk of it, albeit the king, having bidden pamfilo tell his story, had several times imposed silence upon them. however, after they had held their peace, pamfilo began thus: "i do not believe, worshipful ladies, that there is anything, how hard and doubtful soever it be, that whoso loveth passionately will not dare to do; the which, albeit it hath already been demonstrated in many stories, methinketh, nevertheless, i shall be able yet more plainly to show forth to you in one which i purpose to tell you and wherein you shall hear of a lady, who was in her actions much more favoured of fortune than well-advised of reason; wherefore i would not counsel any one to adventure herself in the footsteps of her of whom i am to tell, for that fortune is not always well disposed nor are all men in the world equally blind. in argos, city of achia far more famous for its kings of past time than great in itself, there was once a nobleman called nicostratus, to whom, when already neighbouring on old age, fortune awarded a lady of great family to wife, whose name was lydia and who was no less high-spirited than fair. nicostratus, like a nobleman and a man of wealth as he was, kept many servants and hounds and hawks and took the utmost delight in the chase. among his other servants he had a young man called pyrrhus, who was sprightly and well bred and comely of his person and adroit in all that he had a mind to do, and him he loved and trusted over all else. of this pyrrhus lydia became so sore enamoured that neither by day nor by night could she have her thought otherwhere than with him; but he, whether it was that he perceived not her liking for him or that he would none of it, appeared to reck nothing thereof, by reason whereof the lady suffered intolerable chagrin in herself and being altogether resolved to give him to know of her passion, called a chamberwoman of hers, lusca by name, in whom she much trusted, and said to her, 'lusca, the favours thou hast had of me should make thee faithful and obedient; wherefore look thou none ever know that which i shall presently say to thee, save he to whom i shall charge thee tell it. as thou seest, lusca, i am a young and lusty lady, abundantly endowed with all those things which any woman can desire; in brief, i can complain of but one thing, to wit, that my husband's years are overmany, an they be measured by mine own, wherefore i fare but ill in the matter of that thing wherein young women take most pleasure, and none the less desiring it, as other women do, i have this long while determined in myself, since fortune hath been thus little my friend in giving me so old a husband, that i will not be so much mine own enemy as not to contrive to find means for my pleasures and my weal; which that i may have as complete in this as in other things, i have bethought myself to will that our pyrrhus, as being worthier thereof than any other, should furnish them with his embracements; nay, i have vowed him so great a love that i never feel myself at ease save whenas i see him or think of him, and except i foregather with him without delay, methinketh i shall certainly die thereof. wherefore, if my life be dear to thee, thou wilt, on such wise as shall seem best to thee, signify to him any love and beseech him, on my part, to be pleased to come to me, whenas thou shalt go for him.' the chamberwoman replied that she would well and taking pyrrhus apart, whenas first it seemed to her time and place, she did her lady's errand to him as best she knew. pyrrhus, hearing this, was sore amazed thereat, as one who had never anywise perceived aught of the matter, and misdoubted him the lady had let say this to him to try him; wherefore he answered roughly and hastily, 'lusca, i cannot believe that these words come from my lady; wherefore, have a care what thou sayst; or, if they do indeed come from her, i do not believe that she caused thee say them with intent, and even if she did so, my lord doth me more honour than i deserve and i would not for my life do him such an outrage; wherefore look thou bespeak me no more of such things.' lusca, nowise daunted by his austere speech, said to him, 'pyrrhus, i will e'en bespeak thee both of this and of everything else wherewithal my lady shall charge me when and as often as she shall bid me, whether it cause thee pleasure or annoy; but thou art an ass.' then, somewhat despited at his words, she returned to her mistress, who, hearing what pyrrhus had said, wished for death, but, some days after, she again bespoke the chamberwoman of the matter and said to her, 'lusca, thou knowest that the oak falleth not for the first stroke; wherefore meseemeth well that thou return anew to him who so strangely willeth to abide loyal to my prejudice, and taking a sortable occasion, throughly discover to him my passion and do thine every endeavour that the thing may have effect; for that, an it fall through thus, i shall assuredly die of it. moreover, he will think to have been befooled, and whereas we seek to have his love, hate will ensue thereof.' the maid comforted her and going in quest of pyrrhus found him merry and well-disposed and said to him, 'pyrrhus i showed thee, a few days agone, in what a fire my lady and thine abideth for the love she beareth thee, and now anew i certify thee thereof, for that, an thou persist in the rigour thou showedst the other day, thou mayst be assured that she will not live long; wherefore i prithee be pleased to satisfy her of her desire, and if thou yet abide fast in thine obstinacy, whereas i have still accounted thee mighty discreet, i shall hold thee a blockhead. what can be a greater glory for thee than that such a lady, so fair and so noble, should love thee over all else? besides, how greatly shouldst thou acknowledge thyself beholden unto fortune, seeing that she proffereth thee a thing of such worth and so conformable to the desires of thy youth and to boot, such a resource for thy necessities! which of thy peers knowest thou who fareth better by way of delight than thou mayst fare, an thou be wise? what other couldst thou find who may fare so well in the matter of arms and horses and apparel and monies as thou mayst do, so thou wilt but vouchsafe thy love to this lady? open, then, thy mind to my words and return to thy senses; bethink thee that once, and no oftener, it is wont to betide that fortune cometh unto a man with smiling face and open arms, who an he know not then to welcome, if after he find himself poor and beggarly, he hath himself and not her to blame. besides, there is no call to use that loyalty between servants and masters that behoveth between friends and kinsfolk; nay, servants should use their masters, in so far as they may, like as themselves are used of them. thinkest thou, an thou hadst a fair wife or mother or daughter or sister, who pleased nicostratus, that he would go questing after this loyalty that thou wouldst fain observe towards him in respect of this lady? thou are a fool, if thou think thus; for thou mayst hold it for certain that, if blandishments and prayers sufficed him not, he would not scruple to use force in the matter, whatsoever thou mightest deem thereof. let us, then, entreat them and their affairs even as they entreat us and ours. profit by the favour of fortune and drive her not away, but welcome her with open arms and meet her halfway, for assuredly, and thou do it not, thou wilt yet (leave alone the death that will without fail ensue thereof to thy lady) repent thee thereof so many a time thou wilt be fain to die therefor.' pyrrhus, who had again and again pondered the words that lusca had said to him, had determined, and she should return to him, to make her another guess answer and altogether to submit himself to comply with the lady's wishes, so but he might be certified that it was not a trick to try him, and accordingly answered, 'harkye, lusca; all that thou sayst to me i allow to be true; but, on the other hand, i know my lord for very discreet and well-advised, and as he committeth all his affairs to my hands, i am sore adread lest lydia, with his counsel and by his wish, do this to try me; wherefore, an it please her for mine assurance do three things that i shall ask, she shall for certain thereafterward command me nought but i will do it forthright. and the three things i desire are these: first, that in nicostratus his presence she slay his good hawk; secondly, that she send me a lock of her husband's beard and lastly, one of his best teeth.' these conditions seemed hard unto lusca and to the lady harder yet; however, love, who is an excellent comforter[ ] and a past master in shifts and devices, made her resolve to do his pleasure and accordingly she sent him word by her chamberwoman that she would punctually do what he required and that quickly, and that over and above this, for that he deemed nicostratus so well-advised, she would solace herself with him in her husband's presence and make the latter believe that it was not true. [footnote : syn. encourager, helper, auxiliary (_confortatore_).] pyrrhus, accordingly, began to await what the lady should do, and nicostratus having, a few days after, made, as he oftentimes used to do, a great dinner to certain gentlemen, madam lydia, whenas the tables were cleared away, came forth of her chamber, clad in green samite and richly bedecked, and entered the saloon where the guests were. there, in the sight of pyrrhus and of all the rest, she went up to the perch, whereon was the hawk that nicostratus held so dear, and cast it loose, as she would set it on her hand; then, taking it by the jesses, she dashed it against the wall and killed it; whereupon nicostratus cried out at her, saying, 'alack, wife, what hast thou done?' she answered him nothing, but, turning to the gentlemen who had eaten with him, she said to them, 'gentlemen, i should ill know how to avenge myself on a king who did me a despite, an i dared not take my wreak of a hawk. you must know that this bird hath long robbed me of all the time which should of men be accorded to the pleasuring of the ladies; for that no sooner is the day risen than nicostratus is up and drest and away he goeth a-horseback, with his hawk on his fist, to the open plains, to see him fly, whilst i, such as you see me, abide in bed alone and ill-content; wherefore i have many a time had a mind to do that which i have now done, nor hath aught hindered me therefrom but that i waited to do it in the presence of gentlemen who would be just judges in my quarrel, as methinketh you will be.' the gentlemen, hearing this and believing her affection for nicostratus to be no otherwise than as her words denoted, turned all to the latter, who was angered, and said, laughing, 'ecod, how well hath the lady done to avenge herself of her wrong by the death of the hawk!' then, with divers of pleasantries upon the subject (the lady being now gone back to her chamber), they turned nicostratus his annoy into laughter; whilst pyrrhus, seeing all this, said in himself, 'the lady hath given a noble beginning to my happy loves; god grant she persevere!' lydia having thus slain the hawk, not many days were passed when, being in her chamber with nicostratus, she fell to toying and frolicking with him, and he, pulling her somedele by the hair, by way of sport, gave her occasion to accomplish the second thing required of her by pyrrhus. accordingly, taking him of a sudden by a lock of his beard, she tugged so hard at it, laughing the while, that she plucked it clean out of his chin; whereof he complaining, 'how now?' quoth she. 'what aileth thee to pull such a face? is it because i have plucked out maybe half a dozen hairs of thy beard? thou feltest not that which i suffered, whenas thou pulledst me now by the hair.' on this wise continuing their disport from one word to another, she privily kept the lock of hair that she had plucked from his beard and sent it that same day to her lover. anent the last of the three things required by pyrrhus she was harder put to it for a device; nevertheless, being of a surpassing wit and love making her yet quicker of invention, she soon bethought herself what means she should use to give it accomplishment. nicostratus had two boys given him of their father, to the intent that, being of gentle birth, they might learn somewhat of manners and good breeding in his house, of whom, whenas he was at meat, one carved before him and the other gave him to drink. lydia called them both and giving them to believe that they stank at the mouth, enjoined them that, whenas they served nicostratus, they should still hold their heads backward as most they might nor ever tell this to any. the boys, believing that which she said, proceeded to do as she had lessoned them, and she after a while said to her husband one day, 'hast thou noted that which yonder boys do, whenas they serve thee?' 'ay have i,' replied nicostratus; 'and indeed i had it in mind to ask them why they did it.' quoth the lady, 'do it not, for i can tell thee the reason; and i have kept it silent from thee this long while, not to cause thee annoy; but, now i perceive that others begin to be aware thereof, it skilleth not to hide it from thee longer. this betideth thee for none other what than that thou stinkest terribly at the mouth, and i know not what can be the cause thereof; for that it used not to be thus. now this is a very unseemly thing for thee who hast to do with gentlemen, and needs must we see for a means of curing it.' whereupon said he, 'what can this be? can i have some rotten tooth in my head?' 'maybe ay,' answered lydia and carried him to a window, where she made him open his mouth, and after she had viewed it in every part, 'o nicostratus,' cried she, 'how canst thou have put up with it so long? thou hast a tooth on this side which meseemth is not only decayed, but altogether rotten, and assuredly, and thou keep it much longer in thy mouth, it will mar thee those which be on either side; wherefore i counsel thee have it drawn, ere the thing go farther.' 'since it seemeth good to thee,' answered he, 'i will well; let a surgeon be sent for without more delay, who shall draw it for me.' 'god forbid,' rejoined the lady, 'that a surgeon come hither for that! methinketh it lieth on such wise that i myself, without any surgeon, can very well draw it for thee; more by token that these same surgeons are so barbarous in doing such offices that my heart would on no account suffer me to see or know thee in the hands of any one of them; for, an it irk thee overmuch, i will at least loose thee incontinent, which a surgeon would not do.' accordingly, she let fetch the proper instruments and sent every one forth of the chamber, except only lusca; after which, locking herself in, she made nicostratus lie down on a table and thrusting the pincers into his mouth, what while the maid held him fast, she pulled out one of his teeth by main force, albeit he roared out lustily for the pain. then, keeping to herself that which she had drawn, she brought out a frightfully decayed tooth she had ready in her hand and showed it to her husband, half dead as he was for pain, saying, 'see what thou hast had in thy mouth all this while.' nicostratus believed what she said and now that the tooth was out, for all he had suffered the most grievous pain and made sore complaint thereof, him seemed he was cured; and presently, having comforted himself with one thing and another and the pain being abated, he went forth of the chamber; whereupon his wife took the tooth and straightway despatched it to her gallant, who, being now certified of her love, professed himself ready to do her every pleasure. the lady, albeit every hour seemed to her a thousand till she should be with him, desiring to give him farther assurance and wishful to perform that which she had promised him, made a show one day of being ailing and being visited after dinner by nicostratus, with no one in his company but pyrrhus, she prayed them, by way of allaying her unease, to help her go into the garden. accordingly, nicostratus taking her on one side and pyrrhus on the other, they carried her into the garden and set her down on a grassplot, at the foot of a fine pear-tree; where, after they had sat awhile, the lady, who had already given her gallant to know what he had to do, said, 'pyrrhus, i have a great desire to eat of yonder pears; do thou climb up and throw us down some of them.' pyrrhus straightway climbed up into the tree and fell to throwing down of the pears, which as he did, he began to say, 'how now, my lord! what is this you do? and you, madam, are you not ashamed to suffer it in my presence? think you i am blind? but now you were sore disordered; how cometh it you have so quickly recovered that you do such things? an you have a mind unto this, you have store of goodly chambers; why go you not do it in one of these? it were more seemly than in my presence.' the lady turned to her husband and said, 'what saith pyrrhus? doth he rave?' 'no, madam,' answered the young man, 'i rave not. think you i cannot see?' as for nicostratus, he marvelled sore and said, 'verily, pyrrhus, methinketh thou dreamest.' 'my lord,' replied pyrrhus, 'i dream not a jot, neither do you dream; nay, you bestir yourselves on such wise that were this tree to do likewise, there would not be a pear left on it.' quoth the lady, 'what may this be? can it be that this he saith appeareth to him to be true? so god save me, and i were whole as i was aforetime, i would climb up into the tree, to see what marvels are those which this fellow saith he seeth.' meanwhile pyrrhus from the top of the pear-tree still said the same thing and kept up the pretence; whereupon nicostratus bade him come down. accordingly he came down and his master said to him, 'now, what sayst thou thou sawest?' 'methinketh,' answered he, 'you take me for a lackwit or a loggerhead. since i must needs say it, i saw you a-top of your lady, and after, as i came down, i saw you arise and seat yourself where you presently are.' 'assuredly,' said nicostratus, 'thou dotest; for we have not stirred a jot, save as thou seest, since thou climbest up into the pear-tree.' whereupon quoth pyrrhus, 'what booteth it to make words of the matter? i certainly saw you; and if i did see you, it was a-top of your own.' nicostratus waxed momently more and more astonished, insomuch that he said, 'needs must i see if this pear-tree is enchanted and if whoso is thereon seeth marvels.' thereupon he climbed up into the tree and no sooner was he come to the top than the lady and pyrrhus fell to solacing themselves together; which when nicostratus saw, he began to cry out, saying, 'ah, vile woman that thou art, what is this thou dost? and thou, pyrrhus, in whom i most trusted?' so saying, he proceeded to descend the tree, whilst the lovers said, 'we are sitting here'; then, seeing him come down, they reseated themselves whereas he had left them. as soon as he was down and saw his wife and pyrrhus where he had left them, he fell a-railing at them; whereupon quoth pyrrhus, 'now, verily, nicostratus, i acknowledged that, as you said before, i must have seen falsely what while i was in the pear-tree, nor do i know it otherwise than by this, that i see and know yourself to have seen falsely in the like case. and that i speak the truth nought else should be needful to certify you but that you have regard to the circumstances of the case and consider if it be possible that your lady, who is the most virtuous of women and discreeter than any other of her sex, could, an she had a mind to outrage you on such wise, bring herself to do it before your very eyes. i speak not of myself, who would rather suffer myself to be torn limb-meal than so much as think of such a thing, much more come to do it in your presence. wherefore the fault of this misseeing must needs proceed from the pear-tree, for that all the world had not made me believe but that you were in act to have carnal knowledge of your lady here, had i not heard you say that it appeared to yourself that i did what i know most certainly i never thought, much less did.' thereupon the lady, feigning to be mightily incensed, rose to her feet and said, 'ill luck betide thee, dost thou hold me so little of wit that, an i had a mind to such filthy fashions as thou wouldst have us believe thou sawest, i should come to do them before thy very eyes? thou mayst be assured of this that, if ever the fancy took me thereof, i should not come hither; marry, methinketh i should have sense enough to contrive it in one of our chambers, on such wise and after such a fashion that it would seem to me an extraordinary thing if ever thou camest to know of it.' nicostratus, himseeming that what the lady and pyrrhus said was true, to wit, that they would never have ventured upon such an act there before himself, gave over words and reproaches and fell to discoursing of the strangeness of the fact and the miracle of the sight, which was thus changed unto whoso climbed up into the pear-tree. but his wife, feigning herself chagrined for the ill thought he had shown of her, said, 'verily, this pear-tree shall never again, if i can help it, do me nor any other lady the like of this shame; wherefore do thou run, pyrrhus, and fetch a hatchet and at one stroke avenge both thyself and me by cutting it down; albeit it were better yet lay it about nicostratus his cosard, who, without any consideration, suffered the eyes of his understanding to be so quickly blinded, whenas, however certain that which thou[ ] saidst might seem to those[ ] which thou hast in thy head, thou shouldst for nought in the world in the judgment of thy mind have believed or allowed that such a thing could be.' [footnote : this sudden change from the third to the second person, in speaking of nicostratus, is a characteristic example of boccaccio's constant abuse of the figure enallage in his dialogues.] [footnote : _i.e._ those eyes.] pyrrhus very readily fetched the hatchet and cut down the tree, which when the lady saw fallen, she said to nicostratus, 'since i see the enemy of mine honour overthrown, my anger is past,' and graciously forgave her husband, who besought her thereof, charging him that it should never again happen to him to presume such a thing of her, who loved him better than herself. accordingly, the wretched husband, thus befooled, returned with her and her lover to the palace, where many a time thereafterward pyrrhus took delight and pleasance more at ease of lydia and she of him. god grant us as much!" the tenth story [day the seventh] two siennese love a lady, who is gossip to one of them; the latter dieth and returning to his companion, according to promise made him, relateth to him how folk fare in the other world it now rested only with the king to tell and he accordingly, as soon as he saw the ladies quieted, who lamented the cutting down of the unoffending pear-tree, began, "it is a very manifest thing that every just king should be the first to observe the laws made by him, and an he do otherwise, he must be adjudged a slave deserving of punishment and not a king, into which offence and under which reproach i, who am your king, am in a manner constrained to fall. true it is that yesterday i laid down the law for to-day's discourses, purposing not this day to make use of my privilege, but, submitting myself to the same obligation as you, to discourse of that whereof you have all discoursed. however, not only hath that story been told which i had thought to tell, but so many other and far finer things have been said upon the matter that, for my part, ransack my memory as i will, i can call nothing to mind and must avouch myself unable to say aught anent such a subject that may compare with those stories which have already been told. wherefore, it behoving me transgress against the law made by myself, i declare myself in advance ready, as one deserving of punishment, to submit to any forfeit which may be imposed on me, and so have recourse to my wonted privilege. accordingly, dearest ladies, i say that elisa's story of fra rinaldo and his gossip and eke the simplicity of the siennese have such efficacy that they induce me, letting be the cheats put upon foolish husbands by their wily wives, to tell you a slight story of them,[ ] which though it have in it no little of that which must not be believed, will natheless in part, at least, be pleasing to hear. [footnote : _i.e._ the siennese.] there were, then, in siena two young men of the people, whereof one was called tingoccio mini and the other meuccio di tura; they abode at porta salaja and consorted well nigh never save one with the other. to all appearance they loved each exceedingly and resorting, as men do, to churches and preachings, they had many a time heard tell of the happiness and of the misery that are, according to their deserts, allotted in the next world to the souls of those who die; of which things desiring to have certain news and finding no way thereto, they promised one another that whichever of them died first should, an he might, return to him who abode on life and give him tidings of that which he would fain know; and this they confirmed with an oath. having come to this accord and companying still together, as hath been said, it chanced that tingoccio became godfather to a child which one ambruogio anselmini, abiding at campo reggi, had had of his wife, mistress mita by name, and from time to time visiting, together with meuccio, his gossip who was a very fair and lovesome lady, he became, notwithstanding the gossipship, enamoured of her. meuccio, on like wise, hearing her mightily commended of his friend and being himself much pleased with her, fell in love with her, and each hid his love from the other, but not for one same reason. tingoccio was careful not to discover it to meuccio, on account of the naughty deed which himseemed he did to love his gossip and which he had been ashamed that any should know. meuccio, on the other hand, kept himself therefrom,[ ] for that he had already perceived that the lady pleased tingoccio; whereupon he said in himself, 'if i discover this to him, he will wax jealous of me and being able, as her gossip, to bespeak her at his every pleasure, he will, inasmuch as he may, bring me in ill savour with her, and so i shall never have of her aught that may please me.' [footnote : _i.e._ from discovering to his friend his liking for the lady.] things being at this pass, it befell that tingoccio, having more leisure of discovering his every desire to the lady, contrived with acts and words so to do that he had his will of her, of which meuccio soon became aware and albeit it sore misliked him, yet, hoping some time or other to compass his desire, he feigned ignorance thereof, so tingoccio might not have cause or occasion to do him an ill turn or hinder him in any of his affairs. the two friends loving thus, the one more happily than the other, it befell that tingoccio, finding the soil of his gossip's demesne soft and eath to till, so delved and laboured there that there overcame him thereof a malady, which after some days waxed so heavy upon him that, being unable to brook it, he departed this life. the third day after his death (for that belike he had not before been able) he came by night, according to the promise made, into meuccio's chamber and called the latter, who slept fast. meuccio awoke and said, 'who art thou?' whereto he answered, 'i am tingoccio, who, according to the promise which i made thee, am come back to thee to give thee news of the other world.' meuccio was somewhat affrighted at seeing him; nevertheless, taking heart, 'thou art welcome, brother mine,' quoth he, and presently asked him if he were lost. 'things are lost that are not to be found,' replied tingoccio; 'and how should i be here, if i were lost?' 'alack,' cried meuccio, 'i say not so; nay, i ask thee if thou art among the damned souls in the avenging fire of hell.' whereto quoth tingoccio, 'as for that, no; but i am, notwithstanding, in very grievous and anguishful torment for the sins committed by me.' meuccio then particularly enquired of him what punishments were awarded in the other world for each of the sins that folk use to commit here below, and he told him them all. after this meuccio asked if there were aught he might do for him in this world, whereto tingoccio replied that there was, to wit, that he should let say for him masses and orisons and do alms in his name, for that these things were mightily profitable to those who abode yonder. meuccio said that he would well and tingoccio offering to take leave of him, he remembered himself of the latter's amour with his gossip and raising his head, said, 'now that i bethink me, tingoccio, what punishment is given thee over yonder anent thy gossip, with whom thou layest, whenas thou wast here below?' 'brother mine,' answered tingoccio, 'whenas i came yonder, there was one who it seemed knew all my sins by heart and bade me betake myself to a certain place, where i bemoaned my offences in exceeding sore punishment and where i found many companions condemned to the same penance as myself. being among them and remembering me of that which i had done whilere with my gossip, i looked for a much sorer punishment on account thereof than that which had presently been given me and went all shivering for fear, albeit i was in a great fire and an exceeding hot; which one who was by my side perceiving, he said to me, "what aileth thee more than all the others who are here that thou shiverest, being in the fire?" "marry," said i, "my friend, i am sore in fear of the sentence i expect for a grievous sin i wrought aforetime." the other asked me what sin this was, and i answered, "it was that i lay with a gossip of mine, and that with such a vengeance that it cost me my life"; whereupon quoth he, making merry over my fear, "go to, fool; have no fear. here is no manner of account taken of gossips." which when i heard, i was altogether reassured.' this said and the day drawing near, 'meuccio,' quoth he, 'abide with god, for i may no longer be with thee,' and was suddenly gone. meuccio, hearing that no account was taken of gossips in the world to come, began to make mock of his own simplicity, for that whiles he had spared several of them; wherefore, laying by his ignorance, he became wiser in that respect for the future. which things if fra rinaldo had known, he had not needed to go a-syllogizing,[ ] whenas he converted his good gossip to his pleasure." [footnote : or, in modern parlance, logic-chopping (_sillogizzando_).] * * * * * zephyr was now arisen, for the sun that drew near unto the setting, when the king, having made an end of his story and there being none other left to tell, put off the crown from his own head and set it on that of lauretta, saying, "madam, with yourself[ ] i crown you queen of our company; do you then, from this time forth, as sovereign lady, command that which you may deem shall be for the pleasure and solacement of all." this said, he reseated himself, whereupon lauretta, become queen, let call the seneschal and bade him look that the tables be set in the pleasant valley somewhat earlier than of wont, so they might return to the palace at their leisure; after which she instructed him what he should do what while her sovranty lasted. then, turning to the company, she said, "dioneo willed yesterday that we should discourse to-day of the tricks that women play their husbands and but that i am loath to show myself of the tribe of snappish curs, which are fain incontinent to avenge themselves of any affront done them, i would say that to-morrow's discourse should be of the tricks that men play their wives. but, letting that be, i ordain that each bethink himself to tell of the tricks that all day long women play men or men women or men one another; and i doubt not but that in this[ ] there will be no less of pleasant discourse than there hath been to-day." so saying, she rose to her feet and dismissed the company till supper-time. [footnote : _i.e._ with that whereof you bear the name, _i.e._ laurel (_laurea_).] [footnote : or "on this subject" (_in questo_).] accordingly, they all, ladies and men alike, arose and some began to go barefoot through the clear water, whilst others went a-pleasuring upon the greensward among the straight and goodly trees. dioneo and fiammetta sang together a great while of arcite and palemon, and on this wise, taking various and divers delights, they passed the time with the utmost satisfaction until the hour of supper; which being come, they seated themselves at table beside the lakelet and there, to the song of a thousand birds, still refreshed by a gentle breeze, that came from the little hills around, and untroubled of any fly, they supped in peace and cheer. then, the tables being removed and the sun being yet half-vespers[ ] high, after they had gone awhile round about the pleasant valley, they wended their way again, even as it pleased their queen, with slow steps towards their wonted dwelling-place, and jesting and chattering a thousand things, as well of those whereof it had been that day discoursed as of others, they came near upon nightfall to the fair palace, where having with the coolest of wines and confections done away the fatigues of the little journey, they presently fell to dancing about the fair fountain, carolling[ ] now to the sound of tindaro's bagpipe and anon to that of other instruments. but, after awhile, the queen bade filomena sing a song, whereupon she began thus: [footnote : _quære_, "half-complines," _i.e._ half-past seven p.m. "half-vespers" would be half-past four, which seems too early.] [footnote : _carolando_, _i.e._ dancing in a round and singing the while, the original meaning of our word "carol."] alack, my life forlorn! will't ever chance i may once more regain th' estate whence sorry fortune hath me torn? certes, i know not, such a wish of fire i carry in my thought to find me where, alas! i was whilere. o dear my treasure, thou my sole desire, that holdst my heart distraught. tell it me, thou; for whom i know nor dare to ask it otherwhere. ah, dear my lord, oh, cause me hope again, so i may comfort me my spright wayworn. what was the charm i cannot rightly tell that kindled in me such a flame of love that rest nor day nor night i find; for, by some strong unwonted spell, hearing and touch and seeing each new fires in me did light, wherein i burn outright; nor other than thyself can soothe my pain nor call my senses back, by love o'erborne. o tell me if and when, then, it shall be that i shall find thee e'er whereas i kissed those eyes that did me slay. o dear my good, my soul, ah, tell it me, when thou wilt come back there, and saying "quickly," comfort my dismay somedele. short be the stay until thou come, and long mayst thou remain! i'm so love-struck, i reck not of men's scorn. if once again i chance to hold thee aye, i will not be so fond as erst i was to suffer thee to fly; nay, fast i'll hold thee, hap of it what may, and having thee in bond, of thy sweet mouth my lust i'll satisfy. now of nought else will i discourse. quick, to thy bosom come me strain; the sheer thought bids me sing like lark at morn. this song caused all the company conclude that a new and pleasing love held filomena in bonds, and as by the words it appeared that she had tasted more thereof than sight alone, she was envied of this by certain who were there and who held her therefor so much the happier. but, after her song was ended, the queen, remembering her that the ensuing day was friday, thus graciously bespoke all, "you know, noble ladies and you also, young men, that to-morrow is the day consecrated to the passion of our lord, the which, an you remember aright, what time neifile was queen, we celebrated devoutly and therein gave pause to our delightsome discoursements, and on like wise we did with the following saturday. wherefore, being minded to follow the good example given us by neifile, i hold it seemly that to-morrow and the next day we abstain, even as we did a week agone, from our pleasant story-telling, recalling to memory that which on those days befell whilere for the salvation of our souls." the queen's pious speech was pleasing unto all and a good part of the night being now past, they all, dismissed by her, betook them to repose. here endeth the seventh day of the decameron _day the eighth_ here beginneth the eighth day of the decameron wherein under the governance of lauretta is discoursed of the tricks that all day long women play men or men women or men one another already on the sunday morning the rays of the rising light appeared on the summits of the higher mountains and every shadow having departed, things might manifestly be discerned, when the queen, arising with her company, went wandering first through the dewy grass and after, towards half-tierce,[ ] visiting a little neighboring church, heard there divine service; then, returning home, they ate with mirth and joyance and after sang and danced awhile till the queen dismissed them, so whoso would might go rest himself. but, whenas the sun had passed the meridian, they all seated themselves, according as it pleased the queen, near the fair fountain, for the wonted story-telling, and neifile, by her commandment, began thus: [footnote : _i.e._ half-past seven a.m.] the first story [day the eighth] gulfardo borroweth of guasparruolo certain monies, for which he hath agreed with his wife that he shall lie with her, and accordingly giveth them to her; then, in her presence, he telleth guasparruolo that he gave them to her, and she confesseth it to be true "since god hath so ordered it that i am to give a beginning to the present day's discourses, with my story, i am content, and therefore, lovesome ladies, seeing that much hath been said of the tricks played by women upon men, it is my pleasure to relate one played by a man upon a woman, not that i mean therein to blame that which the man did or to deny that it served the woman aright, nay, rather to commend the man and blame the woman and to show that men also know how to cozen those who put faith in them, even as themselves are cozened by those in whom they believe. indeed, to speak more precisely, that whereof i have to tell should not be called cozenage; nay, it should rather be styled a just requital; for that, albeit a woman should still be virtuous and guard her chastity as her life nor on any account suffer herself be persuaded to sully it, yet, seeing that, by reason of our frailty, this is not always possible as fully as should be, i affirm that she who consenteth to her own dishonour for a price is worthy of the fire, whereas she who yieldeth for love's sake, knowing his exceeding great puissance, meriteth forgiveness from a judge not too severe, even as, a few days agone, filostrato showed it to have been observed towards madam filippa at prato. there was, then, aforetime at milan a german, by name gulfardo, in the pay of the state, a stout fellow of his person and very loyal to those in whose service he engaged himself, which is seldom the case with germans; and for that he was a very punctual repayer of such loans as were made him, he might always find many merchants ready to lend him any quantity of money at little usance. during his sojourn in milan, he set his heart upon a very fair lady called madam ambruogia, the wife of a rich merchant, by name guasparruolo cagastraccio, who was much his acquaintance and friend, and loving her very discreetly, so that neither her husband nor any other suspected it, he sent one day to speak with her, praying her that it would please her vouchsafe him her favours and protesting that he, on his part, was ready to do whatsoever she should command him. the lady, after many parleys, came to this conclusion, that she was ready to do that which gulfardo wished, provided two things should ensue thereof; one, that this should never be by him discovered to any and the other, that, as she had need of two hundred gold florins for some occasion of hers, he, who was a rich man, should give them to her; after which she would still be at his service. gulfardo, hearing this and indignant at the sordidness of her whom he had accounted a lady of worth, was like to exchange his fervent love for hatred and thinking to cheat her, sent back to her, saying that he would very willingly do this and all else in his power that might please her and that therefore she should e'en send him word when she would have him go to her, for that he would carry her the money, nor should any ever hear aught of the matter, save a comrade of his in whom he trusted greatly and who still bore him company in whatsoever he did. the lady, or rather, i should say, the vile woman, hearing this, was well pleased and sent to him, saying that guasparruolo her husband was to go to genoa for his occasions a few days hence and that she would presently let him know of this and send for him. meanwhile, gulfardo, taking his opportunity, repaired to guasparruolo and said to him, 'i have present occasion for two hundred gold florins, the which i would have thee lend me at that same usance whereat thou art wont to lend me other monies.' the other replied that he would well and straightway counted out to him the money. a few days thereafterward guasparruolo went to genoa, even as the lady had said, whereupon she sent to gulfardo to come to her and bring the two hundred gold florins. accordingly, he took his comrade and repaired to the lady's house, where finding her expecting him, the first thing he did was to put into her hands the two hundred gold florins, in his friend's presence, saying to her, 'madam, take these monies and give them to your husband, whenas he shall be returned.' the lady took them, never guessing why he said thus, but supposing that he did it so his comrade should not perceive that he gave them to her by way of price, and answered, 'with all my heart; but i would fain see how many they are.' accordingly, she turned them out upon the table and finding them full two hundred, laid them up, mighty content in herself; then, returning to gulfardo and carrying him into her chamber, she satisfied him of her person not that night only, but many others before her husband returned from genoa. as soon as the latter came back, gulfardo, having spied out a time when he was in company with his wife, betook himself to him, together with his comrade aforesaid, and said to him, in the lady's presence, 'guasparruolo, i had no occasion for the monies, to wit, the two hundred gold florins, thou lentest me the other day, for that i could not compass the business for which i borrowed them. accordingly, i brought them presently back to thy lady here and gave them to her; wherefore look thou cancel my account.' guasparruolo, turning to his wife, asked her if she had the monies, and she, seeing the witness present, knew not how to deny, but said, 'ay, i had them and had not yet remembered me to tell thee.' whereupon quoth guasparruolo, 'gulfardo, i am satisfied; get you gone and god go with you: i will settle your account aright.' gulfardo gone, the lady, finding herself cozened, gave her husband the dishonourable price of her baseness; and on this wise the crafty lover enjoyed his sordid mistress without cost." the second story [day the eighth] the parish priest of varlungo lieth with mistress belcolore and leaveth her a cloak of his in pledge; then, borrowing a mortar of her, he sendeth it back to her, demanding in return the cloak left by way of token, which the good woman grudgingly giveth him back men and ladies alike commended that which gulfardo had done to the sordid milanese lady, and the queen, turning to pamfilo, smilingly charged him follow on; whereupon quoth he, "fair ladies, it occurreth to me to tell you a little story against those who continually offend against us, without being open to retaliation on our part, to wit, the clergy, who have proclaimed a crusade against our wives and who, whenas they avail to get one of the latter under them, conceive themselves to have gained forgiveness of fault and pardon of penalty no otherwise than as they had brought the soldan bound from alexandria to avignon.[ ] whereof the wretched laymen cannot return them the like, albeit they wreak their ire upon the priests' mothers and sisters, doxies and daughters, assailing them with no less ardour than the former do their wives. wherefore i purpose to recount to you a village love-affair, more laughable for its conclusion than long in words, wherefrom you may yet gather, by way of fruit, that priests are not always to be believed in everything. [footnote : where the papal court then was. see p. , note.] you must know, then, that there was once at varlungo,--a village very near here, as each of you ladies either knoweth or may have heard,--a worthy priest and a lusty of his person in the service of the ladies, who, albeit he knew not overwell how to read, natheless regaled his parishioners with store of good and pious saws at the elmfoot on sundays and visited their women, whenas they went abroad anywhither, more diligently than any priest who had been there aforetime, carrying them fairings and holy water and a stray candle-end or so, whiles even to their houses. now it chanced that, among other his she-parishioners who were most to his liking, one pleased him over all, by name mistress belcolore, the wife of a husbandman who styled himself bentivegna del mazzo, a jolly, buxom country wench, brown-favoured and tight-made, as apt at turning the mill[ ] as any woman alive. moreover, it was she who knew how to play the tabret and sing 'the water runneth to the ravine' and lead up the haye and the round, when need was, with a fine muckender in her hand and a quaint, better than any woman of her neighbourhood; by reason of which things my lord priest became so sore enamoured of her that he was like to lose his wits therefor and would prowl about all day long to get a sight of her. whenas he espied her in church of a sunday morning, he would say a kyrie and a sanctus, studying to show himself a past master in descant, that it seemed as it were an ass a-braying; whereas, when he saw her not there, he passed that part of the service over lightly enough. but yet he made shift to do on such wise that neither bentivegna nor any of his neighbours suspected aught; and the better to gain mistress belcolore's goodwill, he made her presents from time to time, sending her whiles a clove of garlic, which he had the finest of all the countryside in a garden he tilled with his own hands, and otherwhiles a punnet of peascods or a bunch of chives or scallions, and whenas he saw his opportunity, he would ogle her askance and cast a friendly gibe at her; but she, putting on the prude, made a show of not observing it and passed on with a demure air; wherefore my lord priest could not come by his will of her. [footnote : or, as la fontaine would say, "aussi bien faite pour armer un lit."] it chanced one day that as he sauntered about the quarter on the stroke of noon, he encountered bentivegna del mazzo, driving an ass laden with gear, and accosting him, asked whither he went. 'faith, sir,' answered the husbandman, 'to tell you the truth, i am going to town about a business of mine and am carrying these things to squire bonaccorri da ginestreto, so he may help me in i know not what whereof the police-court judge hath summoned me by his proctor for a peremptory attendance.' the priest was rejoiced to hear this and said, 'thou dost well, my son; go now with my benison and return speedily; and shouldst thou chance to see lapuccio or naldino, forget not to bid them bring me those straps they wot of for my flails.' bentivegna answered that it should be done and went his way towards florence, whereupon the priest bethought himself that now was his time to go try his luck with belcolore. accordingly, he let not the grass grow under his feet, but set off forthright and stayed not till he came to her house and entering in, said, 'god send us all well! who is within there?' belcolore, who was gone up into the hay-loft, hearing him, said, 'marry, sir, you are welcome; but what do you gadding it abroad in this heat?' 'so god give me good luck,' answered he, 'i came to abide with thee awhile, for that i met thy man going to town.' belcolore came down and taking a seat, fell to picking over cabbage-seed which her husband had threshed out a while before; whereupon quoth the priest to her, 'well, belcolore, wilt thou still cause me die for thee on this wise?' she laughed and answered, 'what is it i do to you?' quoth he, 'thou dost nought to me, but thou sufferest me not do to thee that which i would fain do and which god commandeth.' 'alack!' cried belcolore, 'go to, go to. do priests do such things?' 'ay do we,' replied he, 'as well as other men; and why not? and i tell thee more, we do far and away better work and knowest thou why? because we grind with a full head of water. but in good sooth it shall be shrewdly to thy profit, an thou wilt but abide quiet and let me do.' 'and what might this "shrewdly to my profit" be?' asked she. 'for all you priests are stingier than the devil.' quoth he, 'i know not; ask thou. wilt have a pair of shoes or a head-lace or a fine stammel waistband or what thou wilt?' 'pshaw!' cried belcolore. 'i have enough and to spare of such things; but an you wish me so well, why do you not render me a service, and i will do what you will?' quoth the priest, 'say what thou wilt have of me, and i will do it willingly.' then said she, 'needs must i go to florence, come saturday, to carry back the wool i have spun and get my spinning-wheel mended; and an you will lend me five crowns, which i know you have by you, i can take my watchet gown out of pawn and my sunday girdle[ ] that i brought my husband, for you see i cannot go to church nor to any decent place, because i have them not; and after i will still do what you would have me.' 'so god give me a good year,' replied the priest, 'i have them not about me; but believe me, ere saturday come, i will contrive that thou shalt have them, and that very willingly.' 'ay,' said belcolore, 'you are all like this, great promisers, and after perform nothing to any. think you to do with me as you did with biliuzza, who went off with the ghittern-player?[ ] cock's faith, then, you shall not, for that she is turned a common drab only for that. if you have them not about you, go for them.' 'alack,' cried the priest, 'put me not upon going all the way home. thou seest that i have the luck just now to find thee alone, but maybe, when i return, there will be some one or other here to hinder us; and i know not when i shall find so good an opportunity again.' quoth she, 'it is well; an you choose to go, go; if not, go without.' [footnote : or apron.] [footnote : _se n'andò col ceteratojo_; a proverbial expression of similar meaning to our "was whistled down the wind," _i.e._ was lightly dismissed without provision, like a cast-off hawk.] the priest, seeing that she was not in the humour to do his pleasure without a _salvum me fac_, whereas he would fain have done it _sine custodiâ_, said, 'harkye, thou believest not that i will bring thee the money; but, so thou mayst credit me, i will leave thee this my blue-cloth cloak.' belcolore raised her eyes and said, 'eh what! that cloak? what is it worth?' 'worth?' answered the priest. 'i would have thee know that it is cloth of douay, nay, threeay, and there be some of our folk here who hold it for fouray.[ ] it is scarce a fortnight since it cost me seven crowns of hard money to lotto the broker, and according to what buglietto telleth me (and thou knowest he is a judge of this kind of cloth), i had it good five shillings overcheap.' 'indeed!' quoth belcolore. 'so god be mine aid, i had never thought it. but give it me first of all.' my lord priest, who had his arbalest ready cocked, pulled off the cloak and gave it her; and she, after she had laid it up, said, 'come, sir, let us go into the barn, for no one ever cometh there.' and so they did. there the priest gave her the heartiest busses in the world and making her sib to god almighty,[ ] solaced himself with her a great while; after which he took leave of her and returned to the parsonage in his cassock, as it were he came from officiating at a wedding. [footnote : a play of words upon the italian equivalent of the french word douay (_duagio, i.e. twoay, treagio, quattragio_) invented by the roguish priest to impose upon the simple goodwife.] [footnote : or in modern parlance, "making her a connection by marriage of etc.," boccaccio feigning priests to be members of the holy family, by virtue of their office.] there, bethinking himself that all the candle-ends he got by way of offertory in all the year were not worth the half of five crowns, himseemed he had done ill and repenting him of having left the cloak, he fell to considering how he might have it again without cost. being shrewd enough in a small way, he soon hit upon a device and it succeeded to his wish; for that on the morrow, it being a holiday, he sent a neighbour's lad of his to mistress belcolore's house, with a message praying her be pleased to lend him her stone mortar, for that binguccio dal poggio and nuto buglietti were to dine with him that morning and he had a mind to make sauce. she sent it to him and towards dinner-time, the priest, having spied out when bentivegna and his wife were at meat together, called his clerk and said to him, 'carry this mortar back to belcolore and say to her, 'his reverence biddeth you gramercy and prayeth you send him back the cloak that the boy left you by way of token.' the clerk accordingly repaired to her house and there, finding her at table with bentivegna, set down the mortar and did the priest's errand. belcolore, hearing require the cloak again, would have answered; but her husband said, with an angry air, 'takest thou a pledge of his reverence? i vow to christ, i have a mind to give thee a good clout over the head! go, give it quickly back to him, pox take thee! and in future, let him ask what he will of ours, (ay, though he should seek our ass,) look that it be not denied him.' belcolore rose, grumbling, and pulling the cloak out of the chest, gave it to the clerk, saying, 'tell her reverence from me, belcolore saith, she voweth to god you shall never again pound sauce in her mortar; you have done her no such fine honour of this bout.' the clerk made off with the cloak and did her message to the priest, who said, laughing, 'tell her, when thou seest her, that, an she will not lend me her mortar, i will not lend her my pestle; and so we shall be quits.' bentivegna concluded that his wife had said this, because he had chidden her, and took no heed thereof; but belcolore bore the priest a grudge and held him at arm's length till vintage-time; when, he having threatened to cause her go into the mouth of lucifer the great devil, for very fear she made her peace with him over must and roast chestnuts and they after made merry together time and again. in lieu of the five crowns, the priest let put new parchment to her tabret and string thereto a cast of hawk's bells, and with this she was fain to be content." the third story [day the eighth] calandrino, bruno and buffalmacco go coasting along the mugnone in search of the heliotrope and calandrino thinketh to have found it. accordingly he returneth home, laden with stones, and his wife chideth him; whereupon, flying out into a rage, he beateth her and recounteth to his companions that which they know better than he pamfilo having made an end of his story, at which the ladies had laughed so much that they laugh yet, the queen bade elisa follow on, who, still laughing, began, "i know not, charming ladies, if with a little story of mine, no less true than pleasant, i shall succeed in making you laugh as much as pamfilo hath done with his; but i will do my endeavor thereof. in our city, then, which hath ever abounded in various fashions and strange folk, there was once, no great while since, a painter called calandrino, a simple-witted man and of strange usances. he companied most of his time with other two painters, called the one bruno and the other buffalmacco, both very merry men, but otherwise well-advised and shrewd, who consorted with calandrino for that they ofttimes had great diversion of his fashions and his simplicity. there was then also in florence a young man of a mighty pleasant humor and marvellously adroit in all he had a mind to do, astute and plausible, who was called maso del saggio, and who, hearing certain traits of calandrino's simplicity, determined to amuse himself at his expense by putting off some cheat on him or causing him believe some strange thing. he chanced one day to come upon him in the church of san giovanni and seeing him intent upon the carved work and paintings of the pyx, which is upon the altar of the said church and which had then not long been placed there, he judged the place and time opportune for carrying his intent into execution. accordingly, acquainting a friend of his with that which he purposed to do, they both drew near unto the place where calandrino sat alone and feigning not to see him, fell a-discoursing together of the virtues of divers stones, whereof maso spoke as authoritatively as if he had been a great and famous lapidary. calandrino gave ear to their talk and presently, seeing that it was no secret, he rose to his feet and joined himself to them, to the no small satisfaction of maso, who, pursuing his discourse, was asked by calandrino where these wonder-working stones were to be found. maso replied that the most of them were found in berlinzone, a city of the basques, in a country called bengodi,[ ] where the vines are tied up with sausages and a goose is to be had for a farthing[ ] and a gosling into the bargain, and that there was a mountain all of grated parmesan cheese, whereon abode folk who did nothing but make maccaroni and ravioli[ ] and cook them in capon-broth, after which they threw them down thence and whoso got most thereof had most; and that hard by ran a rivulet of vernage,[ ] the best ever was drunk, without a drop of water therein. 'marry,' cried calandrino, 'that were a fine country; but tell me, what is done with the capons that they boil for broth?' quoth maso, 'the basques eat them all.' then said calandrino, 'wast thou ever there?' 'was i ever there, quotha!' replied maso. 'if i have been there once i have been there a thousand times.' 'and how many miles is it distant hence?' asked calandrino; and maso, 'how many? a million or more; you might count them all night and not know.' 'then,' said calandrino, 'it must be farther off than the abruzzi?' 'ay, indeed,' answered maso; 'it is a trifle farther.' [footnote : _i.e._ good cheer.] [footnote : a play upon the double meaning of _a denajo_, which signifies also "for money."] [footnote : a kind of rissole made of eggs, sweet herbs and cheese.] [footnote : _vernaccia_, a kind of rich white wine like malmsey.] calandrino, like a simpleton as he was, hearing maso tell all this with an assured air and without laughing, gave such credence thereto as can be given to whatsoever verity is most manifest and so, holding it for truth, said, 'that is overfar for my money; though, were it nearer, i tell thee aright i would go thither with thee once upon a time, if but to see the maccaroni come tumbling headlong down and take my fill thereof. but tell me, god keep thee merry, is there none of those wonder-working stones to be found in these parts?' 'ay is there,' answered maso; 'there be two kinds of stones of very great virtue found here; the first are the grits of settignano and montisci, by virtue whereof, when they are wrought into millstones, flour is made; wherefore it is said in those parts that grace cometh from god and millstones from montisci; but there is such great plenty of these grits that they are as little prized with us as emeralds with the folk over yonder, where they have mountains of them bigger than mount morello, which shine in the middle of the night, i warrant thee. and thou must know that whoso should cause set fine and perfect millstones, before they are pierced, in rings and carry them to the soldan might have for them what he would. the other is what we lapidaries call heliotrope, a stone of exceeding great virtue, for that whoso hath it about him is not seen of any other person whereas he is not, what while he holdeth it.' quoth calandrino, 'these be indeed great virtues; but where is this second stone found?' to which maso replied that it was commonly found in the mugnone. 'what bigness is this stone,' asked calandrino, 'and what is its colour?' quoth maso, 'it is of various sizes, some more and some less; but all are well nigh black of colour.' calandrino noted all this in himself and feigning to have otherwhat to do, took leave of maso, inwardly determined to go seek the stone in question, but bethought himself not to do it without the knowledge of bruno and buffalmacco, whom he most particularly affected. accordingly he addressed himself to seek for them, so they might, without delay and before any else, set about the search, and spent all the rest of the morning seeking them. at last, when it was past none, he remembered him that they were awork in the ladies' convent at faenza and leaving all his other business, he betook himself thither well nigh at a run, notwithstanding the great heat. as soon as he saw them, he called them and bespoke them thus: 'comrades, an you will hearken to me, we may become the richest men in all florence, for that i have learned from a man worthy of belief that in the mugnone is to be found a stone, which whoso carrieth about him is not seen of any; wherefore meseemeth we were best go thither in quest thereof without delay, ere any forestall us. we shall certainly find it, for that i know it well, and when we have gotten it, what have we to do but put it in our poke and getting us to the moneychangers' tables, which you know stand still laden with groats and florins, take as much as we will thereof? none will see us, and so may we grow rich of a sudden, without having to smear walls all day long, snail-fashion.' bruno and buffalmacco, hearing this, fell a-laughing in their sleeves and eyeing each other askance, made a show of exceeding wonderment and praised calandrino's counsel, but bruno asked how the stone in question was called. calandrino, who was a clod-pated fellow, had already forgotten the name, wherefore quoth he, 'what have we to do with the name, since we know the virtue of the stone? meseemeth we were best go about the quest without more ado.' 'well, then,' said bruno, 'how is it fashioned?' 'it is of all fashions,' replied calandrino; 'but all are well nigh black; wherefore meseemeth that what we have to do is to gather up all the black stones we see, till we happen upon the right. so let us lose no time, but get us gone.' quoth bruno, 'wait awhile,' and turning to his comrade, said, 'methinketh calandrino saith well; but meseemeth this is no season for the search, for that the sun is high and shineth full upon the mugnone, where it hath dried all the stones, so that certain of those that be there appear presently white, which of a morning, ere the sun have dried them, show black; more by token that, to-day being a working day, there be many folk, on one occasion or another abroad along the banks, who, seeing us, may guess what we are about and maybe do likewise, whereby the stone may come to their hands and we shall have lost the trot for the amble. meseemeth (an you be of the same way of thinking) that this is a business to be undertaken of a morning, whenas the black may be the better known from the white, and of a holiday, when there will be none there to see us.' buffalmacco commended bruno's counsel and calandrino fell in therewith; wherefore they agreed to go seek for the stone all three on the following sunday morning, and calandrino besought them over all else not to say a word of the matter to any one alive, for that it had been imparted to him in confidence, and after told them that which he had heard tell of the land of bengodi, affirming with an oath that it was as he said. as soon as he had taken his leave, the two others agreed with each other what they should do in the matter and calandrino impatiently awaited the sunday morning, which being come, he arose at break of day and called his friends, with whom he sallied forth of the city by the san gallo gate and descending into the bed of the mugnone, began to go searching down stream for the stone. calandrino, as the eagerest of the three, went on before, skipping nimbly hither and thither, and whenever he espied any black stone, he pounced upon it and picking it up, thrust it into his bosom. his comrades followed after him picking up now one stone and now another; but calandrino had not gone far before he had his bosom full of stones; wherefore, gathering up the skirts of his grown, which was not cut flanders fashion,[ ] he tucked them well into his surcingle all round and made an ample lap thereof. however, it was no great while ere he had filled it, and making a lap on like wise of his mantle, soon filled this also with stones. presently, the two others seeing that he had gotten his load and that dinner-time drew nigh, quoth bruno to buffalmacco, in accordance with the plan concerted between them, 'where is calandrino?' buffalmacco, who saw him hard by, turned about and looking now here and now there, answered, 'i know not; but he was before us but now.' 'but now, quotha!' cried bruno. 'i warrant you he is presently at home at dinner and hath left us to play the fool here, seeking black stones down the mugnone.' 'egad,' rejoined buffalmacco 'he hath done well to make mock of us and leave us here, since we were fools enough to credit him. marry, who but we had been simple enough to believe that a stone of such virtue was to be found in the mugnone?' [footnote : _i.e._ not strait-cut.] calandrino, hearing this, concluded that the heliotrope had fallen into his hands and that by virtue thereof they saw him not, albeit he was present with them, and rejoiced beyond measure at such a piece of good luck, answered them not a word, but determined to return; wherefore, turning back, he set off homeward. buffalmacco, seeing this, said to bruno, 'what shall we do? why do we not get us gone?' whereto bruno answered, 'let us begone; but i vow to god that calandrino shall never again serve me thus, and were i presently near him as i have been all the morning, i would give him such a clout on the shins with this stone that he should have cause to remember this trick for maybe a month to come.' to say this and to let fly at calandrino's shins with the stone were one and the same thing; and the latter, feeling the pain, lifted up his leg and began to puff and blow, but yet held his peace and fared on. presently buffalmacco took one of the flints he had picked up and said to bruno, 'look at this fine flint; here should go for calandrino's loins!' so saying, he let fly and dealt him a sore rap in the small of the back with the stone. brief, on this wise, now with one word and now with another, they went pelting him up the mugnone till they came to the san gallo gate, where they threw down the stones they had gathered and halted awhile at the custom house. the officers, forewarned by them, feigned not to see calandrino and let him pass, laughing heartily at the jest, whilst he, without stopping, made straight for his house, which was near the canto alla macina, and fortune so far favoured the cheat that none accosted him, as he came up the stream and after through the city, as, indeed, he met with few, for that well nigh every one was at dinner. accordingly, he reached his house, thus laden, and as chance would have it, his wife, a fair and virtuous lady, by name mistress tessa, was at the stairhead. seeing him come and somewhat provoked at his long tarriance, she began to rail at him, saying, 'devil take the man! wilt thou never think to come home betimes? all the folk have already dined whenas thou comest back to dinner.' calandrino, hearing this and finding that he was seen, was overwhelmed with chagrin and vexation and cried out, 'alack, wicked woman that thou art, wast thou there? thou hast undone me; but, by god his faith, i will pay thee therefor!' therewithal he ran up to a little saloon he had and there disburdened himself of the mass of stones he had brought home; then, running in a fury at his wife, he laid hold of her by the hair and throwing her down at his feet, cuffed and kicked her in every part as long as he could wag his arms and legs, without leaving a hair on her head or a bone in her body that was not beaten to a mash, nor did it avail her aught to cry him mercy with clasped hands. meanwhile bruno and buffalmacco, after laughing awhile with the keepers of the gate, proceeded with slow step to follow calandrino afar off and presently coming to the door of his house, heard the cruel beating he was in act to give his wife; whereupon, making a show of having but then come back, they called calandrino, who came to the window, all asweat and red with anger and vexation, and prayed them come up to him. accordingly, they went up, making believe to be somewhat vexed, and seeing the room full of stones and the lady, all torn and dishevelled and black and blue in the face for bruises, weeping piteously in one corner of the room, whilst calandrino sat in another, untrussed and panting like one forspent, eyed them awhile, then said, 'what is this, calandrino? art thou for building, that we see all these stones here? and mistress tessa, what aileth her? it seemeth thou hast beaten her. what is all this ado?' calandrino, outwearied with the weight of the stones and the fury with which he had beaten his wife, no less than with chagrin for the luck which himseemed he had lost, could not muster breath to give them aught but broken words in reply; wherefore, as he delayed to answer, buffalmacco went on, 'harkye, calandrino, whatever other cause for anger thou mightest have had, thou shouldst not have fooled us as thou hast done, in that, after thou hadst carried us off to seek with thee for the wonder-working stone, thou leftest us in the mugnone, like a couple of gulls, and madest off home, without saying so much as god be with you or devil; the which we take exceeding ill; but assuredly this shall be the last trick thou shalt ever play us.' therewithal, calandrino enforcing himself,[ ] answered, 'comrades, be not angered; the case standeth otherwise than as you deem. i (unlucky wretch that i am!) had found the stone in question, and you shall hear if i tell truth. when first you questioned one another of me, i was less than half a score yards distant from you; but, seeing that you made off and saw me not, i went on before you and came back hither, still keeping a little in front of you.' then, beginning from the beginning, he recounted to them all that they had said and done, first and last, and showed them how the stones had served his back and shins; after which, 'and i may tell you,' continued he, 'that, whenas i entered in at the gate, with all these stones about me which you see here, there was nothing said to me, albeit you know how vexatious and tiresome these gatekeepers use to be in wanting to see everything; more by token that i met by the way several of my friends and gossips, who are still wont to accost me and invite me to drink; but none of them said a word to me, no, nor half a word, as those who saw me not. at last, being come home hither, this accursed devil of a woman presented herself before me, for that, as you know, women cause everything lose its virtue, wherefore i, who might else have called myself the luckiest man in florence, am become the most unlucky. for this i have beaten her as long as i could wag my fists and i know not what hindereth me from slitting her weasand, accursed be the hour when first i saw her and when she came to me in this house.' then, flaming out into fresh anger, he offered to rise and beat her anew. [footnote : _sforzandosi_, _i.e._ recovering his wind with an effort.] bruno and buffalmacco, hearing all this, made believe to marvel exceedingly and often confirmed that which calandrino said, albeit they had the while so great a mind to laugh that they were like to burst; but, seeing him start up in a rage to beat his wife again, they rose upon him and withheld him, avouching that the lady was nowise at fault, but that he had only himself to blame for that which had happened, since he knew that women caused things to lose their virtue and had not bidden her beware of appearing before him that day, and that god had bereft him of foresight to provide against this, either for that the adventure was not to be his or because he had had it in mind to cozen his comrades, to whom he should have discovered the matter, as soon as he perceived that he had found the stone. brief, after many words, they made peace, not without much ado, between him and the woebegone lady and went their ways, leaving him disconsolate, with the house full of stones." the fourth story [day the eighth] the rector of fiesole loveth a widow lady, but is not loved by her and thinking to lie with her, lieth with a serving-wench of hers, whilst the lady's brothers cause the bishop find him in this case elisa being come to the end of her story, which she had related to the no small pleasure of all the company, the queen turned to emilia, and signified to her her wish that she should follow after with her story, whereupon she promptly began thus: "i have not forgotten, noble ladies, that it hath already been shown, in sundry of the foregoing stories, how much we women are exposed to the importunities of the priests and friars and clergy of every kind; but, seeing that so much cannot be said thereof but that yet more will remain to say, i purpose, to boot, to tell you a story of a rector, who, maugre all the world, would e'en have a gentlewoman wish him well,[ ] whether she would or not; whereupon she, like a very discreet woman as she was, used him as he deserved. [footnote : _i.e._ love him, grant him her favours. see ante, passim.] as all of you know, fiesole, whose hill we can see hence, was once a very great and ancient city, nor, albeit it is nowadays all undone, hath it ever ceased to be, as it is yet, the seat of a bishop. near the cathedral church there a widow lady of noble birth, by name madam piccarda, had an estate, where, for that she was not overwell to do, she abode the most part of the year in a house of hers that was not very big, and with her, two brothers of hers, very courteous and worthy youths. it chanced that, the lady frequenting the cathedral church and being yet very young and fair and agreeable, the rector of the church became so sore enamoured of her that he could think of nothing else, and after awhile, making bold to discover his mind to her, he prayed her accept of his love and love him as he loved her. now he was already old in years, but very young in wit, malapert and arrogant and presumptuous in the extreme, with manners and fashions full of conceit and ill grace, and withal so froward and ill-conditioned that there was none who wished him well; and if any had scant regard for him, it was the lady in question, who not only wished him no whit of good, but hated him worse than the megrims; wherefore, like a discreet woman as she was, she answered him, 'sir, that you love me should be mighty pleasing to me, who am bound to love you and will gladly do so; but between your love and mine nothing unseemly should ever befall. you are my spiritual father and a priest and are presently well stricken in years, all which things should make you both modest and chaste; whilst i, on the other hand, am no girl, nor do these amorous toys beseem my present condition, for that i am a widow and you well know what discretion is required in widows; wherefore i pray you hold me excused, for that i shall never love you after the fashion whereof you require me; nor do i wish to be thus loved of you.' the rector could get of her no other answer for that time, but, nowise daunted or disheartened by the first rebuff, solicited her again and again with the most overweening importunity, both by letter and message, nay, even by word of mouth, whenas he saw her come into the church. wherefor, herseeming that this was too great and too grievous an annoy, she cast about to rid herself of him after such a fashion as he deserved, since she could no otherwise, but would do nought ere she had taken counsel with her brothers. accordingly, she acquainted them with the rector's behaviour towards her and that which she purposed to do, and having therein full license from them, went a few days after to the church, as was her wont. as soon as the rector saw her, he came up to her and with his usual assurance, accosted her familiarly. the lady received him with a cheerful countenance and withdrawing apart with him, after he had said many words to her in his wonted style, she heaved a great sigh and said, 'sir, i have heard that there is no fortalice so strong but that, being every day assaulted, it cometh at last to be taken, and this i can very well see to have happened to myself; for that you have so closely beset me with soft words and with one complaisance and another, that you have made me break my resolve, and i am now disposed, since i please you thus, to consent to be yours.' 'gramercy, madam,' answered the rector, overjoyed, 'to tell you the truth, i have often wondered how you could hold out so long, considering that never did the like betide me with any woman; nay, i have said whiles, "were women of silver, they would not be worth a farthing, for that not one of them would stand the hammer." but let that pass for the present. when and where can we be together?' whereto quoth the lady, 'sweet my lord, as for the when, it may be what time soever most pleaseth us, for that i have no husband to whom it behoveth me render an account of my nights; but for the where i know not how to contrive.' 'how?' cried the priest. 'why, in your house to be sure.' 'sir,' answered the lady, 'you know i have two young brothers, who come and go about the house with their companions day and night, and my house is not overbig; wherefore it may not be there, except one chose to abide there mute-fashion, without saying a word or making the least sound, and be in the dark, after the manner of the blind. an you be content to do this, it might be, for they meddle not with my bedchamber; but their own is so close to mine that one cannot whisper the least word, without its being heard.' 'madam,' answered the rector, 'this shall not hinder us for a night or two, against i bethink me where we may foregather more at ease.' quoth she, 'sir, let that rest with you; but of one thing i pray you, that this abide secret, so no word be ever known thereof.' 'madam,' replied he, 'have no fear for that; but, an it may be, make shift that we shall foregather this evening.' 'with all my heart,' said the lady; and appointing him how and when he should come, she took leave of him and returned home. now she had a serving-wench, who was not overyoung, but had the foulest and worst-favoured visnomy was ever seen; for she had a nose flattened sore, a mouth all awry, thick lips and great ill-set teeth; moreover, she inclined to squint, nor was ever without sore eyes, and had a green and yellow complexion, which gave her the air of having passed the summer not at fiesole, but at sinigaglia.[ ] besides all this, she was hipshot and a thought crooked on the right side. her name was ciuta, but, for that she had such a dog's visnomy of her own, she was called of every one ciutazza;[ ] and for all she was misshapen of her person, she was not without a spice of roguishness. the lady called her and said to her, 'harkye, ciutazza, an thou wilt do me a service this night. i will give thee a fine new shift.' ciutazza, hearing speak of the shift, answered, 'madam, so you give me a shift, i will cast myself into the fire, let alone otherwhat.' 'well, then,' said her mistress, 'i would have thee lie to-night with a man in my bed and load him with caresses, but take good care not to say a word, lest thou be heard by my brothers, who, as thou knowest, sleep in the next room; and after i will give thee the shift.' quoth ciutazza, 'with all my heart. i will lie with half a dozen men, if need be, let alone one.' accordingly, at nightfall, my lord the rector made his appearance, according to agreement, whilst the two young men, by the lady's appointment, were in their bedchamber and took good care to make themselves heard; wherefore he entered the lady's chamber in silence and darkness and betook himself, as she had bidden him, straight to the bed, whither on her part came ciutazza, who had been well lessoned by the lady of that which she had to do. my lord rector, thinking he had his mistress beside him, caught ciutazza in his arms and fell to kissing her, without saying a word, and she him; whereupon he proceeded to solace himself with her, taking, as he thought, possession of the long-desired good. [footnote : _i.e._ in the malaria district.] [footnote : _i.e._ great ugly ciuta.] the lady, having done this, charged her brothers carry the rest of the plot into execution, wherefore, stealing softly out of the chamber, they made for the great square and fortune was more favorable to them than they themselves asked in that which they had a mind to do, inasmuch as, the heat being great, the bishop had enquired for the two young gentlemen, so he might go a-pleasuring to their house and drink with them. but, seeing them coming, he acquainted them with his wish and returned with them to their house, where, entering a cool little courtyard of theirs, in which were many flambeaux alight, he drank with great pleasure of an excellent wine of theirs. when he had drunken, the young men said to him, 'my lord, since you have done us so much favour as to deign to visit this our poor house, whereto we came to invite you, we would have you be pleased to view a small matter with which we would fain show you.' the bishop answered that he would well; whereupon one of the young men, taking a lighted flambeau in his hand, made for the chamber where my lord rector lay with ciutazza, followed by the bishop and all the rest. the rector, to arrive the quicklier at his journey's end, had hastened to take horse and had already ridden more than three miles before they came thither; wherefore, being somewhat weary, he had, notwithstanding the heat, fallen asleep with ciutazza in his arms. accordingly, when the young man entered the chamber, light in hand, and after him the bishop and all the others, he was shown to the prelate in this plight; whereupon he awoke and seeing the light and the folk about him, was sore abashed and hid his head for fear under the bed-clothes. the bishop gave him a sound rating and made him put out his head and see with whom he had lain; whereupon the rector, understanding the trick that had been played him of the lady, what with this and what with the disgrace himseemed he had gotten, became of a sudden the woefullest man that was aye. then, having, by the bishop's commandment, reclad himself, he was despatched to his house under good guard, to suffer sore penance for the sin he had committed. the bishop presently enquiring how it came to pass that he had gone thither to lie with ciutazza, the young men orderly related everything to him, which having heard, he greatly commended both the lady and her brothers for that, without choosing to imbrue their hands in the blood of a priest, they had entreated him as he deserved. as for the rector, he caused him bewail his offence forty days' space; but love and despite made him rue it for more than nine-and-forty,[ ] more by token that, for a great while after, he could never go abroad but the children would point at him and say, 'see, there is he who lay with ciutazza'; the which was so sore an annoy to him that he was like to go mad therefor. on such wise did the worthy lady rid herself of the importunity of the malapert rector and ciutazza gained the shift and a merry night." [footnote : _quarantanove_, a proverbial expression for an indefinite number.] the fifth story [day the eighth] three young men pull the breeches off a marchegan judge in florence, what while he is on the bench, administering justice emilia having made an end of her story and the widow lady having been commended of all, the queen looked to filostrato and said, "it is now thy turn to tell." he answered promptly that he was ready and began, "delightsome ladies, the mention by elisa a little before of a certain young man, to wit, maso del saggio, hath caused me leave a story i purposed to tell you, so i may relate to you one of him and certain companions of his, which, if (albeit it is nowise unseemly) it offer certain expressions which you think shame to use, is natheless so laughable that i will e'en tell it. as you may all have heard, there come oftentimes to our city governors from the marches of ancona, who are commonly mean-spirited folk and so paltry and sordid of life that their every fashion seemeth nought other than a lousy cadger's trick; and of this innate paltriness and avarice, they bring with them judges and notaries, who seem men taken from the plough-tail or the cobbler's stall rather than from the schools of law. now, one of these being come hither for provost, among the many judges whom he brought with him was one who styled himself messer niccola da san lepidio and who had more the air of a tinker than of aught else, and he was set with other judges to hear criminal causes. as it oft happeneth that, for all the townsfolk have nought in the world to do at the courts of law, yet bytimes they go thither, it befell that maso del saggio went thither one morning, in quest of a friend of his, and chancing to cast his eyes whereas this said messer niccola sat, himseemed that here was a rare outlandish kind of wild fowl. accordingly, he went on to examine him from head to foot, and albeit he saw him with the miniver bonnet on his head all black with smoke and grease and a paltry inkhorn at his girdle, a gown longer than his mantle and store of other things all foreign to a man of good breeding and manners, yet of all these the most notable, to his thinking, was a pair of breeches, the backside whereof, as the judge sat, with his clothes standing open in front for straitness, he perceived came halfway down his legs. thereupon, without tarrying longer to look upon him, he left him with whom he went seeking and beginning a new quest, presently found two comrades of his, called one ribi and the other matteuzzo, men much of the same mad humour as himself, and said to them, 'as you tender me, come with me to the law courts, for i wish to show you the rarest scarecrow you ever saw.' accordingly, carrying them to the court house, he showed them the aforesaid judge and his breeches, whereat they fell a-laughing, as soon as they caught sight of him afar off; then, drawing nearer to the platform whereon my lord judge sat, they saw that one might lightly pass thereunder and that, moreover, the boards under his feet were so broken that one might with great ease thrust his hand and arm between them; whereupon quoth maso to his comrades, 'needs must we pull him off those breeches of his altogether, for that it may very well be done.' each of the others had already seen how;[ ] wherefore, having agreed among themselves what they should say and do, they returned thither next morning, when, the court being very full of folk, matteuzzo, without being seen of any, crept under the bench and posted himself immediately beneath the judge's feet. meanwhile, maso came up to my lord judge on one side and taking him by the skirt of his gown, whilst ribi did the like on the other side, began to say, 'my lord, my lord, i pray you for god's sake, ere yonder scurvy thief on the other side of you go elsewhere, make him restore me a pair of saddle-bags whereof he hath saith indeed he did it not; but i saw him, not a month ago, in act to have them resoled.' ribi on his side cried out with all his might, 'believe him not, my lord; he is an arrant knave, and for that he knoweth i am come to lay a complaint against him for a pair of saddle-bags whereof he hath robbed me, he cometh now with his story of the boothose, which i have had in my house this many a day. an you believe me not, i can bring you to witness my next-door neighbor trecca and grassa the tripewoman and one who goeth gathering the sweepings from santa masia at verjaza, who saw him when he came back from the country. [footnote : _i.e._ how they might do this.] maso on the other hand suffered not ribi to speak, but bawled his loudest, whereupon the other but shouted the more. the judge stood up and leaned towards them, so he might the better apprehend what they had to say, wherefore matteuzzo, watching his opportunity, thrust his hand between the crack of the boards and laying hold of messer niccola's galligaskins by the breech, tugged at them amain. the breeches came down incontinent, for that the judge was lean and lank of the crupper; whereupon, feeling this and knowing not what it might be, he would have sat down again and pulled his skirts forward to cover himself; but maso on the one side and ribi on the other still held him fast and cried out, 'my lord, you do ill not to do me justice and to seek to avoid hearing me and get you gone otherwhere; there be no writs granted in this city for such small matters as this.' so saying, they held him fast by the clothes on such wise that all who were in the court perceived that his breeches had been pulled down. however, matteuzzo, after he had held them awhile, let them go and coming forth from under the platform, made off out of the court and went his way without being seen; whereupon quoth ribi, himseeming he had done enough, 'i vow to god i will appeal to the syndicate!' whilst maso, on his part, let go the mantle and said, 'nay, i will e'en come hither again and again until such time as i find you not hindered as you seem to be this morning.' so saying, they both made off as quickliest they might, each on his own side, whilst my lord judge pulled up his breeches in every one's presence, as if he were arisen from sleep; then, perceiving how the case stood, he enquired whither they were gone who were at difference anent the boothose and the saddle-bags; but they were not to be found, whereupon he began to swear by cock's bowels that need must he know and learn if it were the wont at florence to pull down the judges' breeches, whenas they sat on the judicial bench. the provost, on his part, hearing of this, made a great stir; but, his friends having shown him that this had only been done to give him notice that the florentines right well understood how, whereas he should have brought judges, he had brought them sorry patches, to have them better cheap, he thought it best to hold his peace, and so the thing went no farther for the nonce." the sixth story [day the eighth] bruno and buffalmacco, having stolen a pig from calandrino, make him try the ordeal with ginger boluses and sack and give him (instead of the ginger) two dog-balls compounded with aloes, whereby it appeareth that he himself hath had the pig and they make him pay blackmail, an he would not have them tell his wife no sooner had filostrato despatched his story, which had given rise to many a laugh, than the queen bade filomena follow on, whereupon she began: "gracious ladies, even as filostrato was led by the mention of maso to tell the story which you have just heard from him, so neither more nor less am i moved by that of calandrino and his friends to tell you another of them, which methinketh will please you. who calandrino, bruno and buffalmacco were i need not explain to you, for that you have already heard it well enough; wherefore, to proceed with my story, i must tell you that calandrino owned a little farm at no great distance from florence, that he had had to his wife's dowry. from this farm, amongst other things that he got thence, he had every year a pig, and it was his wont still to betake himself thither, he and his wife, and kill the pig and have it salted on the spot. it chanced one year that, his wife being somewhat ailing, he went himself to kill the pig, which bruno and buffalmacco hearing and knowing that his wife was not gone to the farm with him, they repaired to a priest, very great friend of theirs and a neighbor of calandrino, to sojourn some days with him. now calandrino had that very morning killed the pig and seeing them with the priest, called to them saying, 'you are welcome. i would fain have you see what a good husband[ ] i am.' then carrying them into the house, he showed them the pig, which they seeing to be a very fine one and understanding from calandrino that he meant to salt it down for his family, 'good lack,' quoth bruno to him, 'what a ninny thou art! sell it and let us make merry with the price, and tell thy wife that it hath been stolen from thee.' 'nay, answered calandrino, 'she would never believe it and would drive me out of the house. spare your pains, for i will never do it.' and many were the words, but they availed nothing. [footnote : _i.e._ in the old sense of "manager" (_massajo_).] calandrino invited them to supper, but with so ill a grace that they refused to sup there and took their leave of him; whereupon quoth bruno and buffalmacco, 'what sayest thou to stealing yonder pig from him to-night?' 'marry,' replied the other, 'how can we do it?' quoth bruno, 'i can see how well enough, an he remove it not from where it was but now.' 'then,' rejoined his companion, 'let us do it. why should we not? and after we will make merry over it with the parson here.' the priest answered that he would well, and bruno said, 'here must some little art be used. thou knowest, buffalmacco, how niggardly calandrino is and how gladly he drinketh when others pay; let us go and carry him to the tavern, where the priest shall make believe to pay the whole scot in our honor nor suffer him to pay aught. calandrino will soon grow fuddled and then we can manage it lightly enough, for that he is alone in the house.' as he said, so they did and calandrino seeing that the priest suffered none to pay, gave himself up to drinking and took in a good load, albeit it needed no great matter to make him drunk. it was pretty late at night when they left the tavern and calandrino, without troubling himself about supper, went straight home, where, thinking to have shut the door, he left it open and betook himself to bed. buffalmacco and bruno went off to sup with the priest and after supper repaired quietly to calandrino's house, carrying with them certain implements wherewithal to break in whereas bruno had appointed it; but, finding the door open, they entered and unhooking the pig, carried it off to the priest's house, where they laid it up and betook themselves to sleep. on the morrow, calandrino, having slept off the fumes of the wine, arose in the morning and going down, missed his pig and saw the door open; whereupon he questioned this one and that if they knew who had taken it and getting no news of it, began to make a great outcry, saying, 'woe is me, miserable wretch that i am!' for that the pig had been stolen from him. as soon as bruno and buffalmacco were risen, they repaired to calandrino's house, to hear what he would say anent the pig, and he no sooner saw them than he called out to them, well nigh weeping, and said, 'woe's me, comrades mine; my pig hath been stolen from me!' whereupon bruno came up to him and said softly, 'it is a marvel that thou hast been wise for once.' 'alack,' replied calandrino, 'indeed i say sooth.' 'that's the thing to say,' quoth bruno. 'make a great outcry, so it may well appear that it is e'en as thou sayst.' therewithal calandrino bawled out yet loudlier, saying, 'cock's body, i tell thee it hath been stolen from me in good earnest!' 'good, good,' replied bruno; 'that's the way to speak; cry out lustily, make thyself well heard, so it may seem true.' quoth calandrino, 'thou wouldst make me give my soul to the fiend! i tell thee and thou believest me not. may i be strung up by the neck an it have not been stolen from me!' 'good lack!' cried bruno. 'how can that be? i saw it here but yesterday. thinkest thou to make me believe that it hath flown away?' quoth calandrino, 'it is as i tell thee.' 'good lack,' repeated bruno, 'can it be?' 'certes,' replied calandrino, 'it is so, more by token that i am undone and know not how i shall return home. my wife will never believe me; or even if she do, i shall have no peace with her this year to come.' quoth bruno, 'so god save me, this is ill done, if it be true; but thou knowest, calandrino, i lessoned thee yesterday to say thus and i would not have thee at once cozen thy wife and us.' therewithal calandrino fell to crying out and saying, 'alack, why will you drive me to desperation and make me blaspheme god and the saints? i tell you the pig was stolen from me yesternight.' then said buffalmacco, 'if it be so indeed, we must cast about for a means of having it again, an we may contrive it.' 'but what means,' asked calandrino, 'can we find?' quoth buffalmacco, 'we may be sure that there hath come none from the indies to rob thee of thy pig; the thief must have been some one of thy neighbors. an thou canst make shift to assemble them, i know how to work the ordeal by bread and cheese and we will presently see for certain who hath had it.' 'ay,' put in bruno, 'thou wouldst make a fine thing of bread and cheese with such gentry as we have about here, for one of them i am certain hath had the pig, and he would smoke the trap and would not come.' 'how, then, shall we do?' asked buffalmacco, and bruno said, 'we must e'en do it with ginger boluses and good vernage[ ] and invite them to drink. they will suspect nothing and come, and the ginger boluses can be blessed even as the bread and cheese.' quoth buffalmacco, 'indeed, thou sayst sooth. what sayst thou, calandrino? shall's do 't?' 'nay,' replied the gull, 'i pray you thereof for the love of god; for, did i but know who hath had it, i should hold myself half consoled.' 'marry, then,' said bruno, 'i am ready to go to florence, to oblige thee, for the things aforesaid, so thou wilt give me the money.' now calandrino had maybe forty shillings, which he gave him, and bruno accordingly repaired to florence to a friend of his, a druggist, of whom he bought a pound of fine ginger boluses and caused compound a couple of dogballs with fresh confect of hepatic aloes; after which he let cover these latter with sugar, like the others, and set thereon a privy mark by which he might very well know them, so he should not mistake them nor change them. then, buying a flask of good vernage, he returned to calandrino in the country and said to him, 'do thou to-morrow morning invite those whom thou suspectest to drink with thee; it is a holiday and all will willingly come. meanwhile, buffalmacco and i will to-night make the conjuration over the pills and bring them to thee to-morrow morning at home; and for the love of thee i will administer them myself and do and say that which is to be said and done.' [footnote : _i.e._ white wine, see p. , note.] calandrino did as he said and assembled on the following morning a goodly company of such young florentines as were presently about the village and of husbandmen; whereupon bruno and buffalmacco came with a box of pills and the flask of wine and made the folk stand in a ring. then said bruno, 'gentlemen, needs must i tell you the reason wherefore you are here, so that, if aught betide that please you not, you may have no cause to complain of me. calandrino here was robbed yesternight of a fine pig, nor can he find who hath had it; and for that none other than some one of us who are here can have stolen it from him, he proffereth each of you, that he may discover who hath had it, one of these pills to eat and a draught of wine. now you must know that he who hath had the pig will not be able to swallow the pill; nay, it will seem to him more bitter than poison and he will spit it out; wherefore, rather than that shame be done him in the presence of so many, he were better tell it to the parson by way of confession and i will proceed no farther with this matter.' all who were there declared that they would willingly eat of the pills, whereupon bruno ranged them in order and set calandrino among them; then, beginning at one end of the line, he proceeded to give each his bolus, and whenas he came over against calandrino, he took one of the dogballs and put it into his hand. calandrino clapped it incontinent into his mouth and began to chew it; but no sooner did his tongue taste the aloes, than he spat it out again, being unable to brook the bitterness. meanwhile, each was looking other in the face, to see who should spit out his bolus, and whilst bruno, not having made an end of serving them out, went on to do so, feigning to pay no heed to calandrino's doing, he heard say behind him, 'how now, calandrino? what meaneth this?' whereupon he turned suddenly round and seeing that calandrino had spat out his bolus, said, 'stay, maybe somewhat else hath caused him spit it out. take another of them.' then, taking the other dogball, he thrust it into calandrino's mouth and went on to finish giving out the rest. if the first ball seemed bitter to calandrino, the second was bitterer yet; but, being ashamed to spit it out, he kept it awhile in his mouth, chewing it and shedding tears that seemed hazel-nuts so big they were, till at last, unable to hold out longer, he cast it forth, like as he had the first. meanwhile buffalmacco and bruno gave the company to drink, and all, seeing this, declared that calandrino had certainly stolen the pig from himself; nay, there were those there who rated him roundly. after they were all gone, and the two rogues left alone with calandrino, buffalmacco said to him, 'i still had it for certain that it was thou tookst the pig thyself and wouldst fain make us believe that it had been stolen from thee, to escape giving us one poor while to drink of the monies thou hadst for it.' calandrino, who was not yet quit of the bitter taste of the aloes, began to swear that he had not had it, and buffalmacco said, 'but in good earnest, comrade, what gottest thou for it? was it six florins?' calandrino, hearing this, began to wax desperate, and bruno said, 'harkye, calandrino, there was such an one in the company that ate and drank with us, who told me that thou hast a wench over yonder, whom thou keepest for thy pleasure and to whom thou givest whatsoever thou canst scrape together, and that he held it for certain that thou hadst sent her the pig. thou hast learned of late to play pranks of this kind; thou carriedst us off t'other day down the mugnone, picking up black stones, and whenas thou hadst gotten us aboard ship without biscuit,[ ] thou madest off and wouldst after have us believe that thou hadst found the magic stone; and now on like wise thou thinkest, by dint of oaths, to make us believe that the pig, which thou hast given away or more like sold, hath been stolen from thee. but we are used to thy tricks and know them; thou shalt not avail to play us any more of them, and to be plain with thee, since we have been at pains to make the conjuration, we mean that thou shalt give us two pairs of capons; else will we tell mistress tessa everything.' calandrino, seeing that he was not believed and himseeming he had had vexation enough, without having his wife's scolding into the bargain, gave them two pairs of capons, which they carried off to florence, after they had salted the pig, leaving calandrino to digest the loss and the flouting as best he might." [footnote : _i.e._ embarked on a bootless quest.] the seventh story [day the eighth] a scholar loveth a widow lady, who, being enamoured of another, causeth him spend one winter's night in the snow awaiting her, and he after contriveth, by his sleight, to have her abide naked, all one mid-july day, on the summit of a tower, exposed to flies and gads and sun the ladies laughed amain at the unhappy calandrino and would have laughed yet more, but that it irked them to see him fleeced of the capons, to boot, by those who had already robbed him of the pig. but, as soon as the end of the story was come, the queen charged pampinea tell hers, and she promptly began thus: "it chanceth oft, dearest ladies, that craft is put to scorn by craft and it is therefore a sign of little wit to delight in making mock of others. we have, for several stories, laughed amain at tricks that have been played upon folk and whereof no vengeance is recorded to have been taken; but i purpose now to cause you have some compassion of a just retribution wreaked upon a townswoman of ours, on whose head her own cheat recoiled and was retorted well nigh unto death; and the hearing of this will not be without profit unto you, for that henceforward you will the better keep yourselves from making mock of others, and in this you will show great good sense. not many years ago there was in florence, a young lady, by name elena, fair of favour and haughty of humour, of very gentle lineage and endowed with sufficient abundance of the goods of fortune, who, being widowed of her husband, chose never to marry again, for that she was enamoured of a handsome and agreeable youth of her own choice, and with the aid of a maid of hers, in whom she put great trust, being quit of every other care, she often with marvellous delight gave herself a good time with him. in these days it chanced that a young gentleman of our city, by name rinieri, having long studied in paris, not for the sake of after selling his knowledge by retail, as many do, but to know the nature of things and their causes, the which excellently becometh a gentleman, returned thence to florence and there lived citizen-fashion, much honoured as well for his nobility as for his learning. but, as it chanceth often that those, who have the most experience of things profound, are the soonest snared of love, even so it befell this rinieri; for, having one day repaired, by way of diversion, to an entertainment, there presented herself before his eyes the aforesaid elena, clad all in black, as our widows go, and full, to his judgment, of such beauty and pleasantness as himseemed he had never beheld in any other woman; and in his heart he deemed that he might call himself blest whom god should vouchsafe to hold her naked in his arms. then, furtively considering her once and again and knowing that great things and precious were not to be acquired without travail, he altogether determined in himself to devote all his pains and all his diligence to the pleasing her, to the end that thereby he might gain her love and so avail to have his fill of her. the young lady, (who kept not her eyes fixed upon the nether world, but, conceiting herself as much and more than as much as she was, moved them artfully hither and thither, gazing all about, and was quick to note who delighted to look upon her,) soon became aware of rinieri and said, laughing, in herself, 'i have not come hither in vain to-day; for, an i mistake not, i have caught a woodcock by the bill.' accordingly, she fell to ogling him from time to time with the tail of her eye and studied, inasmuch as she might, to let him see that she took note of him, thinking that the more men she allured and ensnared with her charms, so much the more of price would her beauty be, especially to him on whom she had bestowed it, together with her love. the learned scholar, laying aside philosophical speculations, turned all his thoughts to her and thinking to please her, enquired where she lived and proceeded to pass to and fro before her house, colouring his comings and goings with various pretexts, whilst the lady, idly glorying in this, for the reason already set out, made believe to take great pleasure in seeing him. accordingly, he found means to clap up an acquaintance with her maid and discovering to her his love, prayed her make interest for him with her mistress, so he might avail to have her favour. the maid promised freely and told the lady, who hearkened with the heartiest laughter in the world and said, 'seest thou where yonder man cometh to lose the wit he hath brought back from paris? marry, we will give him that which he goeth seeking. an he bespeak thee again, do thou tell him that i love him far more than he loveth me; but that it behoveth me look to mine honour, so i may hold up my head with the other ladies; whereof and he be as wise as folk say, he will hold me so much the dearer.' alack, poor silly soul, she knew not aright, ladies mine, what it is to try conclusions with scholars. the maid went in search of rinieri and finding him, did that which had been enjoined her of her mistress, whereat he was overjoyed and proceeded to use more urgent entreaties, writing letters and sending presents, all of which were accepted, but he got nothing but vague and general answers; and on this wise she held him in play a great while. at last, to show her lover, to whom she had discovered everything and who was whiles somewhat vexed with her for this and had conceived some jealousy of rinieri, that he did wrong to suspect her thereof, she despatched to the scholar, now grown very pressing, her maid, who told him, on her mistress's part, that she had never yet had an opportunity to do aught that might pleasure him since he had certified her of his love, but that on the occasion of the festival of the nativity she hoped to be able to be with him; wherefore, an it liked him, he was on the evening of the feast to come by night to her courtyard, whither she would go for him as first she might. at this the scholar was the gladdest man alive and betook himself at the appointed time to his mistress's house, where he was carried by the maid into a courtyard and being there locked in, proceeded to wait the lady's coming. the latter had that evening sent for her lover and after she had supped merrily with him, she told him that which she purposed to do that night, adding, 'and thou mayst see for thyself what and how great is the love i have borne and bear him of whom thou hast taken a jealousy.' the lover heard these words with great satisfaction and was impatient to see by the fact that which the lady gave him to understand with words. it had by chance snowed hard during the day and everything was covered with snow, wherefore the scholar had not long abidden in the courtyard before he began to feel colder than he could have wished; but, looking to recruit himself speedily, he was fain to endure it with patience. presently, the lady said to her lover, 'let us go look from a lattice what yonder fellow, of whom thou art waxed jealous, doth and hear what he shall answer the maid, whom i have sent to parley with him.' accordingly, they betook themselves to a lattice and thence, seeing, without being seen, they heard the maid from another lattice bespeak the scholar and say, 'rinieri, my lady is the woefullest woman that was aye, for that there is one of her brothers come hither to-night, who hath talked much with her and after must needs sup with her, nor is yet gone away; but methinketh he will soon be gone; wherefore she hath not been able to come to thee, but will soon come now and prayeth thee not to take the waiting in ill part.' rinieri, believing this to be true, replied, 'tell my lady to give herself no concern for me till such time as she can at her commodity come to me, but bid her do this as quickliest she may.' the maid turned back into the house and betook herself to bed, whilst the lady said to her gallant, 'well, how sayst thou? thinkest thou that, an i wished him such weal as thou fearest, i would suffer him stand a-freezing down yonder?' so saying, she betook herself to bed with her lover, who was now in part satisfied, and there they abode a great while in joyance and liesse, laughing and making mock of the wretched scholar, who fared to and fro the while in the courtyard, making shift to warm himself with exercise, nor had whereas he might seat himself or shelter from the night-damp. he cursed her brother's long stay with the lady and took everything he heard for the opening of a door to him by her, but hoped in vain. the lady, having solaced herself with her lover till near upon midnight, said to him, 'how deemest thou, my soul, of our scholar? whether seemeth to thee the greater, his wit or the love i bear him? will the cold which i presently cause him suffer do away from thy mind the doubts which my pleasantries aroused therein the other day?' whereto he replied, 'heart of my body, yes, i know right well that, like as thou art my good and my peace and my delight and all my hope, even so am i thine.' 'then,' rejoined she, 'kiss me a thousand times, so i may see if thou say sooth.' whereupon he clipped her fast in his arms and kissed her not a thousand, but more than an hundred thousand times. then, after they had abidden awhile in such discourse, the lady said, 'marry, let us arise a little and go see if the fire is anydele spent, wherein this my new lover wrote me that he burnt all day long.' accordingly, they arose and getting them to the accustomed lattice, looked out into the courtyard, where they saw the scholar dancing a right merry jig on the snow, so fast and brisk that never had they seen the like, to the sound of the chattering of the teeth that he made for excess of cold; whereupon quoth the lady, 'how sayst thou, sweet my hope? seemeth to thee that i know how to make folk jig it without sound of trump or bagpipe?' whereto he answered, laughing, 'ay dost thou, my chief delight.' quoth the lady, 'i will that we go down to the door; thou shalt abide quiet, whilst i bespeak him, and we shall hear what he will say; belike we shall have no less diversion thereof than we had from seeing him.' accordingly, they softly opened the chamber and stole down to the door, where, without opening it anydele, the lady called to the scholar in a low voice by a little hole that was there. rinieri hearing himself called, praised god, taking it oversoon for granted that he was to be presently admitted, and coming up to the door, said, 'here am i, madam; open for god's sake, for i die of cold.' 'o ay,' replied the lady, 'i know thou art a chilly one; is then the cold so exceeding great, because, forsooth, there is a little snow about? i wot the nights are much colder in paris. i cannot open to thee yet, for that accursed brother of mine, who came to sup with me to-night, is not yet gone; but he will soon begone and i will come incontinent to open to thee. i have but now very hardly stolen away from him, that i might come to exhort thee not to wax weary of waiting.' 'alack, madam,' cried the scholar, 'i pray you for god's sake open to me, so i may abide within under cover, for that this little while past there is come on the thickest snow in the world and it yet snoweth, and i will wait for you as long as it shall please you.' 'woe's me, sweet my treasure,' replied the lady, 'that cannot i; for this door maketh so great a noise, whenas it is opened, that it would lightly be heard of my brother, if i should open to thee; but i will go bid him begone, so i may after come back and open to thee.' 'then go quickly,' rejoined he; 'and i prithee let make a good fire, so i may warm me as soon as i come in, for that i am grown so cold i can scarce feel myself.' quoth the lady, 'that should not be possible, an that be true which thou hast many a time written me, to wit, that thou burnest for the love of me. now, i must go, wait and be of good heart.' then, with her lover, who had heard all this with the utmost pleasure, she went back to bed, and that night they slept little, nay, they spent it well nigh all in dalliance and delight and in making mock of rinieri. meanwhile, the unhappy scholar (now well nigh grown a stork, so sore did his teeth chatter,) perceiving at last that he was befooled, essayed again and again to open the door and sought an he might not avail to issue thence by another way; but, finding no means thereunto, he fell a-ranging to and fro like a lion, cursing the foulness of the weather and the lady's malignity and the length of the night, together with his own credulity; wherefore, being sore despited against his mistress, the long and ardent love he had borne her was suddenly changed to fierce and bitter hatred and he revolved in himself many and various things, so he might find a means of revenge, the which he now desired far more eagerly than he had before desired to be with the lady. at last, after much long tarriance, the night drew near unto day and the dawn began to appear; whereupon the maid, who had been lessoned by the lady, coming down, opened the courtyard door and feigning to have compassion of rinieri, said, 'bad luck may he have who came hither yestereve! he hath kept us all night upon thorns and hath caused thee freeze; but knowest thou what? bear it with patience, for that which could not be to-night shall be another time. indeed, i know nought could have happened that had been so displeasing to my lady.' the despiteful scholar, like a wise man as he was, who knew that threats are but arms for the threatened, locked up in his breast that which untempered will would fain have vented and said in a low voice, without anywise showing himself vexed, 'in truth i have had the worst night i ever had; but i have well apprehended that the lady is nowise to blame for this, inasmuch as she herself of her compassion for me, came down hither to excuse herself and to hearten me; and as thou sayest, that which hath not been to-night shall be another time. commend me to her and god be with thee.' therewithal, well nigh stark with cold, he made his way, as best he might, back to his house, where, being drowsed to death, he cast himself upon his bed to sleep and awoke well nigh crippled of his arms and legs; wherefore, sending for sundry physicians and acquainting them with the cold he had suffered, he caused take order for his cure. the leaches, plying him with prompt and very potent remedies, hardly, after some time, availed to recover him of the shrinking of the sinews and cause them relax; and but that he was young and that the warm season came on, he had overmuch to suffer. however, being restored to health and lustihead, he kept his hate to himself and feigned himself more than ever enamoured of his widow. now it befell, after a certain space of time, that fortune furnished him with an occasion of satisfying his desire [for vengeance], for that the youth beloved of the widow being, without any regard for the love she bore him, fallen enamoured of another lady, would have nor little nor much to say to her nor do aught to pleasure her, wherefore she pined in tears and bitterness. but her maid, who had great compassion of her, finding no way of rousing her mistress from the chagrin into which the loss of her lover had cast her and seeing the scholar pass along the street, after the wonted manner, entered into a fond conceit, to wit, that the lady's lover might be brought by some necromantic operation or other to love her as he had been wont to do and that the scholar should be a past master in this manner of thing, and told her thought to her mistress. the latter, little wise, without considering that, had the scholar been acquainted with the black art, he would have practised it for himself, lent her mind to her maid's words and bade her forthright learn from him if he would do it and give him all assurance that, in requital thereof, she would do whatsoever pleased him. the maid did her errand well and diligently, which when the scholar heard, he was overjoyed and said in himself, 'praised be thou, my god! the time is come when with thine aid i may avail to make yonder wicked woman pay the penalty of the harm she did me in requital of the great love i bore her.' then to the maid, 'tell my lady,' quoth he, 'that she need be in no concern for this, for that, were her lover in the indies, i would speedily cause him come to her and crave pardon of that which he hath done to displeasure her; but the means she must take to this end i purpose to impart to herself, when and where it shall most please her. so say to her and hearten her on my part.' the maid carried his answer to her mistress and it was agreed that they should foregather at santa lucia del prato, whither, accordingly, the lady, and the scholar being come and speaking together alone, she, remembering her not that she had aforetime brought him well nigh to death's door, openly discovered to him her case and that which she desired and besought him to succour her. 'madam,' answered he, 'it is true that amongst the other things i learned at paris was necromancy, whereof for certain i know that which is extant thereof; but for that the thing is supremely displeasing unto god, i had sworn never to practise it either for myself or for others. nevertheless, the love i bear you is of such potency that i know not how i may deny you aught that you would have me do; wherefore, though it should behove me for this alone go to the devil's stead, i am yet ready to do it, since it is your pleasure. but i must forewarn you that the thing is more uneath to do than you perchance imagine, especially whenas a woman would recall a man to loving her or a man a woman, for that this cannot be done save by the very person unto whom it pertaineth; and it behoveth that whoso doth it be of an assured mind, seeing it must be done anights and in solitary places without company; which things i know not how you are disposed to do.' the lady, more enamoured than discreet, replied, 'love spurreth me on such wise that there is nothing i would not do to have again him who hath wrongfully forsaken me. algates, an it please you, show me in what i must approve myself assured of mind.' 'madam,' replied the scholar, who had a patch of ill hair to his tail,[ ] 'i must make an image of pewter in his name whom you desire to get again, which whenas i shall send you, it will behove you seven times bathe yourself therewith, all naked, in a running stream, at the hour of the first sleep, what time the moon is far on the wane. thereafter, naked as you are, you must get you up into a tree or to the top of some uninhabited house and turning to the north, with the image in your hand, seven times running say certain words which i shall give you written; which when you shall have done, there will come to you two of the fairest damsels you ever beheld, who will salute you and ask you courteously what you would have done. do you well and throughly discover to them your desires and look it betide you not to name one for another. as soon as you have told them, they will depart and you may then come down to the place where you shall have left your clothes and re-clothe yourself and return home; and for certain, ere it be the middle of the ensuing night, your lover will come, weeping, to crave you pardon and mercy; and know that from that time forth he will never again leave you for any other.' [footnote : a proverbial way of saying that he bore malice and was vindictive.] the lady, hearing all this and lending entire faith thereto, was half comforted, herseeming she already had her lover again in her arms, and said, 'never fear; i will very well do these things, and i have therefor the finest commodity in the world; for i have, towards the upper end of the val d'arno, a farm, which is very near the river-bank, and it is now july, so that bathing will be pleasant; more by token that i mind me there is, not far from the stream, a little uninhabited tower, save that the shepherds climb up bytimes, by a ladder of chestnut-wood that is there, to a sollar at the top, to look for their strayed beasts: otherwise it is a very solitary out-of-the-way[ ] place. thither will i betake myself and there i hope to do that which you shall enjoin me the best in the world.' the scholar, who very well knew both the place and the tower mentioned by the lady, was rejoiced to be certified of her intent and said, 'madam, i was never in these part and therefore know neither the farm nor the tower; but, an it be as you say, nothing in the world can be better. wherefore, whenas it shall be time, i will send you the image and the conjuration; but i pray you instantly, whenas you shall have gotten your desire and shall know i have served you well, that you be mindful of me and remember to keep your promise to me.' she answered that she would without fail do it and taking leave of him, returned to her house; whilst the scholar, rejoiced for that himseemed his desire was like to have effect, made an image with certain talismanic characters of his own devising, and wrote a rigmarole of his fashion, by way of conjuration; the which, whenas it seemed to him time, he despatched to the lady and sent to tell her that she must that very night, without more tarriance, do that which he had enjoined her; after which he secretly betook himself, with a servant of his, to the house of one of his friends who abode very near the tower, so he might give effect to his design. [footnote : lit. out of hand (_fuor di mano_).] the lady, on her part, set out with her maid and repaired to her farm, where, as soon as the night was come, she made a show of going to bed and sent the maid away to sleep, but towards the hour of the first sleep, she issued quietly forth of the house and betook herself to the bank of the arno hard by the tower, where, looking first well all about and seeing nor hearing any, she put off her clothes and hiding them under a bush, bathed seven times with the image; after which, naked as she was, she made for the tower, image in hand. the scholar, who had, at the coming on of the night, hidden himself with his servant among the willows and other trees near the tower and had witnessed all this, seeing her, as she passed thus naked close to him, overcome the darkness of the night with the whiteness of her body and after considering her breast and the other parts of her person and seeing them fair, bethought himself what they should become in a little while and felt some compassion of her; whilst, on the other hand, the pricks of the flesh assailed him of a sudden and caused that stand on end which erst lay prone, inciting him to issue forth of his ambush and go take her and do his will of her. between the one and the other he was like to be overcome; but, calling to mind who he was and what the injury he had suffered and wherefore and at whose hands and he being thereby rekindled in despite and compassion and carnal appetite banished, he abode firm in his purpose and let her go. the lady, going up on to the tower and turning to the north, began to repeat the words given her by the scholar, who, coming quietly into the tower awhile after, little by little removed the ladder, which led to the sollar where she was, and after awaited that which she should do and say. meanwhile, the lady, having seven times said her conjuration, began to look for the two damsels and so long was her waiting (more by token that she felt it cooler than she could have wished) that she saw the dawn appear; whereupon, woeful that it had not befallen as the scholar had told her, she said in herself, 'i fear me yonder man hath had a mind to give me a night such as that which i gave him; but, an that be his intent, he hath ill known to avenge himself, for that this night hath not been as long by a third as was his, forbye that the cold was of anothergates sort.' then, so the day might not surprise her there, she proceeded to seek to go down from the tower, but found the ladder gone; whereupon her courage forsook her, as it were the world had failed beneath her feet, and she fell down aswoon upon the platform of the tower. as soon as her sense returned to her, she fell to weeping piteously and bemoaning herself, and perceiving but too well that this must have been the scholar's doing, she went on to blame herself for having affronted others and after for having overmuch trusted in him whom she had good reason to believe her enemy; and on this wise she abode a great while. then, looking if there were no way of descending and seeing none, she fell again to her lamentation and gave herself up to bitter thought, saying in herself, 'alas, unhappy woman! what will be said of thy brothers and kinsfolk and neighbours and generally of all the people of florence, when it shall be known that thou has been found here naked? thy repute, that hath hitherto been so great, will be known to have been false; and shouldst thou seek to frame lying excuses for thyself, (if indeed there are any to be found) the accursed scholar, who knoweth all thine affairs, will not suffer thee lie. oh wretched woman, that wilt at one stroke have lost the youth so ill-fatedly beloved and thine own honour!' therewithal she fell into such a passion of woe that she was like to cast herself down from the tower to the ground; but, the sun being now risen and she drawing near to one side of the walls of the tower, to look if any boy should pass with cattle, whom she might send for her maid, it chanced that the scholar, who had slept awhile at the foot of a bush, awaking, saw her and she him; whereupon quoth he to her, 'good day, madam; are the damsels come yet?' the lady, seeing and hearing him, began afresh to weep sore and besought him to come within the tower, so she might speak with him. in this he was courteous enough to comply with her and she laying herself prone on the platform and showing only her head at the opening, said, weeping, 'assuredly, rinieri, if i gave thee an ill night, thou hast well avenged thyself of me, for that, albeit it is july, i have thought to freeze this night, naked as i am, more by token that i have so sore bewept both the trick i put upon thee and mine own folly in believing thee that it is a wonder i have any eyes left in my head. wherefore i entreat thee, not for the love of me, whom thou hast no call to love, but for the love of thyself, who are a gentleman, that thou be content, for vengeance of the injury i did thee, with that which thou hast already done and cause fetch me my clothes and suffer me come down hence, nor seek to take from me that which thou couldst not after restore me, an thou wouldst, to wit, my honour; for, if i took from thee the being with me that night, i can render thee many nights for that one, whenassoever it liketh thee. let this, then, suffice and let it content thee, as a man of honour, to have availed to avenge thyself and to have caused me confess it. seek not to use thy strength against a woman; no glory is it for an eagle to have overcome a dove, wherefore, for the love of god and thine own honour, have pity on me.' the scholar, with stern mind revolving in himself the injury suffered and seeing her weep and beseech, felt at once both pleasure and annoy; pleasure in the revenge which he had desired more than aught else, and annoy he felt, for that his humanity moved him to compassion of the unhappy woman. however, humanity availing not to overcome the fierceness of his appetite [for vengeance], 'madam elena,' answered he, 'if my prayers (which, it is true, i knew not to bathe with tears nor to make honeyed, as thou presently knowest to proffer thine,) had availed, the night when i was dying of cold in thy snow-filled courtyard, to procure me to be put of thee but a little under cover, it were a light matter to me to hearken now unto thine; but, if thou be presently so much more concerned for thine honour than in the past and it be grievous to thee to abide up there naked, address these thy prayers to him in whose arms thou didst not scruple, that night which thou thyself recallest, to abide naked, hearing me the while go about thy courtyard, chattering with my teeth and trampling the snow, and get thee succour of him; cause him fetch thee thy clothes and set thee the ladder, whereby thou mayest descend, and study to inform him with tenderness for thine honour, the which thou hast not scrupled both now and a thousand other times to imperil for him. why dost thou not call him to come help thee? to whom pertaineth it more than unto him? thou art his; and what should he regard or succour, an he regard not neither succour thee? call him, silly woman that thou art, and prove if the love thou bearest him and thy wits and his together can avail to deliver thee from my folly, whereof, dallying with him the while, thou questionedst aforetime whether himseemed the greater, my folly or the love thou borest him.[ ] thou canst not now be lavish to me of that which i desire not, nor couldst thou deny it to me, an i desired it; keep thy nights for thy lover, an it chance that thou come off hence alive; be they thine and his. i had overmuch of one of them and it sufficeth me to have been once befooled. again, using thy craft and wiliness in speech, thou studiest, by extolling me, to gain my goodwill and callest me a gentleman and a man of honour, thinking thus to cajole me into playing the magnanimous and forebearing to punish thee for thy wickedness; but thy blandishments shall not now darken me the eyes of the understanding, as did thy disloyal promises whilere. i know myself, nor did i learn so much of myself what while i sojourned at paris as thou taughtest me in one single night of thine. but, granted i were indeed magnanimous, thou art none of those towards whom magnanimity should be shown; the issue of punishment, as likewise of vengeance, in the case of wild beasts such as thou art, behoveth to be death, whereas for human beings that should suffice whereof thou speakest. wherefore, albeit i am no eagle, knowing thee to be no dove, but a venomous serpent, i mean to pursue thee, as an immemorial enemy, with every hate and all my might, albeit this that i do to thee can scarce properly be styled vengeance, but rather chastisement, inasmuch as vengeance should overpass the offence and this will not attain thereto; for that, an i sought to avenge myself, considering to what a pass thou broughtest my soul, thy life, should i take it from thee, would not suffice me, no, nor the lives of an hundred others such as thou, since, slaying thee, i should but slay a vile, wicked and worthless trull of a woman. and what a devil more account (setting aside this thy scantling of fair favour,[ ] which a few years will mar, filling it with wrinkles,) art thou than whatsoever other sorry serving-drab? whereas it was no fault of thine that thou failedst of causing the death of a man of honour, as thou styledst me but now, whose life may yet in one day be of more service to the world than an hundred thousand of thy like could be what while the world endureth. i will teach thee, then, by means of this annoy that thou sufferest, what it is to flout men of sense, and particularly scholars, and will give thee cause never more, an thou comest off alive, to fall into such a folly. but, an thou have so great a wish to descend, why dost thou not cast thyself down? on this wise, with god's help, thou wilt, by breaking thy neck, at once deliver thyself from the torment, wherein it seemeth to thee thou art, and make me the joyfullest man in the world. now, i have no more to say to thee. i knew to contrive on such wise that i caused thee go up thither; do thou now contrive to come down thence, even as thou knewest to befool me.' [footnote : boccaccio here misquotes himself. see p. , where the lady says to her lover, "whether seemeth to thee the greater, his wit or the love i bear him?" this is only one of the numberless instances of negligence and inconsistency which occur in the decameron and which make it evident to the student that it must have passed into the hands of the public without the final revision and correction by the author, that _limæ labor_ without which no book is complete and which is especially necessary in the case of such a work as the present, where boccaccio figures as the virtual creator of italian prose.] [footnote : lit. face, aspect (_viso_).] what while the scholar spoke thus, the wretched lady wept without ceasing and the time lapsed by, the sun still rising high and higher; but, when she saw that he was silent, she said, 'alack, cruel man, if the accursed night was so grievous to thee and if my default seem to thee so heinous a thing that neither my young beauty nor my bitter tears and humble prayers may avail to move thee to any pity, at least let this act of mine alone some little move thee and abate the rigour of thy rancour, to wit, that i but now trusted in thee and discovered to thee mine every secret, opening withal to thy desire a way whereby thou mightest avail to make me cognizant of my sin; more by token that, except i had trusted in thee, thou hadst had no means of availing to take of me that vengeance, which thou seemest to have so ardently desired. for god's sake, leave thine anger and pardon me henceforth; i am ready, so thou wilt but forgive me and bring me down hence, altogether to renounce yonder faithless youth and to have thee alone to lover and lord, albeit thou decriest my beauty, avouching it short-lived and little worth; natheless, whatever it be, compared with that of other women, yet this i know, that, if for nought else, it is to be prized for that it is the desire and pastime and delight of men's youth, and thou art not old. and albeit i am cruelly entreated of thee, i cannot believe withal that thou wouldst fain see me die so unseemly a death as were the casting myself down from this tower, as in desperation, before thine eyes, wherein, an thou was not a liar as thou are since become, i was erst so pleasing. alack, have ruth on me for god's sake and pity's! the sun beginneth to wax hot, and like as the overmuch cold irked me this night, even so doth the heat begin to do me sore annoy.' the scholar, who held her in parley for his diversion, answered, 'madam, thou hast not presently trusted thine honour in my hands for any love that thou borest me, but to regain him whom thou hast lost, wherefore it meriteth but greater severity, and if thou think that this way alone was apt and opportune unto the vengeance desired of me, thou thinkest foolishly; i had a thousand others; nay, whilst feigning to love thee, i had spread a thousand snares about thy feet, and it would not have been long, had this not chanced, ere thou must of necessity have fallen into one of them, nor couldst thou have fallen into any but it had caused thee greater torment and shame than this present, the which i took, not to ease thee, but to be the quicklier satisfied. and though all else should have failed me, the pen had still been left me, wherewithal i would have written such and so many things of thee and after such a fashion that, whenas thou camest (as thou wouldst have come) to know of them, thou wouldst a thousand times a day have wished thyself never born. the power of the pen is far greater than they imagine who have not proved it with experience. i swear to god (so may he gladden me to the end of this vengeance that i take of thee, even as he hath made me glad thereof in the beginning!) that i would have written such things of thee, that, being ashamed, not to say before other folk, but before thine own self, thou shouldst have put out thine own eyes, not to see thyself in the glass; wherefore let not the little rivulet twit the sea with having caused it wax. of thy love or that thou be mine, i reck not, as i have already said, a jot; be thou e'en his, an thou may, whose thou wast erst and whom, as i once hated, so at this present i love, having regard unto that which he hath wrought towards thee of late. you women go falling enamoured of young springalds and covet their love, for that you see them somewhat fresher of colour and blacker of beard and they go erect and jaunty and dance and joust, all which things they have had who are somewhat more in years, ay, and these know that which those have yet to learn. moreover, you hold them better cavaliers and deem that they fare more miles in a day than men of riper age. certes, i confess that they jumble a wench's furbelows more briskly; but those more in years, being men of experience, know better where the fleas stick, and little meat and savoury is far and away rather to be chosen than much and insipid, more by token that hard trotting undoth and wearieth folk, how young soever they be, whereas easy going, though belike it bring one somewhat later to the inn, at the least carrieth him thither unfatigued. you women perceive not, animals without understanding that you are, how much ill lieth hid under this scantling of fair seeming. young fellows are not content with one woman; nay, as many as they see, so many do they covet and of so many themseemeth they are worthy; wherefore their love cannot be stable, and of this thou mayst presently of thine own experience bear very true witness. themseemeth they are worthy to be worshipped and caressed of their mistresses and they have no greater glory than to vaunt them of those whom they have had; the which default of theirs hath aforetime cast many a woman into the arms of the monks, who tell no tales. albeit thou sayst that never did any know of thine amours, save thy maid and myself, thou knowest it ill and believest awry, an thou think thus. his[ ] quarter talketh well nigh of nothing else, and thine likewise; but most times the last to whose ears such things come is he to whom they pertain. young men, to boot, despoil you, whereas it is given you[ ] of men of riper years. since, then, thou hast ill chosen, be thou his to whom thou gavest thyself and leave me, of whom thou madest mock, to others, for that i have found a mistress of much more account than thou, who hath been wise enough to know me better than thou didst. and that thou mayst carry into the other world greater assurance of the desire of mine eyes than meseemeth thou gatherest from my words, do but cast thyself down forthright and thy soul, being, as i doubt not it will be, straightway received into the arms of the devil, will be able to see if mine eyes be troubled or not at seeing thee fall headlong. but, as medoubteth thou wilt not consent to do me so much pleasure, i counsel thee, if the sun begin to scorch thee, remember thee of the cold thou madest me suffer, which an thou mingle with the heat aforesaid, thou wilt without fail feel the sun attempered.' [footnote : _i.e._ thy lover's.] [footnote : _v'è donato_, _i.e._ young lovers look to receive gifts of their mistresses, whilst those of more mature age bestow them.] the disconsolate lady, seeing that the scholar's words tended to a cruel end, fell again to weeping and said, 'harkye, since nothing i can say availeth to move thee to pity of me, let the love move thee, which thou bearest that lady whom thou hast found wiser than i and of whom thou sayst thou art beloved, and for the love of her pardon me and fetch me my clothes, so i may dress myself, and cause me descend hence.' therewith the scholar began to laugh and seeing that tierce was now passed by a good hour, replied, 'marry, i know not how to say thee nay, since thou conjurest me by such a lady; tell me where thy clothes are and i will go for them and help thee come down from up yonder.' the lady, believing this, was somewhat comforted and showed him where she had laid her clothes; whereupon he went forth of the tower and bidding his servant not depart thence, but abide near at hand and watch as most he might that none should enter there till such time as he should return, went off to his friend's house, where he dined at his ease and after, whenas himseemed time, betook himself to sleep; whilst the lady, left upon the tower, albeit some little heartened with fond hope, natheless beyond measure woebegone, sat up and creeping close to that part of the wall where there was a little shade, fell a-waiting, in company of very bitter thoughts. there she abode, now hoping and now despairing of the scholar's return with her clothes, and passing from one thought to another, she presently fell asleep, as one who was overcome of dolour and who had slept no whit the past night. the sun, which was exceeding hot, being now risen to the meridian, beat full and straight upon her tender and delicate body and upon her head, which was all uncovered, with such force that not only did it burn her flesh, wherever it touched it, but cracked and opened it all over little by little, and such was the pain of the burning that it constrained her to awake, albeit she slept fast. feeling herself on the roast and moving somewhat, it seemed as if all her scorched skin cracked and clove asunder for the motion, as we see happen with a scorched sheepskin, if any stretch it, and to boot her head irked her so sore that it seemed it would burst, which was no wonder. and the platform of the tower was so burning hot that she could find no restingplace there either for her feet or for otherwhat; wherefore, without standing fast, she still removed now hither and now thither, weeping. moreover, there being not a breath of wind, the flies and gads flocked thither in swarms and settling upon her cracked flesh, stung her so cruelly that each prick seemed to her a pike-stab; wherefore she stinted not to fling her hands about, still cursing herself, her life, her lover and the scholar. being thus by the inexpressible heat of the sun, by the flies and the gads and likewise by hunger, but much more by thirst, and by a thousand irksome thoughts, to boot, tortured and stung and pierced to the quick, she started to her feet and addressed herself to look if she might see or hear any one near at hand, resolved, whatever might betide thereof, to call him and crave aid. but of this resource also had her unfriendly fortune deprived her. the husbandmen were all departed from the fields for the heat, more by token that none had come that day to work therenigh, they being all engaged in threshing out their sheaves beside their houses; wherefore she heard nought but crickets and saw the arno, which latter sight, provoking in her desire of its waters, abated not her thirst, but rather increased it. in several places also she saw thickets and shady places and houses here and there, which were all alike to her an anguish for desire of them. what more shall we say of the ill-starred lady? the sun overhead and the heat of the platform underfoot and the stings of the flies and gads on every side had so entreated her that, whereas with her whiteness she had overcome the darkness of the foregoing night, she was presently grown red as ruddle,[ ] and all bescabbed as she was with blood, had seemed to whoso saw her the foulest thing in the world. [footnote : lit. red as rabies (_rabbia_). some commentators suppose that boccaccio meant to write _robbia_, madder.] as she abode on this wise, without aught of hope or counsel,[ ] expecting death more than otherwhat, it being now past half none, the scholar, arising from sleep and remembering him of his mistress, returned to the tower, to see what was come of her, and sent his servant, who was yet fasting, to eat. the lady, hearing him, came, all weak and anguishful as she was for the grievous annoy she had suffered, overagainst the trap-door and seating herself there, began, weeping, to say, 'indeed, rinieri, thou hast beyond measure avenged thyself, for, if i made thee freeze in my courtyard by night, thou hast made me roast, nay burn, on this tower by day and die of hunger and thirst to boot; wherefore i pray thee by the one only god that thou come up hither and since my heart suffereth me not give myself death with mine own hands, give it me thou, for that i desire it more than aught else, such and so great are the torments i endure. or, an thou wilt not do me that favour, let bring me, at the least, a cup of water, so i may wet my mouth, whereunto my tears suffice not; so sore is the drouth and the burning that i have therein.' [footnote : _i.e._ resource (_consiglio_). see ante, passim.] the scholar knew her weakness by her voice and eke saw, in part, her body all burnt up of the sun; wherefore and for her humble prayers there overcame him a little compassion of her; but none the less he answered, 'wicked woman, thou shalt not die by my hands; nay, by thine own shalt thou die, an thou have a mind thereto; and thou shalt have of me as much water for the allaying of thy heat as i had fire of thee for the comforting of my cold. this much i sore regret that, whereas it behoved me heal the infirmity of my cold with the heat of stinking dung, that of thy heat will be healed with the coolth of odoriferous rose-water; and whereas i was like to lose both limbs and life, thou, flayed by this heat, wilt abide fair none otherwise than doth the snake, casting its old skin.' 'alack, wretch that i am,' cried the lady, 'god give beauties on such wise acquired to those who wish me ill! but thou, that are more cruel than any wild beast, how couldst thou have the heart to torture me after this fashion? what more could i expect from thee or any other, if i had done all thy kinsfolk to death with the cruellest torments? certes, meknoweth not what greater cruelty could be wreaked upon a traitor who had brought a whole city to slaughter than that whereto thou hast exposed me in causing me to be roasted of the sun and devoured of the flies and withal denying me a cup of water, whenas to murderers condemned of justice is oftentimes, as they go to their death, given to drink of wine, so but they ask it. nay, since i see thee abide firm in thy savage cruelty and that my sufferance availeth not anywise to move thee, i will resign myself with patience to receive death, so god, whom i beseech to look with equitable eyes upon this thy dealing, may have mercy upon my soul.' so saying, she dragged herself painfully to the midward of the platform, despairing to escape alive from so fierce a heat; and not once, but a thousand times, over and above her other torments, she thought to swoon for thirst, still weeping and bemoaning her illhap. however, it being now vespers and it seeming to the scholar he had done enough, he caused his servant take up the unhappy lady's clothes and wrap them in his cloak; then, betaking himself to her house, he found her maid seated before the door, sad and disconsolate and unknowing what to do, and said to her, 'good woman, what is come of thy mistress?' 'sir,' replied she, 'i know not. i thought to find her this morning in the bed whither meseemed i saw her betake herself yesternight; but i can find her neither there nor otherwhere and know not what is come of her; wherefore i suffer the utmost concern. but you, sir, can you not tell me aught of her?' quoth he, 'would i had had thee together with her whereas i have had her, so i might have punished thee of thy default, like as i have punished her for hers! but assuredly thou shalt not escape from my hands, ere i have so paid thee for thy dealings that thou shalt never more make mock of any man, without remembering thee of me.' then to his servant, 'give her the clothes,' quoth he, 'and bid her go to her mistress, an she will.' the man did his bidding and gave the clothes to the maid, who, knowing them and hearing what rinieri said, was sore afraid lest they should have slain her mistress and scarce refrained from crying out; then, the scholar being done, she set out with the clothes for the tower, weeping the while. now it chanced that one of the lady's husbandmen had that day lost two of his swine and going in search of them, came, a little after the scholar's departure, to the tower. as he went spying about everywhere if he should see his hogs, he heard the piteous lamentation made of the miserable lady and climbing up as most he might, cried out, 'who maketh moan there aloft?' the lady knew her husbandman's voice and calling him by name, said to him, 'for god's sake, fetch me my maid and contrive so she may come up hither to me.' whereupon quoth the man, recognizing her, 'alack, madam, who hath brought you up yonder? your maid hath gone seeking you all day; but who had ever thought you could be here?' then, taking the ladder-poles, he set them up in their place and addressed himself to bind the cross-staves thereto with withy bands.[ ] meanwhile, up came the maid, who no sooner entered the tower than, unable any longer to hold her tongue, she fell to crying out, buffeting herself the while with her hands, 'alack, sweet my lady, where are you?' the lady, hearing her, answered as loudliest she might, 'o sister mine, i am here aloft. weep not, but fetch me my clothes quickly.' when the maid heard her speak, she was in a manner all recomforted and with the husbandman's aid, mounting the ladder, which was now well nigh repaired, reached the sollar, where, whenas she saw her lady lying naked on the ground, all forspent and wan, more as she were a half-burnt log than a human being, she thrust her nails into her own face and fell a-weeping over her, no otherwise than as she had been dead. [footnote : boccaccio appears to have forgotten to mention that rinieri had broken the rounds of the ladder, when he withdrew it (as stated, p. ), apparently to place an additional obstacle in the way of the lady's escape.] the lady besought her for god's sake be silent and help her dress herself, and learning from her that none knew where she had been save those who had carried her the clothes and the husbandman there present, was somewhat comforted and prayed them for god's sake never to say aught of the matter to any one. then, after much parley, the husbandman, taking the lady in his arms, for that she could not walk, brought her safely without the tower; but the unlucky maid, who had remained behind, descending less circumspectly, made a slip of the foot and falling from the ladder to the ground, broke her thigh, whereupon she fell a-roaring for the pain, that it seemed a lion. the husbandman, setting the lady down on a plot of grass, went to see what ailed the maid and finding her with her thigh broken, carried her also to the grass-plat and laid her beside her mistress, who, seeing this befallen in addition to her other troubles and that she had broken her thigh by whom she looked to have been succoured more than by any else, was beyond measure woebegone and fell a-weeping afresh and so piteously that not only could the husbandman not avail to comfort her, but himself fell a-weeping like wise. but presently, the sun being now low, he repaired, at the instance of the disconsolate lady, lest the night should overtake them there, to his own house, and there called his wife and two brothers of his, who returned to the tower with a plank and setting the maid thereon, carried her home, whilst he himself, having comforted the lady with a little cold water and kind words, took her up in his arms and brought her to her own chamber. his wife gave her a wine-sop to eat and after, undressing her, put her to bed; and they contrived that night to have her and her maid carried to florence. there, the lady, who had shifts and devices great plenty, framed a story of her fashion, altogether out of conformity with that which had passed, and gave her brothers and sisters and every one else to believe that this had befallen herself and her maid by dint of diabolical bewitchments. physicians were quickly at hand, who, not without putting her to very great anguish and vexation, recovered the lady of a sore fever, after she had once and again left her skin sticking to the sheets, and on like wise healed the maid of her broken thigh. wherefore, forgetting her lover, from that time forth she discreetly forbore both from making mock of others and from loving, whilst the scholar, hearing that the maid had broken her thigh, held himself fully avenged and passed on, content, without saying otherwhat thereof. thus, then, did it befall the foolish young lady of her pranks, for that she thought to fool it with a scholar as she would have done with another, unknowing that scholars,--i will not say all, but the most part of them,--know where the devil keepeth his tail. wherefore, ladies, beware of making mock of folk, and especially of scholars." the eighth story [day the eighth] two men consorting together, one lieth with the wife of his comrade, who, becoming aware thereof, doth with her on such wise that the other is shut up in a chest, upon which he lieth with his wife, he being inside the while elena's troubles had been irksome and grievous to the ladies to hear; natheless, for that they deemed them in part justly befallen her, they passed them over with more moderate compassion, albeit they held the scholar to have been terribly stern and obdurate, nay, cruel. but, pampinea being now come to the end of her story, the queen charged fiammetta follow on, who, nothing loath to obey, said, "charming ladies, for that meseemeth the severity of the offended scholar hath somedele distressed you, i deem it well to solace your ruffled spirits with somewhat more diverting; wherefore i purpose to tell you a little story of a young man who received an injury in a milder spirit and avenged it after a more moderate fashion, by which you may understand that, whenas a man goeth about to avenge an injury suffered, it should suffice him to give as good as he hath gotten, without seeking to do hurt overpassing the behoof of the feud. you must know, then, that there were once in siena, as i have understood aforetime, two young men in easy enough case and of good city families, whereof one was named spinelloccio tanena and the other zeppa di mino, and they were next-door neighbours in camollia.[ ] these two young men still companied together and loved each other, to all appearance, as they had been brothers, or better; and each of them had a very fair wife. it chanced that spinelloccio, by dint of much frequenting zeppa's house, both when the latter was at home and when he was abroad, grew so private with his wife that he ended by lying with her, and on this wise they abode a pretty while, before any became aware thereof. however, at last, one day, zeppa being at home, unknown to his wife, spinelloccio came to call him and the lady said that he was abroad; whereupon the other came straightway up into the house and finding her in the saloon and seeing none else there, he took her in his arms and fell to kissing her and she him. zeppa, who saw this, made no sign, but abode hidden to see in what the game should result and presently saw his wife and spinelloccio betake themselves, thus embraced, to a chamber and there lock themselves in; whereat he was sore angered. but, knowing that his injury would not become less for making an outcry nor for otherwhat, nay, that shame would but wax therefor, he set himself to think what revenge he should take thereof, so his soul might abide content, without the thing being known all about, and himseeming, after long consideration, he had found the means, he abode hidden so long as spinelloccio remained with his wife. [footnote : _quære_, the street of that name?] as soon as the other was gone away, he entered the chamber and there finding the lady, who had not yet made an end of adjusting her head-veils, which spinelloccio had plucked down in dallying with her, said to her, 'wife, what dost thou?' quoth she, 'seest thou not?' and zeppa answered, 'ay, indeed, i have seen more than i could wish.' so saying, he taxed her with that which had passed and she, in sore affright, confessed to him, after much parley, that which she could not aptly deny of her familiarity with spinelloccio. then she began to crave him pardon, weeping, and zeppa said to her, 'harkye, wife, thou hast done ill, and if thou wilt have me pardon it to thee, bethink thee punctually to do that which i shall enjoin thee, which is this; i will have thee bid spinelloccio find an occasion to part company with me to-morrow morning, towards tierce, and come hither to thee. when he is here i will come back and so soon as thou hearest me, do thou make him enter this chest here and lock him therein. then, when thou shalt have done this, i will tell thee what else thou shalt do; and have thou no fear of doing this, for that i promise thee i will do him no manner of hurt.' the lady, to satisfy him, promised to do his bidding, and so she did. the morrow come and zeppa and spinelloccio being together towards tierce, the latter, who had promised the lady to be with her at that hour, said to the former, 'i am to dine this morning with a friend, whom i would not keep waiting for me; wherefore god be with thee.' quoth zeppa, 'it is not dinner-time yet awhile'; but spinelloccio answered, 'no matter; i am to speak with him also of an affair of mine, so that needs must i be there betimes.' accordingly, taking leave of him, he fetched a compass and making for zeppa's house, entered a chamber with the latter's wife. he had not been there long ere zeppa returned, whom when the lady heard, feigning to be mightily affrighted, she made him take refuge in the chest, as her husband had bidden her, and locking him therein, went forth of the chamber. zeppa, coming up, said, 'wife, is it dinner-time?' 'ay,' answered she, 'forthright.' quoth he, 'spinelloccio is gone to dine this morning with a friend of his and hath left his wife alone; get thee to the window and call her and bid her come dine with us.' the lady, fearing for herself and grown therefor mighty obedient, did as he bade her and spinelloccio's wife, being much pressed by her and hearing that her own husband was to dine abroad, came hither. zeppa made much of her and whispering his wife begone into the kitchen, took her familiarly by the hand and carried her into the chamber, wherein no sooner were they come than, turning back, he locked the door within. when the lady saw him do this, she said, 'alack, zeppa, what meaneth this? have you then brought me hither for this? is this the love you bear spinelloccio and the loyal companionship you practise towards him?' whereupon quoth zeppa, drawing near to the chest wherein was her husband locked up and holding her fast, 'madam, ere thou complainest, hearken to that which i have to say to thee. i have loved and love spinelloccio as a brother, and yesterday, albeit he knoweth it not, i found that the trust i had in him was come to this, that he lieth with my wife even as with thee. now, for that i love him, i purpose not to take vengeance of him, save on such wise as the offence hath been; he hath had my wife and i mean to have thee. an thou wilt not, needs must i take him here and for that i mean not to let this affront go unpunished, i will play him such a turn that neither thou nor he shall ever again be glad.' the lady, hearing this and believing what zeppa said, after many affirmations made her of him, replied, 'zeppa mine, since this vengeance is to fall on me, i am content, so but thou wilt contrive, notwithstanding what we are to do, that i may abide at peace with thy wife, even as i intend to abide with her, notwithstanding this that she hath done to me.' 'assuredly,' rejoined zeppa, 'i will do it; and to boot, i will give thee a precious and fine jewel as none other thou hast.' so saying, he embraced her; then, laying her flat on the chest, there to his heart's content, he solaced himself with her, and she with him. spinelloccio, hearing from within the chest all that zeppa said his wife's answer and feeling the morrisdance[ ] that was toward over his head, was at first so sore despited that himseemed he should die; and but that he stood in fear of zeppa, he had rated his wife finely, shut up as he was. however, bethinking himself that the offence had begun with him and that zeppa was in his right to do as he did and had indeed borne himself towards him humanely and like a comrade, he presently resolved in himself to be, an he would, more than ever his friend. zeppa, having been with the lady so long as it pleased him, dismounted from the chest, and she asking for the promised jewel, he opened the chamber-door and called his wife, who said nought else than 'madam, you have given me a loaf for my bannock'; and this she said laughing. to her quoth zeppa, 'open this chest.' accordingly she opened it and therein zeppa showed the lady her husband, saying, 'here is the jewel i promised thee.' it were hard to say which was the more abashed of the twain, spinelloccio, seeing zeppa and knowing that he knew what he had done, or his wife, seeing her husband and knowing that he had both heard and felt that which she had done over his head. but spinelloccio, coming forth of the chest, said, without more parley, 'zeppa, we are quits; wherefore it is well, as thou saidst but now to my wife, that we be still friends as we were, and that, since there is nothing unshared between us two but our wives, we have these also in common.' zeppa was content and they all four dined together in the utmost possible harmony; and thenceforward each of the two ladies had two husbands and each of the latter two wives, without ever having any strife or grudge anent the matter." [footnote : _danza trivigiana_, lit. trevisan dance, o.e. the shaking of the sheets.] the ninth story [day the eighth] master simone the physician, having been induced by bruno and buffalmacco to repair to a certain place by night, there to be made a member of a company that goeth a-roving, is cast by buffalmacco into a trench full of ordure and there left after the ladies had chatted awhile over the community of wives practised by the two siennese, the queen, with whom alone it rested to tell, so she would not do dioneo an unright, began on this wise: "right well, lovesome ladies, did spinelloccio deserve the cheat put upon him by zeppa; wherefore meseemeth he is not severely to be blamed (as pampinea sought awhile ago to show), who putteth a cheat on those who go seeking it or deserve it. now spinelloccio deserved it, and i mean to tell you of one who went seeking it for himself. those who tricked him, i hold not to be blameworthy, but rather commendable, and he to whom it was done was a physician, who, having set out for bologna a sheepshead, returned to florence all covered with miniver.[ ] [footnote : _i.e._ with the doctor's hood of miniver.] as we see daily, our townsmen return hither from bologna, this a judge, that a physician and a third a notary, tricked out with robes long and large and scarlets and minivers and store of other fine paraphernalia, and make a mighty brave show, to which how far the effects conform we may still see all day long. among the rest a certain master simone da villa, richer in inherited goods than in learning, returned hither, no great while since, a doctor of medicine, according to his own account, clad all in scarlet[ ] and with a great miniver hood, and took a house in the street which we call nowadays the via del cocomero. this said master simone, being thus newly returned, as hath been said, had, amongst other his notable customs, a trick of asking whosoever was with him who was no matter what man he saw pass in the street, and as if of the doings and fashions of men he should compound the medicines he gave his patients, he took note of all and laid them all up in his memory. amongst others on whom it occurred to him more particularly to cast his eyes were two painters of whom it hath already twice to-day been discoursed, namely, bruno and buffalmacco, who were neighbours of his and still went in company. himseeming they recked less of the world and lived more merrily than other folk, as was indeed the case, he questioned divers persons of their condition and hearing from all that they were poor men and painters, he took it into his head that it might not be they lived so blithely of their poverty, but concluded, for that he had heard they were shrewd fellows, that they must needs derive very great profits from some source unknown to the general; wherefore he was taken with a desire to clap up an acquaintance, an he might, with them both, or at least with one of them, and succeeded in making friends with bruno. the latter, perceiving, after he had been with him a few times, that the physician was a very jackass, began to give himself the finest time in the world with him and to be hugely diverted with his extraordinary humours, whilst master simone in like manner took a marvellous delight in his company. [footnote : the colour of the doctors' robes of that time.] after a while, having sundry times bidden him to dinner and thinking himself entitled in consequence to discourse familiarly with him, he discovered to him the wonderment that he felt at him and buffalmacco, how, being poor men, they lived so merrily, and besought him to apprise him how they did. bruno, hearing this talk from the physician and himseeing the question was one of his wonted witless impertinences, fell a-laughing in his sleeve, and bethinking himself to answer him according as his folly deserved, said, 'doctor, there are not many whom i would tell how we do; but you i shall not scruple to tell, for that you are a friend and i know you will not repeat it to any. it is true we live, my friend and i, as merrily and as well as it appeareth to you, nay, more so, albeit neither of our craft nor of revenues we derive from any possessions might we have enough to pay for the very water we consume. yet i would not, for all that, have you think that we go steal; nay, we go a-roving, and thence, without hurt unto any, we get us all to which we have a mind or for which we have occasion; hence the merry life you see us lead.' the physician, hearing this and believing it, without knowing what it was, marvelled exceedingly and forthright conceiving an ardent desire to know what manner of thing this going a-roving might be, besought him very urgently to tell him, affirming that he would assuredly never discover it to any. 'alack, doctor,' cried bruno, 'what is this you ask me? this you would know is too great a secret and a thing to undo me and drive me from the world, nay, to bring me into the mouth of the lucifer of san gallo,[ ] should any come to know it. but so great is the love i bear your right worshipful pumpkinheadship of legnaja[ ] and the confidence i have in you that i can deny you nothing you would have; wherefore i will tell it you, on condition that you swear to me by the cross at montesone, never, as you have promised, to tell it to any one. [footnote : the commentators note here that on the church door of san gallo was depicted an especially frightful lucifer, with many mouths.] [footnote : legnaja is said to be famous for big pumpkins.] the physician declared that he would never repeat what he should tell him, and bruno said, 'you must know, then, honey doctor mine, that not long since there was in this city a great master in necromancy, who was called michael scott, for that he was of scotland, and who received the greatest hospitality from many gentlemen, of whom few are nowadays alive; wherefore, being minded to depart hence, he left them, at their instant prayers, two of his ablest disciples, whom he enjoined still to hold themselves in readiness to satisfy every wish of the gentlemen who had so worshipfully entertained him. these two, then, freely served the aforesaid gentlemen in certain amours of theirs and other small matters, and afterward, the city and the usages of the folk pleasing them, they determined to abide there always. accordingly, they contracted great and strait friendship with certain of the townfolk, regarding not who they were, whether gentle or simple, rich or poor, but solely if they were men comfortable to their own usances; and to pleasure these who were thus become their friends, they founded a company of maybe five-and-twenty men, who should foregather twice at the least in the month in some place appointed of them, where being assembled, each should tell them his desire, which they would forthright accomplish unto him for that night. buffalmacco and i, having an especial friendship and intimacy with these two, were put of them on the roll of the aforesaid company and are still thereof. and i may tell you that, what time it chanceth that we assemble together, it is a marvellous thing to see the hangings about the saloon where we eat and the tables spread on royal wise and the multitude of noble and goodly servants, as well female as male, at the pleasure of each one who is of the company, and the basons and ewers and flagons and goblets and the vessels of gold and silver, wherein we eat and drink, more by token of the many and various viands that are set before us, each in its season, according to that which each one desireth. i could never avail to set out to you what and how many are the sweet sounds of innumerable instruments and the songs full of melody that are heard there; nor might i tell you how much wax is burned at these suppers nor what and how many are the confections that are consumed there nor how costly are the wines that are drunken. but i would not have you believe, good saltless pumpkinhead mine, that we abide there in this habit and with these clothes that you see us wear every day; nay, there is none of us of so little account but would seem to you an emperor, so richly are we adorned with vestments of price and fine things. but, over all the other pleasures that be there is that of fair ladies, who, so one but will it, are incontinent brought thither from the four quarters of the world. there might you see the sovereign lady of the rascal-roughs, the queen of the basques, the wife of the soldan, the empress of the usbeg tartars, the driggledraggletail of norroway, the moll-a-green of flapdoodleland and the madkate of woolgathergreen. but why need i enumerate them to you? there be all the queens in the world, even, i may say, to the sirreverence of prester john, who hath his horns amiddleward his arse; see you now? there, after we have drunken and eaten confections and walked a dance or two, each lady betaketh herself to her bedchamber with him at whose instance she hath been brought thither. and you must know that these bedchambers are a very paradise to behold, so goodly they are; ay, and they are no less odoriferous than are the spice-boxes of your shop, whenas you let bray cummin-seed, and therein are beds that would seem to you goodlier than that of the doge of venice, and in these they betake themselves to rest. marry, what a working of the treadles, what a hauling-to of the battens to make the cloth close, these weaveresses keep up, i will e'en leave you to imagine; but of those who fare best, to my seeming, are buffalmacco and myself, for that he most times letteth come thither the queen of france for himself, whilst i send for her of england, the which are two of the fairest ladies in the world, and we have known so to do that they have none other eye in their head than us.[ ] wherefore you may judge for yourself if we can and should live and go more merrily than other men, seeing we have the love of two such queens, more by token that, whenas we would have a thousand or two thousand florins of them, we get them not. this, then, we commonly style going a-roving, for that, like as the rovers take every man's good, even so do we, save that we are in this much different from them that they never restore that which they take, whereas we return it again, whenas we have used it. now, worthy doctor mine, you have heard what it is we call going a-roving; but how strictly this requireth to be kept secret you can see for yourself, and therefore i say no more to you nor pray you thereof.' [footnote : _i.e._ they think of and cherish us alone, holding us as dear as their very eyes.] the physician, whose science reached no farther belike than the curing children of the scald-head, gave as much credit to bruno's story as had been due to the most manifest truth and was inflamed with as great desire to be received into that company as might be kindled in any for the most desirable thing in the world; wherefore he made answer to him that assuredly it was no marvel if they went merry and hardly constrained himself to defer requesting him to bring him to be there until such time as, having done him further hospitality, he might with more confidence proffer his request to him. accordingly, reserving this unto a more favourable season, he proceeded to keep straiter usance with bruno, having him morning and evening to eat with him and showing him an inordinate affection; and indeed so great and so constant was this their commerce that it seemed as if the physician could not nor knew how to live without the painter. the latter, finding himself in good case, so he might not appear ungrateful for the hospitality shown him, had painted master simone a picture of lent in his saloon, besides an agnus dei at the entering in of his chamber and a chamber-pot over the street-door, so those who had occasion for his advice might know how to distinguish him from the others; and in a little gallery he had, he had depictured him the battle of the rats and the cats, which appeared to the physician a very fine thing. moreover, he said whiles to him, whenas he had not supper with him overnight, 'i was at the society yesternight and being a trifle tired of the queen of england, i caused fetch me the dolladoxy of the grand cham of tartary.' 'what meaneth dolladoxy?' asked master simone. 'i do not understand these names.' 'marry, doctor mine,' replied bruno, 'i marvel not thereat, for i have right well heard that porcograsso and vannacena[ ] say nought thereof.' quoth the physician. 'thou meanest ipocrasso and avicenna.' 'i' faith,' answered bruno, 'i know not; i understand your names as ill as you do mine; but dolladoxy in the grand cham's lingo meaneth as much as to say empress in our tongue. egad, you would think her a plaguy fine woman! i dare well say she would make you forget your drugs and your clysters and all your plasters.' [footnote : _i.e._ fat-hog and get-thee-to-supper, burlesque perversions of the names ipocrasso (hippocrates) and avicenna.] on this wise he bespoke him at one time and another, to enkindle him the more, till one night, what while it chanced my lord doctor held the light to bruno, who was in act to paint the battle of the rats and the cats, the former, himseeming he had now well taken him with his hospitalities, determined to open his mind to him, and accordingly, they being alone together, he said to him, 'god knoweth, bruno, there is no one alive for whom i would do everything as i would for thee; indeed, shouldst thou bid me go hence to peretola, methinketh it would take little to make me go thither; wherefore i would not have thee marvel if i require thee of somewhat familiarly and with confidence. as thou knowest, it is no great while since thou bespokest me of the fashions of your merry company, wherefore so great a longing hath taken me to be one of you that never did i desire aught so much. nor is this my desire without cause, as thou shalt see, if ever it chance that i be of your company; for i give thee leave to make mock of me an i cause not come thither the finest serving-wench thou ever setst eyes on. i saw her but last year at cacavincigli and wish her all my weal;[ ] and by the body of christ, i had e'en given her half a score bolognese groats, so she would but have consented to me; but she would not. wherefore, as most i may, i prithee teach me what i must do to avail to be of your company and do thou also do and contrive so i may be thereof. indeed, you will have in me a good and loyal comrade, ay, and a worshipful. thou seest, to begin with, what a fine man i am and how well i am set up on my legs. ay, and i have a face as it were a rose, more by token that i am a doctor of medicine, such as i believe you have none among you. moreover, i know many fine things and goodly canzonets; marry, i will sing you one.' and incontinent he fell a-singing. [footnote : _i.e._ love her beyond anything in the world. for former instances of this idiomatic expression, see ante, passim.] bruno had so great a mind to laugh that he was like to burst; however he contained himself and the physician, having made an end of his song, said, 'how deemedst thou thereof?' 'certes,' answered bruno, 'there's no jew's harp but would lose with you, so archigothically do you caterwarble it.' quoth master simone, 'i tell thee thou wouldst never have believed it, hadst thou not heard me.' 'certes,' replied bruno, 'you say sooth!' and the physician went on, 'i know store of others; but let that be for the present. such as thou seest me, my father was a gentleman, albeit he abode in the country, and i myself come by my mother of the vallecchio family. moreover, as thou mayst have seen, i have the finest books and gowns of any physician in florence. cock's faith, i have a gown that stood me, all reckoned, in nigh upon an hundred pounds of doits, more than half a score years ago; wherefore i pray thee as most i may, to bring me to be of your company, and by cock's faith, an thou do it, thou mayst be as ill as thou wilt, for i will never take a farthing of thee for my services.' bruno, hearing this and the physician seeming to him a greater numskull than ever, said, 'doctor, hold the light a thought more this way and take patience till i have made these rats their tails, and after i will answer you.' the tails being finished, bruno made believe that the physician's request was exceeding irksome to him and said, 'doctor mine, these be great things you would do for me and i acknowledge it; nevertheless, that which you ask of me, little as it may be for the greatness of your brain, is yet to me a very grave matter, nor know i any one in the world for whom, it being in my power, i would do it, an i did it not for you, both because i love you as it behoveth and on account of your words, which are seasoned with so much wit that they would draw the straps out of a pair of boots, much more me from my purpose; for the more i consort with you, the wiser you appear to me. and i may tell you this, to boot, that, though i had none other reason, yet do i wish you well, for that i see you enamoured of so fair a creature as is she of whom you speak. but this much i will say to you; i have no such power in this matter as you suppose and cannot therefore do for you that which were behoving; however, an you will promise me, upon your solemn and surbated[ ] faith, to keep it me secret, i will tell you the means you must use and meseemeth certain that, with such fine books and other gear as you tell me you have, you will gain your end.' [footnote : syn. cauterized (_calterita_), a nonsensical word employed by bruno for the purpose of mystifying the credulous physician.] quoth the doctor, 'say on in all assurance; i see thou art not yet well acquainted with me and knowest not how i can keep a secret. there be few things indeed that messer guasparruolo da saliceto did, whenas he was judge of the provostry at forlimpopoli, but he sent to tell me, for that he found me so good a secret-keeper.[ ] and wilt thou judge an i say sooth? i was the first man whom he told that he was to marry bergamina: seest thou now?' 'marry, then,' rejoined bruno, 'all is well; if such a man trusted in you, i may well do so. the course you must take is on this wise. you must know that we still have to this our company a captain and two counsellors, who are changed from six months to six months, and without fail, at the first of the month, buffalmacco will be captain and i shall be counsellor; for so it is settled. now whoso is captain can do much by way of procuring whomsoever he will to be admitted into the company; wherefore meseemeth you should seek, inasmuch as you may, to gain buffalmacco's friendship and do him honour. he is a man, seeing you so wise, to fall in love with you incontinent, and whenas with your wit and with these fine things you have you shall have somedele ingratiated yourself with him, you can make your request to him; he will not know how to say you nay. i have already bespoken him of you and he wisheth you all the weal in the world; and whenas you shall have done this, leave me do with him.' quoth the physician, 'that which thou counsellest liketh me well. indeed, an he be a man who delighteth in men of learning and talketh but with me a little, i will engage to make him go still seeking my company, for that, as for wit, i have so much thereof that i could stock a city withal and yet abide exceeding wise.' [footnote : syn. secretary, confidant (_segretaro_).] this being settled, bruno imparted the whole matter to buffalmacco, wherefore it seemed to the latter a thousand years till they should come to do that which this arch-zany went seeking. the physician, who longed beyond measure to go a-roving, rested not till he made friends with buffalmacco, which he easily succeeded in doing, and therewithal he fell to giving him, and bruno with him, the finest suppers and dinners in the world. the two painters, like the accommodating gentlemen they were, were nothing loath to engage with him and having once tasted the excellent wines and fat capons and other good things galore, with which he plied them, stuck very close to him and ended by quartering themselves upon him, without awaiting overmuch invitation, still declaring that they would not do this for another. presently, whenas it seemed to him time, the physician made the same request to buffalmacco as he had made bruno aforetime; whereupon buffalmacco feigned himself sore chagrined and made a great outcry against bruno, saying, 'i vow to the high god of pasignano that i can scarce withhold myself from giving thee such a clout over the head as should cause thy nose drop to thy heels, traitor that thou art; for none other than thou hath discovered these matters to the doctor.' master simone did his utmost to excuse bruno, saying and swearing that he had learned the thing from another quarter, and after many of his wise words, he succeeded in pacifying buffalmacco; whereupon the latter turned to him and said, 'doctor mine, it is very evident that you have been at bologna and have brought back a close mouth to these parts; and i tell you moreover that you have not learnt your a b c on the apple as many blockheads are fain to do; nay, you have learned it aright on the pumpkin, that is so long;[ ] and if i mistake not, you were baptized on a sunday.[ ] and albeit bruno hath told me that you told me that you studied medicine there, meseemeth you studied rather to learn to catch men, the which you, with your wit and your fine talk, know better to do than any man i ever set eyes on.' here the physician took the words out of his mouth and breaking in, said to bruno, 'what a thing it is to talk and consort with learned men! who would so have quickly apprehended every particular of my intelligence as hath this worthy man? thou didst not half so speedily become aware of my value as he; but, at the least, that which i told thee, whenas thou saidst to me that buffalmacco delighted in learned men, seemeth it to thee i have done it?' 'ay hast thou,' replied bruno, 'and better.' [footnote : a play of words upon _mela_ (apple) and _mellone_ (pumpkin). _mellone_ is strictly a water-melon; but i have rendered it "pumpkin," to preserve the english idiom, "pumpkinhead" being our equivalent for the italian "melon," used in the sense of dullard, noodle.] [footnote : according to the commentators, "baptized on a sunday" anciently signified a simpleton, because salt (which is constantly used by the italian classical writers as a synonym for wit or sense) was not sold on sundays.] then said the doctor to buffalmacco, 'thou wouldst have told another tale, hadst thou seen me at bologna, where there was none, great or small, doctor or scholar, but wished me all the weal in the world, so well did i know to content them all with my discourse and my wit. and what is more, i never said a word there, but i made every one laugh, so hugely did i please them; and whenas i departed thence, they all set up the greatest lament in the world and would all have had me remain there; nay, to such a pass came it for that i should abide there, that they would have left it to me alone to lecture on medicine to as many students as were there; but i would not, for that i was e'en minded to come hither to certain very great heritages which i have here and which have still been in my family; and so i did.' quoth bruno to buffalmacco, 'how deemest thou? thou believedst me not, whenas i told it thee. by the evangels, there is not a leach in these parts who is versed in asses' water to compare with this one, and assuredly thou wouldst not find another of him from here to paris gates. marry, hold yourself henceforth [if you can,] from doing that which he will.' quoth master simone, 'bruno saith sooth; but i am not understood here. you florentines are somewhat dull of wit; but i would have you see me among the doctors, as i am used to be.' 'verily, doctor,' said buffalmacco, 'you are far wiser than i could ever have believed; wherefore to speak to you as it should be spoken to scholars such as you are, i tell you, cut-and-slash fashion,[ ] i will without fail procure you to be of our company.' [footnote : syn. confusedly (_frastagliatamente_).] after this promise the physician redoubled in his hospitalities to the two rogues, who enjoyed themselves [at his expense,] what while they crammed him with the greatest extravagances in the world and fooled him to the top of his bent, promising him to give him to mistress the countess of jakes,[ ]who was the fairest creature to be found in all the back-settlements of the human generation. the physician enquired who this countess was, whereto quoth buffalmacco, 'good my seed-pumpkin, she is a very great lady and there be few houses in the world wherein she hath not some jurisdiction. to say nothing of others, the minor friars themselves render her tribute, to the sound of kettle-drums.[ ] and i can assure you that, whenas she goeth abroad, she maketh herself well felt,[ ] albeit she abideth for the most part shut up. natheless, it is no great while since she passed by your door, one night that she repaired to the arno, to wash her feet and take the air a little; but her most continual abiding-place is in draughthouseland.[ ] there go ofttimes about store of her serjeants, who all in token of her supremacy, bear the staff and the plummet, and of her barons many are everywhere to be seen, such as sirreverence of the gate, goodman turd, hardcake,[ ] squitterbreech and others, who methinketh are your familiars, albeit you call them not presently to mind. in the soft arms, then, of this great lady, leaving be her of cacavincigli, we will, an expectation cheat us not, bestow you.' [footnote : _la contessa di civillari_, _i.e._ the public sewers. civillari, according to the commentators, was the name of an alley in florence, where all the ordure and filth of the neighbourhood was deposited and stored in trenches for manure.] [footnote : _nacchere_, syn. a loud crack of wind.] [footnote : syn. smelt (_sentito_).] [footnote : _laterina_, _i.e._ latrina.] [footnote : lit. broom-handle (_manico della scopa_).] the physician, who had been born and bred at bologna, understood not their canting terms and accordingly avouched himself well pleased with the lady in question. not long after this talk, the painters brought him news that he was accepted to member of the company and the day being come before the night appointed for their assembly, he had them both to dinner. when they had dined, he asked them what means it behoved him take to come thither; whereupon quoth buffalmacco, 'look you, doctor, it behoveth you have plenty of assurance; for that, an you be not mighty resolute, you may chance to suffer hindrance and do us very great hurt; and in what it behoveth you to approve yourself very stout-hearted you shall hear. you must find means to be this evening, at the season of the first sleep, on one of the raised tombs which have been lately made without santa maria novella, with one of your finest gowns on your back, so you may make an honourable figure for your first appearance before the company and also because, according to what was told us (we were not there after) the countess is minded, for that you are a man of gentle birth, to make you a knight of the bath at her own proper costs and charges; and there you must wait till there cometh for you he whom we shall send. and so you may be apprised of everything, there will come for you a black horned beast, not overbig, which will go capering about the piazza before you and making a great whistling and bounding, to terrify you; but, when he seeth that you are not to be daunted, he will come up to you quietly. then do you, without any fear, come down from the tomb and mount the beast, naming neither god nor the saints; and as soon as you are settled on his back, you must cross your hands upon your breast, in the attitude of obeisance, and touch him no more. he will then set off softly and bring you to us; but if you call upon god or the saints or show fear, i must tell you that he may chance to cast you off or strike you into some place where you are like to stink for it; wherefore, an your heart misgive you and unless you can make sure of being mighty resolute, come not thither, for you would but do us a mischief, without doing yourself any good.'[ ] [footnote : lit. "do _yourself_ a mischief, without doing _us_ any good"; but the sequel shows that the contrary is meant, as in the text.] quoth the physician, 'i see you know me not yet; maybe you judge of me by my gloves and long gown. if you knew what i did aforetimes at bologna anights, when i went a-wenching whiles with my comrades, you would marvel. cock's faith, there was such and such a night when, one of them refusing to come with us, (more by token that she was a scurvy little baggage, no higher than my fist,) i dealt her, to begin with, good store of cuffs, then, taking her up bodily, i dare say i carried her a crossbowshot and wrought so that needs must she come with us. another time i remember me that, without any other in my company than a serving-man of mine, i passed yonder alongside the cemetery of the minor friars, a little after the ave maria, albeit there had been a woman buried there that very day, and felt no whit of fear; wherefore misdoubt you not of this, for i am but too stout of heart and lusty. moreover, i tell you that, to do you credit at my coming thither, i will don my gown of scarlet, wherein i was admitted doctor, and we shall see if the company rejoice not at my sight and an i be not made captain out of hand. you shall e'en see how the thing will go, once i am there, since, without having yet set eyes on me, this countess hath fallen so enamoured of me that she is minded to make me a knight of the bath. it may be knighthood will not sit so ill on me nor shall i be at a loss to carry it off with worship! marry, only leave me do.' 'you say very well,' answered buffalmacco; 'but look you leave us not in the lurch and not come or not be found at the trysting-place, whenas we shall send for you; and this i say for that the weather is cold and you gentlemen doctors are very careful of yourselves thereanent.' 'god forbid!' cried master simone. 'i am none of your chilly ones. i reck not of the cold; seldom or never, whenas i rise of a night for my bodily occasions, as a man will bytimes, do i put me on more than my fur gown over my doublet. wherefore i will certainly be there.' thereupon they took leave of him and whenas it began to grow towards night, master simone contrived to make some excuse or other to his wife and secretly got out his fine gown; then, whenas it seemed to him time, he donned it and betook himself to santa maria novella, where he mounted one of the aforesaid tombs and huddling himself up on the marble, for that the cold was great, he proceeded to wait the coming of the beast. meanwhile buffalmacco, who was tall and robust of his person, made shift to have one of those masks that were wont to be used for certain games which are not held nowadays, and donning a black fur pelisse, inside out, arrayed himself therein on such wise that he seemed a very bear, save that his mask had a devil's face and was horned. thus accoutred, he betook himself to the new piazza of santa maria, bruno following him to see how the thing should go. as soon as he perceived that the physician was there, he fell a-capering and caracoling and made a terrible great blustering about the piazza, whistling and howling and bellowing as he were possessed of the devil. when master simone, who was more fearful than a woman, heard and saw this, every hair of his body stood on end and he fell a-trembling all over, and it was now he had liefer been at home than there. nevertheless, since he was e'en there, he enforced himself to take heart, so overcome was he with desire to see the marvels whereof the painters had told him. after buffalmacco had raged about awhile, as hath been said, he made a show of growing pacified and coming up to the tomb whereon was the physician, stood stock-still. master simone, who was all a-tremble for fear, knew not what to do, whether to mount or abide where he was. however, at last, fearing that the beast should do him a mischief, an he mounted him not, he did away the first fear with the second and coming down from the tomb, mounted on his back, saying softly, 'god aid me!' then he settled himself as best he might and still trembling in every limb, crossed his hands upon his breast, as it had been enjoined him; whereupon buffalmacco set off at an amble towards santa maria della scala and going on all fours, brought him hard by the nunnery of ripole. in those days there were dykes in that quarter, wherein the tillers of the neighbouring lands let empty the jakes, to manure their fields withal; whereto whenas buffalmacco came nigh, he went up to the brink of one of them and taking the opportunity, laid hold of one of the physician's legs and jerking him off his back, pitched him clean in, head foremost. then he fell a-snorting and snarling and capering and raged about awhile; after which he made off alongside santa maria della scala till he came to allhallows fields. there he found bruno, who had taken to flight, for that he was unable to restrain his laughter; and with him, after they had made merry together at master simone's expense, he addressed himself to see from afar what the bemoiled physician should do. my lord leech, finding himself in that abominable place, struggled to arise and strove as best he might to win forth thereof; and after falling in again and again, now here and now there, and swallowing some drachms of the filth, he at last succeeded in making his way out of the dyke, in the woefullest of plights, bewrayed from head to foot and leaving his bonnet behind him. then, having wiped himself as best he might with his hands and knowing not what other course to take, he returned home and knocked till it was opened to him. hardly was he entered, stinking as he did, and the door shut again ere up came bruno and buffalmacco, to hear how he should be received of his wife, and standing hearkening, they heard the lady give him the foulest rating was ever given poor devil, saying, 'good lack, what a pickle thou art in! thou hast been gallanting it to some other woman and must needs seek to cut a figure with thy gown of scarlet! what, was not i enough for thee? why, man alive, i could suffice to a whole people, let alone thee. would god they had choked thee, like as they cast thee whereas thou deservedst to be thrown! here's a fine physician for you, to have a wife of his own and go a-gadding anights after other folk's womankind!' and with these and many other words of the same fashion she gave not over tormenting him till midnight, what while the physician let wash himself from head to foot. next morning up came bruno and buffalmacco, who had painted all their flesh under their clothes with livid blotches, such as beatings use to make, and entering the physician's house, found him already arisen. accordingly they went in to him and found the whole place full of stench, for that they had not yet been able so to clean everything that it should not stink there. master simone, seeing them enter, came to meet them and bade god give them good day; whereto the two rogues, as they had agreed beforehand, replied with an angry air, saying, 'that say we not to you; nay, rather, we pray god give you so many ill years that you may die a dog's death, as the most disloyal man and the vilest traitor alive; for it was no thanks to you that, whereas we studied to do you pleasure and worship, we were not slain like dogs. as it is, thanks to your disloyalty, we have gotten so many buffets this past night that an ass would go to rome for less, without reckoning that we have gone in danger of being expelled the company into which we had taken order for having you received. an you believe us not, look at our bodies and see how they have fared.' then, opening their clothes in front, they showed him, by an uncertain light, their breasts all painted and covered them up again in haste. the physician would have excused himself and told of his mishaps and how and where he had been cast; but buffalmacco said, 'would he had thrown you off the bridge into the arno! why did you call on god and the saints? were you not forewarned of this?' 'by god his faith,' replied the physician, 'i did it not.' 'how?' cried buffalmacco. 'you did not call on them? egad, you did it again and again; for our messenger told us that you shook like a reed and knew not where you were. marry, for the nonce you have befooled us finely; but never again shall any one serve us thus, and we will yet do you such honour thereof as you merit.' the physician fell to craving pardon and conjuring them for god's sake not to dishonour him and studied to appease them with the best words he could command. and if aforetime he had entreated them with honour, from that time forth he honoured them yet more and made much of them, entertaining them with banquets and otherwhat, for fear lest they should publish his shame. thus, then, as you have heard, is sense taught to whoso hath learned no great store thereof at bologna." the tenth story [day the eighth] a certain woman of sicily artfully despoileth a merchant of that which he had brought to palermo; but he, making believe to have returned thither with much greater plenty of merchandise than before, borroweth money of her and leaveth her water and tow in payment how much the queen's story in divers places made the ladies laugh, it needed not to ask; suffice it to say that there was none of them to whose eyes the tears had not come a dozen times for excess of laughter: but, after it had an end, dioneo, knowing that it was come to his turn to tell, said, "gracious ladies, it is a manifest thing that sleights and devices are the more pleasing, the subtler the trickster who is thereby artfully outwitted. wherefore, albeit you have related very fine stories, i mean to tell you one, which should please you more than any other that hath been told upon the same subject, inasmuch as she who was cheated was a greater mistress of the art of cheating others than was any of the men or women who were cozened by those of whom you have told. there used to be, and belike is yet, a custom, in all maritime places which have a port, that all merchants who come thither with merchandise, having unloaded it, should carry it all into a warehouse, which is in many places called a customhouse, kept by the commonality or by the lord of the place. there they give unto those who are deputed to that end a note in writing of all their merchandise and the value thereof, and they thereupon make over to each merchant a storehouse, wherein he layeth up his goods under lock and key. moreover, the said officers enter in the book of the customs, to each merchant's credit, all his merchandise, causing themselves after he paid their dues of the merchants, whether for all his said merchandise or for such part thereof as he withdraweth from the customhouse. by this book of the customs the brokers mostly inform themselves of the quality and the quantity of the goods that are in bond there and also who are the merchants that own them; and with these latter, as occasion serveth them, they treat of exchanges and barters and sales and other transactions. this usance, amongst many other places, was current at palermo in sicily, where likewise there were and are yet many women, very fair of their person, but sworn enemies to honesty, who would be and are by those who know them not held great ladies and passing virtuous and who, being given not to shave, but altogether to flay men, no sooner espy a merchant there than they inform themselves by the book of the customs of that which he hath there and how much he can do;[ ] after which by their lovesome and engaging fashions and with the most dulcet words, they study to allure the said merchants and draw them into the snare of their love; and many an one have they aforetime lured thereinto, from whom they have wiled great part of their merchandise; nay, many have they despoiled of all, and of these there be some who have left goods and ship and flesh and bones in their hands, so sweetly hath the barberess known to ply the razor. [footnote : _i.e._ what he is worth.] it chanced, not long since, that there came thither, sent by his masters, one of our young florentines, by name niccolo da cignano, though more commonly called salabaetto, with as many woollen cloths, left on his hands from the salerno fair, as might be worth some five hundred gold florins, which having given the customhouse officers the invoice thereof, he laid up in a magazine and began, without showing overmuch haste to dispose of them, to go bytimes a-pleasuring about the city. he being of a fair complexion and yellow-haired and withal very sprightly and personable, it chanced that one of these same barberesses, who styled herself madam biancofiore, having heard somewhat of his affairs, cast her eyes on him; which he perceiving and taking her for some great lady, concluded that he pleased her for his good looks and bethought himself to order this amour with the utmost secrecy; wherefore, without saying aught thereof to any, he fell to passing and repassing before her house. she, noting this, after she had for some days well enkindled him with her eyes, making believe to languish for him, privily despatched to him one of her women, who was a past mistress in the procuring art and who, after much parley, told him, well nigh with tears in her eyes, that he had so taken her mistress with his comeliness and his pleasing fashions that she could find no rest day or night; wherefore, whenas it pleased him, she desired, more than aught else, to avail to foregather with him privily in a bagnio; then, pulling a ring from her pouch, she gave it to him on the part of her mistress. salabaetto, hearing this, was the joyfullest man that was aye and taking the ring, rubbed it against his eyes and kissed it; after which he set it on his finger and replied to the good woman that, if madam biancofiore loved him, she was well requited it, for that he loved her more than his proper life and was ready to go whereassoever it should please her and at any hour. the messenger returned to her mistress with this answer and it was appointed salabaetto out of hand at what bagnio he should expect her on the ensuing day after vespers. accordingly, without saying aught of the matter to any, he punctually repaired thither at the hour appointed him and found the bagnio taken by the lady; nor had he waited long ere there came two slave-girls laden with gear and bearing on their heads, the one a fine large mattress of cotton wool and the other a great basket full of gear. the mattress they set on a bedstead in one of the chambers of the bagnio and spread thereon a pair of very fine sheets, laced with silk, together with a counterpane of snow-white cyprus buckram[ ] and two pillows wonder-curiously wrought.[ ] then, putting off their clothes they entered the bath and swept it all and washed it excellent well. nor was it long ere the lady herself came thither, with other two slave-girls, and accosted salabaetto with the utmost joy; then, as first she had commodity, after she had both clipped and kissed him amain, heaving the heaviest sighs in the world, she said to him, 'i know not who could have brought me to this pass, other than thou; thou hast kindled a fire in my vitals, little dog of a tuscan!' then, at her instance, they entered the bath, both naked, and with them two of the slave-girls; and there, without letting any else lay a finger on him, she with her own hands washed salabaetto all wonder-well with musk and clove-scented soap; after which she let herself be washed and rubbed of the slave-girls. this done, the latter brought two very white and fine sheets, whence came so great a scent of roses that everything there seemed roses, in one of which they wrapped salabaetto and in the other the lady and taking them in their arms, carried them both to the bed prepared for them. there, whenas they had left sweating, the slave-girls did them loose from the sheets wherein they were wrapped and they abode naked in the others, whilst the girls brought out of the basket wonder-goodly casting-bottles of silver, full of sweet waters, rose and jessamine and orange and citron-flower scented, and sprinkled them all therewith; after which boxes of succades and wines of great price were produced and they refreshed themselves awhile. [footnote : _bucherame._ the word "buckram" was anciently applied to the finest linen cloth, as is apparently the case here; see ducange, voce _boquerannus_, and florio, voce _bucherame_.] [footnote : _i.e._ in needlework.] it seemed to salabaetto as he were in paradise and he cast a thousand glances at the lady, who was certes very handsome, himseeming each hour was an hundred years till the slave-girls should begone and he should find himself in her arms. presently, at her commandment, the girls departed the chamber, leaving a flambeau alight there; whereupon she embraced salabaetto and he her, and they abode together a great while, to the exceeding pleasure of the florentine, to whom it seemed she was all afire for love of him. whenas it seemed to her time to rise, she called the slave-girls and they clad themselves; then they recruited themselves somedele with a second collation of wine and sweetmeats and washed their hands and faces with odoriferous waters; after which, being about to depart, the lady said to salabaetto, 'so it be agreeable to thee, it were doing me a very great favour an thou camest this evening to sup and lie the night with me.' salabaetto, who was by this time altogether captivated by her beauty and the artful pleasantness of her fashions and firmly believed himself to be loved of her as he were the heart out of her body, replied, 'madam, your every pleasure is supremely agreeable to me, wherefore both to-night and at all times i mean to do that which shall please you and that which shall be commanded me of you.' accordingly the lady returned to her house, where she caused well bedeck her bedchamber with her dresses and gear and letting make ready a splendid supper, awaited salabaetto, who, as soon as it was grown somewhat dark, betook himself thither and being received with open arms, supped with all cheer and commodity of service. thereafter they betook themselves into the bedchamber, where he smelt a marvellous fragrance of aloes-wood and saw the bed very richly adorned with cyprian singing-birds[ ] and store of fine dresses upon the pegs, all which things together and each of itself made him conclude that this must be some great and rich lady. and although he had heard some whispers to the contrary anent her manner of life, he would not anywise believe it; or, if he e'en gave so much credit thereto as to allow that she might erst have cozened others, for nothing in the world could he have believed that this might possibly happen to himself. he lay that night with her in the utmost delight, still waxing more enamoured, and in the morning she girt him on a quaint and goodly girdle of silver, with a fine purse thereto, saying, 'sweet my salabaetto, i commend myself to thy remembrance, and like as my person is at thy pleasure, even so is all that is here and all that dependeth upon me at thy service and commandment.' salabaetto, rejoiced, embraced and kissed her; then, going forth of her house, he betook himself whereas the other merchants were used to resort. [footnote : "it was the custom in those days to attach to the bedposts sundry small instruments in the form of birds, which, by means of certain mechanical devices, gave forth sounds modulated like the song of actual birds."--_fanfani._] on this wise consorting with her at one time and another, without its costing him aught in the world, and growing every hour more entangled, it befell that he sold his stuffs for ready money and made a good profit thereby; of which the lady incontinent heard, not from him, but from others, and salabaetto being come one night to visit her, she fell to prattling and wantoning with him, kissing and clipping him and feigning herself so enamoured of him that it seemed she must die of love in his arms. moreover, she would fain have given him two very fine hanaps of silver that she had; but he would not take them, for that he had had of her, at one time and another, what was worth a good thirty gold florins, without availing to have her take of him so much as a groat's worth. at last, whenas she had well enkindled him by showing herself so enamoured and freehanded, one of her slave-girls called her, as she had ordained beforehand; whereupon she left the chamber and coming back, after awhile, in tears cast herself face downward on the bed and fell to making the woefullest lamentation ever woman made. salabaetto, marvelling at this, caught her in his arms and fell a-weeping with her and saying, 'alack, heart of my body, what aileth thee thus suddenly? what is the cause of this grief? for god's sake, tell it me, my soul.' the lady, after letting herself be long entreated, answered, 'woe's me, sweet my lord, i know not what to say or to do; i have but now received letters from messina and my brother writeth me that, should i sell or pawn all that is here,[ ] i must without fail send him a thousand gold florins within eight days from this time, else will his head be cut off; and i know not how i shall do to get this sum so suddenly. had i but fifteen days' grace, i would find a means of procuring it from a certain quarter whence i am to have much more, or i would sell one of our farms; but, as this may not be, i had liefer be dead than that this ill news should have come to me.' [footnote : syn. that which belongeth to us (_ciò che ci è_,) _ci_, as i have before noted, signifying both "here" and "us," dative and accusative.] so saying, she made a show of being sore afflicted and stinted not from weeping; whereupon quoth salabaetto, whom the flames of love had bereft of great part of his wonted good sense, so that he believed her tears to be true and her words truer yet, 'madam, i cannot oblige you with a thousand florins, but five hundred i can very well advance you, since you believe you will be able to return them to me within a fortnight from this time; and this is of your good fortune that i chanced but yesterday to sell my stuffs; for, had it not been so, i could not have lent you a groat.' 'alack,' cried the lady, 'hast thou then been straitened for lack of money? marry, why didst thou not require me thereof? though i have not a thousand, i had an hundred and even two hundred to give thee. thou hast deprived me of all heart to accept of thee the service thou profferest me.' salabaetto was more than ever taken with these words and said, 'madam, i would not have you refrain on that account, for, had i had such an occasion therefor as you presently have, i would assuredly have asked you.' 'alack, salabaetto mine,' replied the lady, 'now know i aright that thine is a true and perfect love for me, since, without waiting to be required, thou freely succoureth me, in such a strait, with so great a sum of money. certes, i was all thine without this, but with this i shall be far more so; nor shall i ever forget that i owe thee my brother's life. but god knoweth i take it sore unwillingly, seeing that thou art a merchant and that with money merchants transact all their affairs; however, since need constraineth me, and i have certain assurance of speedily restoring it to thee, i will e'en take it; and for the rest, an i find no readier means, i will pawn all these my possessions.' so saying, she let herself fall, weeping, on salabaetto's neck. he fell to comforting her and after abiding the night with her, he, next morning, to approve himself her most liberal servant, without waiting to be asked by her, carried her five hundred right gold florins, which she received with tears in her eyes, but laughter in her heart, salabaetto contenting himself with her simple promise. as soon as the lady had the money, the signs began to change, and whereas before he had free access to her whenassoever it pleased him, reasons now began to crop up, whereby it betided him not to win admission there once out of seven times, nor was he received with the same countenance nor the same caresses and rejoicings as before. and the term at which he was to have had his monies again being, not to say come, but past by a month or two and he requiring them, words were given him in payment. thereupon his eyes were opened to the wicked woman's arts and his own lack of wit, wherefore, feeling that he could say nought of her beyond that which might please her concerning the matter, since he had neither script nor other evidence thereof, and being ashamed to complain to any, as well for that he had been forewarned thereof as for fear of the scoffs which he might reasonably expect for his folly, he was beyond measure woeful and inwardly bewailed his credulity. at last, having had divers letters from his masters, requiring him to change[ ] the monies in question and remit them to them, he determined to depart, lest, an he did it not, his default should be discovered there, and accordingly, going aboard a little ship, he betook himself, not to pisa, as he should have done, but to naples. there at that time was our gossip pietro dello canigiano, treasurer to the empress of constantinople, a man of great understanding and subtle wit and a fast friend of salabaetto and his family; and to him, as to a very discreet man, the disconsolate florentine recounted that which he had done and the mischance that had befallen him, requiring him of aid and counsel, so he might contrive to gain his living there, and avouching his intention nevermore to return to florence. canigiano was concerned for this and said, 'ill hast thou done and ill hast thou carried thyself; thou hast disobeyed thy masters and hast, at one cast, spent a great sum of money in wantonness; but, since it is done, we must look for otherwhat.'[ ] accordingly, like a shrewd man as he was, he speedily bethought himself what was to be done and told it to salabaetto, who was pleased with the device and set about putting it in execution. he had some money and canigiano having lent him other some, he made up a number of bales well packed and corded; then, buying a score of oil-casks and filling them, he embarked the whole and returned to palermo, where, having given the customhouse officers the bill of lading and the value of the casks and let enter everything to his account, he laid the whole up in the magazines, saying that he meant not to touch them till such time as certain other merchandise which he expected should be come. [footnote : _i.e._ procure bills of exchange for.] [footnote : _i.e._ we must see what is to be done.] biancofiore, getting wind of this and hearing that the merchandise he had presently brought with him was worth good two thousand florins, without reckoning what he looked for, which was valued at more than three thousand, bethought herself that she had flown at too small game and determined to restore him the five hundred florins, so she might avail to have the greater part of the five thousand. accordingly, she sent for him and salabaetto, grown cunning, went to her; whereupon, making believe to know nothing of that which he had brought with him, she received him with a great show of fondness and said to him, 'harkye, if thou wast vexed with me, for that i repaid thee not thy monies on the very day....' salabaetto fell a-laughing and answered; 'in truth, madam, it did somewhat displease me, seeing i would have torn out my very heart to give it you, an i thought to pleasure you withal; but i will have you hear how i am vexed with you. such and so great is the love i bear you, that i have sold the most part of my possessions and have presently brought hither merchandise to the value of more than two thousand florins and expect from the westward as much more as will be worth over three thousand, with which i mean to stock me a warehouse in this city and take up my sojourn here, so i may still be near you, meseeming i fare better of your love than ever lover of his lady.' 'look you, salabaetto,' answered the lady, 'every commodity of thine is mighty pleasing to me, as that of him whom i love more than my life, and it pleaseth me amain that thou art returned hither with intent to sojourn here, for that i hope yet to have good time galore with thee; but i would fain excuse myself somedele to thee for that, whenas thou wast about to depart, thou wouldst bytimes have come hither and couldst not, and whiles thou camest and wast not so gladly seen as thou wast used to be, more by token that i returned thee not thy monies at the time promised. thou must know that i was then in very great concern and sore affliction, and whoso is in such case, how much soever he may love another, cannot always show him so cheerful a countenance or pay him such attention as he might wish. moreover, thou must know that it is mighty uneasy for a woman to avail to find a thousand gold florins; all day long we are put off with lies and that which is promised us is not performed unto us; wherefore needs must we in our turn lie unto others. hence cometh it, and not of my default, that i gave thee not back thy monies. however, i had them a little after thy departure, and had i known whither to send them, thou mayst be assured that i would have remitted them to thee; but, not knowing this, i kept them for thee.' then, letting fetch a purse wherein were the very monies he had brought her, she put it into his hand, saying, 'count them if there be five hundred.' never was salabaetto so glad; he counted them and finding them five hundred, put them up and said, 'madam, i am assured that you say sooth; but you have done enough [to convince me of your love for me,] and i tell you that, for this and for the love i bear you, you could never require me, for any your occasion, of whatsoever sum i might command, but i would oblige you therewith; and whenas i am established here, you may put this to the proof.' having again on this wise renewed his loves with her in words, he fell again to using amically with her, whilst she made much of him and showed him the greatest goodwill and honour in the world, feigning the utmost love for him. but he, having a mind to return her cheat for cheat, being one day sent for by her to sup and sleep with her, went thither so chapfallen and so woebegone that it seemed as he would die. biancofiore, embracing him and kissing him, began to question him of what ailed him to be thus melancholy, and he, after letting himself be importuned a good while, answered, 'i am a ruined man, for that the ship, wherein is the merchandise i expected, hath been taken by the corsairs of monaco and held to ransom in ten thousand gold florins, whereof it falleth to me to pay a thousand, and i have not a farthing, for that the five hundred pieces thou returnedst to me i sent incontinent to naples to lay out in cloths to be brought hither; and should i go about at this present to sell the merchandise i have here, i should scarce get a penny for two pennyworth, for that it is no time for selling. nor am i yet so well known that i could find any here to help me to this, wherefore i know not what to do or to say; for, if i send not the monies speedily, the merchandise will be carried off to monaco and i shall never again have aught thereof.' the lady was mightily concerned at this, fearing to lose him altogether, and considering how she should do, so he might not go to monaco, said, 'god knoweth i am sore concerned for the love of thee; but what availeth it to afflict oneself thus? if i had the monies, god knoweth i would lend them to thee incontinent; but i have them not. true, there is a certain person here who obliged me the other day with the five hundred florins that i lacked; but he will have heavy usance for his monies; nay, he requireth no less than thirty in the hundred, and if thou wilt borrow of him, needs must he be made secure with a good pledge. for my part, i am ready to engage for thee all these my goods and my person, to boot, for as much as he will lend thereon; but how wilt thou assure him of the rest?' salabaetto readily apprehended the reason that moved her to do him this service and divined that it was she herself who was to lend him the money; wherewith he was well pleased and thanking her, answered that he would not be put off for exorbitant usance, need constraining him. moreover, he said that he would give assurance of the merchandise he had in the customhouse, letting inscribe it to him who should lend him the money; but that needs must be kept the key of the magazines, as well that he might be able to show his wares, an it were required of him, as that nothing might be touched or changed or tampered withal. the lady answered that it was well said and that this was good enough assurance; wherefore, as soon as the day was come, she sent for a broker, in whom she trusted greatly, and taking order with him of the matter, gave him a thousand gold florins, which he lent to salabaetto, letting inscribe in his own name at the customhouse that which the latter had there; then, having made their writings and counter-writings together and being come to an accord,[ ] they occupied themselves with their other affairs. salabaetto, as soonest he might, embarked, with the fifteen hundred gold florins, on board a little ship and returned to pietro dello canigiano at naples, whence he remitted to his masters, who had despatched him with the stuffs, a good and entire account thereof. then, having repaid pietro and every other to whom he owed aught, he made merry several days with canigiano over the cheat he had put upon the sicilian trickstress; after which, resolved to be no more a merchant, he betook himself to ferrara. [footnote : _i.e._ having executed and exchanged the necessary legal documents for the proper carrying out of the transaction and completed the matter to their mutual satisfaction.] meanwhile, biancofiore, finding that salabaetto had left palermo, began to marvel and wax misdoubtful and after having awaited him good two months, seeing that he came not, she caused the broker force open the magazines. trying first the casks, which she believed to be filled with oil, she found them full of seawater, save that there was in each maybe a runlet of oil at the top near the bunghole. then, undoing the bales, she found them all full of tow, with the exception of two, which were stuffs; and in brief, with all that was there, there was not more than two hundred florins' worth. wherefore biancofiore, confessing herself outwitted, long lamented the five hundred florins repaid and yet more the thousand lent, saying often, 'who with a tuscan hath to do, must nor be blind nor see askew.' on this wise, having gotten nothing for her pains but loss and scorn, she found, to her cost, that some folk know as much as others." * * * * * no sooner had dioneo made an end of his story than lauretta, knowing the term to be come beyond which she was not to reign and having commended canigiano's counsel (which was approved good by its effect) and salabaetto's shrewdness (which was no less commendable) in carrying it into execution, lifted the laurel from her own head and set it on that of emilia, saying, with womanly grace, "madam, i know not how pleasant a queen we shall have of you; but, at the least, we shall have a fair one. look, then, that your actions be conformable to your beauties." so saying, she returned to her seat, whilst emilia, a thought abashed, not so much at being made queen as to see herself publicly commended of that which women use most to covet, waxed such in face as are the new-blown roses in the dawning. however, after she had kept her eyes awhile lowered, till the redness had given place, she took order with the seneschal of that which concerned the general entertainment and presently said, "delightsome ladies, it is common, after oxen have toiled some part of the day, confined under the yoke, to see them loosed and eased thereof and freely suffered to go a-pasturing, where most it liketh them, about the woods; and it is manifest also that leafy gardens, embowered with various plants, are not less, but much more fair than groves wherein one seeth only oaks. wherefore, seeing how many days we have discoursed, under the restraint of a fixed law, i opine that, as well unto us as to those whom need constraineth to labour for their daily bread, it is not only useful, but necessary, to play the truant awhile and wandering thus afield, to regain strength to enter anew under the yoke. wherefore, for that which is to be related to-morrow, ensuing your delectable usance of discourse, i purpose not to restrict you to any special subject, but will have each discourse according as it pleaseth him, holding it for certain that the variety of the things which will be said will afford us no less entertainment than to have discoursed of one alone; and having done thus, whoso shall come after me in the sovranty may, as stronger than i, avail with greater assurance to restrict us within the limits of the wonted laws." so saying, she set every one at liberty till supper-time. all commended the queen of that which she had said, holding it sagely spoken, and rising to their feet, addressed themselves, this to one kind of diversion and that to another, the ladies to weaving garlands and to gambolling and the young men to gaming and singing. on this wise they passed the time until the supper-hour, which being come, they supped with mirth and good cheer about the fair fountain and after diverted themselves with singing and dancing according to the wonted usance. at last, the queen, to ensue the fashion of her predecessors, commanded pamfilo to sing a song, notwithstanding those which sundry of the company had already sung of their freewill; and he readily began thus: such is thy pleasure, love and such the allegresse i feel thereby that happy, burning in thy fire, am i. the abounding gladness in my heart that glows, for the high joy and dear whereto thou hast me led, unable to contain there, overflows and in my face's cheer displays my happihead; for being enamouréd in such a worship-worthy place and high makes eath to me the burning i aby. i cannot with my finger what i feel limn, love, nor do i know my bliss in song to vent; nay, though i knew it, needs must i conceal, for, once divulged, i trow 'twould turn to dreariment. yet am i so content, all speech were halt and feeble, did i try the least thereof with words to signify. who might conceive it that these arms of mine should anywise attain whereas i've held them aye, or that my face should reach so fair a shrine as that, of favour fain and grace, i've won to? nay, such fortune ne'er a day believed me were; whence all afire am i, hiding the source of my liesse thereby. this was the end of pamfilo's song, whereto albeit it had been completely responded of all, there was none but noted the words thereof with more attent solicitude than pertained unto him, studying to divine that which, as he sang, it behoved him to keep hidden from them; and although sundry went imagining various things, nevertheless none happened upon the truth of the case.[ ] but the queen, seeing that the song was ended and that both young ladies and men would gladly rest themselves, commanded that all should betake themselves to bed. [footnote : the song sung by pamfilo (under which name, as i have before pointed out, the author appears to represent himself) apparently alludes to boccaccio's amours with the princess maria of naples (fiammetta), by whom his passion was returned in kind.] here endeth the eighth day of the decameron _day the ninth_ here beginneth the ninth day of the decameron wherein under the governance of emilia each discourseth according as it pleaseth him and of that which is most to his liking the light, from whose resplendence the night fleeth, had already changed all the eighth heaven[ ] from azure to watchet-colour[ ] and the flowerets began to lift their heads along the meads, when emilia, uprising, let call the ladies her comrades and on like wise the young men, who, being come, fared forth, ensuing the slow steps of the queen, and betook themselves to a coppice but little distant from the palace. therein entering, they saw the animals, wild goats and deer and others, as if assured of security from the hunters by reason of the prevailing pestilence, stand awaiting them no otherwise than as they were grown without fear or tame, and diverted themselves awhile with them, drawing near, now to this one and now to that, as if they would fain lay hands on them, and making them run and skip. but, the sun now waxing high, they deemed it well to turn back. they were all garlanded with oak leaves, with their hands full of flowers and sweet-scented herbs, and whoso encountered them had said no otherwhat than "or these shall not be overcome of death or it will slay them merry." on this wise, then, they fared on, step by step, singing and chatting and laughing, till they came to the palace, where they found everything orderly disposed and their servants full of mirth and joyous cheer. there having rested awhile, they went not to dinner till half a dozen canzonets, each merrier than other, had been carolled by the young men and the ladies; then, water being given to their hands, the seneschal seated them all at table, according to the queen's pleasure, and the viands being brought, they all ate blithely. rising thence, they gave themselves awhile to dancing and music-making, and after, by the queen's commandment, whoso would betook himself to rest. but presently, the wonted hour being come, all in the accustomed place assembled to discourse, whereupon the queen, looking at filomena, bade her give commencement to the stories of that day, and she, smiling, began on this wise: [footnote : according to the ptolemaic system, the earth is encompassed by eight celestial zones or heavens; the first or highest, above which is the empyrean, (otherwise called the ninth heaven,) is that of the moon, the second that of mercury, the third that of venus, the fourth that of the sun, the fifth that of mars, the sixth that of jupiter, the seventh that of saturn and the eighth or lowest that of the fixed stars and of the earth.] [footnote : _d'azzurrino in color cilestro._ this is one of the many passages in which boccaccio has imitated dante (cf. purgatorio, c. xxvi. ii. - , "... il sole.... che già, raggiando, tutto l'occidente mutava in bianco aspetto di cilestro,") and also one of the innumerable instances in which former translators (who all agree in making the advent of the light change the colour of the sky from azure to a darker colour, instead of, as boccaccio intended, to watchet, _i.e._ a paler or greyish blue,) have misrendered the text, for sheer ignorance of the author's meaning.] the first story [day the ninth] madam francesca, being courted by one rinuccio palermini and one alessandro chiarmontesi and loving neither the one nor the other, adroitly riddeth herself of both by causing one enter for dead into a sepulchre and the other bring him forth thereof for dead, on such wise that they cannot avail to accomplish the condition imposed "since it is your pleasure, madam, i am well pleased to be she who shall run the first ring in this open and free field of story-telling, wherein your magnificence hath set us; the which an i do well, i doubt not but that those who shall come after will do well and better. many a time, charming ladies, hath it been shown in our discourses what and how great is the power of love; natheless, for that medeemeth not it hath been fully spoken thereof (no, nor would be, though we should speak of nothing else for a year to come,) and that not only doth love bring lovers into divers dangers of death, but causeth them even to enter for dead into the abiding-places of the dead, it is my pleasure to relate to you a story thereof, over and above those which have been told, whereby not only will you apprehend the puissance of love, but will know the wit used by a worthy lady in ridding herself of two who loved her against her will. you must know, then, that there was once in the city of pistoia a very fair widow lady, of whom two of our townsmen, called the one rinuccio palermini and the other alessandro chiarmontesi, there abiding by reason of banishment from florence, were, without knowing one of other, passionately enamoured, having by chance fallen in love with her and doing privily each his utmost endeavour to win her favour. the gentlewoman in question, whose name was madam francesca de' lazzari, being still importuned of the one and the other with messages and entreaties, to which she had whiles somewhat unwisely given ear, and desiring, but in vain, discreetly to retract, bethought herself how she might avail to rid herself of their importunity by requiring them of a service, which, albeit it was possible, she conceived that neither of them would render her, to the intent that, they not doing that which she required, she might have a fair and colourable occasion of refusing to hearken more to their messages; and the device which occurred to her was on this wise. there had died that very day at pistoia, one, who, albeit his ancestors were gentlemen, was reputed the worst man that was, not only in pistoia, but in all the world; more by token that he was in his lifetime so misshapen and of so monstrous a favour that whoso knew him not, seeing him for the first time, had been affeared of him; and he had been buried in a tomb without the church of the minor friars. this circumstance she bethought herself would in part be very apt to her purpose and accordingly she said to a maid of hers, 'thou knowest the annoy and the vexation i suffer all day long by the messages of yonder two florentines, rinuccio and alessandro. now i am not disposed to gratify [either of] them with my love, and to rid myself of them, i have bethought myself, for the great proffers that they make, to seek to make proof of them in somewhat which i am certain they will not do; so shall i do away from me this their importunity, and thou shalt see how. thou knowest that scannadio,[ ] for so was the wicked man called of whom we have already spoken, 'was this morning buried in the burial-place of the minor brethren, scannadio, of whom, whenas they saw him alive, let alone dead, the doughtiest men of this city went in fear; wherefore go thou privily first to alessandro and bespeak him, saying, "madam francesca giveth thee to know that now is the time come whenas thou mayst have her love, which thou hast so much desired, and be with her, an thou wilt, on this wise. this night, for a reason which thou shalt know after, the body of scannadio, who was this morning buried, is to be brought to her house by a kinsman of hers, and she, being in great fear of him, dead though he be, would fain not have him there; wherefore she prayeth thee that it please thee, by way of doing her a great service, go this evening, at the time of the first sleep, to the tomb wherein he is buried, and donning the dead man's clothes, abide as thou wert he until such time as they shall come for thee. then, without moving or speaking, thou must suffer thyself be taken up out of the tomb and carried to her house, where she will receive thee, and thou mayst after abide with her and depart at thy leisure, leaving to her the care of the rest." an he say that he will do it, well and good; but, should he refuse, bid him on my part, never more show himself whereas i may be and look, as he valueth his life, that he send me no more letters or messages. then shalt thou betake thee to rinuccio palermini and say to him, "madam francesca saith that she is ready to do thine every pleasure, an thou wilt render her a great service, to wit, that to-night, towards the middle hour, thou get thee to the tomb wherein scannadio was this morning buried and take him up softly thence and bring him to her at her house, without saying a word of aught thou mayst hear or feel. there shalt thou learn what she would with him and have of her thy pleasure; but, an it please thee not to do this, she chargeth thee never more send her writ nor message."' [footnote : _scannadio_ signifies "murder-god" and was no doubt a nickname bestowed upon the dead man, on account of his wicked and reprobate way of life.] the maid betook herself to the two lovers and did her errand punctually to each, saying as it had been enjoined her; whereto each made answer that, an it pleased her, they would go, not only into a tomb, but into hell itself. the maid carried their reply to the lady and she waited to see if they would be mad enough to do it. the night come, whenas it was the season of the first sleep, alessandro chiarmontesi, having stripped himself to his doublet, went forth of his house to take scannadio's place in the tomb; but, by the way, there came a very frightful thought into his head and he fell a-saying in himself, 'good lack, what a fool i am! whither go i? how know i but yonder woman's kinsfolk, having maybe perceived that i love her and believing that which is not, have caused me do this, so they may slaughter me in yonder tomb? an it should happen thus, i should suffer for it nor would aught in the world be ever known thereof to their detriment. or what know i but maybe some enemy of mine hath procured me this, whom she belike loveth and seeketh to oblige therein?' then said he, 'but, grant that neither of these things be and that her kinsfolk are e'en for carrying me to her house, i must believe that they want not scannadio's body to hold it in their arms or to put it in hers; nay, it is rather to be conceived that they mean to do it some mischief, as the body of one who maybe disobliged them in somewhat aforetime. she saith that i am not to say a word for aught that i may feel. but, should they put out mine eyes or draw my teeth or lop off my hands or play me any other such trick, how shall i do? how could i abide quiet? and if i speak, they will know me and mayhap do me a mischief, or, though they do me no hurt, yet shall i have accomplished nothing, for that they will not leave me with the lady; whereupon she will say that i have broken her commandment and will never do aught to pleasure me.' so saying, he had well nigh returned home; but, nevertheless, his great love urged him on with counter arguments of such potency that they brought him to the tomb, which he opened and entering therein, stripped scannadio of his clothes; then, donning them and shutting the tomb upon himself, he laid himself in the dead man's place. thereupon he began to call to mind what manner of man the latter had been and remembering him of all the things whereof he had aforetime heard tell as having befallen by night, not to say in the sepulchres of the dead, but even otherwhere, his every hair began to stand on end and himseemed each moment as if scannadio should rise upright and butcher him then and there. however, aided by his ardent love, he got the better of these and the other fearful thoughts that beset him and abiding as he were the dead man, he fell to awaiting that which should betide him. meanwhile, rinuccio, midnight being now at hand, departed his house, to do that which had been enjoined him of his mistress, and as he went, he entered into many and various thoughts of the things which might possibly betide him; as, to wit, that he might fall into the hands of the police, with scannadio's body on his shoulders, and be doomed to the fire as a sorcerer, and that he should, an the thing came to be known, incur the ill-will of his kinsfolk, and other like thoughts, whereby he was like to have been deterred. but after, bethinking himself again, 'alack,' quoth he, 'shall i deny this gentlewoman, whom i have so loved and love, the first thing she requireth of me, especially as i am thereby to gain her favour? god forbid, though i were certainly to die thereof, but i should set myself to do that which i have promised!' accordingly, he went on and presently coming to the sepulchre, opened it easily; which alessandro hearing, abode still, albeit he was in great fear. rinuccio, entering in and thinking to take scannadio's body, laid hold of alessandro's feet and drew him forth of the tomb; then, hoisting him on his shoulders, he made off towards the lady's house. going thus and taking no manner of heed to his burden, he jolted it many a time now against one corner and now another of certain benches that were beside the way, more by token that the night was so cloudy and so dark he could not see whither he went. he was already well nigh at the door of the gentlewoman, who had posted herself at the window with her maid, to see if he would bring alessandro, and was ready armed with an excuse to send them both away, when it chanced that the officers of the watch, who were ambushed in the street and abode silently on the watch to lay hands upon a certain outlaw, hearing the scuffling that rinuccio made with his feet, suddenly put out a light, to see what was to do and whither to go, and rattled their targets and halberds, crying, 'who goeth there?' rinuccio, seeing this and having scant time for deliberation, let fall his burden and made off as fast as his legs would carry him; whereupon alessandro arose in haste and made off in his turn, for all he was hampered with the dead man's clothes, which were very long. the lady, by the light of the lantern put out by the police, had plainly recognized rinuccio, with alessandro on his shoulders, and perceiving the latter to be clad in scannadio's clothes, marvelled amain at the exceeding hardihood of both; but, for all her wonderment, she laughed heartily to see alessandro cast down on the ground and to see him after take to flight. then, rejoiced at this accident and praising god that he had rid her of the annoy of these twain, she turned back into the house and betook herself to her chamber, avouching to her maid that without doubt they both loved her greatly, since, as it appeared, they had done that which she had enjoined them. meanwhile rinuccio, woeful and cursing his ill fortune, for all that returned not home, but, as soon as the watch had departed the neighbourhood, he came back whereas he had dropped alessandro and groped about, to see if he could find him again, so he might make an end of his service; but, finding him not and concluding that the police had carried him off, he returned to his own house, woebegone, whilst alessandro, unknowing what else to do, made off home on like wise, chagrined at such a misadventure and without having recognized him who had borne him thither. on the morrow, scannadio's tomb being found open and his body not to be seen, for that alessandro had rolled it to the bottom of the vault, all pistoia was busy with various conjectures anent the matter, and the simpler sort concluded that he had been carried off by the devils. nevertheless, each of the two lovers signified to the lady that which he had done and what had befallen and excusing himself withal for not having full accomplished her commandment, claimed her favour and her love; but she, making believe to credit neither of this, rid herself of them with a curt response to the effect that she would never consent to do aught for them, since they had not done that which she had required of them." the second story [day the ninth] an abbess, arising in haste and in the dark to find one of her nuns, who had been denounced to her, in bed with her lover and thinking to cover her head with her coif, donneth instead thereof the breeches of a priest who is abed with her; the which the accused nun observing and making her aware thereof, she is acquitted and hath leisure to be with her lover filomena was now silent and the lady's address in ridding herself of those whom she chose not to love having been commended of all, whilst, on the other hand, the presumptuous hardihood of the two gallants was held of them to be not love, but madness, the queen said gaily to elisa, "elisa, follow on." accordingly, she promptly began, "adroitly, indeed, dearest ladies, did madam francesca contrive to rid herself of her annoy, as hath been told; but a young nun, fortune aiding her, delivered herself with an apt speech from an imminent peril. as you know, there be many very dull folk, who set up for teachers and censors of others, but whom, as you may apprehend from my story, fortune bytimes deservedly putteth to shame, as befell the abbess, under whose governance was the nun of whom i have to tell. you must know, then, that there was once in lombardy a convent, very famous for sanctity and religion, wherein, amongst the other nuns who were there, was a young lady of noble birth and gifted with marvellous beauty, who was called isabetta and who, coming one day to the grate to speak with a kinsman of hers, fell in love with a handsome young man who accompanied him. the latter, seeing her very fair and divining her wishes with his eyes, became on like wise enamoured of her, and this love they suffered a great while without fruit, to the no small unease of each. at last, each being solicited by a like desire, the young man hit upon a means of coming at his nun in all secrecy, and she consenting thereto, he visited her, not once, but many times, to the great contentment of both. but, this continuing, it chanced one night that he was, without the knowledge of himself or his mistress, seen of one of the ladies of the convent to take leave of isabetta and go his ways. the nun communicated her discovery to divers others and they were minded at first to denounce isabetta to the abbess, who was called madam usimbalda and who, in the opinion of the nuns and of whosoever knew her, was a good and pious lady; but, on consideration, they bethought themselves to seek to have the abbess take her with the young man, so there might be no room for denial. accordingly, they held their peace and kept watch by turns in secret to surprise her. now it chanced that isabetta, suspecting nothing of this nor being on her guard, caused her lover come thither one night, which was forthright known to those who were on the watch for this and who, whenas it seemed to them time, a good part of the night being spent, divided themselves into two parties, whereof one abode on guard at the door of her cell, whilst the other ran to the abbess's chamber and knocking at the door, till she answered, said to her, 'up, madam; arise quickly, for we have discovered that isabetta hath a young man in her cell.' now the abbess was that night in company with a priest, whom she ofttimes let come to her in a chest; but, hearing the nuns' outcry and fearing lest, of their overhaste and eagerness, they should push open the door, she hurriedly arose and dressed herself as best she might in the dark. thinking to take certain plaited veils, which nuns wear on their heads and call a psalter, she caught up by chance the priest's breeches, and such was her haste that, without remarking what she did, she threw them over her head, in lieu of the psalter, and going forth, hurriedly locked the door after her, saying, 'where is this accursed one of god?' then, in company with the others, who were so ardent and so intent upon having isabetta taken in default that they noted not that which the abbess had on her head, she came to the cell-door and breaking it open, with the aid of the others, entered and found the two lovers abed in each other's arms, who, all confounded at such a surprise, abode fast, unknowing what to do. the young lady was incontinent seized by the other nuns and haled off, by command of the abbess, to the chapter-house, whilst her gallant dressed himself and abode await to see what should be the issue of the adventure, resolved, if any hurt were offered to his mistress, to do a mischief to as many nuns as he could come at and carry her off. the abbess, sitting in chapter, proceeded, in the presence of all the nuns, who had no eyes but for the culprit, to give the latter the foulest rating that ever woman had, as having by her lewd and filthy practices (an the thing should come to be known without the walls) sullied the sanctity, the honour and the fair fame of the convent; and to this she added very grievous menaces. the young lady, shamefast and fearful, as feeling herself guilty, knew not what to answer and keeping silence, possessed the other nuns with compassion for her. however, after a while, the abbess multiplying words, she chanced to raise her eyes and espied that which the former had on her head and the hose-points that hung down therefrom on either side; whereupon, guessing how the matter stood, she was all reassured and said, 'madam, god aid you, tie up your coif and after say what you will to me.' the abbess, taking not her meaning, answered, 'what coif, vile woman that thou art? hast thou the face to bandy pleasantries at such a time? thinkest thou this that thou hast done is a jesting matter?' 'prithee, madam,' answered isabetta, 'tie up your coif and after say what you will to me.' thereupon many of the nuns raised their eyes to the abbess's head and she also, putting her hand thereto, perceived, as did the others, why isabetta spoke thus; wherefore the abbess, becoming aware of her own default and perceiving that it was seen of all, past hope of recoverance, changed her note and proceeding to speak after a fashion altogether different from her beginning, came to the conclusion that it is impossible to withstand the pricks of the flesh, wherefore she said that each should, whenas she might, privily give herself a good time, even as it had been done until that day. accordingly, setting the young lady free, she went back to sleep with her priest and isabetta returned to her lover, whom many a time thereafter she let come thither, in despite of those who envied her, whilst those of the others who were loverless pushed their fortunes in secret, as best they knew." the third story [day the ninth] master simone, at the instance of bruno and buffalmacco and nello, maketh calandrino believe that he is with child; wherefore he giveth them capons and money for medicines and recovereth without bringing forth after elisa had finished her story and all the ladies had returned thanks to god, who had with a happy issue delivered the young nun from the claws of her envious companions, the queen bade filostrato follow on, and he, without awaiting further commandment, began, "fairest ladies, the unmannerly lout of a marchegan judge, of whom i told you yesterday, took out of my mouth a story of calandrino and his companions, which i was about to relate; and for that, albeit it hath been much discoursed of him and them, aught that is told of him cannot do otherwise than add to our merriment, i will e'en tell you that which i had then in mind. it hath already been clearly enough shown who calandrino was and who were the others of whom i am to speak in this story, wherefore, without further preface, i shall tell you that an aunt of his chanced to die and left him two hundred crowns in small coin; whereupon he fell a-talking of wishing to buy an estate and entered into treaty with all the brokers in florence, as if he had ten thousand gold florins to expend; but the matter still fell through, when they came to the price of the estate in question. bruno and buffalmacco, knowing all this, had told him once and again that he were better spend the money in making merry together with them than go buy land, as if he had had to make pellets;[ ] but, far from this, they had never even availed to bring him to give them once to eat. one day, as they were complaining of this, there came up a comrade of theirs, a painter by name nello, and they all three took counsel together how they might find a means of greasing their gullets at calandrino's expense; wherefore, without more delay, having agreed among themselves of that which was to do, they watched next morning for his coming forth of his house, nor had he gone far when nello accosted him, saying, 'good-day, calandrino.' calandrino answered god give him good day and good year, and nello, halting awhile, fell to looking him in the face; whereupon calandrino asked him, 'at what lookest thou?' quoth the painter, 'hath aught ailed thee this night? meseemeth thou are not thyself this morning.' calandrino incontinent began to quake and said, 'alack, how so? what deemest thou aileth me?' 'egad,' answered nello, 'as for that i can't say; but thou seemest to me all changed; belike it is nothing.' so saying, he let him pass, and calandrino fared on, all misdoubtful, albeit he felt no whit ailing; but buffalmacco, who was not far off, seeing him quit of nello, made for him and saluting him, enquired if aught ailed him. quoth calandrino, 'i know not; nay, nello told me but now that i seemed to him all changed. can it be that aught aileth me?' 'ay,' rejoined buffalmacco, 'there must e'en be something or other amiss with thee, for thou appearest half dead.' [footnote : _i.e._ balls for a pellet bow, usually made out of clay. bruno and buffalmacco were punning upon the double meaning, land and earth (or clay), of the word _terra_.] by this time it seemed to calandrino that he had the fevers, when, lo, up came bruno and the first thing he said was, 'calandrino, what manner of face is this?' calandrino, hearing them all in the same tale, held it for certain that he was in an ill way and asked them, all aghast, 'what shall i do?' quoth bruno, 'methinketh thou wert best return home and get thee to bed and cover thyself well and send thy water to master simone the doctor, who is, as thou knowest, as our very creature and will tell thee incontinent what thou must do. we will go with thee and if it behoveth to do aught, we will do it.' accordingly, nello having joined himself to them, they returned home with calandrino, who betook himself, all dejected, into the bedchamber and said to his wife, 'come, cover me well, for i feel myself sore disordered.' then, laying himself down, he despatched his water by a little maid to master simone, who then kept shop in the old market, at the sign of the pumpkin, whilst bruno said to his comrades, 'abide you here with him, whilst i go hear what the doctor saith and bring him hither, if need be.' 'ay, for god's sake, comrade mine,' cried calandrino, 'go thither and bring me back word how the case standeth, for i feel i know not what within me.' accordingly, bruno posted off to master simone and coming thither before the girl who brought the water, acquainted him with the case; wherefore, the maid being come and the physician, having seen the water, he said to her, 'begone and bid calandrino keep himself well warm, and i will come to him incontinent and tell him that which aileth him and what he must do.' the maid reported this to her master nor was it long before the physician and bruno came, whereupon the former, seating himself beside calandrino, fell to feeling his pulse and presently, the patient's wife being there present, he said, 'harkye, calandrino, to speak to thee as a friend, there aileth thee nought but that thou art with child.' when calandrino heard this, he fell a-roaring for dolour and said, 'woe's me! tessa, this is thy doing, for that thou wilt still be uppermost; i told thee how it would be.' the lady, who was a very modest person, hearing her husband speak thus, blushed all red for shamefastness and hanging her head, went out of the room, without answering a word; whilst calandrino, pursuing his complaint, said, 'alack, wretch that i am! how shall i do? how shall i bring forth this child? whence shall he issue? i see plainly i am a dead man, through the mad lust of yonder wife of mine, whom god make as woeful as i would fain be glad! were i as well as i am not, i would arise and deal her so many and such buffets that i would break every bone in her body; albeit it e'en serveth me right, for that i should never have suffered her get the upper hand; but, for certain, an i come off alive this time, she may die of desire ere she do it again.' bruno and buffalmacco and nello were like to burst with laughter, hearing calandrino's words; however, they contained themselves, but doctor simple-simon[ ] laughed so immoderately that you might have drawn every tooth in his head. finally, calandrino commending himself to the physician and praying him give him aid and counsel in this his strait, the latter said to him, 'calandrino, i will not have thee lose heart; for, praised be god, we have taken the case so betimes that, in a few days and with a little trouble, i will deliver thee thereof; but it will cost thee some little expense.' 'alack, doctor mine,' cried calandrino, 'ay, for the love of god, do it! i have here two hundred crowns, wherewith i was minded to buy me an estate; take them all, if need be, so i be not brought to bed; for i know not how i should do, seeing i hear women make such a terrible outcry, whereas they are about to bear child, for all they have ample commodity therefor, that methinketh, if i had that pain to suffer, i should die ere i came to the bringing forth.' quoth the doctor, 'have no fear of that; i will let make thee a certain ptisan of distilled waters, very good and pleasant to drink, which will in three mornings' time carry off everything and leave thee sounder than a fish; but look thou be more discreet for the future and suffer not thyself fall again into these follies. now for this water it behoveth us have three pairs of fine fat capons, and for other things that are required thereanent, do thou give one of these (thy comrades) five silver crowns, so he may buy them, and let carry everything to my shop; and to-morrow, in god's name, i will send thee the distilled water aforesaid, whereof thou shalt proceed to drink a good beakerful at a time.' 'doctor mine,' replied calandrino, 'i put myself in your hands'; and giving bruno five crowns and money for three pairs of capons, he besought him to oblige him by taking the pains to buy these things. [footnote : _scimmione_ (lit. ape), a contemptuous distortion of _simone_.] the physician then took his leave and letting make a little clary,[ ] despatched it to calandrino, whilst bruno, buying the capons and other things necessary for making good cheer, ate them in company with his comrades and master simone. calandrino drank of his clary three mornings, after which the doctor came to him, together with his comrades, and feeling his pulse, said to him, 'calandrino, thou art certainly cured; wherefore henceforth thou mayst safely go about thine every business nor abide longer at home for this.' accordingly, calandrino arose, overjoyed, and went about his occasions, mightily extolling, as often as he happened to speak with any one, the fine cure that master simone had wrought of him, in that he had unbegotten him with child in three days' time, without any pain; whilst bruno and buffalmacco and nello abode well pleased at having contrived with this device to overreach his niggardliness, albeit dame tessa, smoking the cheat, rated her husband amain thereanent." [footnote : _chiarea._ according to the commentators, the composition of this drink is unknown, but that of clary, a sort of hippocras or spiced wine _clear-strained_ (whence the name), offers no difficulty to the student of old english literature.] the fourth story [day the ninth] cecco fortarrigo gameth away at buonconvento all his good and the monies of cecco angiolieri [his master;] moreover, running after the latter, in his shirt, and avouching that he hath robbed him, he causeth him be taken of the countryfolk; then, donning angiolieri's clothes and mounting his palfrey, he maketh off and leaveth the other in his shirt calandrino's speech concerning his wife had been hearkened of all the company with the utmost laughter; then, filostrato being silent, neifile, as the queen willed it, began, "noble ladies, were it not uneather for men to show forth unto others their wit and their worth than it is for them to exhibit their folly and their vice, many would weary themselves in vain to put a bridle on their tongues; and this hath right well been made manifest to you by the folly of calandrino, who had no call, in seeking to be made whole of the ailment in which his simplicity caused him believe, to publish the privy diversions of his wife; and this hath brought to my mind somewhat of contrary purport to itself, to wit, a story of how one man's knavery got the better of another's wit, to the grievous hurt and confusion of the over-reached one, the which it pleaseth me to relate to you. there were, then, in siena, not many years ago, two (as far as age went) full-grown men, each of whom was called cecco. one was the son of messer angiolieri and the other of messer fortarrigo, and albeit in most other things they sorted ill of fashions one with the other, they were natheless so far of accord in one particular, to wit, that they were both hated of their fathers, that they were by reason thereof grown friends and companied often together. after awhile, angiolieri, who was both a handsome man and a well-mannered, himseeming he could ill live at siena of the provision assigned him of his father and hearing that a certain cardinal, a great patron of his, was come into the marches of ancona as the pope's legate, determined to betake himself to him, thinking thus to better his condition. accordingly, acquainting his father with his purpose, he took order with him to have at once that which he was to give him in six months, so he might clothe and horse himself and make an honourable figure. as he went seeking some one whom he might carry with him for his service, the thing came to fortarrigo's knowledge, whereupon he presently repaired to angiolieri and besought him, as best he knew, to carry him with him, offering himself to be to him lackey and serving-man and all, without any wage beyond his expenses paid. angiolieri answered that he would nowise take him, not but he knew him to be right well sufficient unto every manner of service, but for that he was a gambler and bytimes a drunkard, to boot. but the other replied that he would without fail keep himself from both of these defaults and affirmed it unto him with oaths galore, adding so many prayers that angiolieri was prevailed upon and said that he was content. accordingly, they both set out one morning and went to dine at buonconvento, where, after dinner, the heat being great, angiolieri let make ready a bed at the inn and undressing himself, with fortarrigo's aid, went to sleep, charging the latter call him at the stroke of none. as soon as his master was asleep, fortarrigo betook himself to the tavern and there, after drinking awhile, he fell to gaming with certain men, who in a trice won of him some money he had and after, the very clothes he had on his back; whereupon, desirous of retrieving himself, he repaired, in his shirt as he was, to angiolieri's chamber and seeing him fast asleep, took from his purse what monies he had and returning to play, lost these as he had lost the others. presently, angiolieri awoke and arising, dressed himself and enquired for fortarrigo. the latter was not to be found and angiolieri, concluding him to be asleep, drunken, somewhere, as was bytimes his wont, determined to leave him be and get himself another servant at corsignano. accordingly, he caused put his saddle and his valise on a palfrey he had and thinking to pay the reckoning, so he might get him gone, found himself without a penny; whereupon great was the outcry and all the hostelry was in an uproar, angiolieri declaring that he had been robbed there and threatening to have the host and all his household carried prisoners to siena. at this moment up came fortarrigo in his shirt, thinking to take his master's clothes, as he had taken his money, and seeing the latter ready to mount, said, 'what is this, angiolieri? must we needs be gone already? good lack, wait awhile; there will be one here forthwith who hath my doublet in pawn for eight-and-thirty shillings; and i am certain that he will render it up for five-and-thirty, money down.' as he spoke, there came one who certified angiolieri that it was fortarrigo who had robbed him of his monies, by showing him the sum of those which the latter had lost at play; wherefore he was sore incensed and loaded fortarrigo with reproaches; and had he not feared others more than he feared god, he had done him a mischief; then, threatening to have him strung up by the neck or outlawed from siena, he mounted to horse. fortarrigo, as if he spoke not to him, but to another, said, 'good lack, angiolieri, let be for the nonce this talk that skilleth not a straw, and have regard unto this; by redeeming it[ ] forthright, we may have it again for five-and-thirty shillings; whereas, if we tarry but till to-morrow, he will not take less than the eight-and-thirty he lent me thereon; and this favour he doth me for that i staked it after his counsel. marry, why should we not better ourselves by these three shillings?' [footnote : _i.e._ the doublet.] angiolieri, hearing him talk thus, lost all patience (more by token that he saw himself eyed askance by the bystanders, who manifestly believed, not that fortarrigo had gamed away his monies, but that he had yet monies of fortarrigo's in hand) and said to him, 'what have i to do with thy doublet? mayst thou be strung up by the neck, since not only hast thou robbed me and gambled away my money, but hinderest me to boot in my journey, and now thou makest mock of me.' however, fortarrigo still stood to it, as it were not spoken to him and said, 'ecod, why wilt thou not better me these three shillings? thinkest thou i shall not be able to oblige thee therewith another time? prithee, do it, an thou have any regard for me. why all this haste? we shall yet reach torrenieri betimes this evening. come, find the purse; thou knowest i might ransack all siena and not find a doublet to suit me so well as this; and to think i should let yonder fellow have it for eight-and-thirty shillings! it is worth yet forty shillings or more, so that thou wouldst worsen me in two ways.'[ ] [footnote : _i.e._ do me a double injury.] angiolieri, beyond measure exasperated to see himself first robbed and now held in parley after this fashion, made him no further answer, but, turning his palfrey's head, took the road to torrenieri, whilst fortarrigo, bethinking himself of a subtle piece of knavery, proceeded to trot after him in his shirt good two miles, still requiring him of his doublet. presently, angiolieri pricking on amain, to rid his ears of the annoy, fortarrigo espied some husbandmen in a field, adjoining the highway in advance of him, and cried out to them, saying, 'stop him, stop him!' accordingly, they ran up, some with spades and others with mattocks, and presenting themselves in the road before angiolieri, concluding that he had robbed him who came crying after him in his shirt, stopped and took him. it availed him little to tell them who he was and how the case stood, and fortarrigo, coming up, said with an angry air, 'i know not what hindereth me from slaying thee, disloyal thief that thou wast to make off with my gear!' then, turning to the countrymen, 'see, gentlemen,' quoth he, 'in what a plight he left me at the inn, having first gamed away all his own! i may well say by god and by you have i gotten back this much, and thereof i shall still be beholden to you.' angiolieri told them his own story, but his words were not heeded; nay, fortarrigo, with the aid of the countrymen, pulled him off his palfrey and stripping him, clad himself in his clothes; then, mounting to horse, he left him in his shirt and barefoot and returned to siena, avouching everywhere that he had won the horse and clothes of angiolieri, whilst the latter, who had thought to go, as a rich man, to the cardinal in the marches, returned to buonconvento, poor and in his shirt, nor dared for shamefastness go straight back to siena, but, some clothes being lent him, he mounted the rouncey that fortarrigo had ridden and betook himself to his kinsfolk at corsignano, with whom he abode till such time as he was furnished anew by his father. on this wise fortarrigo's knavery baffled angiolieri's fair advisement,[ ] albeit his villainy was not left by the latter unpunished in due time and place." [footnote : syn. goodly design of foresight (_buono avviso_).] the fifth story [day the ninth] calandrino falleth in love with a wench and bruno writeth him a talisman, wherewith when he toucheth her, she goeth with him; and his wife finding them together, there betideth him grievous trouble and annoy neifile's short story being finished and the company having passed it over without overmuch talk or laughter, the queen turned to fiammetta and bade her follow on, to which she replied all blithely that she would well and began, "gentlest ladies, there is, as methinketh you may know, nothing, how much soever it may have been talked thereof, but will still please, provided whoso is minded to speak of it know duly to choose the time and the place that befit it. wherefore, having regard to our intent in being here (for that we are here to make merry and divert ourselves and not for otherwhat), meseemeth that everything which may afford mirth and pleasance hath here both due place and due time; and albeit it may have been a thousand times discoursed thereof, it should natheless be none the less pleasing, though one speak of it as much again. wherefore, notwithstanding it hath been many times spoken among us of the sayings and doings of calandrino, i will make bold, considering, as filostrato said awhile ago, that these are all diverting, to tell you yet another story thereof, wherein were i minded to swerve from the fact, i had very well known to disguise and recount it under other names; but, for that, in the telling of a story, to depart from the truth of things betided detracteth greatly from the listener's pleasure, i will e'en tell it you in its true shape, moved by the reason aforesaid. niccolo cornacchini was a townsman of ours and a rich man and had, among his other possessions, a fine estate at camerata, whereon he let build a magnificent mansion and agreed with bruno and buffalmacco to paint it all for him; and they, for that the work was great, joined to themselves nello and calandrino and fell to work. thither, for that there was none of the family in the house, although there were one or two chambers furnished with beds and other things needful and an old serving-woman abode there, as guardian of the place, a son of the said niccolo, by name filippo, being young and without a wife, was wont bytimes to bring some wench or other for his diversion and keep her there a day or two and after send her away. it chanced once, among other times, that he brought thither one called niccolosa, whom a lewd fellow, by name mangione, kept at his disposal in a house at camaldoli and let out on hire. she was a woman of a fine person and well clad and for her kind well enough mannered and spoken. one day at noontide, she having come forth her chamber in a white petticoat, with her hair twisted about her head, and being in act to wash her hands and face at a well that was in the courtyard of the mansion, it chanced that calandrino came thither for water and saluted her familiarly. she returned him his greeting and fell to eying him, more because he seemed to her an odd sort of fellow than for any fancy she had for him; whereupon he likewise fell a-considering her and himseeming she was handsome, he began to find his occasions for abiding there and returned not to his comrades with the water, but, knowing her not, dared not say aught to her. she, who had noted his looking, glanced at him from time to time, to make game of him, heaving some small matter of sighs the while; wherefore calandrino fell suddenly over head and ears in love with her and left not the courtyard till she was recalled by filippo into the chamber. therewithal he returned to work, but did nought but sigh, which bruno, who had still an eye to his doings, for that he took great delight in his fashions, remarking, 'what a devil aileth thee, friend calandrino?' quoth he. 'thou dost nought but sigh.' 'comrade,' answered calandrino, 'had i but some one to help me, i should fare well.' 'how so?' enquired bruno; and calandrino replied, 'it must not be told to any; but there is a lass down yonder, fairer than a fairy, who hath fallen so mightily in love with me that 'twould seem to thee a grave matter. i noted it but now, whenas i went for the water.' 'ecod,' cried bruno, 'look she be not filippo's wife.' quoth calandrino, 'methinketh it is she, for that he called her and she went to him in the chamber; but what of that? in matters of this kind i would jockey christ himself, let alone filippo; and to tell thee the truth, comrade, she pleaseth me more than i can tell thee.' 'comrade,' answered bruno, 'i will spy thee out who she is, and if she be filippo's wife, i will order thine affairs for thee in a brace of words, for she is a great friend of mine. but how shall we do, so buffalmacco may not know? i can never get a word with her, but he is with me.' quoth calandrino, 'of buffalmacco i reck not; but we must beware of nello, for that he is tessa's kinsman and would mar us everything.' and bruno said, 'true.' now he knew very well who the wench was, for that he had seen her come and moreover filippo had told him. accordingly, calandrino having left work awhile and gone to get a sight of her, bruno told nello and buffalmacco everything and they took order together in secret what they should do with him in the matter of this his enamourment. when he came back, bruno said to him softly, 'hast seen her?' 'alack, yes,' replied calandrino; 'she hath slain me.' quoth bruno, 'i must go see an it be she i suppose; and if it be so, leave me do.' accordingly, he went down into the courtyard and finding filippo and niccolosa there, told them precisely what manner of man calandrino was and took order with them of that which each of them should do and say, so they might divert themselves with the lovesick gull and make merry over his passion. then, returning to calandrino, he said, 'it is indeed she; wherefore needs must the thing be very discreetly managed, for, should filippo get wind of it, all the water in the arno would not wash us. but what wouldst thou have me say to her on thy part, if i should chance to get speech of her?' 'faith,' answered calandrino, 'thou shalt tell her, to begin with, that i will her a thousand measures of that good stuff that getteth with child, and after, that i am her servant and if she would have aught.... thou takest me?' 'ay,' said bruno, 'leave me do.' presently, supper-time being come, the painters left work and went down into the courtyard, where they found filippo and niccolosa and tarried there awhile, to oblige calandrino. the latter fell to ogling niccolosa and making the oddest grimaces in the world, such and so many that a blind man would have remarked them. she on her side did everything that she thought apt to inflame him, and filippo, in accordance with the instructions he had of bruno, made believe to talk with buffalmacco and the others and to have no heed of this, whilst taking the utmost diversion in calandrino's fashions. however, after a while, to the latter's exceeding chagrin, they took their leave and as they returned to florence, bruno said to calandrino, 'i can tell thee thou makest her melt like ice in the sun. cock's body, wert thou to fetch thy rebeck and warble thereto some of those amorous ditties of thine, thou wouldst cause her cast herself out of window to come to thee.' quoth calandrino, 'deemest thou, gossip? deemest thou i should do well to fetch it?' 'ay, do i,' answered bruno; and calandrino went on, 'thou wouldst not credit me this morning, whenas i told it thee; but, for certain, gossip, methinketh i know better than any man alive to do what i will. who, other than i, had known to make such a lady so quickly in love with me? not your trumpeting young braggarts,[ ] i warrant you, who are up and down all day long and could not make shift, in a thousand years, to get together three handsful of cherry stones. i would fain have thee see me with the rebeck; 'twould be fine sport for thee. i will have thee to understand once for all that i am no dotard, as thou deemest me, and this she hath right well perceived, she; but i will make her feel it othergates fashion, so once i get my claw into her back; by the very body of christ, i will lead her such a dance that she will run after me, as the madwoman after her child.' 'ay,' rejoined bruno, 'i warrant me thou wilt rummage her; methinketh i see thee, with those teeth of thine that were made for virginal jacks,[ ] bite that little vermeil mouth of hers and those her cheeks, that show like two roses, and after eat her all up.' [footnote : _giovani di tromba marina._ the sense seems as above; the commentators say that _giovani di tromba marina_ is a name given to those youths who go trumpeting about everywhere the favours accorded them by women; but the _tromba marina_ is a _stringed_ (not a wind) _instrument_, a sort of primitive violoncello with one string.] [footnote : "your teeth did dance like virginal jacks."--_ben jonson._] calandrino, hearing this, fancied himself already at it and went singing and skipping, so overjoyed that he was like to jump out of his skin. on the morrow, having brought the rebeck, he, to the great diversion of all the company, sang sundry songs thereto; and in brief, he was taken with such an itch for the frequent seeing of her that he wrought not a whit, but ran a thousand times a day, now to the window, now to the door and anon into the courtyard, to get a look at her, whereof she, adroitly carrying out bruno's instructions, afforded him ample occasion. bruno, on his side, answered his messages in her name and bytimes brought him others as from her; and whenas she was not there, which was mostly the case, he carried him letters from her, wherein she gave him great hopes of compassing his desire, feigning herself at home with her kinsfolk, where he might not presently see her. on this wise, bruno, with the aid of buffalmacco, who had a hand in the matter, kept the game afoot and had the greatest sport in the world with calandrino's antics, causing him give them bytimes, as at his mistress's request, now an ivory comb, now a purse and anon a knife and such like toys, for which they brought him in return divers paltry counterfeit rings of no value, with which he was vastly delighted; and to boot, they had of him, for their pains, store of dainty collations and other small matters of entertainment, so they might be diligent about his affairs. on this wise they kept him in play good two months, without getting a step farther, at the end of which time, seeing the work draw to an end and bethinking himself that, an he brought not his amours to an issue in the meantime, he might never have another chance thereof, he began to urge and importune bruno amain; wherefore, when next the girl came to the mansion, bruno, having first taken order with her and filippo of what was to be done, said to calandrino, 'harkye, gossip, yonder lady hath promised me a good thousand times to do that which thou wouldst have and yet doth nought thereof, and meseemeth she leadeth thee by the nose; wherefore, since she doth it not as she promiseth, we will an it like thee, make her do it, will she, nill she.' 'ecod, ay!' answered calandrino. 'for the love of god let it be done speedily.' quoth bruno, 'will thy heart serve thee to touch her with a script i shall give thee?' 'ay, sure,' replied calandrino; and the other, 'then do thou make shift to bring me a piece of virgin parchment and a live bat, together with three grains of frankincense and a candle that hath been blessed by the priest, and leave me do.' accordingly, calandrino lay in wait all the next night with his engines to catch a bat and having at last taken one, carried it to bruno, with the other things required; whereupon the latter, withdrawing to a chamber, scribbled divers toys of his fashion upon the parchment, in characters of his own devising, and brought it to him, saying, 'know, calandrino, that, if thou touch her with this script, she will incontinent follow thee and do what thou wilt. wherefore, if filippo should go abroad anywhither to-day, do thou contrive to accost her on some pretext or other and touch her; then betake thyself to the barn yonder, which is the best place here for thy purpose, for that no one ever frequenteth there. thou wilt find she will come thither, and when she is there, thou knowest well what thou hast to do.' calandrino was the joyfullest man alive and took the script, saying, 'gossip, leave me do.' now nello, whom calandrino mistrusted, had as much diversion of the matter as the others and bore a hand with them in making sport of him: wherefore, of accord with bruno, he betook himself to florence to calandrino's wife and said to her, 'tessa, thou knowest what a beating calandrino gave thee without cause the day he came back, laden with stones from the mugnone; wherefore i mean to have thee avenge thyself on him; and if thou do it not, hold me no more for kinsman or for friend. he hath fallen in love with a woman over yonder, and she is lewd enough to go very often closeting herself with him. a little while agone, they appointed each other to foregather together this very day; wherefore i would have thee come thither and lie in wait for him and chastise him well.' when the lady heard this, it seemed to her no jesting matter, but, starting to her feet, she fell a-saying, 'alack, common thief that thou art, is it thus that thou usest me? by christ his cross, it shall not pass thus, but i will pay thee therefor!' then, taking her mantle and a little maid to bear her company, she started off at a good round pace for the mansion, together with nello. as soon as bruno saw the latter afar off, he said to filippo, 'here cometh our friend'; whereupon the latter, betaking himself whereas calandrino and the others were at work, said, 'masters, needs must i go presently to florence; work with a will.' then, going away, he hid himself in a place when he could, without being seen, see what calandrino should do. the latter, as soon as he deemed filippo somewhat removed, came down into the courtyard and finding niccolosa there alone, entered into talk with her, whilst she, who knew well enough what she had to do, drew near him and entreated him somewhat more familiarly than of wont. thereupon he touched her with the script and no sooner had he done so than he turned, without saying a word, and made for the barn, whither she followed him. as soon as she was within, she shut the door and taking him in her arms, threw him down on the straw that was on the floor; then, mounting astride of him and holding him with her hands on his shoulders, without letting him draw near her face, she gazed at him, as he were her utmost desire, and said, 'o sweet my calandrino, heart of my body, my soul, my treasure, my comfort, how long have i desired to have thee and to be able to hold thee at my wish! thou hast drawn all the thread out of my shift with thy gentilesse; thou hast tickled my heart with thy rebeck. can it be true that i hold thee?' calandrino, who could scarce stir, said, 'for god's sake, sweet my soul, let me buss thee.' 'marry,' answered she, 'thou art in a mighty hurry. let me first take my fill of looking upon thee; let me sate mine eyes with that sweet face of thine.' now bruno and buffalmacco were come to join filippo and all three heard and saw all this. as calandrino was now offering to kiss niccolosa perforce, up came nello with dame tessa and said, as soon as he reached the place, 'i vow to god they are together.' then, coming up to the door of the barn, the lady, who was all a-fume with rage, dealt it such a push with her hands that she sent it flying, and entering, saw niccolosa astride of calandrino. the former, seeing the lady, started up in haste and taking to flight, made off to join filippo, whilst dame tessa fell tooth and nail upon calandrino, who was still on his back, and clawed all his face; then, clutching him by the hair and haling him hither and thither, 'thou sorry shitten cur,' quoth she, 'dost thou then use me thus? besotted dotard that thou art, accursed be the weal i have willed thee! marry, seemeth it to thee thou hast not enough to do at home, that thou must go wantoning it in other folk's preserves? a fine gallant, i'faith! dost thou not know thyself, losel that thou art? dost thou not know thyself, good for nought? wert thou to be squeezed dry, there would not come as much juice from thee as might suffice for a sauce. cock's faith, thou canst not say it was tessa that was presently in act to get thee with child, god make her sorry, who ever she is, for a scurvy trull as she must be to have a mind to so fine a jewel as thou!' calandrino, seeing his wife come, abode neither dead nor alive and had not the hardihood to make any defence against her; but, rising, all scratched and flayed and baffled as he was, and picking up his bonnet, he fell to humbly beseeching her leave crying out, an she would not have him cut in pieces, for that she who had been with him was the wife of the master of the house; whereupon quoth she, 'so be it, god give her an ill year.' at this moment, bruno and buffalmacco, having laughed their fill at all this, in company with filippo and niccolosa, came up, feigning to be attracted by the clamour, and having with no little ado appeased the lady, counselled calandrino betake himself to florence and return thither no more, lest filippo should get wind of the matter and do him a mischief. accordingly he returned to florence, chapfallen and woebegone, all flayed and scratched, and never ventured to go thither again; but, being plagued and harassed night and day with his wife's reproaches, he made an end of his fervent love, having given much cause for laughter to his companions, no less than to niccolosa and filippo." the sixth story [day the ninth] two young gentlemen lodge the night with an innkeeper, whereof one goeth to lie with the host's daughter, whilst his wife unwittingly coucheth with the other; after which he who lay with the girl getteth him to bed with her father and telleth him all, thinking to bespeak his comrade. therewithal they come to words, but the wife, perceiving her mistake, entereth her daughter's bed and thence with certain words appeaseth everything calandrino, who had otherwhiles afforded the company matter for laughter, made them laugh this time also, and whenas the ladies had left devising of his fashions, the queen bade pamfilo tell, whereupon quoth he, "laudable ladies, the name of niccolosa, calandrino's mistress, hath brought me back to mind a story of another niccolosa, which it pleaseth me to tell you, for that therein you shall see how a goodwife's ready wit did away a great scandal. in the plain of mugnone there was not long since a good man who gave wayfarers to eat and drink for their money, and although he was poor and had but a small house, he bytimes at a pinch gave, not every one, but sundry acquaintances, a night's lodging. he had a wife, a very handsome woman, by whom he had two children, whereof one was a fine buxom lass of some fifteen or sixteen years of age, who was not yet married, and the other a little child, not yet a year old, whom his mother herself suckled. now a young gentleman of our city, a sprightly and pleasant youth, who was often in those parts, had cast his eyes on the girl and loved her ardently; and she, who gloried greatly in being beloved of a youth of his quality, whilst studying with pleasing fashions to maintain him in her love, became no less enamoured of him, and more than once, by mutual accord, this their love had had the desired effect, but that pinuccio (for such was the young man's name) feared to bring reproach upon his mistress and himself. however, his ardour waxing from day to day, he could no longer master his desire to foregather with her and bethought himself to find a means of harbouring with her father, doubting not, from his acquaintance with the ordinance of the latter's house, but he might in that event contrive to pass the night in her company, without any being the wiser; and no sooner had he conceived this design than he proceeded without delay to carry it into execution. accordingly, in company with a trusty friend of his called adriano, who knew his love, he late one evening hired a couple of hackneys and set thereon two pairs of saddle-bags, filled belike with straw, with which they set out from florence and fetching a compass, rode till they came overagainst the plain of mugnone, it being by this night; then, turning about, as they were on their way back from romagna, they made for the good man's house and knocked at the door. the host, being very familiar with both of them, promptly opened the door and pinuccio said to him, 'look you, thou must needs harbour us this night. we thought to reach florence before dark, but have not availed to make such haste but that we find ourselves here, as thou seest at this hour.' 'pinuccio,' answered the host, 'thou well knowest how little commodity i have to lodge such men as you are; however, since the night hath e'en overtaken you here and there is no time for you to go otherwhere, i will gladly harbour you as i may.' the two young men accordingly alighted and entered the inn, where they first eased[ ] their hackneys and after supper with the host, having taken good care to bring provision with them. [footnote : _adagiarono_, _i.e._ unsaddled and stabled and fed them.] now the good man had but one very small bedchamber, wherein were three pallet-beds set as best he knew, two at one end of the room and the third overagainst them at the other end; nor for all that was there so much space left that one could go there otherwise than straitly. the least ill of the three the host let make ready for the two friends and put them to lie there; then, after a while neither of the gentlemen being asleep, though both made a show thereof, he caused his daughter betake herself to bed in one of the two others and lay down himself in the third, with his wife, who set by the bedside the cradle wherein she had her little son. things being ordered after this fashion and pinuccio having seen everything, after a while, himseeming that every one was asleep, he arose softly and going to the bed where slept the girl beloved of him, laid himself beside the latter, by whom, for all she did it timorously, he was joyfully received, and with her he proceeded to take of that pleasure which both most desired. whilst pinuccio abode thus with his mistress, it chanced that a cat caused certain things fall, which the good wife, awaking, heard; whereupon, fearing lest it were otherwhat, she arose, as she was, in the dark and betook herself whereas she had heard the noise. meanwhile, adriano, without intent aforethought, arose by chance for some natural occasion and going to despatch this, came upon the cradle, whereas it had been set by the good wife, and unable to pass without moving it, took it up and set it down beside his own bed; then, having accomplished that for which he had arisen, he returned and betook himself to bed again, without recking of the cradle. the good wife, having searched and found the thing which had fallen was not what she thought, never troubled herself to kindle a light, to see it, but, chiding the cat, returned to the chamber and groped her way to the bed where her husband lay. finding the cradle not there, 'mercy o' me!' quoth she in herself. 'see what i was about to do! as i am a christian, i had well nigh gone straight to our guest's bed.' then, going a little farther and finding the cradle, she entered the bed whereby it stood and laid herself down beside adriano, thinking to couch with her husband. adriano, who was not yet asleep, feeling this, received her well and joyously and laying her aboard in a trice, clapped on all sail, to the no small contentment of the lady. meanwhile, pinuccio, fearing lest sleep should surprise him with his lass and having taken of her his fill of pleasure, arose from her, to return to his own bed, to sleep, and finding the cradle in his way, took the adjoining bed for that of his host; wherefore, going a little farther, he lay down with the latter, who awoke at his coming. pinuccio, deeming himself beside adriano, said, 'i tell thee there never was so sweet a creature as is niccolosa. cock's body, i have had with her the rarest sport ever man had with woman, more by token that i have gone upwards of six times into the country, since i left thee.' the host, hearing this talk and being not overwell pleased therewith, said first in himself, 'what a devil doth this fellow here?' then, more angered than well-advised, 'pinuccio,' quoth he, 'this hath been a great piece of villainy of thine, and i know not why thou shouldst have used me thus; but, by the body of god, i will pay thee for it!!' pinuccio, who was not the wisest lad in the world, seeing his mistake, addressed not himself to mend it as best he might, but said, 'of what wilt thou pay me? what canst thou do to me?' therewithal the hostess, who thought herself with her husband, said to adriano, 'good lack, hark to our guests how they are at i know not what words together!' quoth adriano, laughing, 'leave them do, god land them in an ill year! they drank overmuch yesternight.' the good wife, herseeming she had heard her husband scold and hearing adriano speak, incontinent perceived where and with whom she had been; whereupon, like a wise woman as she was, she arose forthright, without saying a word, and taking her little son's cradle, carried it at a guess, for that there was no jot of light to be seen in the chamber, to the side of the bed where her daughter slept and lay down with the latter; then, as if she had been aroused by her husband's clamour, she called him and enquired what was to do between himself and pinuccio. he answered, 'hearest thou not what he saith he hath done this night unto niccolosa?' 'marry,' quoth she, 'he lieth in his throat, for he was never abed with niccolosa, seeing that i have lain here all night; more by token that i have not been able to sleep a wink; and thou art an ass to believe him. you men drink so much of an evening that you do nothing but dream all night and fare hither and thither, without knowing it, and fancy you do wonders. 'tis a thousand pities you don't break your necks. but what doth pinuccio yonder? why bideth he not in his own bed?' adriano, on his part, seeing how adroitly the good wife went about to cover her own shame and that of her daughter, chimed in with, 'pinuccio, i have told thee an hundred times not to go abroad, for that this thy trick of arising in thy sleep and telling for true the extravagances thou dreamest will bring thee into trouble some day or other. come back here, god give thee an ill night!' the host, hearing what his wife and adriano said, began to believe in good earnest that pinuccio was dreaming; and accordingly, taking him by the shoulders, he fell to shaking and calling him, saying, 'pinuccio, awake; return to thine own bed.' pinuccio having apprehended all that had been said began to wander off into other extravagances, after the fashion of a man a-dream; whereat the host set up the heartiest laughter in the world. at last, he made believe to awake for stress of shaking, and calling to adriano, said, 'is it already day, that thou callest me?' 'ay,' answered the other, 'come hither.' accordingly, pinuccio, dissembling and making a show of being sleepy-eyed, arose at last from beside the host and went back to bed with adriano. the day come and they being risen, the host fell to laughing and mocking at pinuccio and his dreams; and so they passed from one jest to another, till the young men, having saddled their rounceys and strapped on their valises and drunken with the host, remounted to horse and rode away to florence, no less content with the manner in which the thing had betided than with the effect itself thereof. thereafter pinuccio found other means of foregathering with niccolosa, who vowed to her mother that he had certainly dreamt the thing; wherefore the goodwife, remembering her of adriano's embracements, inwardly avouched herself alone to have waked." the seventh story [day the ninth] talano di molese dreameth that a wolf mangleth all his wife's neck and face and biddeth her beware thereof; but she payeth no heed to his warning and it befalleth her even as he had dreamed pamfilo's story being ended and the goodwife's presence of mind having been commended of all, the queen bade pampinea tell hers and she thereupon began, "it hath been otherwhile discoursed among us, charming ladies, of the truths foreshown by dreams, the which many of our sex scoff at; wherefore, notwithstanding that which hath been said thereof, i shall not scruple to tell you, in a very few words, that which no great while ago befell a she-neighbour of mine for not giving credit to a dream of herself seen by her husband. i know not if you were acquainted with talano di molese, a very worshipful man, who took to wife a young lady called margarita, fair over all others, but so humoursome, ill-conditioned and froward that she would do nought of other folk's judgment, nor could others do aught to her liking; the which, irksome as it was to talano to endure, natheless, as he could no otherwise, needs must he put up with. it chanced one night that, being with this margarita of his at an estate he had in the country, himseemed in his sleep he saw his wife go walking in a very fair wood which they had not far from their house, and as she went, himseemed there came forth of a thicket a great and fierce wolf, which sprang straight at her throat and pulling her to the ground, enforced himself to carry her off, whilst she screamed for aid; and after, she winning free of his fangs, it seemed he had marred all her throat and face. accordingly, when he arose in the morning, he said to the lady, 'wife, albeit thy frowardness hath never suffered me to have a good day with thee, yet it would grieve me should ill betide thee; wherefore, an thou wilt hearken to my counsel, thou wilt not go forth the house to-day'; and being asked of her why, he orderly recounted to her his dream. the lady shook her head and said, 'who willeth thee ill, dreameth thee ill. thou feignest thyself mighty careful of me; but thou dreamest of me that which thou wouldst fain see come to pass; and thou mayst be assured that i will be careful both to-day and always not to gladden thee with this or other mischance of mine.' quoth talano, 'i knew thou wouldst say thus; for that such thanks still hath he who combeth a scald-head; but, believe as thou listeth, i for my part tell it to thee for good, and once more i counsel thee abide at home to-day or at least beware of going into our wood.' 'good,' answered the lady, 'i will do it'; and after fell a-saying to herself, 'sawest thou how artfully yonder man thinketh to have feared me from going to our wood to-day? doubtless he hath given some trull or other tryst there and would not have me find him with her. marry, it were fine eating for him with blind folk and i should be a right simpleton an i saw not his drift and if i believed him! but certes he shall not have his will; nay, though i abide there all day, needs must i see what traffic is this that he hath in hand to-day.' accordingly, her husband being gone out at one door, she went out at the other and betook herself as most secretly she might straight to the wood and hid herself in the thickest part thereof, standing attent and looking now here and now there, an she should see any one come. as she abode on this wise, without any thought of danger, behold, there sallied forth of a thick coppice hard by a terrible great wolf, and scarce could she say, 'lord, aid me!' when it flew at her throat and laying fast hold of her, proceeded to carry her off, as she were a lambkin. she could neither cry nor aid herself on other wise, so sore was her gullet straitened; wherefore the wolf, carrying her off, would assuredly have throttled her, had he not encountered certain shepherds, who shouted at him and constrained him to loose her. the shepherds knew her and carried her home, in a piteous plight, where, after long tending by the physicians, she was healed, yet not so wholly but she had all her throat and a part of her face marred on such wise that, whereas before she was fair, she ever after appeared misfeatured and very foul of favour; wherefore, being ashamed to appear whereas she might be seen, she many a time bitterly repented her of her frowardness and her perverse denial to put faith, in a matter which cost her nothing, in her husband's true dream." the eighth story [day the ninth] biondello cheateth ciacco of a dinner, whereof the other craftily avengeth himself, procuring him to be shamefully beaten the merry company with one accord avouched that which talano had seen in sleep to have been no dream, but a vision, so punctually, without there failing aught thereof, had it come to pass. but, all being silent the queen charged lauretta follow on, who said, "like as those, most discreet ladies, who have to-day foregone me in speech, have been well nigh all moved to discourse by something already said, even so the stern vengeance wreaked by the scholar, of whom pampinea told us yesterday, moveth me to tell of a piece of revenge, which, without being so barbarous as the former, was nevertheless grievous unto him who brooked it. i must tell you, then, that there was once in florence a man whom all called ciacco,[ ] as great a glutton as ever lived. his means sufficing him not to support the expense that his gluttony required and he being, for the rest, a very well-mannered man and full of goodly and pleasant sayings, he addressed himself to be, not altogether a buffoon, but a spunger[ ] and to company with those who were rich and delighted to eat of good things; and with these he went often to dine and sup, albeit he was not always bidden. there was likewise at florence, in those days, a man called biondello, a little dapper fellow of his person, very quaint of his dress and sprucer than a fly, with his coif on his head and his yellow periwig still drest to a nicety, without a hair awry, who plied the same trade as ciacco. going one morning in lent whereas they sell the fish and cheapening two very fine lampreys for messer vieri de' cerchj, he was seen by ciacco, who accosted him and said, 'what meaneth this?' whereto biondello made answer, 'yestereve there were sent unto messer corso donati three lampreys, much finer than these, and a sturgeon; to which sufficing him not for a dinner he is minded to give certain gentlemen, he would have me buy these other two. wilt thou not come thither, thou?' quoth ciacco, 'thou knowest well that i shall be there.' [footnote : _i.e._ hog.] [footnote : lit. a backbiter (_morditore_).] accordingly, whenas it seemed to him time, he betook himself to messer corso's house, where he found him with sundry neighbours of his, not yet gone to dinner, and being asked of him what he went doing, answered, 'sir, i am come to dine with you and your company.' quoth messer corso, 'thou art welcome; and as it is time, let us to table.' thereupon they seated themselves at table and had, to begin with, chickpease and pickled tunny, and after a dish of fried fish from the arno, and no more, ciacco, perceiving the cheat that biondello had put upon him, was inwardly no little angered thereat and resolved to pay him for it; nor had many days passed ere he again encountered the other, who had by this time made many folk merry with the trick he had played him. biondello, seeing him, saluted him and asked him, laughing, how he had found messer corso's lampreys; to which ciacco answered, 'that shalt thou know much better than i, ere eight days be past.' then, without wasting time over the matter, he took leave of biondello and agreeing for a price with a shrewd huckster, carried him near to the cavicciuoli gallery and showing him a gentleman there, called messer filippo argenti, a big burly rawboned fellow and the most despiteful, choleric and humoursome man alive, gave him a great glass flagon and said to him, 'go to yonder gentleman with this flask in hand and say to him, "sir biondello sendeth me to you and prayeth you be pleased to rubify him this flask with your good red wine, for that he would fain make merry somedele with his minions." but take good care he lay not his hands on thee; else will he give thee an ill morrow and thou wilt have marred my plans.' 'have i aught else to say,' asked the huckster; and ciacco answered, 'no; do but go and say this and after come back to me here with the flask and i will pay thee.' the huckster accordingly set off and did his errand to messer filippo, who, hearing the message and being lightly ruffled, concluded that biondello, whom he knew, had a mind to make mock of him, and waxing all red in the face, said, 'what "rubify me" and what "minions" be these? god land thee and him an ill year!' then, starting to his feet, he put out his hand to lay hold of the huckster; but the latter, who was on his guard, promptly took to his heels and returning by another way to ciacco, who had seen all that had passed, told him what messer filippo had said to him. ciacco, well pleased, paid him and rested not till he found biondello, to whom quoth he, 'hast thou been late at the cavicciuoli gallery?' 'nay,' answered the other. 'why dost thou ask me?' 'because,' replied ciacco, 'i must tell thee that messer filippo enquireth for thee; i know not what he would have.' 'good,' rejoined biondello; 'i am going that way and will speak with him.' accordingly, he made off, and ciacco followed him, to see how the thing should pass. meanwhile messer filippo, having failed to come at the huckster, abode sore disordered and was inwardly all a-fume with rage, being unable to make anything in the world of the huckster's words, if not that biondello, at whosesoever instance, was minded to make mock of him. as he fretted himself thus, up came biondello, whom no sooner did he espy than he made for him and dealt him a sore buffet in the face. 'alack, sir,' cried biondello, 'what is this?' whereupon messer filippo, clutching him by the hair and tearing his coif, cast his bonnet to the ground and said, laying on to him amain the while, 'knave that thou art, thou shalt soon see what it is! what is this thou sendest to say to me with thy "rubify me" and thy "minions"? deemest thou me a child, to be flouted on this wise?' so saying, he battered his whole face with his fists, which were like very iron, nor left him a hair on his head unruffled; then, rolling him in the mire, he tore all the clothes off his back; and to this he applied himself with such a will that biondello could not avail to say a word to him nor ask why he served him thus. he had heard him indeed speak of 'rubify me' and 'minions,' but knew not what this meant. at last, messer filippo having beaten him soundly, the bystanders, whereof many had by this time gathered about them, dragged him, with the utmost difficulty, out of the other's clutches, all bruised and battered as he was, and told him why the gentleman had done this, blaming him for that which he had sent to say to him and telling him that he should by that time have known messer filippo better and that he was not a man to jest withal. biondello, all in tears protested his innocence, declaring that he had never sent to messer filippo for wine, and as soon as he was somewhat recovered, he returned home, sick and sorry, divining that this must have been ciacco's doing. when, after many days, the bruises being gone, he began to go abroad again, it chanced that ciacco encountered him and asked him, laughing, 'harkye, biondello, how deemest thou of messer filippo's wine?' 'even as thou of messer corso's lampreys,' replied the other; and ciacco said, 'the thing resteth with thee henceforth. whenever thou goest about to give me to eat as thou didst, i will give thee in return to drink after t'other day's fashion.' biondello, knowing full well that it was easier to wish ciacco ill than to put it in practise, besought god of his peace[ ] and thenceforth was careful to affront him no more." [footnote : _i.e._ conjured him by god to make peace with him.] the ninth story [day the ninth] two young men seek counsel of solomon, one how he may be loved and the other how he may amend his froward wife, and in answer he biddeth the one love and the other get him to goosebridge none other than the queen remaining to tell, so she would maintain dioneo his privilege, she, after the ladies had laughed at the unlucky biondello, began blithely to speak thus: "lovesome ladies, if the ordinance of created things be considered with a whole mind, it will lightly enough be seen that the general multitude of women are by nature, by custom and by law subjected unto men and that it behoveth them order and govern themselves according to the discretion of these latter; wherefore each woman, who would have quiet and ease and solace with those men to whom she pertaineth, should be humble, patient and obedient, besides being virtuous, which latter is the supreme and especial treasure of every wise woman. nay, though the laws, which in all things regard the general weal, and usance or (let us say) custom, whose puissance is both great and worship-worth, taught us not this, nature very manifestly showeth it unto us, inasmuch as she hath made us women tender and delicate of body and timid and fearful of spirit and hath given us little bodily strength, sweet voices and soft and graceful movements, all things testifying that we have need of the governance of others. now, those who have need to be helped and governed, all reason requireth that they be obedient and submissive and reverent to their governors; and whom have we to governors and helpers, if not men? to men, therefore, it behoveth us submit ourselves, honouring them supremely; and whoso departeth from this, i hold her deserving, not only of grave reprehension, but of severe punishment. to these considerations i was lead, though not for the first time, by that which pampinea told us a while ago of talano's froward wife, upon whom god sent that chastisement which her husband had not known to give her; wherefore, as i have already said, all those women who depart from being loving, compliant and amenable, as nature, usance and law will it, are, in my judgment, worthy of stern and severe chastisement. it pleaseth me, therefore, to recount to you a counsel given by solomon, as a salutary medicine for curing women who are thus made of that malady; which counsel let none, who meriteth not such treatment, repute to have been said for her, albeit men have a byword which saith, 'good horse and bad horse both the spur need still, and women need the stick, both good and ill.' which words, an one seek to interpret them by way of pleasantry, all women will lightly allow to be true; nay, but considering them morally,[ ] i say that the same must be conceded of them; for that women are all naturally unstable and prone [to frailty,] wherefore, to correct the iniquity of those who allow themselves too far to overpass the limits appointed them, there needeth the stick which punisheth them, and to support the virtue of others who suffer not themselves to transgress, there needeth the stick which sustaineth and affeareth them. but, to leave be preaching for the nonce and come to that which i have it in mind to tell. [footnote : _i.e._ from a serious or moral point of view.] you must know that, the high renown of solomon's miraculous wisdom being bruited abroad well nigh throughout the whole world, no less than the liberality with which he dispensed it unto whoso would fain be certified thereof by experience, there flocked many to him from divers parts of the world for counsel in their straitest and most urgent occasions. amongst others who thus resorted to him was a young man, melisso by name, a gentleman of noble birth and great wealth, who set out from the city of lajazzo,[ ] whence he was and where he dwelt; and as he journeyed towards jerusalem, it chanced that, coming forth of antioch, he rode for some distance with a young man called giosefo, who held the same course as himself. as the custom is of wayfarers, he entered into discourse with him and having learned from him what and whence he was, he asked him whither he went and upon what occasion; to which giosefo replied that he was on his way to solomon, to have counsel of him what course he should take with a wife he had, the most froward and perverse woman alive, whom neither with prayers nor with blandishments nor on any other wise could he avail to correct of her waywardness. then he in his turn questioned melisso whence he was and whither he went and on what errand, and he answered, 'i am of lajazzo, and like as thou hast a grievance, even so have i one; i am young and rich and spend my substance in keeping open house and entertaining my fellow-townsmen, and yet, strange to say, i cannot for all that find one who wisheth me well; wherefore i go whither thou goest, to have counsel how i may win to be beloved.' [footnote : apparently laodicea (_hod._ eskihissar) in anatolia, from which a traveller, taking the direct land route, would necessarily pass antioch (_hod._ antakhia) on his way to jerusalem.] accordingly, they joined company and journeyed till they came to jerusalem, where, by the introduction of one of solomon's barons, they were admitted to the presence of the king, to whom melisso briefly set forth his occasion. solomon answered him, 'love'; and this said, melisso was straightway put forth and giosefo told that for which he was there. solomon made him no other answer than 'get thee to goosebridge'; which said, giosefo was on like wise removed, without delay, from the king's presence and finding melisso awaiting him without, told him that which he had had for answer. thereupon, pondering solomon's words and availing to apprehend therefrom neither significance nor profit whatsoever for their occasions, they set out to return home, as deeming themselves flouted. after journeying for some days, they came to a river, over which was a fine bridge, and a caravan of pack-mules and sumpter-horses being in act to pass, it behoved them tarry till such time as these should be crossed over. presently, the beasts having well nigh all crossed, it chanced that one of the mules took umbrage, as oftentimes we see them do, and would by no means pass on; whereupon a muleteer, taking a stick, began to beat it at first moderately enough to make it go on; but the mule shied now to this and now to that side of the road and whiles turned back altogether, but would on no wise pass on; whereupon the man, incensed beyond measure, fell to dealing it with the stick the heaviest blows in the world, now on the head, now on the flanks and anon on the crupper, but all to no purpose. melisso and giosefo stood watching this and said often to the muleteer, 'alack, wretch that thou art, what dost thou? wilt thou kill the beast? why studiest thou not to manage him by fair means and gentle dealing? he will come quicklier than for cudgeling him as thou dost.' to which the man answered, 'you know your horses and i know my mule; leave me do with him.' so saying, he fell again to cudgelling him and belaboured him to such purpose on one side and on the other, that the mule passed on and the muleteer won the bout. then, the two young men being now about to depart, giosefo asked a poor man, who sat at the bridge-head, how the place was called, and he answered, 'sir, this is called goosebridge.' when giosefo heard this, he straightway called to mind solomon's words and said to melisso, 'marry, i tell thee, comrade, that the counsel given me by solomon may well prove good and true, for i perceive very plainly that i knew not how to beat my wife; but this muleteer hath shown me what i have to do.' accordingly, they fared on and came, after some days, to antioch, where giosefo kept melisso with him, that he might rest himself a day or two, and being scurvily enough received of his wife, he bade her prepare supper according as melisso should ordain; whereof the latter, seeing that it was his friend's pleasure, acquitted himself in a few words. the lady, as her usance had been in the past, did not as melisso had ordained, but well nigh altogether the contrary; which giosefo seeing, he was vexed and said, 'was it not told thee on what wise thou shouldst prepare the supper?' the lady, turning round haughtily, answered, 'what meaneth this? good lack, why dost thou not sup, an thou have a mind to sup? an if it were told me otherwise, it seemed good to me to do thus. if it please thee, so be it; if not, leave it be.' melisso marvelled at the lady's answer and blamed her exceedingly; whilst giosefo, hearing this, said, 'wife, thou art still what thou wast wont to be; but, trust me, i will make thee change thy fashion.' then turning to melisso, 'friend,' said he, 'we shall soon see what manner of counsel was solomon's; but i prithee let it not irk thee to stand to see it and hold that which i shall do for a sport. and that thou mayest not hinder me, bethink thee of the answer the muleteer made us, when we pitied his mule.' quoth melisso, 'i am in thy house, where i purpose not to depart from thy good pleasure.' giosefo then took a round stick, made of a young oak, and repaired a chamber, whither the lady, having arisen from table for despite, had betaken herself, grumbling; then, laying hold of her by the hair, he threw her down at his feet and proceeded to give her a sore beating with the stick. the lady at first cried out and after fell to threats; but, seeing that giosefo for all that stinted not and being by this time all bruised, she began to cry him mercy for god's sake and besought him not to kill her, declaring that she would never more depart from his pleasure. nevertheless, he held not his hand; nay, he continued to baste her more furiously than ever on all her seams, belabouring her amain now on the ribs, now on the haunches and now about the shoulder, nor stinted till he was weary and there was not a place left unbruised on the good lady's back. this done, he returned to his friend and said to him, 'to-morrow we shall see what will be the issue of the counsel to go to goosebridge.' then, after he had rested awhile and they had washed their hands, he supped with melisso and in due season they betook themselves to bed. meanwhile the wretched lady arose with great pain from the ground and casting herself on the bed, there rested as best she might until the morning, when she arose betimes and let ask giosefo what he would have dressed for dinner. the latter, making merry over this with melisso, appointed it in due course, and after, whenas it was time, returning, they found everything excellently well done and in accordance with the ordinance given; wherefore they mightily commended the counsel at first so ill apprehended of them. after some days, melisso took leave of giosefo and returning to his own house, told one, who was a man of understanding, the answer he had had from solomon; whereupon quoth the other, 'he could have given thee no truer nor better counsel. thou knowest thou lovest no one, and the honours and services thou renderest others, thou dost not for love that thou bearest them, but for pomp and ostentation. love, then, as solomon bade thee, and thou shalt be loved.' on this wise, then, was the froward wife corrected and the young man, loving, was beloved." the tenth story [day the ninth] dom gianni, at the instance of his gossip pietro, performeth a conjuration for the purpose of causing the latter's wife to become a mare; but, whenas he cometh to put on the tail, pietro marreth the whole conjuration, saying that he will not have a tail the queen's story made the young men laugh and gave rise to some murmurs on the part of the ladies; then, as soon as the latter were quiet, dioneo began to speak thus, "sprightly ladies, a black crow amongst a multitude of white doves addeth more beauty than would a snow-white swan, and in like manner among many sages one less wise is not only an augmentation of splendour and goodliness to their maturity, but eke a source of diversion and solace. wherefore, you ladies being all exceeding discreet and modest, i, who savour somewhat of the scatterbrain, should be dearer to you, causing, as i do, your worth to shine the brightlier for my default, than if with my greater merit i made this of yours wax dimmer; and consequently, i should have larger license to show you myself such as i am and should more patiently be suffered of you, in saying that which i shall say, than if i were wiser. i will, therefore, tell you a story not overlong, whereby you may apprehend how diligently it behoveth to observe the conditions imposed by those who do aught by means of enchantment and how slight a default thereof sufficeth to mar everything done by the magician. a year or two agone there was at barletta a priest called dom gianni di barolo, who, for that he had but a poor cure, took to eking out his livelihood by hawking merchandise hither and thither about the fairs of apulia with a mare of his and buying and selling. in the course of his travels he contracted a strait friendship with one who styled himself pietro da tresanti and plied the same trade with the aid of an ass he had. in token of friendship and affection, he called him still gossip pietro, after the apulian fashion, and whenassoever he visited barletta, he carried him to his parsonage and there lodged him with himself and entertained him to the best of his power. gossip pietro, on his part, albeit he was very poor and had but a sorry little house at tresanti, scarce sufficing for himself and a young and buxom wife he had and his ass, as often as dom gianni came to tresanti, carried him home with him and entertained him as best he might, in requital of the hospitality received from him at barletta. nevertheless, in the matter of lodging, having but one sorry little bed, in which he slept with his handsome wife, he could not entertain him as he would, but, dom gianni's mare being lodged with pietro's ass in a little stable he had, needs must the priest himself lie by her side on a truss of straw. the goodwife, knowing the hospitality which the latter did her husband at barletta, would more than once, whenas the priest came thither, have gone to lie with a neighbor of hers, by name zita caraprese, [daughter] of giudice leo, so he might sleep in the bed with her husband, and had many a time proposed it to dom gianni, but he would never hear of it; and once, amongst other times, he said to her, 'gossip gemmata, fret not thyself for me; i fare very well, for that, whenas it pleaseth me, i cause this mare of mine become a handsome wench and couch with her, and after, when i will, i change her into a mare again; wherefore i care not to part from her.' the young woman marvelled, but believed his tale and told her husband, saying, 'if he is so much thy friend as thou sayest, why dost thou not make him teach thee his charm, so thou mayst avail to make of me a mare and do thine affairs with the ass and the mare? so should we gain two for one; and when we were back at home, thou couldst make me a woman again, as i am.' pietro, who was somewhat dull of wit, believed what she said and falling in with her counsel, began, as best he knew, to importune dom gianni to teach him the trick. the latter did his best to cure him of that folly, but availing not thereto, he said, 'harkye, since you will e'en have it so, we will arise to-morrow morning before day, as of our wont, and i will show you how it is done. to tell thee the truth, the uneathest part of the matter is the putting on of the tail, as thou shalt see.' accordingly, whenas it drew near unto day, goodman pietro and gossip gemmata, who had scarce slept that night, with such impatience did they await the accomplishment of the matter, arose and called dom gianni, who, arising in his shirt, betook himself to pietro's little chamber and said to him, 'i know none in the world, except you, for whom i would do this; wherefore since it pleaseth you, i will e'en do it; but needs must you do as i shall bid you, an you would have the thing succeed.' they answered that they would do that which he should say; whereupon, taking the light, he put it into pietro's hand and said to him, 'mark how i shall do and keep well in mind that which i shall say. above all, have a care, an thou wouldst not mar everything, that, whatsoever thou hearest or seest, thou say not a single word, and pray god that the tail may stick fast.' pietro took the light, promising to do exactly as he said, whereupon dom gianni let strip gemmata naked as she was born and caused her stand on all fours, mare-fashion, enjoining herself likewise not to utter a word for aught that should betide. then, passing his hand over her face and her head, he proceeded to say, 'be this a fine mare's head,' and touching her hair, said, 'be this a fine mare's mane'; after which he touched her arms, saying, 'be these fine mare's legs and feet,' and coming presently to her breast and finding it round and firm, such an one awoke that was not called and started up on end,[ ] whereupon quoth he, 'be this a fine mare's chest.' and on like wise he did with her back and belly and crupper and thighs and legs. ultimately, nothing remaining to do but the tail, he pulled up his shirt and taking the dibble with which he planted men, he thrust it hastily into the furrow made therefor and said, 'and be this a fine mare's tail.' [footnote : _i.e._ arrectus est penis ejus.] pietro, who had thitherto watched everything intently, seeing this last proceeding and himseeming it was ill done, said, 'ho there, dom gianni, i won't have a tail there, i won't have a tail there!' the radical moisture, wherewith all plants are made fast, was by this come, and dom gianni drew it forth, saying, 'alack, gossip pietro, what hast thou done? did i not bid thee say not a word for aught that thou shouldst see? the mare was all made; but thou hast marred everything by talking, nor is there any means of doing it over again henceforth.' quoth pietro, 'marry, i did not want that tail there. why did you not say to me, "make it thou"? more by token that you were for setting it too low.' 'because,' answered dom gianni, 'thou hadst not known for the first time to set it on so well as i.' the young woman, hearing all this, stood up and said to her husband, in all good faith, 'dolt that thou art, why hast thou marred thine affairs and mine? what mare sawest thou ever without a tail? so god aid me, thou art poor, but it would serve thee right, wert thou much poorer.' then, there being now, by reason of the words that pietro had spoken, no longer any means of making a mare of the young woman, she donned her clothes, woebegone and disconsolate, and pietro, continuing to ply his old trade with an ass, as he was used, betook himself, in company with dom gianni, to the bitonto fair, nor ever again required him of such a service." * * * * * how much the company laughed at this story, which was better understood of the ladies than dioneo willed, let her who shall yet laugh thereat imagine for herself. but, the day's stories being now ended and the sun beginning to abate of its heat, the queen, knowing the end of her seignory to be come, rose to her feet and putting off the crown, set it on the head of pamfilo, whom alone it remained to honour after such a fashion, and said, smiling, "my lord, there devolveth on thee a great burden, inasmuch as with thee it resteth, thou being the last, to make amends for my default and that of those who have foregone me in the dignity which thou presently holdest; whereof god lend thee grace, even as he hath vouchsafed it unto me to make thee king." pamfilo blithely received the honour done him and answered, "your merit and that of my other subjects will do on such wise that i shall be adjudged deserving of commendation, even as the others have been." then, having, according to the usance of his predecessors, taken order with the seneschal of the things that were needful, he turned to the expectant ladies and said to them, "lovesome ladies, it was the pleasure of emilia, who hath this day been our queen, to give you, for the purpose of affording some rest to your powers, license to discourse of that which should most please you; wherefore, you being now rested, i hold it well to return to the wonted ordinance, and accordingly i will that each of you bethink herself to discourse to-morrow of this, to wit, of whoso hath anywise wrought generously or magnificently in matters of love or otherwhat. the telling and doing of these things will doubtless fire your well-disposed minds to do worthily; so will our life, which may not be other than brief in this mortal body, be made perpetual in laudatory renown; a thing which all, who serve not the belly only, as do the beasts, should not only desire, but with all diligence seek and endeavour after." the theme pleased the joyous company, who having all, with the new king's license, arisen from session, gave themselves to their wonted diversions, according to that unto which each was most drawn by desire; and on this wise they did until the hour of supper, whereunto they came joyously and were served with diligence and fair ordinance. supper at an end, they arose to the wonted dances, and after they had sung a thousand canzonets, more diverting of words than masterly of music, the king bade neifile sing one in her own name; whereupon, with clear and blithesome voice, she cheerfully and without delay began thus: a youngling maid am i and full of glee, am fain to carol in the new-blown may, love and sweet thoughts-a-mercy, blithe and free. i go about the meads, considering the vermeil flowers and golden and the white, roses thorn-set and lilies snowy-bright, and one and all i fare a-likening unto his face who hath with love-liking ta'en and will hold me ever, having aye none other wish than as his pleasures be; whereof when one i find me that doth show, unto my seeming, likest him, full fain i cull and kiss and talk with it amain and all my heart to it, as best i know, discover, with its store of wish and woe, then it with others in a wreath i lay, bound with my hair so golden-bright of blee. ay, and that pleasure which the eye doth prove, by nature, of the flower's view, like delight doth give me as i saw the very wight who hath inflamed me of his dulcet love, and what its scent thereover and above worketh in me, no words indeed can say; but sighs thereof bear witness true for me, the which from out my bosom day nor night ne'er, as with other ladies, fierce and wild, storm up; nay, thence they issue warm and mild and straight betake them to my loved one's sight, who, hearing, moveth of himself, delight to give me; ay, and when i'm like to say "ah come, lest i despair," still cometh he. neifile's canzonet was much commended both of the king and of the other ladies; after which, for that a great part of the night was now spent, the king commanded that all should betake themselves to rest until the day. here endeth the ninth day of the decameron _day the tenth_ here beginneth the tenth and last day of the decameron wherein under the governance of pamfilo is discoursed of whoso hath anywise wrought generously or magnificently in matters of love or otherwhat certain cloudlets in the west were yet vermeil, what time those of the east were already at their marges grown lucent like unto very gold, when pamfilo, arising, let call his comrades and the ladies, who being all come, he took counsel with them of whither they should go for their diversion and fared forth with slow step, accompanied by filomena and fiammetta, whilst all the others followed after. on this wise, devising and telling and answering many things of their future life together, they went a great while a-pleasuring; then, having made a pretty long circuit and the sun beginning to wax overhot, they returned to the palace. there they let rinse the beakers in the clear fountain and whoso would drank somewhat; after which they went frolicking among the pleasant shades of the garden until the eating-hour. then, having eaten and slept, as of their wont, they assembled whereas it pleased the king and there he called upon neifile for the first discourse, who blithely began thus: the first story [day the tenth] a knight in the king's service of spain thinking himself ill guerdoned, the king by very certain proof showeth him that this is not his fault, but that of his own perverse fortune, and after largesseth him magnificently "needs, honourable ladies, must i repute it a singular favour to myself that our king hath preferred me unto such an honour as it is to be the first to tell of magnificence, the which, even as the sun is the glory and adornment of all the heaven, is the light and lustre of every other virtue. i will, therefore, tell you a little story thereof, quaint and pleasant enough to my thinking, which to recall can certes be none other than useful. you must know, then, that, among the other gallant gentlemen who have from time immemorial graced our city, there was one (and maybe the most of worth) by name messer ruggieri de' figiovanni, who, being both rich and high-spirited and seeing that, in view of the way of living and of the usages of tuscany, he might, if he tarried there, avail to display little or nothing of his merit, resolved to seek service awhile with alfonso, king of spain, the renown of whose valiance transcended that of every other prince of his time; wherefore he betook himself, very honourably furnished with arms and horses and followers, to alfonso in spain and was by him graciously received. accordingly, he took up his abode there and living splendidly and doing marvellous deeds of arms, he very soon made himself known for a man of worth and valour. when he had sojourned there a pretty while and had taken particular note of the king's fashions, himseemed he bestowed castles and cities and baronies now upon one and now upon another with little enough discretion, as giving them to those who were unworthy thereof, and for that to him, who held himself for that which he was, nothing was given, he conceived that his repute would be much abated by reason thereof; wherefore he determined to depart and craved leave of the king. the latter granted him the leave he sought and gave him one of the best and finest mules that ever was ridden, the which, for the long journey he had to make, was very acceptable to messer ruggieri. moreover, he charged a discreet servant of his that he should study, by such means as seemed to him best, to ride with messer ruggieri on such wise that he should not appear to have been sent by the king, and note everything he should say of him, so as he might avail to repeat it to him, and that on the ensuing morning he should command him return to the court. accordingly, the servant, lying in wait for messer ruggieri's departure, accosted him, as he came forth the city, and very aptly joined company with him, giving him to understand that he also was bound for italy. messer ruggieri, then, fared on, riding the mule given him by the king and devising of one thing and another with the latter's servant, till hard upon tierce, when he said, 'methinketh it were well done to let our beasts stale.' accordingly, they put them up in a stable and they all staled, except the mule; then they rode on again, whilst the squire still took note of the gentleman's words, and came presently to a river, where, as they watered their cattle, the mule staled in the stream; which messer ruggieri seeing, 'marry,' quoth he, 'god confound thee, beast, for that thou art made after the same fashion as the prince who gave thee to me!' the squire noted these words and albeit he took store of many others, as he journeyed with him all that day, he heard him say nought else but what was to the highest praise of the king. next morning, they being mounted and ruggieri offering to ride towards tuscany, the squire imparted to him the king's commandment, whereupon he incontinent turned back. when he arrived at court, the king, learning what he had said of the mule, let call him to himself and receiving him with a cheerful favour, asked him why he had likened him to his mule, or rather why he had likened the mule to him. 'my lord,' replied ruggieri frankly, 'i likened her to you for that, like as you give whereas it behoveth not and give not whereas it behoveth, even so she staled not whereas it behoved, but staled whereas it behoved not.' then said the king, 'messer ruggieri, if i have not given to you, as i have given unto many who are of no account in comparison with you, it happened not because i knew you not for a most valiant cavalier and worthy of every great gift; nay, but it is your fortune, which hath not suffered me guerdon you according to your deserts, that hath sinned in this, and not i; and that i may say sooth i will manifestly prove to you.' 'my lord,' replied ruggieri, 'i was not chagrined because i have gotten no largesse of you, for that i desire not to be richer than i am, but because you have on no wise borne witness to my merit. natheless, i hold your excuse for good and honourable and am ready to see that which it shall please you show me, albeit i believe you without proof.' the king then carried him into a great hall of his, where, as he had ordered it beforehand, were two great locked coffers, and said to him, in presence of many, 'messer ruggieri, in one of these coffers is my crown, the royal sceptre and the orb, together with many goodly girdles and ouches and rings of mine, and in fine every precious jewel i have; and the other is full of earth. take, then, one and be that which you shall take yours; and you may thus see whether of the twain hath been ungrateful to your worth, myself of your ill fortune.' messer ruggieri, seeing that it was the king's pleasure, took one of the coffers, which, being opened by alfonso's commandment, was found to be that which was full of earth; whereupon quoth the king, laughing, 'now can you see, messer ruggieri, that this that i tell you of your fortune is true; but certes your worth meriteth that i should oppose myself to her might. i know you have no mind to turn spaniard and therefore i will bestow upon you neither castle nor city in these parts; but this coffer, of which fortune deprived you, i will in her despite shall be yours, so you may carry it off to your own country and justly glorify yourself of your worth in the sight of your countrymen by the witness of my gifts.' messer ruggieri accordingly took the coffer and having rendered the king those thanks which sorted with such a gift, joyfully returned therewith to tuscany." the second story [day the tenth] ghino di tacco taketh the abbot of cluny and having cured him of the stomach-complaint, letteth him go; whereupon the abbot, returning to the court of rome, reconcileth him with pope boniface and maketh him a prior of the hospitallers the magnificence shown by king alfonso to the florentine cavalier having been duly commended, the king, who had been mightily pleased therewith, enjoined elisa to follow on, and she straightway began thus: "dainty dames, it cannot be denied that for a king to be munificent and to have shown his munificence to him who had served him is a great and a praiseworthy thing; but what shall we say if a churchman be related to have practised marvellous magnanimity towards one, whom if he had used as an enemy, he had of none been blamed therefor? certes, we can say none otherwise than that the king's magnificence was a virtue, whilst that of the churchman was a miracle, inasmuch as the clergy are all exceeding niggardly, nay, far more so than women, and sworn enemies of all manner of liberality; and albeit all men naturally hunger after vengeance for affronts received, we see churchmen, for all they preach patience and especially commend the remission of offences, pursue it more eagerly than other folk. this, then, to wit, how a churchman was magnanimous, you may manifestly learn from the following story of mine. ghino di tacco, a man very famous for his cruelty and his robberies, being expelled [transcriber's note: missing 'from'] siena and at feud with the counts of santa fiore, raised radicofani against the church of rome and taking up his sojourn there, caused his swashbucklers despoil whosoever passed through the surrounding country. now, boniface the eighth being pope in rome, there came to court the abbot of cluny, who is believed to be one of the richest prelates in the world, and having there marred his stomach, he was advised by the physicians to repair to the baths of siena and he would without fail be cured. accordingly, having gotten the pope's leave, he set out on his way thither in great pomp of gear and baggage and horses and servitors, unrecking of ghino's [ill] report. the latter, hearing of his coming, spread his nets and hemmed him and all his household and gear about in a strait place, without letting a single footboy escape. this done, he despatched to the abbot one, the most sufficient, of his men, well accompanied, who in his name very lovingly prayed him be pleased to light down and sojourn with the aforesaid ghino in his castle. the abbot, hearing this, answered furiously that he would nowise do it, having nought to do with ghino, but that he would fare on and would fain see who should forbid his passage. whereto quoth the messenger on humble wise, 'sir, you are come into parts where, barring god his might, there is nothing to fear for us and where excommunications and interdicts are all excommunicated; wherefore, may it please you, you were best comply with ghino in this.' during this parley, the whole place had been encompassed about with men-at-arms; wherefore the abbot, seeing himself taken with his men, betook himself, sore against his will, to the castle, in company with the ambassador, and with him all his household and gear, and alighting there, was, by ghino's orders, lodged all alone in a very dark and mean little chamber in one of the pavilions, whilst every one else was well enough accommodated, according to his quality, about the castle and the horses and all the gear put in safety, without aught thereof being touched. this done, ghino betook himself to the abbot and said to him, 'sir, ghino, whose guest you are, sendeth to you, praying you acquaint him whither you are bound and on what occasion.' the abbot, like a wise man, had by this laid by his pride and told him whither he went and why. ghino, hearing this, took his leave and bethought himself to go about to cure him without baths. accordingly, he let keep a great fire still burning in the little room and causing guard the place well, returned not to the abbot till the following morning, when he brought him, in a very white napkin, two slices of toasted bread and a great beaker of his own corniglia vernage[ ] and bespoke him thus, 'sir, when ghino was young, he studied medicine and saith that he learned there was no better remedy for the stomach-complaint than that which he purposeth to apply to you and of which these things that i bring you are the beginning; wherefore do you take them and refresh yourself.' [footnote : see p. , note.] the abbot, whose hunger was greater than his desire to bandy words, ate the bread and drank the wine, though he did it with an ill will, and after made many haughty speeches, asking and counselling of many things and demanding in particular to see ghino. the latter, hearing this talk, let part of it pass as idle and answered the rest very courteously, avouching that ghino would visit him as quickliest he might. this said, he took his leave of him and returned not until the ensuing day, when he brought him as much toasted bread and as much malmsey; and so he kept him several days, till such time as he perceived that he had eaten some dried beans, which he had of intent aforethought brought secretly thither and left there; whereupon he asked him, on ghino's part, how he found himself about the stomach. the abbot answered, 'meseemeth i should fare well, were i but out of his hands; and after that, i have no greater desire than to eat, so well have his remedies cured me.' thereupon ghino caused the abbot's own people array him a goodly chamber with his own gear and let make ready a magnificent banquet, to which he bade the prelate's whole household, together with many folk of the burgh. next morning, he betook himself to the abbot and said to him, 'sir, since you feel yourself well, it is time to leave the infirmary.' then, taking him by the hand, he brought him to the chamber prepared for him and leaving him there in company of his own people, occupied himself with caring that the banquet should be a magnificent one. the abbot solaced himself awhile with his men and told them what his life had been since his capture, whilst they, on the other hand, avouched themselves all to have been wonder-well entreated of ghino. the eating-hour come, the abbot and the rest were well and orderly served with goodly viands and fine wines, without ghino yet letting himself be known of the prelate; but, after the latter had abidden some days on this wise, the outlaw, having let bring all his gear into one saloon and all his horses, down to the sorriest rouncey, into a courtyard that was under the windows thereof, betook himself to him and asked him how he did and if he deemed himself strong enough to take horse. the abbot answered that he was strong enough and quite recovered of his stomach-complaint and that he should fare perfectly well, once he should be out of ghino's hands. ghino then brought him into the saloon, wherein was his gear and all his train, and carrying him to a window, whence he might see all his horses, said, 'my lord abbot, you must know that it was the being a gentleman and expelled from his house and poor and having many and puissant enemies, and not evilness of mind, that brought ghino di tacco (who is none other than myself) to be, for the defence of his life and his nobility, a highway-robber and an enemy of the court of rome. nevertheless, for that you seem to me a worthy gentleman, i purpose not, now that i have cured you of your stomach-complaint, to use you as i would another, from whom, he being in my hands as you are, i would take for myself such part of his goods as seemed well to me; nay, it is my intent that you, having regard to my need, shall appoint to me such part of your good as you yourself will. it is all here before you in its entirety and your horses you may from this window see in the courtyard; take, therefore, both part and all, as it pleaseth you, and from this time forth be it at your pleasure to go or to stay.' the abbot marvelled to hear such generous words from a highway-robber and was exceeding well pleased therewith, insomuch that, his anger and despite being of a sudden fallen, nay, changed into goodwill, he became ghino's hearty friend and ran to embrace him, saying, 'i vow to god that, to gain the friendship of a man such as i presently judge thee to be, i would gladly consent to suffer a far greater affront than that which meseemed but now thou hadst done me. accursed be fortune that constrained thee to so damnable a trade!' then, letting take of his many goods but a very few necessary things, and the like of his horses, he left all the rest to ghino and returned to rome. the pope had had news of the taking of the abbot and albeit it had given him sore concern, he asked him, when he saw him, how the baths had profited him; whereto he replied, smiling, 'holy father, i found a worthy physician nearer than at the baths, who hath excellently well cured me'; and told him how, whereat the pope laughed, and the abbot, following on his speech and moved by a magnanimous spirit, craved a boon of him. the pope, thinking he would demand otherwhat, freely offered to do that which he should ask; and the abbot said, 'holy father, that which i mean to ask of you is that you restore your favour to ghino di tacco, my physician, for that, of all the men of worth and high account whom i ever knew, he is certes one of the most deserving; and for this ill that he doth, i hold it much more fortune's fault than his; the which[ ] if you change by bestowing on him somewhat whereby he may live according to his condition, i doubt not anywise but you will, in brief space of time, deem of him even as i do.' the pope, who was great of soul and a lover of men of worth, hearing this, replied that he would gladly do it, an ghino were indeed of such account as the abbot avouched, and bade the latter cause him come thither in all security. accordingly, ghino, at the abbot's instance, came to court, upon that assurance, nor had he been long about the pope's person ere the latter reputed him a man of worth and taking him into favour, bestowed on him a grand priory of those of the hospitallers, having first let make him a knight of that order; which office he held whilst he lived, still approving himself a loyal friend and servant of holy church and of the abbot of cluny." [footnote : _i.e._ fortune.] the third story [day the tenth] mithridanes, envying nathan his hospitality and generosity and going to kill him, falleth in with himself, without knowing him, and is by him instructed of the course he shall take to accomplish his purpose; by means whereof he findeth him, as he himself had ordered it, in a coppice and recognizing him, is ashamed and becometh his friend themseemed all they had heard what was like unto a miracle, to wit, that a churchman should have wrought anywhat magnificently; but, as soon as the ladies had left discoursing thereof, the king bade filostrato proceed, who forthright began, "noble ladies, great was the magnificence of the king of spain and that of the abbot of cluny a thing belike never yet heard of; but maybe it will seem to you no less marvellous a thing to hear how a man, that he might do generosity to another who thirsted for his blood, nay, for the very breath of his nostrils, privily bethought himself to give them to him, ay, and would have done it, had the other willed to take them, even as i purpose to show you in a little story of mine. it is a very certain thing (if credit may be given to the report of divers genoese and others who have been in those countries) that there was aforetime in the parts of cattajo[ ] a man of noble lineage and rich beyond compare, called nathan, who, having an estate adjoining a highway whereby as of necessity passed all who sought to go from the ponant to the levant or from the levant to the ponant, and being a man of great and generous soul and desirous that it should be known by his works, assembled a great multitude of artificers and let build there, in a little space of time, one of the fairest and greatest and richest palaces that had ever been seen, the which he caused excellently well furnished with all that was apt unto the reception and entertainment of gentlemen. then, having a great and goodly household, he there received and honourably entertained, with joyance and good cheer, whosoever came and went; and in this praiseworthy usance he persevered insomuch that not only the levant, but well nigh all the ponant, knew him by report. he was already full of years nor was therefore grown weary of the practice of hospitality, when it chanced that his fame reached the ears of a young man of a country not far from his own, by name mithridanes, who, knowing himself no less rich than nathan and waxing envious of his renown and his virtues, bethought himself to eclipse or shadow them with greater liberality. accordingly, letting build a palace like unto that of nathan, he proceeded to do the most unbounded courtesies[ ] that ever any did whosoever came or went about those parts, and in a short time he became without doubt very famous. [footnote : _cattajo._ this word is usually translated cathay, _i.e._ china; but _semble_ boccaccio meant rather the dalmatian province of cattaro, which would better answer the description in the text, nathan's estate being described as adjoining a highway leading from the ponant (or western shores of the mediterranean) to the levant (or eastern shores), _e.g._ the road from cattaro on the adriatic to salonica on the Ægean. cathay (china) seems, from the circumstances of the case, out of the question, as is also the italian town called cattaio, near padua.] [footnote : _i.e._ to show the most extravagant hospitality.] it chanced one day that, as he abode all alone in the midcourt of his palace, there came in, by one of the gates, a poor woman, who sought of him an alms and had it; then, coming in again to him by the second, she had of him another alms, and so on for twelve times in succession; but, whenas she returned for the thirteenth time, he said to her, 'good woman, thou art very diligent in this thine asking,' and natheless gave her an alms. the old crone, hearing these words, exclaimed, 'o liberality of nathan, how marvellous art thou! for that, entering in by each of the two-and-thirty gates which his palace hath, and asking of him an alms, never, for all that he showed, was i recognized of him, and still i had it; whilst here, having as yet come in but at thirteen gates, i have been both recognized and chidden.' so saying, she went her ways and returned thither no more. mithridanes, hearing the old woman's words, flamed up into a furious rage, as he who held that which he heard of nathan's fame a diminishment of his own, and fell to saying, 'alack, woe is me! when shall i attain to nathan's liberality in great things, let alone overpass it, as i seek to do, seeing that i cannot approach him in the smallest? verily, i weary myself in vain, an i remove him not from the earth; wherefore, since eld carrieth him not off, needs must i with mine own hands do it without delay.' accordingly, rising upon that motion, he took horse with a small company, without communicating his design to any, and came after three days whereas nathan abode. he arrived there at eventide and bidding his followers make a show of not being with him and provide themselves with lodging, against they should hear farther from him, abode alone at no great distance from the fair palace, where he found nathan all unattended, as he went walking for his diversion, without any pomp of apparel, and knowing him not, asked him if he could inform him where nathan dwelt. 'my son,' answered the latter cheerfully, 'there is none in these parts who is better able than i to show thee that; wherefore, whenas it pleaseth thee, i will carry thee thither.' mithridanes rejoined that this would be very acceptable to him, but that, an it might be, he would fain be neither seen nor known of nathan; and the latter said, 'that also will i do, since it pleaseth thee.' mithridanes accordingly dismounted and repaired to the goodly palace, in company with nathan, who quickly engaged him in most pleasant discourse. there he caused one of his servants take the young man's horse and putting his mouth to his ear, charged him take order with all those of the house, so none should tell the youth that he was nathan; and so was it done. moreover, he lodged him in a very goodly chamber, where none saw him, save those whom he had deputed to this service, and let entertain him with the utmost honour, himself bearing him company. after mithridanes had abidden with him awhile on this wise, he asked him (albeit he held him in reverence as a father) who he was; to which nathan answered, 'i am an unworthy servant of nathan, who have grown old with him from my childhood, nor hath he ever advanced me to otherwhat than that which thou seest me; wherefore, albeit every one else is mighty well pleased with him, i for my part have little cause to thank him.' these words afforded mithridanes some hope of availing with more certitude and more safety to give effect to his perverse design, and nathan very courteously asking him who he was and what occasion brought him into those parts and proffering him his advice and assistance insomuch as lay in his power, he hesitated awhile to reply, but, presently, resolving to trust himself to him, he with a long circuit of words[ ] required him first of secrecy and after of aid and counsel and entirely discovered to him who he was and wherefore and on what motion he came. nathan, hearing his discourse and his cruel design, was inwardly all disordered; but nevertheless, without much hesitation, he answered him with an undaunted mind and a firm countenance, saying, 'mithridanes, thy father was a noble man and thou showest thyself minded not to degenerate from him, in having entered upon so high an emprise as this thou hast undertaken, to wit, to be liberal unto all; and greatly do i commend the jealousy thou bearest unto nathan's virtues, for that, were there many such,[ ] the world, that is most wretched, would soon become good. the design that thou hast discovered to me i will without fail keep secret; but for the accomplishment thereof i can rather give thee useful counsel than great help; the which is this. thou mayst from here see a coppice, maybe half a mile hence, wherein nathan well nigh every morning walketh all alone, taking his pleasure there a pretty long while; and there it will be a light matter to thee to find him and do thy will of him. if thou slay him, thou must, so thou mayst return home without hindrance, get thee gone, not by that way thou camest, but by that which thou wilt see issue forth of the coppice on the left hand, for that, albeit it is somewhat wilder, it is nearer to thy country and safer for thee.' [footnote : or as we should say, "after much beating about the bush."] [footnote : _i.e._ jealousies.] mithridanes, having received this information and nathan having taken leave of him, privily let his companions, who had, like himself, taken up their sojourn in the palace, know where they should look for him on the morrow; and the new day came, nathan, whose intent was nowise at variance with the counsel he had given mithridanes nor was anywise changed, betook himself alone to the coppice, there to die. meanwhile, mithridanes arose and taking his bow and his sword, for other arms he had not, mounted to horse and made for the coppice, where he saw nathan from afar go walking all alone. being resolved, ere he attacked him, to seek to see him and hear him speak, he ran towards him and seizing him by the fillet he had about his head, said, 'old man, thou art dead.' whereto nathan answered no otherwhat than, 'then have i merited it.' mithridanes, hearing his voice and looking him in the face, knew him forthright for him who had so lovingly received him and familiarly companied with him and faithfully counselled him; whereupon his fury incontinent subsided and his rage was changed into shame. accordingly, casting away the sword, which he had already pulled out to smite him, and lighting down from his horse, he ran, weeping, to throw himself at nathan's feet and said to him, 'now, dearest father, do i manifestly recognize your liberality, considering with what secrecy you are come hither to give me your life, whereof, without any reason, i showed myself desirous, and that to yourself; but god, more careful of mine honour than i myself, hath, in the extremest hour of need, opened the eyes of my understanding, which vile envy had closed. wherefore, the readier you have been to comply with me, so much the more do i confess myself beholden to do penance for my default. take, then, of me the vengeance which you deem conformable to my sin.' nathan raised mithridanes to his feet and tenderly embraced and kissed him, saying, 'my son, it needeth not that thou shouldst ask nor that i should grant forgiveness of thine emprise, whatever thou choosest to style it, whether wicked or otherwise; for that thou pursuedst it, not of hatred, but to win to be held better. live, then, secure from me and be assured that there is no man alive who loveth thee as i do, having regard to the loftiness of thy soul, which hath given itself, not to the amassing of monies, as do the covetous, but to the expenditure of those that have been amassed. neither be thou ashamed of having sought to slay me, so though mightest become famous, nor think that i marvel thereat. the greatest emperors and the most illustrious kings have, with well nigh none other art than that of slaying, not one man, as thou wouldst have done, but an infinite multitude of men, and burning countries and razing cities, enlarged their realms and consequently their fame; wherefore, an thou wouldst, to make thyself more famous, have slain me only, thou diddest no new nor extraordinary thing, but one much used.' mithridanes, without holding himself excused of his perverse design, commended the honourable excuse found by nathan and came, in course of converse with him, to say that he marvelled beyond measure how he could have brought himself to meet his death and have gone so far as even to give him means and counsel to that end; whereto quoth nathan, 'mithridanes, i would not have thee marvel at my resolution nor at the counsel i gave thee, for that, since i have been mine own master and have addressed myself to do that same thing which thou hast undertaken to do, there came never any to my house but i contented him, so far as in me lay, of that which was required of me by him. thou camest hither, desirous of my life; wherefore, learning that thou soughtest it, i straightway determined to give it thee, so thou mightest not be the only one to depart hence without his wish; and in order that thou mightest have thy desire, i gave thee such counsel as i thought apt to enable thee to have my life and not lose thine own; and therefore i tell thee once more and pray thee, an it please thee, take it and satisfy thyself thereof. i know not how i may better bestow it. these fourscore years have i occupied it and used it about my pleasures and my diversions, and i know that in the course of nature, according as it fareth with other men and with things in general, it can now be left me but a little while longer; wherefore i hold it far better to bestow it by way of gift, like as i have still given and expended my [other] treasures, than to seek to keep it until such times as it shall be taken from me by nature against my will. to give an hundred years is no great boon; how much less, then, is it to give the six or eight i have yet to abide here? take it, then, an it like thee. prithee, then, take it, an thou have a mind thereto; for that never yet, what while i have lived here, have i found any who hath desired it, nor know i when i may find any such, an thou, who demandest it, take it not. and even should i chance to find any one, i know that, the longer i keep it, the less worth will it be; therefore, ere it wax sorrier, take it, i beseech thee.' mithridanes was sore abashed and replied, 'god forbid i should, let alone take and sever from you a thing of such price as your life, but even desire to do so, as but late i did,--your life, whose years far from seeking to lessen, i would willingly add thereto of mine own!' whereto nathan straightway rejoined, 'and art thou indeed willing, it being in thy power to do it, to add of thy years unto mine and in so doing, to cause me do for thee that which i never yet did for any man, to wit, take of thy good, i who never yet took aught of others?' 'ay am i,' answered mithridanes in haste. 'then,' said nathan, 'thou must do as i shall bid thee. thou shalt take up thine abode, young as thou art, here in my house and bear the name of nathan, whilst i will betake myself to thy house and let still call myself mithridanes.' quoth mithridanes, 'an i knew how to do as well as you have done and do, i would, without hesitation, take that which you proffer me; but, since meseemeth very certain that my actions would be a diminishment of nathan's fame and as i purpose not to mar in another that which i know not how to order in myself, i will not take it.' these and many other courteous discourses having passed between them, they returned, at nathan's instance, to the latter's palace, where he entertained mithridanes with the utmost honour sundry days, heartening him in his great and noble purpose with all manner of wit and wisdom. then, mithridanes desiring to return to his own house with his company, he dismissed him, having throughly given him to know that he might never avail to outdo him in liberality." the fourth story [day the tenth] messer gentile de' carisendi, coming from modona, taketh forth of the sepulchre a lady whom he loveth and who hath been buried for dead. the lady, restored to life, beareth a male child and messer gentile restoreth her and her son to niccoluccio caccianimico, her husband it seemed to all a marvellous thing that a man should be lavish of his own blood and they declared nathan's liberality to have verily transcended that of the king of spain and the abbot of cluny. but, after enough to one and the other effect had been said thereof, the king, looking towards lauretta, signed to her that he would have her tell, whereupon she straightway began, "young ladies, magnificent and goodly are the things that have been recounted, nor meseemeth is there aught left unto us who have yet to tell, wherethrough we may range a story-telling, so throughly have they all[ ] been occupied with the loftiness of the magnificences related, except we have recourse to the affairs of love, which latter afford a great abundance of matter for discourse on every subject; wherefore, at once on this account and for that the theme is one to which our age must needs especially incline us, it pleaseth me to relate to you an act of magnanimity done by a lover, which, all things considered, will peradventure appear to you nowise inferior to any of those already set forth, if it be true that treasures are lavished, enmities forgotten and life itself, nay, what is far more, honour and renown, exposed to a thousand perils, so we may avail to possess the thing beloved. [footnote : _i.e._ all sections of the given theme.] there was, then, in bologna, a very noble city of lombardy, a gentleman very notable for virtue and nobility of blood, called messer gentile carisendi, who, being young, became enamoured of a noble lady called madam catalina, the wife of one niccoluccio caccianimico; and for that he was ill repaid of his love by the lady, being named provost of modona, he betook himself thither, as in despair of her. meanwhile, niccoluccio being absent from bologna and the lady having, for that she was with child, gone to abide at a country house she had maybe three miles distant from the city, she was suddenly seized with a grievous fit of sickness,[ ] which overcame her with such violence that it extinguished in her all sign of life, so that she was even adjudged dead of divers physicians; and for that her nearest kinswomen declared themselves to have had it from herself that she had not been so long pregnant that the child could be fully formed, without giving themselves farther concern, they buried her, such as she was, after much lamentation, in one of the vaults of a neighbouring church. [footnote : lit. accident (_accidente_).] the thing was forthright signified by a friend of his to messer gentile, who, poor as he had still been of her favour, grieved sore therefor and ultimately said in himself, 'harkye, madam catalina, thou art dead, thou of whom, what while thou livedst, i could never avail to have so much as a look; wherefore, now thou canst not defend thyself, needs must i take of thee a kiss or two, all dead as thou art.' this said, he took order so his going should be secret and it being presently night, he mounted to horse with one of his servants and rode, without halting, till he came whereas the lady was buried and opened the sepulchre with all despatch. then, entering therein, he laid himself beside her and putting his face to hers, kissed her again and again with many tears. but presently,--as we see men's appetites never abide content within any limit, but still desire farther, and especially those of lovers,--having bethought himself to tarry there no longer, he said, 'marry, now that i am here, why should i not touch her somedele on the breast? i may never touch her more, nor have i ever yet done so.' accordingly, overcome with this desire, he put his hand into her bosom and holding it there awhile, himseemed he felt her heart beat somewhat. thereupon, putting aside all fear, he sought more diligently and found that she was certainly not dead, scant and feeble as he deemed the life [that lingered in her;] wherefore, with the help of his servant, he brought her forth of the tomb, as softliest he might, and setting her before him on his horse, carried her privily to his house in bologna. there was his mother, a worthy and discreet gentlewoman, and she, after she had heard everything at large from her son, moved to compassion, quietly addressed herself by means of hot baths and great fires to recall the strayed life to the lady, who, coming presently to herself, heaved a great sigh and said, 'ah me, where am i?' to which the good lady replied, 'be of good comfort; thou art in safety.' madam catalina, collecting herself, looked about her and knew not aright where she was; but, seeing messer gentile before her, she was filled with wonderment and besought his mother to tell her how she came thither; whereupon messer gentile related to her everything in order. at this she was sore afflicted, but presently rendered him such thanks as she might and after conjured him, by the love he had erst borne her and of his courtesy, that she might not in his house suffer at his hands aught that should be anywise contrary to her honour and that of her husband and that, as soon as the day should be come, he would suffer her return to her own house. 'madam,' answered messer gentile, 'whatsoever may have been my desire of time past, i purpose not, either at this present or ever henceforth, (since god hath vouchsafed me this grace that he hath restored you to me from death to life, and that by means of the love i have hitherto borne you,) to use you either here or elsewhere otherwise than as a dear sister; but this my service that i have done you to-night meriteth some recompense; wherefore i would have you deny me not a favour that i shall ask you.' the lady very graciously replied that she was ready to do his desire, so but she might and it were honourable. then said he, 'madam, your kinsfolk and all the bolognese believe and hold you for certain to be dead, wherefore there is no one who looketh for you more at home, and therefore i would have you of your favour be pleased to abide quietly here with my mother till such time as i shall return from modona, which will be soon. and the reason for which i require you of this is that i purpose to make a dear and solemn present of you to your husband in the presence of the most notable citizens of this place.' the lady, confessing herself beholden to the gentleman and that his request was an honourable one, determined to do as he asked, how much soever she desired to gladden her kinsfolk of her life,[ ] and so she promised it to him upon her faith. hardly had she made an end of her reply, when she felt the time of her delivery to be come and not long after, being lovingly tended of messer gentile's mother, she gave birth to a goodly male child, which manifold redoubled his gladness and her own. messer gentile took order that all things needful should be forthcoming and that she should be tended as she were his proper wife and presently returned in secret to modona. there, having served the term of his office and being about to return to bologna, he took order for the holding of a great and goodly banquet at his house on the morning he was to enter the city, and thereto he bade many gentlemen of the place, amongst whom was niccoluccio caccianimico. accordingly, when he returned and dismounted, he found them all awaiting him, as likewise the lady, fairer and sounder than ever, and her little son in good case, and with inexpressible joy seating his guests at table, he let serve them magnificently with various meats. [footnote : _i.e._ with news of her life.] whenas the repast was near its end, having first told the lady what he meant to do and taken order with her of the course that she should hold, he began to speak thus: 'gentlemen, i remember to have heard whiles that there is in persia a custom and to my thinking a pleasant one, to wit, that, whenas any is minded supremely to honour a friend of his, he biddeth him to his house and there showeth him the thing, be it wife or mistress or daughter or whatsoever else, he holdeth most dear, avouching that, like as he showeth him this, even so, an he might, would he yet more willingly show him his very heart; which custom i purpose to observe in bologna. you, of your favour, have honoured my banquet with your presence, and i in turn mean to honour you, after the persian fashion, by showing you the most precious thing i have or may ever have in the world. but, ere i proceed to do this, i pray you tell me what you deem of a doubt[ ] which i shall broach to you and which is this. a certain person hath in his house a very faithful and good servant, who falleth grievously sick, whereupon the former, without awaiting the sick man's end, letteth carry him into the middle street and hath no more heed of him. cometh a stranger, who, moved to compassion of the sick man, carrieth him off to his own house and with great diligence and expense bringeth him again to his former health. now i would fain know whether, if he keep him and make use of his services, his former master can in equity complain of or blame the second, if, he demanding him again, the latter refuse to restore him.' [footnote : _dubbio_, _i.e._ a doubtful case or question.] the gentlemen, after various discourse among themselves, concurring all in one opinion, committed the response to niccoluccio caccianimico, for that he was a goodly and eloquent speaker; whereupon the latter, having first commended the persian usage, declared that he and all the rest were of opinion that the first master had no longer any right in his servant, since he had, in such a circumstance, not only abandoned him, but cast him away, and that, for the kind offices done him by the second, themseemed the servant was justly become his; wherefore, in keeping him, he did the first no hurt, no violence, no unright whatsoever. the other guests at table (and there were men there of worth and worship) said all of one accord that they held to that which had been answered by niccoluccio; and messer gentile, well pleased with this response and that niccoluccio had made it, avouched himself also to be of the same opinion. then said he, 'it is now time that i honour you according to promise,' and calling two of his servants, despatched them to the lady, whom he had let magnificently dress and adorn, praying her be pleased to come gladden the company with her presence. accordingly, she took her little son, who was very handsome, in her arms and coming into the banqueting-hall, attended by two serving-men seated herself, as messer gentile willed it, by the side of a gentleman of high standing. then said he, 'gentlemen, this is the thing which i hold and purpose to hold dearer than any other; look if it seem to you that i have reason to do so.' the guests, having paid her the utmost honour, commending her amain and declaring to messer gentile that he might well hold her dear, fell to looking upon her; and there were many there who had avouched her to be herself,[ ] had they not held her for dead. but niccoluccio gazed upon her above all and unable to contain himself, asked her, (messer gentile having withdrawn awhile,) as one who burned to know who she was, if she were a bolognese lady or a foreigner. the lady, seeing herself questioned of her husband, hardly restrained herself from answering; but yet, to observe the appointed ordinance, she held her peace. another asked her if the child was hers and a third if she were messer gentile's wife or anywise akin to him; but she made them no reply. presently, messer gentile coming up, one of his guests said to him, 'sir, this is a fair creature of yours, but she seemeth to us mute; is she so?' 'gentlemen,' replied he, 'her not having spoken at this present is no small proof of her virtue.' and the other said, 'tell us, then, who she is.' quoth messer gentile, 'that will i gladly, so but you will promise me that none, for aught that i shall say, will budge from his place till such time as i shall have made an end of my story.' [footnote : _i.e._ who would have recognized her as madam catalina.] all promised this and the tables being presently removed, messer gentile, seating himself beside the lady, said, 'gentlemen, this lady is that loyal and faithful servant, of whom i questioned you awhile agone and who, being held little dear of her folk and so, as a thing without worth and no longer useful, cast out into the midward of the street, was by me taken up; yea, by my solicitude and of my handiwork i brought her forth of the jaws of death, and god, having regard to my good intent, hath caused her, by my means, from a frightful corpse become thus beautiful. but, that you may more manifestly apprehend how this betided me, i will briefly declare it to you.' then, beginning from his falling enamoured of her, he particularly related to them that which had passed until that time, to the great wonderment of the hearers, and added, 'by reason of which things, an you, and especially niccoluccio, have not changed counsel since awhile ago, the lady is fairly mine, nor can any with just title demand her again of me.' to this none made answer; nay, all awaited that which he should say farther; whilst niccoluccio and the lady and certain of the others who were there wept for compassion.[ ] [footnote : _compassione_, _i.e._ emotion.] then messer gentile, rising to his feet and taking the little child in his arms and the lady by the hand, made for niccoluccio and said to him, 'rise up, gossip; i do not restore thee thy wife, whom thy kinsfolk and hers cast away; nay, but i will well bestow on thee this lady my gossip, with this her little son, who i am assured, was begotten of thee and whom i held at baptism and named gentile; and i pray thee that she be none the less dear to thee for that she hath abidden near upon three months in my house; for i swear to thee,--by that god who belike caused me aforetime fall in love with her, to the intent that my love might be, as in effect it hath been, the occasion of her deliverance,--that never, whether with father or mother or with thee, hath she lived more chastely than she hath done with my mother in my house.' so saying, he turned to the lady and said to her, 'madam, from this time forth i absolve you of every promise made me and leave you free [to return] to niccoluccio.'[ ] then, giving the lady and the child into niccoluccio's arms, he returned to his seat. niccoluccio received them with the utmost eagerness, so much the more rejoiced as he was the farther removed from hope thereof, and thanked messer gentile, as best he might and knew; whilst the others, who all wept for compassion, commended the latter amain of this; yea, and he was commended of whosoever heard it. the lady was received in her house with marvellous rejoicing and long beheld with amazement by the bolognese, as one raised from the dead; whilst messer gentile ever after abode a friend of niccoluccio and of his kinsfolk and those of the lady. [footnote : lit. i leave you free _of_ niccoluccio (_libera vi lascio di niccoluccio_).] what, then, gentle ladies, will you say [of this case]? is, think you, a king's having given away his sceptre and his crown or an abbot's having, without cost to himself, reconciled an evildoer with the pope or an old man's having proffered his weasand to the enemy's knife to be evened with this deed of messer gentile, who, being young and ardent and himseeming he had a just title to that which the heedlessness of others had cast away and he of his good fortune had taken up, not only honourably tempered his ardour, but, having in his possession that which he was still wont with all his thoughts to covet and to seek to steal away, freely restored it [to its owner]? certes, meseemeth none of the magnificences already recounted can compare with this." the fifth story [day the tenth] madam dianora requireth of messer ansaldo a garden as fair in january as in may, and he by binding himself [to pay a great sum of money] to a nigromancer, giveth it to her. her husband granteth her leave to do messer ansaldo's pleasure, but he, hearing of the former's generosity, absolveth her of her promise, whereupon the nigromancer, in his turn, acquitteth messer ansaldo of his bond, without willing aught of his messer gentile having by each of the merry company been extolled to the very skies with the highest praise, the king charged emilia follow on, who confidently, as if eager to speak, began as follows: "dainty dames, none can with reason deny that messer gentile wrought magnificently; but, if it be sought to say that his magnanimity might not be overpassed, it will not belike be uneath to show that more is possible, as i purpose to set out to you in a little story of mine. in friuli, a country, though cold, glad with goodly mountains and store of rivers and clear springs, is a city called udine, wherein was aforetime a fair and noble lady called madam dianora, the wife of a wealthy gentleman named gilberto, who was very debonair and easy of composition. the lady's charm procured her to be passionately loved of a noble and great baron by name messer ansaldo gradense, a man of high condition and everywhere renowned for prowess and courtesy. he loved her fervently and did all that lay in his power to be beloved of her, to which end he frequently solicited her with messages, but wearied himself in vain. at last, his importunities being irksome to the lady and she seeing that, for all she denied him everything he sought of her, he stinted not therefor to love and solicit her, she determined to seek to rid herself of him by means of an extraordinary and in her judgment an impossible demand; wherefore she said one day to a woman, who came often to her on his part, 'good woman, thou hast many times avouched to me that messer ansaldo loveth me over all things and hast proffered me marvellous great gifts on his part, which i would have him keep to himself, seeing that never thereby might i be prevailed upon to love him or comply with his wishes; but, an i could be certified that he loveth me in very deed as much as thou sayest, i might doubtless bring myself to love him and do that which he willeth; wherefore, an he choose to certify me of this with that which i shall require of him, i shall be ready to do his commandments.' quoth the good woman, 'and what is that, madam, which you would have him do?' 'that which i desire,' replied the lady, 'is this; i will have, for this coming month of january, a garden, near this city, full of green grass and flowers and trees in full leaf, no otherwise than as it were may; the which if he contrive not, let him never more send me thee nor any other, for that, an he importune me more, so surely as i have hitherto kept his pursuit hidden from my husband and my kinsfolk, i will study to rid myself of him by complaining to them.' the gentleman, hearing the demand and the offer of his mistress, for all it seemed to him a hard thing and in a manner impossible to do and he knew it to be required of the lady for none otherwhat than to bereave him of all hope, determined nevertheless to essay whatsoever might be done thereof and sent into various parts about the world, enquiring if there were any to be found who would give him aid and counsel in the matter. at last, he happened upon one who offered, so he were well guerdoned, to do the thing by nigromantic art, and having agreed with him for a great sum of money, he joyfully awaited the appointed time, which come and the cold being extreme and everything full of snow and ice, the learned man, the night before the calends of january, so wrought by his arts in a very goodly meadow adjoining the city, that it appeared in the morning (according to the testimony of those who saw it) one of the goodliest gardens was ever seen of any, with grass and trees and fruits of every kind. messer ansaldo, after viewing this with the utmost gladness, let cull of the finest fruits and the fairest flowers that were there and caused privily present them to his mistress, bidding her come and see the garden required by her, so thereby she might know how he loved her and after, remembering her of the promise made him and sealed with an oath, bethink herself, as a loyal lady, to accomplish it to him. the lady, seeing the fruits and flowers and having already from many heard tell of the miraculous garden, began to repent of her promise. natheless, curious, for all her repentance, of seeing strange things, she went with many other ladies of the city to view the garden and having with no little wonderment commended it amain, returned home, the woefullest woman alive, bethinking her of that to which she was bounden thereby. such was her chagrin that she availed not so well to dissemble it but needs must it appear, and her husband, perceiving it, was urgent to know the reason. the lady, for shamefastness, kept silence thereof a great while; but at last, constrained to speak, she orderly discovered to him everything; which gilberto, hearing, was at the first sore incensed, but presently, considering the purity of the lady's intent and chasing away anger with better counsel, he said, 'dianora, it is not the part of a discreet nor of a virtuous woman to give ear unto any message of this sort nor to compound with any for her chastity under whatsoever condition. words received into the heart by the channel of the ears have more potency than many conceive and well nigh every thing becometh possible to lovers. thou didst ill, then, first to hearken and after to enter into terms of composition; but, for that i know the purity of thine intent, i will, to absolve thee of the bond of the promise, concede thee that which peradventure none other would do, being thereto the more induced by fear of the nigromancer, whom messer ansaldo, an thou cheat him, will maybe cause make us woeful. i will, then, that thou go to him and study to have thyself absolved of this thy promise, preserving thy chastity, if thou mayst anywise contrive it; but, an it may not be otherwise, thou shalt, for this once, yield him thy body, but not thy soul.' the lady, hearing her husband's speech, wept and denied herself willing to receive such a favour from him; but, for all her much denial, he would e'en have it be so. accordingly, next morning, at daybreak, the lady, without overmuch adorning herself, repaired to messer ansaldo's house, with two of her serving-men before and a chamberwoman after her. ansaldo, hearing that his mistress was come to him, marvelled sore and letting call the nigromancer, said to him, 'i will have thee see what a treasure thy skill hath gotten me.' then, going to meet her, he received her with decency and reverence, without ensuing any disorderly appetite, and they entered all[ ] into a goodly chamber, wherein was a great fire. there he caused set her a seat and said, 'madam, i prithee, if the long love i have borne you merit any recompense, let it not irk you to discover to me the true cause which hath brought you hither at such an hour and in such company.' the lady, shamefast and well nigh with tears in her eyes, answered, 'sir, neither love that i bear you nor plighted faith bringeth me hither, but the commandment of my husband, who, having more regard to the travails of your disorderly passion than to his honour and mine own, hath caused me come hither; and by his behest i am for this once disposed to do your every pleasure.' if messer ansaldo had marvelled at the sight of the lady, far more did he marvel, when he heard her words, and moved by gilberto's generosity, his heat began to change to compassion and he said, 'god forbid, madam, an it be as you say, that i should be a marrer of his honour who hath compassion of my love; wherefore you shall, what while it is your pleasure to abide here, be no otherwise entreated than as you were my sister; and whenas it shall be agreeable to you, you are free to depart, so but you will render your husband, on my part, those thanks which you shall deem befitting unto courtesy such as his hath been and have me ever, in time to come, for brother and for servant.' [footnote : _i.e._ ansaldo, dianora and the nigromancer.] the lady, hearing these words, was the joyfullest woman in the world and answered, saying, 'nothing, having regard to your fashions, could ever make me believe that aught should ensue to me of my coming other than this that i see you do in the matter; whereof i shall still be beholden to you.' then, taking leave, she returned, under honourable escort, to messer gilberto and told him that which had passed, of which there came about a very strait and loyal friendship between him and messer ansaldo. moreover, the nigromancer, to whom the gentleman was for giving the promised guerdon, seeing gilberto's generosity towards his wife's lover and that of the latter towards the lady, said, 'god forbid, since i have seen gilberto liberal of his honour and you of your love, that i should not on like wise be liberal of my hire; wherefore, knowing it[ ] will stand you in good stead, i intend that it shall be yours.' at this the gentleman was ashamed and studied to make him take or all or part; but, seeing that he wearied himself in vain and it pleasing the nigromancer (who had, after three days, done away his garden) to depart, he commended him to god and having extinguished from his heart his lustful love for the lady, he abode fired with honourable affection for her. how say you now, lovesome ladies? shall we prefer [gentile's resignation of] the in a manner dead lady and of his love already cooled for hope forspent, before the generosity of messer ansaldo, whose love was more ardent than ever and who was in a manner fired with new hope, holding in his hands the prey so long pursued? meseemeth it were folly to pretend that this generosity can be evened with that." [footnote : _i.e._ the money promised him by way of recompense.] the sixth story [day the tenth] king charles the old, the victorious, falleth enamoured of a young girl, but after, ashamed of his fond thought, honourably marrieth both her and her sister it were over longsome fully to recount the various discourse that had place among the ladies of who used the greatest generosity, gilberto or messer ansaldo or the nigromancer, in madam dianora's affairs; but, after the king had suffered them debate awhile, he looked at fiammetta and bade her, telling a story, put an end to their contention; whereupon she, without hesitation, began as follows: "illustrious ladies, i was ever of opinion that, in companies such as ours, it should still be discoursed so much at large that the overstraitness[ ] of intent of the things said be not unto any matter for debate, the which is far more sortable among students in the schools than among us [women,] who scarce suffice unto the distaff and the spindle. wherefore, seeing that you are presently at cross-purposes by reason of the things already said, i, who had in mind a thing maybe somewhat doubtful [of meaning,] will leave that be and tell you a story, treating nowise of a man of little account, but of a valiant king, who therein wrought knightly, in nothing attainting his honour. [footnote : _i.e._, nicety, minuteness (_strettezza_).] each one of you must many a time have heard tell of king charles the old or first, by whose magnanimous emprise, and after by the glorious victory gained by him over king manfred, the ghibellines were expelled from florence and the guelphs returned thither. in consequence of this a certain gentleman, called messer neri degli uberti, departing the city with all his household and much monies and being minded to take refuge no otherwhere than under the hand of king charles, betook himself to castellamare di stabia.[ ] there, belike a crossbowshot removed from the other habitations of the place, among olive-trees and walnuts and chestnuts, wherewith the country aboundeth, he bought him an estate and built thereon a goodly and commodious dwelling-house, with a delightsome garden thereby, amiddleward which, having great plenty of running water, he made, after our country fashion, a goodly and clear fishpond and lightly filled it with good store of fish. whilst he concerned himself to make his garden goodlier every day, it befell that king charles repaired to castellamare, to rest himself awhile in the hot season, and there hearing tell of the beauty of messer neri's garden, he desired to behold it. hearing, moreover, to whom it belonged, he bethought himself that, as the gentleman was of the party adverse to his own, it behoved to deal the more familiarly with him, and accordingly sent to him to say that he purposed to sup with him privily in his garden that evening, he and four companions. this was very agreeable to messer neri, and having made magnificent preparation and taken order with his household of that which was to do, he received the king in his fair garden as gladliest he might and knew. the latter, after having viewed and commended all the garden and messer neri's house and washed, seated himself at one of the tables, which were set beside the fishpond, and seating count guy de montfort, who was of his company, on one side of him and messer neri on the other, commanded other three, who were come thither with them, to serve according to the order appointed of his host. thereupon there came dainty meats and there were wines of the best and costliest and the ordinance was exceeding goodly and praiseworthy, without noise or annoy whatsoever, the which the king much commended. [footnote : a town on the bay of naples, near the ruins of pompeii.] presently, as he sat blithely at meat, enjoying the solitary place, there entered the garden two young damsels of maybe fifteen years of age, with hair like threads of gold, all ringleted and hanging loose, whereon was a light chaplet of pervinck-blossoms. their faces bespoke them rather angels than otherwhat, so delicately fair they were, and they were clad each upon her skin in a garment of the finest linen and white as snow, the which from the waist upward was very strait and thence hung down in ample folds, pavilionwise, to the feet. she who came first bore on her left shoulder a pair of hand-nets and in her right hand a long pole, and the other had on her left shoulder a frying-pan and under the same arm a faggot of wood, whilst in her left hand she held a trivet and in the other a flask of oil and a lighted flambeau. the king, seeing them, marvelled and in suspense awaited what this should mean. the damsels came forward modestly and blushingly did obeisance to him, then, betaking themselves whereas one went down into the fishpond, she who bore the frying-pan set it down and the other things by it and taking the pole that the other carried, they both entered the water, which came up to their breasts. meanwhile, one of messer neri's servants deftly kindled fire under the trivet and setting the pan thereon, poured therein oil and waited for the damsels to throw him fish. the latter, the one groping with the pole in those parts whereas she knew the fish lay hid and the other standing ready with the net, in a short space of time took fish galore, to the exceeding pleasure of the king, who eyed them attently; then, throwing some thereof to the servant, who put them in the pan, well nigh alive, they proceeded, as they had been lessoned, to take of the finest and cast them on the table before the king and his table-fellows. the fish wriggled about the table, to the marvellous diversion of the king, who took of them in his turn and sportively cast them back to the damsels; and on this wise they frolicked awhile, till such time as the servant had cooked the fish which had been given him and which, messer neri having so ordered it, were now set before the king, more as a relish than as any very rare and delectable dish. the damsels, seeing the fish cooked and having taken enough, came forth of the water, their thin white garments all clinging to their skins and hiding well nigh nought of their delicate bodies, and passing shamefastly before the king, returned to the house. the latter and the count and the others who served had well considered the damsels and each inwardly greatly commended them for fair and well shapen, no less than for agreeable and well mannered. but above all they pleased the king, who had so intently eyed every part of their bodies, as they came forth of the water, that, had any then pricked him, he would not have felt it, and as he called them more particularly to mind, unknowing who they were, he felt a very fervent desire awaken in his heart to please them, whereby he right well perceived himself to be in danger of becoming enamoured, an he took no heed to himself thereagainst; nor knew he indeed whether of the twain it was the more pleased him, so like in all things was the one to the other. after he had abidden awhile in this thought, he turned to messer neri and asked him who were the two damsels, to which the gentleman answered, 'my lord, these are my daughters born at a birth, whereof the one is called ginevra the fair and the other isotta the blonde.' the king commended them greatly and exhorted him to marry them, whereof messer neri excused himself, for that he was no more able thereunto. meanwhile, nothing now remaining to be served of the supper but the fruits, there came the two damsels in very goodly gowns of sendal, with two great silver platters in their hands, full of various fruits, such as the season afforded, and these they set on the table before the king; which done, they withdrew a little apart and fell to singing a canzonet, whereof the words began thus: whereas i'm come, o love, it might not be, indeed, at length recounted, etc. this song they carolled on such dulcet wise and so delightsomely that to the king, who beheld and hearkened to them with ravishment, it seemed as if all the hierarchies of the angels were lighted there to sing. the song sung, they fell on their knees and respectfully craved of him leave to depart, who, albeit their departure was grievous to him, yet with a show of blitheness accorded it to them. the supper being now at an end, the king remounted to horse with his company and leaving messer neri, returned to the royal lodging, devising of one thing and another. there, holding his passion hidden, but availing not, for whatsoever great affair might supervene, to forget the beauty and grace of ginevra the fair, (for love of whom he loved her sister also, who was like unto her,) he became so fast entangled in the amorous snares that he could think of well nigh nought else and feigning other occasions, kept a strait intimacy with messer neri and very often visited his fair garden, to see ginevra. at last, unable to endure longer and bethinking himself, in default of other means of compassing his desire, to take not one alone, but both of the damsels from their father, he discovered both his passion and his intent to count guy, who, for that he was an honourable man, said to him, 'my lord, i marvel greatly at that which you tell me, and that more than would another, inasmuch as meseemeth i have from your childhood to this day known your fashions better than any other; wherefore, meseeming never to have known such a passion in your youth, wherein love might lightlier have fixed his talons, and seeing you presently hard upon old age, it is so new and so strange to me that you should love by way of enamourment[ ] that it seemeth to me well nigh a miracle, and were it my office to reprove you thereof, i know well that which i should say to you thereanent, having in regard that you are yet with your harness on your back in a kingdom newly gained, amidst a people unknown and full of wiles and treasons, and are all occupied with very grave cares and matters of high moment, nor have you yet availed to seat yourself [in security;] and yet, among such and so many affairs, you have made place for the allurements of love. this is not the fashion of a magnanimous king; nay, but rather that of a pusillanimous boy. moreover, what is far worse, you say that you are resolved to take his two daughters from a gentleman who hath entertained you in his house beyond his means and who, to do you the more honour, hath shown you these twain in a manner naked, thereby attesting how great is the faith he hath in you and that he firmly believeth you to be a king and not a ravening wolf. again, hath it so soon dropped your memory that it was the violences done of manfred to women that opened you the entry into this kingdom? what treason was ever wroughten more deserving of eternal punishment than this would be, that you should take from him who hospitably entreateth you his honour and hope and comfort? what would be said of you, an you should do it? you think, maybe, it were a sufficient excuse to say, "i did it for that he is a ghibelline." is this of the justice of kings, that they who resort on such wise to their arms should be entreated after such a fashion, be they who they may? let me tell you, king, that it was an exceedingly great glory to you to have overcome manfred, but a far greater one it is to overcome one's self; wherefore do you, who have to correct others, conquer yourself and curb this appetite, nor offer with such a blot to mar that which you have so gloriously gained.' [footnote : _per amore amiate_ (fr. aimiez par amour).] these words stung the king's conscience to the quick and afflicted him the more inasmuch as he knew them for true; wherefore, after sundry heavy sighs, he said, 'certes, count, i hold every other enemy, however strong, weak and eath enough to the well-lessoned warrior to overcome in comparison with his own appetites; natheless, great as is the travail and inexpressible as is the might it requireth, your words have so stirred me that needs must i, ere many days be past, cause you see by deed that, like as i know how to conquer others, even so do i know how to overcome myself.' nor had many days passed after this discourse when the king, having returned to naples, determined, as well to deprive himself of occasion to do dishonourably as to requite the gentleman the hospitality received from him, to go about (grievous as it was to him to make others possessors of that which he coveted over all for himself) to marry the two young ladies, and that not as messer neri's daughters, but as his own. accordingly, with messer neri's accord, he dowered them magnificently and gave ginevra the fair to messer maffeo da palizzi and isotta the blonde to messer guglielmo della magna, both noble cavaliers and great barons, to whom with inexpressible chagrin consigning them, he betook himself into apulia, where with continual fatigues he so mortified the fierceness of his appetite that, having burst and broken the chains of love, he abode free of such passion for the rest of his life. there are some belike who will say that it was a little thing for a king to have married two young ladies, and that i will allow; but a great and a very great thing i call it, if we consider that it was a king enamoured who did this and who married to another her whom he loved, without having gotten or taking of his love leaf or flower or fruit. on this wise, then, did this magnanimous king, at once magnificently guerdoning the noble gentleman, laudably honouring the young ladies whom he loved and bravely overcoming himself." the seventh story [day the tenth] king pedro of arragon, coming to know the fervent love borne him by lisa, comforteth the love-sick maid and presently marrieth her to a noble young gentleman; then, kissing her on the brow, he ever after avoucheth himself her knight fiammetta having made an end of her story and the manful magnanimity of king charles having been much commended, albeit there was one lady there who, being a ghibelline, was loath to praise him, pampinea, by the king's commandment, began thus, "there is no one of understanding, worshipful ladies, but would say that which you say of good king charles, except she bear him ill-will for otherwhat; but, for that there occurreth to my memory a thing, belike no less commendable than this, done of one his adversary to one of our florentine damsels, it pleaseth me to relate it to you. at the time of the expulsion of the french from sicily, one of our florentines was an apothecary at palermo, a very rich man called bernardo puccini, who had by his wife an only daughter, a very fair damsel and already apt for marriage. now king pedro of arragon, become lord of the island, held high festival with his barons at palermo, wherein he tilting after the catalan fashion, it chanced that bernardo's daughter, whose name was lisa, saw him running [at the ring] from a window where she was with other ladies, and he so marvellously pleased her that, looking upon him once and again, she fell passionately in love with him; and the festival ended and she abiding in her father's house, she could think of nothing but of this her illustrious and exalted love. and what most irked her in this was the consciousness of her own mean condition, which scarce suffered her to cherish any hope of a happy issue; natheless, she could not therefor bring herself to leave loving the king, albeit, for fear of greater annoy, she dared not discover her passion. the king had not perceived this thing and recked not of her, wherefor she suffered intolerable chagrin, past all that can be imagined. thus it befell that, love still waxing in her and melancholy redoubling upon melancholy, the fair maid, unable to endure more, fell sick and wasted visibly away from day to day, like snow in the sun. her father and mother, sore concerned for this that befell her, studied with assiduous tenderness to hearten her and succoured her in as much as might be with physicians and medicines, but it availed nothing, for that, despairing of her love, she had elected to live no longer. it chanced one day that, her father offering to do her every pleasure, she bethought herself, and she might aptly, to seek, before she died, to make the king acquainted with her love and her intent, and accordingly she prayed him bring her minuccio d'arezzo. now this minuccio was in those days held a very quaint and subtle singer and player and was gladly seen of the king; and bernardo concluded that lisa had a mind to hear him sing and play awhile. accordingly, he sent to tell him, and minuccio, who was a man of a debonair humour, incontinent came to her and having somedele comforted her with kindly speech, softly played her a fit or two on a viol he had with him and after sang her sundry songs, the which were fire and flame unto the damsel's passion, whereas he thought to solace her. presently she told him that she would fain speak some words with him alone, wherefore, all else having withdrawn, she said to him, 'minuccio, i have chosen thee to keep me very faithfully a secret of mine, hoping in the first place that thou wilt never discover it to any one, save to him of whom i shall tell thee, and after that thou wilt help me in that which lieth in thy power; and of this i pray thee thou must know, then, minuccio mine, that the day our lord king pedro held the great festival in honour of his exaltation to the throne, it befell me, as he tilted, to espy him at so dour a point[ ] that for the love of him there was kindled in my heart a fire that hath brought me to this pass wherein thou seest me, and knowing how ill my love beseemeth to a king, yet availing not, let alone to drive it away, but even to abate it, and it being beyond measure grievous to me to bear, i have as a lesser evil elected to die, as i shall do. true it is that i should begone hence cruelly disconsolate, an he first knew it not; wherefore, unknowing by whom i could more aptly acquaint him with this my resolution than by thyself, i desire to commit it to thee and pray thee that thou refuse not to do it, and whenas thou shalt have done it, that thou give me to know thereof, so that, dying comforted, i may be assoiled of these my pains.' and this said, she stinted, weeping. [footnote : _in si forte punto_, or, in modern parlance, at so critical or ill-starred a moment.] minuccio marvelled at the greatness of the damsel's soul and at her cruel resolve and was sore concerned for her; then, it suddenly occurring to his mind how he might honourably oblige her, he said to her, 'lisa, i pledge thee my faith, whereof thou mayst live assured that thou wilt never find thyself deceived, and after, commending thee of so high an emprise as it is to have set thy mind upon so great a king, i proffer thee mine aid, by means whereof i hope, an thou wilt but take comfort, so to do that, ere three days be past, i doubt not to bring thee news that will be exceeding grateful to thee; and to lose no time, i mean to go about it forthright.' lisa, having anew besought him amain thereof and promised him to take comfort, bade him god speed; whereupon minuccio, taking his leave, betook himself to one mico da siena, a mighty good rhymer of those days, and constrained him with prayers to make the following canzonet: bestir thee, love, and get thee to my sire and tell him all the torments i aby; tell him i'm like to die, for fearfulness concealing my desire. love, with clasped hands i cry thee mercy, so thou mayst betake thee where my lord doth dwell. say that i love and long for him, for lo, my heart he hath inflamed so sadly well; yea, for the fire wherewith i'm all aglow, i fear to die nor yet the hour can tell when i shall part from pain so fierce and fell as that which, longing, for his sake i dree in shame and fear; ah me, for god's sake, cause him know my torment dire. since first enamoured, love, of him i grew, thou hast not given me the heart to dare so much as one poor once my lord unto my love and longing plainly to declare, my lord who maketh me so sore to rue; death, dying thus, were hard to me to bear. belike, indeed, for he is debonair, 'twould not displease him, did he know what pain i feel and didst thou deign me daring to make known to him my fire. yet, since 'twas not thy pleasure to impart, love, such assurance to me that by glance or sign or writ i might make known my heart unto my lord, for my deliverance i prithee, sweet my master, of thine art get thee to him and give him souvenance of that fair day i saw him shield and lance bear with the other knights and looking more, enamoured fell so sore my heart thereof doth perish and expire. these words minuccio forthwith set to a soft and plaintive air, such as the matter thereof required, and on the third day he betook himself to court, where, king pedro being yet at meat, he was bidden by him sing somewhat to his viol. thereupon he fell to singing the song aforesaid on such dulcet wise that all who were in the royal hall appeared men astonied, so still and attent stood they all to hearken, and the king maybe more than the others. minuccio having made an end of his singing, the king enquired whence came this song that himseemed he had never before heard. 'my lord,' replied the minstrel, 'it is not yet three days since the words were made and the air.' the king asked for whom it had been made; and minuccio answered, 'i dare not discover it save to you alone.' the king, desirous to hear it, as soon as the tables were removed, sent for minuccio into his chamber and the latter orderly recounted to him all that he had heard from lisa; wherewith don pedro was exceeding well pleased and much commended the damsel, avouching himself resolved to have compassion of so worthful a young lady and bidding him therefore go comfort her on his part and tell her that he would without fail come to visit her that day towards vespers. minuccio, overjoyed to be the bearer of such pleasing news, betook himself incontinent, viol and all, to the damsel and bespeaking her in private, recounted to her all that had passed and after sang her the song to his viol; whereat she was so rejoiced and so content that she straightway showed manifest signs of great amendment and longingly awaited the hour of vespers, whenas her lord should come, without any of the household knowing or guessing how the case stood. meanwhile, the king, who was a debonair and generous prince, having sundry times taken thought to the things heard from minuccio and very well knowing the damsel and her beauty, waxed yet more pitiful over her and mounting to horse towards vespers, under colour of going abroad for his diversion, betook himself to the apothecary's house, where, having required a very goodly garden which he had to be opened to him, he alighted therein and presently asked bernardo what was come of his daughter and if he had yet married her. 'my lord,' replied the apothecary, 'she is not married; nay, she hath been and is yet very sick; albeit it is true that since none she hath mended marvellously.' the king readily apprehended what this amendment meant and said, 'in good sooth, 'twere pity so fair a creature should be yet taken from the world. we would fain go visit her.' accordingly, a little after, he betook himself with bernardo and two companions only to her chamber and going up to the bed where the damsel, somedele upraised,[ ] awaited him with impatience, took her by the hand and said to her, 'what meaneth this, my mistress? you are young and should comfort other women; yet you suffer yourself to be sick. we would beseech you be pleased, for the love of us, to hearten yourself on such wise that you may speedily be whole again.' the damsel, feeling herself touched of his hands whom she loved over all else, albeit she was somewhat shamefast, felt yet such gladness in her heart as she were in paradise and answered him, as best she might, saying, 'my lord, my having willed to subject my little strength unto very grievous burdens hath been the cause to me of this mine infirmity, whereof, thanks to your goodness, you shall soon see me quit.' the king alone understood the damsel's covert speech and held her momently of more account; nay, sundry whiles he inwardly cursed fortune, who had made her daughter unto such a man; then, after he had tarried with her awhile and comforted her yet more, he took his leave. [footnote : _sollevata_, syn. solaced, relieved or ( ) agitated, troubled.] this humanity of the king was greatly commended and attributed for great honour to the apothecary and his daughter, which latter abode as well pleased as ever was woman of her lover, and sustained of better hope, in a few days recovered and became fairer than ever. when she was whole again, the king, having taken counsel with the queen of what return he should make her for so much love, mounting one day to horse with many of his barons, repaired to the apothecary's house and entering the garden, let call master bernardo and his daughter; then, the queen presently coming thither with many ladies and having received lisa among them, they fell to making wonder-merry. after a while, the king and queen called lisa to them and the former said to her, 'noble damsel, the much love you have borne us hath gotten you a great honour from us, wherewith we would have you for the love of us be content; to wit, that, since you are apt for marriage, we would have you take him to husband whom we shall bestow on you, purposing, notwithstanding this, to call ourselves still your knight, without desiring aught from you of so much love but one sole kiss.' the damsel, grown all vermeil in the face for shamefastness, making the king's pleasure hers, replied in a low voice on this wise, 'my lord, i am well assured that, were it known that i had fallen enamoured of you, most folk would account me mad therefor, thinking belike that i had forgotten myself and knew not mine own condition nor yet yours; but god, who alone seeth the hearts of mortals, knoweth that, in that same hour whenas first you pleased me, i knew you for a king and myself for the daughter of bernardo the apothecary and that it ill beseemed me to address the ardour of my soul unto so high a place. but, as you know far better than i, none here below falleth in love according to fitness of election, but according to appetite and inclination, against which law i once and again strove with all my might, till, availing no farther, i loved and love and shall ever love you. but, since first i felt myself taken with love of you, i determined still to make your will mine; wherefore, not only will i gladly obey you in this matter of taking a husband at your hands and holding him dear whom it shall please you to bestow on me, since that will be mine honour and estate, but, should you bid me abide in the fire, it were a delight to me, an i thought thereby to pleasure you. to have you, a king, to knight, you know how far it befitteth me, wherefore to that i make no farther answer; nor shall the kiss be vouchsafed you, which alone of my love you would have, without leave of my lady the queen. natheless, of such graciousness as hath been yours towards me and that of our lady the queen here god render you for me both thanks and recompense, for i have not the wherewithal.' and with that she was silent. her answer much pleased the queen and she seemed to her as discreet as the king had reported her. don pedro then let call the girl's father and mother and finding that they were well pleased with that which he purposed to do, summoned a young man, by name perdicone, who was of gentle birth, but poor, and giving certain rings into his hand, married him, nothing loath, to lisa; which done, he then and there, over and above many and precious jewels bestowed by the queen and himself upon the damsel, gave him ceffalu and calatabellotta, two very rich and goodly fiefs, and said to him, 'these we give thee to the lady's dowry. that which we purpose to do for thyself, thou shalt see in time to come.' this said, he turned to the damsel and saying, 'now will we take that fruit which we are to have of your love,' took her head in his hands and kissed her on the brow. perdicone and lisa's father and mother, well pleased, (as indeed was she herself,) held high festival and joyous nuptials; and according as many avouch, the king very faithfully kept his covenant with the damsel, for that, whilst she lived, he still styled himself her knight nor ever went about any deed of arms but he wore none other favour than that which was sent him of her. it is by doing, then, on this wise that subjects' hearts are gained, that others are incited to do well and that eternal renown is acquired; but this is a mark at which few or none nowadays bend the bow of their understanding, most princes being presently grown cruel and tyrannical." the eighth story [day the tenth] sophronia, thinking to marry gisippus, becometh the wife of titus quintius fulvus and with him betaketh herself to rome, whither gisippus cometh in poor case and conceiving himself slighted of titus, declareth, so he may die, to have slain a man. titus, recognizing him, to save him, avoucheth himself to have done the deed, and the true murderer, seeing this, discovereth himself; whereupon they are all three liberated by octavianus and titus, giving gisippus his sister to wife, hath all his good in common with him pampinea having left speaking and all having commended king pedro, the ghibelline lady more than the rest, fiammetta, by the king's commandment, began thus, "illustrious ladies, who is there knoweth not that kings, when they will, can do everything great and that it is, to boot, especially required of them that they be magnificent? whoso, then, having the power, doth that which pertaineth unto him, doth well; but folk should not so much marvel thereat nor exalt him to such a height with supreme praise as it would behove them do with another, of whom, for lack of means, less were required. wherefore, if you with such words extol the actions of kings and they seem to you fair, i doubt not anywise but those of our peers, whenas they are like unto or greater than those of kings, will please you yet more and be yet highlier commended of you, and i purpose accordingly to recount to you, in a story, the praiseworthy and magnanimous dealings of two citizens and friends with each other. you must know, then, that at the time when octavianus cæsar (not yet styled augustus) ruled the roman empire in the office called triumvirate, there was in rome a gentleman called publius quintius fulvus,[ ] who, having a son of marvellous understanding, by name titus quintius fulvus, sent him to athens to study philosophy and commended him as most he might to a nobleman there called chremes, his very old friend, by whom titus was lodged in his own house, in company of a son of his called gisippus, and set to study with the latter, under the governance of a philosopher named aristippus. the two young men, coming to consort together, found each other's usances so conformable that there was born thereof a brotherhood between them and a friendship so great that it was never sundered by other accident than death, and neither of them knew weal nor peace save in so much as they were together. entering upon their studies and being each alike endowed with the highest understanding, they ascended with equal step and marvellous commendation to the glorious altitudes of philosophy; and in this way of life they continued good three years, to the exceeding contentment of chremes, who in a manner looked upon the one as no more his son than the other. at the end of this time it befell, even as it befalleth of all things, that chremes, now an old man, departed this life, whereof the two young men suffered a like sorrow, as for a common father, nor could his friends and kinsfolk discern which of the twain was the more in need of consolation for that which had betided them. [footnote : sic, _publio quinzio fulvo_; but _quære_ should it not rather be _publio quinto fulvio_, _i.e._ publius quintus fulvius, a form of the name which seems more in accordance with the genius of the latin language?] it came to pass, after some months, that the friends and kinsfolk of gisippus resorted to him and together with titus exhorted him to take a wife, to which he consenting, they found him a young athenian lady of marvellous beauty and very noble parentage, whose name was sophronia and who was maybe fifteen years old. the term of the future nuptials drawing nigh, gisippus one day besought titus to go visit her with him, for that he had not yet seen her. accordingly, they being come into her house and she seated between the twain, titus proceeded to consider her with the utmost attention, as if to judge of the beauty of his friend's bride, and every part of her pleasing him beyond measure, what while he inwardly commended her charms to the utmost, he fell, without showing any sign thereof, as passionately enamoured of her as ever yet man of woman. after they had been with her awhile, they took their leave and returned home, where titus, betaking himself alone into his chamber, fell a-thinking of the charming damsel and grew the more enkindled the more he enlarged upon her in thought; which, perceiving, he fell to saying in himself, after many ardent sighs, 'alack, the wretchedness of thy life, titus! where and on what settest thou thy mind and thy love and thy hope? knowest thou not that it behoveth thee, as well for the kindness received from chremes and his family as for the entire friendship that is between thee and gisippus, whose bride she is, to have yonder damsel in such respect as a sister? whom, then, lovest thou? whither lettest thou thyself be carried away by delusive love, whither by fallacious hope? open the eyes of thine understanding and recollect thyself, wretch that thou art; give place to reason, curb thy carnal appetite, temper thine unhallowed desires and direct thy thoughts unto otherwhat; gainstand thy lust in this its beginning and conquer thyself, whilst it is yet time. this thou wouldst have is unseemly, nay, it is dishonourable; this thou art minded to ensue it behoveth thee, even wert thou assured (which thou art not) of obtaining it, to flee from, an thou have regard unto that which true friendship requireth and that which thou oughtest. what, then, wilt thou do, titus? thou wilt leave this unseemly love, an thou wouldst do that which behoveth.' then, remembering him of sophronia and going over to the contrary, he denounced all that he had said, saying, 'the laws of love are of greater puissance than any others; they annul even the divine laws, let alone those of friendship; how often aforetime hath father loved daughter, brother sister, stepmother stepson, things more monstrous than for one friend to love the other's wife, the which hath already a thousand times befallen! moreover, i am young and youth is altogether subject to the laws of love; wherefor that which pleaseth him, needs must it please me. things honourable pertain unto maturer folk; i can will nought save that which love willeth. the beauty of yonder damsel deserveth to be loved of all, and if i love her, who am young, who can justly blame me therefor? i love her not because she is gisippus's; nay, i love her for that i should love her, whosesoever she was. in this fortune sinneth that hath allotted her to gisippus my friend, rather than to another; and if she must be loved, (as she must, and deservedly, for her beauty,) gisippus, an he came to know it, should be better pleased that i should love her, i, than another.' then, from that reasoning he reverted again to the contrary, making mock of himself, and wasted not only that day and the ensuing night in passing from this to that and back again, but many others, insomuch that, losing appetite and sleep therefor, he was constrained for weakness to take to his bed. gisippus, having beheld him several days full of melancholy thought and seeing him presently sick, was sore concerned and with every art and all solicitude studied to comfort him, never leaving him and questioning him often and instantly of the cause of his melancholy and his sickness. titus, after having once and again given him idle tales, which gisippus knew to be such, by way of answer, finding himself e'en constrained thereunto, with tears and sighs replied to him on this wise, 'gisippus, had it pleased the gods, death were far more a-gree to me than to live longer, considering that fortune hath brought me to a pass whereas it behoved me make proof of my virtue and that i have, to my exceeding shame, found this latter overcome; but certes i look thereof to have ere long the reward that befitteth me, to wit, death, and this will be more pleasing to me than to live in remembrance of my baseness, which latter, for that i cannot nor should hide aught from thee, i will, not without sore blushing, discover to thee.' then, beginning from the beginning, he discovered to him the cause of his melancholy and the conflict of his thoughts and ultimately gave him to know which had gotten the victory and confessed himself perishing for love of sophronia, declaring that, knowing how much this misbeseemed him, he had for penance thereof resolved himself to die, whereof he trusted speedily to make an end. gisippus, hearing this and seeing his tears, abode awhile irresolute, as one who, though more moderately, was himself taken with the charms of the fair damsel, but speedily bethought himself that his friend's life should be dearer to him than sophronia. accordingly, solicited to tears by those of his friend, he answered him, weeping, 'titus, wert thou not in need as thou art of comfort, i should complain of thee to thyself, as of one who hath transgressed against our friendship in having so long kept thy most grievous passion hidden from me; since, albeit it appeared not to thee honourable, nevertheless dishonourable things should not, more than honourable, be hidden from a friend; for that a friend, like as he rejoiceth with his friend in honourable things, even so he studieth to do away the dishonourable from his friend's mind; but for the present i will refrain therefrom and come to that which i perceive to be of greater urgency. that thou lovest sophronia, who is betrothed to me, i marvel not: nay, i should marvel, indeed, if it were not so, knowing her beauty and the nobility of thy mind, so much the more susceptible of passion as the thing that pleaseth hath the more excellence. and the more reason thou hast to love sophronia, so much the more unjustly dost thou complain of fortune (albeit thou expressest this not in so many words) in that it hath awarded her to me, it seeming to thee that thy love for her had been honourable, were she other than mine; but tell me, if thou be as well advised as thou usest to be, to whom could fortune have awarded her, whereof thou shouldst have more cause to render it thanks, than of having awarded her to me? whoso else had had her, how honourable soever thy love had been, had liefer loved her for himself[ ] than for thee,[ ] a thing which thou shouldst not fear[ ] from me, an thou hold me a friend such as i am to thee, for that i mind me not, since we have been friends, to have ever had aught that was not as much thine as mine. now, were the matter so far advanced that it might not be otherwise, i would do with her as i have done with my other possessions;[ ] but it is yet at such a point that i can make her thine alone; and i will do so, for that i know not why my friendship should be dear to thee, if, in respect of a thing that may honourably be done, i knew not of a desire of mine to make thine. true it is that sophronia is my promised bride and that i loved her much and looked with great joyance for my nuptials with her; but, since thou, being far more understanding than i, with more ardour desirest so dear a thing as she is, live assured that she shall enter my chamber, not as my wife, but as thine. wherefore leave thought-taking, put away melancholy, call back thy lost health and comfort and allegresse and from this time forth expect with blitheness the reward of thy love, far worthier than was mine.' [footnote : or "his" (_a sè_).] [footnote : or "thine" (_a te_).] [footnote : lit. "hope" (_sperare_). see note, p. .] [footnote : _i.e._ i would have her in common with thee.] when titus heard gisippus speak thus, the more the flattering hopes given him of the latter afforded him pleasure, so much the more did just reason inform him with shame, showing him that, the greater was gisippus his liberality, the more unworthy it appeared of himself to use it; wherefore, without giving over weeping, he with difficulty replied to him thus, 'gisippus, thy generous and true friendship very plainly showeth me that which it pertaineth unto mine to do. god forfend that her, whom he hath bestowed upon thee as upon the worthier, i should receive from thee for mine! had he judged it fitting that she should be mine, nor thou nor others can believe that he would ever have bestowed her on thee. use, therefore, joyfully, thine election and discreet counsel and his gifts, and leave me to languish in the tears, which, as to one undeserving of such a treasure, he hath prepared unto me and which i will either overcome, and that will be dear to thee, or they will overcome me and i shall be out of pain.' 'titus,' rejoined gisippus, 'an our friendship might accord me such license that i should enforce thee to ensue a desire of mine and if it may avail to induce thee to do so, it is in this case that i mean to use it to the utmost, and if thou yield not to my prayers with a good grace, i will, with such violence as it behoveth us use for the weal of our friends, procure that sophronia shall be thine. i know how great is the might of love and that, not once, but many a time, it hath brought lovers to a miserable death; nay, unto this i see thee so near that thou canst neither turn back nor avail to master thy tears, but, proceeding thus, wouldst pine and die; whereupon i, without any doubt, should speedily follow after. if, then, i loved thee not for otherwhat, thy life is dear to me, so i myself may live. sophronia, therefore, shall be thine, for that thou couldst not lightly find another woman who would so please thee, and as i shall easily turn my love unto another, i shall thus have contented both thyself and me. i should not, peradventure, be so free to do this, were wives as scarce and as uneath to find as friends; however, as i can very easily find me another wife, but not another friend, i had liefer (i will not say _lose_ her, for that i shall not lose her, giving her to thee, but shall transfer her to another and a better self, but) transfer her than lose thee. wherefore, if my prayers avail aught with thee, i beseech thee put away from thee this affliction and comforting at once thyself and me, address thee with good hope to take that joyance which thy fervent love desireth of the thing beloved.' although titus was ashamed to consent to this, namely, that sophronia should become his wife, and on this account held out yet awhile, nevertheless, love on the one hand drawing him and gisippus his exhortations on the other urging him, he said, 'look you, gisippus, i know not which i can say i do most, my pleasure or thine, in doing that whereof thou prayest me and which thou tellest me is so pleasing to thee, and since thy generosity is such that it overcometh my just shame, i will e'en do it; but of this thou mayst be assured that i do it as one who knoweth himself to receive of thee, not only the beloved lady, but with her his life. the gods grant, an it be possible, that i may yet be able to show thee, for thine honour and thy weal, how grateful to me is that which thou, more pitiful for me than i for myself, dost for me!' these things said, 'titus,' quoth gisippus, 'in this matter, an we would have it take effect, meseemeth this course is to be held. as thou knowest, sophronia, after long treaty between my kinsfolk and hers, is become my affianced bride; wherefore, should i now go about to say that i will not have her to wife, a sore scandal would ensue thereof and i should anger both her kinsfolk and mine own. of this, indeed, i should reck nothing, an i saw that she was thereby to become thine; but i misdoubt me that, an i renounce her at this point, her kinsfolk will straightway give her to another, who belike will not be thyself, and so wilt thou have lost that which i shall not have gained. wherefore meseemeth well, an thou be content, that i follow on with that which i have begun and bring her home as mine and hold the nuptials, and thou mayst after, as we shall know how to contrive, privily lie with her as with thy wife. then, in due place and season, we will make manifest the fact, which, if it please them not, will still be done and they must perforce be content, being unable to go back upon it.' the device pleased titus; wherefore gisippus received the lady into his house, as his, (titus being by this recovered and in good case,) and after holding high festival, the night being come, the ladies left the new-married wife in her husband's bed and went their ways. now titus his chamber adjoined that of gisippus and one might go from the one room into the other; wherefore gisippus, being in his chamber and having put out all the lights, betook himself stealthily to his friend and bade him go couch with his mistress. titus, seeing this, was overcome with shame and would fain have repented and refused to go; but gisippus, who with his whole heart, no less than in words, was minded to do his friend's pleasure, sent him thither, after long contention. whenas he came into the bed, he took the damsel in his arms and asked her softly, as if in sport, if she chose to be his wife. she, thinking him to be gisippus, answered, 'yes'; whereupon he set a goodly and rich ring on her finger, saying, 'and i choose to be thy husband.' then, the marriage consummated, he took long and amorous pleasance of her, without her or others anywise perceiving that other than gisippus lay with her. the marriage of sophronia and titus being at this pass, publius his father departed this life, wherefore it was written him that he should without delay return to rome, to look to his affairs, and he accordingly took counsel with gisippus to betake himself thither and carry sophronia with him; which might not nor should aptly be done without discovering to her how the case stood. accordingly, one day, calling her into the chamber, they thoroughly discovered to her the fact and thereof titus certified her by many particulars of that which had passed between them twain. sophronia, after eying the one and the other somewhat despitefully, fell a-weeping bitterly, complaining of gisippus his deceit; then, rather than make any words of this in his house, she repaired to that of her father and there acquainted him and her mother with the cheat that had been put upon her and them by gisippus, avouching herself to be the wife of titus and not of gisippus, as they believed. this was exceeding grievous to sophronia's father, who made long and sore complaint thereof to her kinsfolk and those of gisippus, and much and great was the talk and the clamour by reason thereof. gisippus was held in despite both by his own kindred and those of sophronia and every one declared him worthy not only of blame, but of severe chastisement; whilst he, on the contrary, avouched himself to have done an honourable thing and one for which thanks should be rendered him by sophronia's kinsfolk, having married her to a better than himself. titus, on his part, heard and suffered everything with no little annoy and knowing it to be the usance of the greeks to press on with clamours and menaces, till such times as they found who should answer them, and then to become not only humble, but abject, he bethought himself that their clamour was no longer to be brooked without reply and having a roman spirit and an athenian wit, he adroitly contrived to assemble gisippus his kinsfolk and those of sophronia in a temple, wherein entering, accompanied by gisippus alone, he thus bespoke the expectant folk: 'it is the belief of many philosophers that the actions of mortals are determined and foreordained of the immortal gods, wherefore some will have it that all that is or shall ever be done is of necessity, albeit there be others who attribute this necessity to that only which is already done. if these opinions be considered with any diligence, it will very manifestly be seen that to blame a thing which cannot be undone is to do no otherwhat than to seek to show oneself wiser than the gods, who, we must e'en believe, dispose of and govern us and our affairs with unfailing wisdom and without any error; wherefore you may very easily see what fond and brutish overweening it is to presume to find fault with their operations and eke how many and what chains they merit who suffer themselves be so far carried away by hardihood as to do this. of whom, to my thinking, you are all, if that be true which i understand you have said and still say for that sophronia is become my wife, whereas you had given her to gisippus, never considering that it was foreordained from all eternity that she should become not his, but mine, as by the issue is known at this present. but, for that to speak of the secret foreordinance and intention of the gods appeareth unto many a hard thing and a grievous to apprehend, i am willing to suppose that they concern not themselves with aught of our affairs and to condescend to the counsels[ ] of mankind, in speaking whereof, it will behove me to do two things, both very contrary to my usances, the one, somedele to commend myself, and the other, in some measure to blame or disparage others; but, for that i purpose, neither in the one nor in the other, to depart from the truth and that the present matter requireth it, i will e'en do it. [footnote : or "arguments" (_consigli_).] your complainings, dictated more by rage than by reason, upbraid, revile and condemn gisippus with continual murmurs or rather clamours, for that, of his counsel, he hath given me to wife her whom you of yours[ ] had given him; whereas i hold that he is supremely to be commended therefor, and that for two reasons, the one, for that he hath done that which a friend should do, and the other, for that he hath in this wrought more discreetly than did you. that which the sacred laws of friendship will that one friend should do for the other, it is not my intention at this present to expound, being content to have recalled to you this much only thereof, to wit, that the bonds of friendship are far more stringent than those of blood or of kindred, seeing that the friends we have are such as we choose for ourselves and our kinsfolk such as fortune giveth us; wherefore, if gisippus loved my life more than your goodwill, i being his friend, as i hold myself, none should marvel thereat. but to come to the second reason, whereanent it more instantly behoveth to show you that he hath been wiser than yourselves, since meseemeth you reck nothing of the foreordinance of the gods and know yet less of the effects of friendship:--i say, then, that you of your judgment, of your counsel and of your deliberation, gave sophronia to gisippus, a young man and a philosopher; gisippus of his gave her to a young man and a philosopher; your counsel gave her to an athenian and that of gisippus to a roman; your counsel gave her to a youth of noble birth and his to one yet nobler; yours to a rich youth, his to a very rich; yours to a youth who not only loved her not, but scarce knew her, his to one who loved her over his every happiness and more than his very life. and to show you that this i say is true and that gisippus his action is more commendable than yours, let us consider it, part by part. that i, like gisippus, am a young man and a philosopher, my favour and my studies may declare, without more discourse thereof. one same age is his and mine and still with equal step have we proceeded studying. true, he is an athenian and i am a roman. if it be disputed of the glory of our native cities, i say that i am a citizen of a free city and he of a tributary one; i am of a city mistress of the whole world and he of a city obedient unto mine; i am of a city most illustrious in arms, in empery and in letters, whereas he can only commend his own for letters. moreover, albeit you see me here on lowly wise enough a student, i am not born of the dregs of the roman populace; my houses and the public places of rome are full of antique images of my ancestors and the roman annals will be found full of many a triumph led by the quintii up to the roman capitol; nor is the glory of our name fallen for age into decay, nay, it presently flourisheth more splendidly than ever. i speak not, for shamefastness, of my riches, bearing in mind that honourable poverty hath ever been the ancient and most ample patrimony of the noble citizens of rome; but, if this be condemned of the opinion of the vulgar and treasures commended, i am abundantly provided with these latter, not as one covetous, but as beloved of fortune.[ ] i know very well that it was and should have been and should be dear unto you to have gisippus here in athens to kinsman; but i ought not for any reason to be less dear to you at rome, considering that in me you would have there an excellent host and an useful and diligent and powerful patron, no less in public occasions than in matters of private need. [footnote : _i.e._ of your counsel.] [footnote : _i.e._ my riches are not the result of covetous amassing, but of the favours of fortune.] who then, letting be wilfulness and considering with reason, will commend your counsels above those of my gisippus? certes, none. sophronia, then, is well and duly married to titus quintius fulvus, a noble, rich and long-descended citizen of rome and a friend of gisippus; wherefore whoso complaineth or maketh moan of this doth not that which he ought neither knoweth that which he doth. some perchance will say that they complain not of sophronia being the wife of titus, but of the manner wherein she became his wife, to wit, in secret and by stealth, without friend or kinsman knowing aught thereof; but this is no marvel nor thing that betideth newly. i willingly leave be those who have aforetime taken husbands against their parents' will and those who have fled with their lovers and have been mistresses before they were wives and those who have discovered themselves to be married rather by pregnancy or child-bearing than with the tongue, yet hath necessity commended it to their kinsfolk; nothing of which hath happened in sophronia's case; nay, she hath orderly, discreetly and honourably been given by gisippus to titus. others will say that he gave her in marriage to whom it appertained not to do so; but these be all foolish and womanish complaints and proceed from lack of advisement. this is not the first time that fortune hath made use of various means and strange instruments to bring matters to foreordained issues. what have i to care if it be a cordwainer rather than a philosopher, that hath, according to his judgment, despatched an affair of mine, and whether in secret or openly, provided the issue be good? if the cordwainer be indiscreet, all i have to do is to look well that he have no more to do with my affairs and thank him for that which is done. if gisippus hath married sophronia well, it is a superfluous folly to go complaining of the manner and of him. if you have no confidence in his judgment, look he have no more of your daughters to marry and thank him for this one. nevertheless i would have you to know that i sought not, either by art or by fraud, to impose any stain upon the honour and illustriousness of your blood in the person of sophronia, and that, albeit i took her secretly to wife, i came not as a ravisher to rob her of her maidenhead nor sought, after the manner of an enemy, whilst shunning your alliance, to have her otherwise than honourably; but, being ardently enkindled by her lovesome beauty and by her worth and knowing that, had i sought her with that ordinance which you will maybe say i should have used, i should not (she being much beloved of you) have had her, for fear lest i should carry her off to rome, i used the occult means that may now be discovered to you and caused gisippus, in my person, consent unto that which he himself was not disposed to do. moreover, ardently as i loved her, i sought her embraces not as a lover, but as a husband, nor, as she herself can truly testify, did i draw near to her till i had first both with the due words and with the ring espoused her, asking her if she would have me for husband, to which she answered ay. if it appear to her that she hath been deceived, it is not i who am to blame therefor, but she, who asked me not who i was. this, then, is the great misdeed, the grievous crime, the sore default committed by gisippus as a friend and by myself as a lover, to wit, that sophronia hath secretly become the wife of titus quintius, and this it is for which you defame and menace and plot against him. what more could you do, had he bestowed her upon a churl, a losel or a slave? what chains, what prison, what gibbets had sufficed thereunto? but let that be for the present; the time is come which i looked not for yet, to wit, my father is dead and it behoveth me return to rome; wherefore, meaning to carry sophronia with me, i have discovered to you that which i should otherwise belike have yet kept hidden from you and with which, an you be wise, you will cheerfully put up, for that, had i wished to cheat or outrage you, i might have left her to you, scorned and dishonored; but god forfend that such a baseness should ever avail to harbour in a roman breast! she, then, namely sophronia, by the consent of the gods and the operation of the laws of mankind, no less than by the admirable contrivance of my gisippus and mine own amorous astuteness, is become mine, and this it seemeth that you, holding yourselves belike wiser than the gods and than the rest of mankind, brutishly condemn, showing your disapproval in two ways both exceedingly noyous to myself, first by detaining sophronia, over whom you have no right, save in so far as it pleaseth me to allow it, and secondly, by entreating gisippus, to whom you are justly beholden, as an enemy. how foolishly you do in both which things i purpose not at this present to make farther manifest to you, but will only counsel you, as a friend, to lay by your despites and altogether leaving your resentments and the rancours that you have conceived, to restore sophronia to me, so i may joyfully depart your kinsman and live your friend; for of this, whether that which is done please you or please you not, you may be assured that, if you offer to do otherwise, i will take gisippus from you and if i win to rome, i will without fail, however ill you may take it, have her again who is justly mine and ever after showing myself your enemy, will cause you know by experience that whereof the despite of roman souls is capable.' titus, having thus spoken, rose to his feet, with a countenance all disordered for anger, and taking gisippus by the hand, went forth of the temple, shaking his head threateningly and showing that he recked little of as many as were there. the latter, in part reconciled by his reasonings to the alliance and desirous of his friendship and in part terrified by his last words, of one accord determined that it was better to have him for a kinsman, since gisippus had not willed it, than to have lost the latter to kinsman and gotten the former for an enemy. accordingly, going in quest of titus, they told him that they were willing that sophronia should be his and to have him for a dear kinsman and gisippus for a dear friend; then, having mutually done each other such honours and courtesies as beseem between kinsmen and friends, they took their leaves and sent sophronia back to him. she, like a wise woman, making a virtue of necessity, readily transferred to titus the affection she bore gisippus and repaired with him to rome, where she was received with great honour. meanwhile, gisippus abode in athens, held in little esteem of well nigh all, and no great while after, through certain intestine troubles, was, with all those of his house, expelled from athens, in poverty and misery, and condemned to perpetual exile. finding himself in this case and being grown not only poor, but beggarly, he betook himself, as least ill he might, to rome, to essay if titus should remember him. there, learning that the latter was alive and high in favour with all the romans and enquiring for his dwelling-place, he stationed himself before the door and there abode till such time as titus came, to whom, by reason of the wretched plight wherein he was, he dared not say a word, but studied to cause himself be seen of him, so he might recognize him and let call him to himself; wherefore titus passed on, [without noting him,] and gisippus, conceiving that he had seen and shunned him and remembering him of that which himself had done for him aforetime, departed, despiteful and despairing. it being by this night and he fasting and penniless, he wandered on, unknowing whither and more desirous of death than of otherwhat, and presently happened upon a very desert part of the city, where seeing a great cavern, he addressed himself to abide the night there and presently, forspent with long weeping, he fell asleep on the naked earth and ill in case. to this cavern two, who had gone a-thieving together that night, came towards morning, with the booty they had gotten, and falling out over the division, one, who was the stronger, slew the other and went away. gisippus had seen and heard this and himseemed he had found a way to the death so sore desired of him, without slaying himself; wherefore he abode without stirring, till such time as the serjeants of the watch, who had by this gotten wind of the deed, came thither and laying furious hands of him, carried him off prisoner. gisippus, being examined, confessed that he had murdered the man nor had since availed to depart the cavern; whereupon the prætor, who was called marcus varro, commanded that he should be put to death upon the cross, as the usance then was. now titus was by chance come at that juncture to the prætorium and looking the wretched condemned man in the face and hearing why he had been doomed to die, suddenly knew him for gisippus; whereupon, marvelling at his sorry fortune and how he came to be in rome and desiring most ardently to succour him, but seeing no other means of saving him than to accuse himself and thus excuse him, he thrust forward in haste and cried out, saying, 'marcus varro, call back the poor man whom thou hast condemned, for that he is innocent. i have enough offended against the gods with one crime, in slaying him whom thine officer found this morning dead, without willing presently to wrong them with the death of another innocent.' varro marvelled and it irked him that all the prætorium should have heard him; but, being unable, for his own honour's sake, to forbear from doing that which the laws commanded, he caused bring back gisippus and in the presence of titus said to him, 'how camest thou to be so mad that, without suffering any torture, thou confessedst to that which thou didst not, it being a capital matter? thou declaredst thyself to be he who slew the man yesternight, and now this man cometh and saith that it was not thou, but he that slew him.' gisippus looked and seeing that it was titus, perceived full well that he did this to save him, as grateful for the service aforetime received from him; wherefore, weeping for pity, 'varro,' quoth he, 'indeed it was i slew him and titus his solicitude for my safety is now too late.' titus on the other hand, said, 'prætor, do as thou seest, this man is a stranger and was found without arms beside the murdered man, and thou mayst see that his wretchedness giveth him occasion to wish to die; wherefore do thou release him and punish me, who have deserved it.' varro marvelled at the insistence of these two and beginning now to presume that neither of them might be guilty, was casting about for a means of acquitting them, when, behold, up came a youth called publius ambustus, a man of notorious ill life and known to all the romans for an arrant rogue, who had actually done the murder and knowing neither of the twain to be guilty of that whereof each accused himself, such was the pity that overcame his heart for the innocence of the two friends that, moved by supreme compassion, he came before varro and said, 'prætor, my fates impel me to solve the grievous contention of these twain and i know not what god within me spurreth and importuneth me to discover to thee my sin. know, then, that neither of these men is guilty of that whereof each accuseth himself. i am verily he who slew yonder man this morning towards daybreak and i saw this poor wretch asleep there, what while i was in act to divide the booty gotten with him whom i slew. there is no need for me to excuse titus; his renown is everywhere manifest and every one knoweth him to be no man of such a condition. release him, therefore, and take of me that forfeit which the laws impose on me.' by this octavianus had notice of the matter and causing all three be brought before him, desired to hear what cause had moved each of them to seek to be the condemned man. accordingly, each related his own story, whereupon octavianus released the two friends, for that they were innocent, and pardoned the other for the love of them. thereupon titus took his gisippus and first reproaching him sore for lukewarmness[ ] and diffidence, rejoiced in him with marvellous great joy and carried him to his house, where sophronia with tears of compassion received him as a brother. then, having awhile recruited him with rest and refreshment and reclothed him and restored him to such a habit as sorted with his worth and quality, he first shared all his treasures and estates in common with him and after gave him to wife a young sister of his, called fulvia, saying, 'gisippus, henceforth it resteth with thee whether thou wilt abide here with me or return with everything i have given thee into achaia.' gisippus, constrained on the one hand by his banishment from his native land and on the other by the love which he justly bore to the cherished friendship of titus, consented to become a roman and accordingly took up his abode in the city, where he with his fulvia and titus with his sophronia lived long and happily, still abiding in one house and waxing more friends (an more they might be) every day. [footnote : sic (_tiepidezza_); but _semble_ "timidity" or "distrustfulness" is meant.] a most sacred thing, then, is friendship and worthy not only of especial reverence, but to be commended with perpetual praise, as the most discreet mother of magnanimity and honour, the sister of gratitude and charity and the enemy of hatred and avarice, still, without waiting to be entreated, ready virtuously to do unto others that which it would have done to itself. nowadays its divine effects are very rarely to be seen in any twain, by the fault and to the shame of the wretched cupidity of mankind, which, regarding only its own profit, hath relegated it to perpetual exile, beyond the extremest limits of the earth. what love, what riches, what kinship, what, except friendship, could have made gisippus feel in his heart the ardour, the tears and the sighs of titus with such efficacy as to cause him yield up to his friend his betrothed bride, fair and gentle and beloved of him? what laws, what menaces, what fears could have enforced the young arms of gisippus to abstain, in solitary places and in dark, nay, in his very bed, from the embraces of the fair damsel, she mayhap bytimes inviting him, had friendship not done it? what honours, what rewards, what advancements, what, indeed, but friendship, could have made gisippus reck not of losing his own kinsfolk and those of sophronia nor of the unmannerly clamours of the populace nor of scoffs and insults, so that he might pleasure his friend? on the other hand, what, but friendship, could have prompted titus, whenas he might fairly have feigned not to see, unhesitatingly to compass his own death, that he might deliver gisippus from the cross to which he had of his own motion procured himself to be condemned? what else could have made titus, without the least demur, so liberal in sharing his most ample patrimony with gisippus, whom fortune had bereft of his own? what else could have made him so forward to vouchsafe his sister to his friend, albeit he saw him very poor and reduced to the extreme of misery? let men, then, covet a multitude of comrades, troops of brethren and children galore and add, by dint of monies, to the number of their servitors, considering not that every one of these, who and whatsoever he may be, is more fearful of every least danger of his own than careful to do away the great[ ] from father or brother or master, whereas we see a friend do altogether the contrary." [footnote : _i.e._ perils.] the ninth story [day the tenth] saladin, in the disguise of a merchant, is honourably entertained by messer torello d'istria, who, presently undertaking the [third] crusade, appointeth his wife a term for her marrying again. he is taken [by the saracens] and cometh, by his skill in training hawks, under the notice of the soldan, who knoweth him again and discovering himself to him, entreateth him with the utmost honour. then, torello falling sick for languishment, he is by magical art transported in one night [from alexandria] to pavia, where, being recognized by his wife at the bride-feast held for her marrying again, he returneth with her to his own house filomena having made an end of her discourse and the magnificent gratitude of titus having been of all alike commended, the king, reserving the last place unto dioneo, proceeded to speak thus: "assuredly, lovesome ladies, filomena speaketh sooth in that which she saith of friendship and with reason complaineth, in concluding her discourse, of its being so little in favour with mankind. if we were here for the purpose of correcting the defaults of the age or even of reprehending them, i might ensue her words with a discourse at large upon the subject; but, for that we aim at otherwhat, it hath occurred to my mind to set forth to you, in a story belike somewhat overlong, but withal altogether pleasing, one of the magnificences of saladin, to the end that, if, by reason of our defaults, the friendship of any one may not be throughly acquired, we may, at the least, be led, by the things which you shall hear in my story, to take delight in doing service, in the hope that, whenassoever it may be, reward will ensue to us thereof. i must tell you, then, that, according to that which divers folk affirm, a general crusade was, in the days of the emperor frederick the first, undertaken by the christians for the recovery of the holy land, whereof saladin, a very noble and valiant prince, who was then soldan of babylon, having notice awhile beforehand, he bethought himself to seek in his own person to see the preparations of the christian princes for the undertaking in question, so he might the better avail to provide himself. accordingly, having ordered all his affairs in egypt, he made a show of going a pilgrimage and set out in the disguise of a merchant, attended by two only of his chiefest and sagest officers and three serving-men. after he had visited many christian countries, it chanced that, as they rode through lombardy, thinking to pass beyond the mountains,[ ] they encountered, about vespers, on the road from milan to pavia, a gentleman of the latter place, by name messer torello d'istria, who was on his way, with his servants and dogs and falcons, to sojourn at a goodly country seat he had upon the tesino, and no sooner set eyes on saladin and his company than he knew them for gentlemen and strangers; wherefore, the soldan enquiring of one of his servants how far they were yet distant from pavia and if he might win thither in time to enter the city, he suffered not the man to reply, but himself answered, 'gentlemen, you cannot reach pavia in time to enter therein.' 'then,' said saladin, 'may it please you acquaint us (for that we are strangers) where we may best lodge the night.' quoth messer torello, 'that will i willingly do. i had it presently in mind to dispatch one of my men here to the neighborhood of pavia for somewhat: i will send him with you and he shall bring you to a place where you may lodge conveniently enough.' then, turning to the discreetest of his men he [privily] enjoined him what he should do and sent him with them, whilst he himself, making for his country house, let order, as best he might, a goodly supper and set the tables in the garden; which done, he posted himself at the door to await his guests. [footnote : _i.e._ to cross the alps into france.] meanwhile, the servant, devising with the gentlemen of one thing and another, led them about by certain by-roads and brought them, without their suspecting it, to his lord's residence, where, whenas messer torello saw them, he came to meet them afoot and said, smiling, 'gentlemen, you are very welcome.' saladin, who was very quick of apprehension, understood that the gentleman had misdoubted him they would not have accepted his invitation, had he bidden them whenas he fell in with them, and had, therefore, brought them by practice to his house, so they might not avail to refuse to pass the night with him, and accordingly, returning his greeting, he said, 'sir, an one could complain of men of courtesy, we might complain of you, for that (letting be that you have somewhat hindered us from our road) you have, without our having merited your goodwill otherwise than by a mere salutation, constrained us to accept of such noble hospitality as is this of yours.' 'gentlemen,' answered messer torello, who was a discreet and well-spoken man, 'it is but a sorry hospitality that you will receive from us, regard had to that which should behove unto you, an i may judge by that which i apprehend from your carriage and that of your companions; but in truth you could nowhere out of pavia have found any decent place of entertainment; wherefore, let it not irk you to have gone somedele beside your way, to have a little less unease.' meanwhile, his servants came round about the travellers and helping them to dismount, eased[ ] their horses. [footnote : _adagiarono_; see p. , note.] messer torello then brought the three stranger gentlemen to the chambers prepared for them, where he let unboot them and refresh them somewhat with very cool wines and entertained them in agreeable discourse till such time as they might sup. saladin and his companions and servants all knew latin, wherefore they understood very well and were understood, and it seemed to each of them that this gentleman was the most pleasant and well-mannered man they had ever seen, ay, and the best spoken. it appeared to messer torello, on the other hand, that they were men of magnificent fashions and much more of account than he had at first conceived, wherefore he was inwardly chagrined that he could not honour them that evening with companions and with a more considerable entertainment. but for this he bethought himself to make them amends on the morrow, and accordingly, having instructed one of his servants of that which he would have done, he despatched him to pavia, which was very near at hand and where no gate was ever locked, to his lady, who was exceeding discreet and great-hearted. then, carrying the gentlemen into the garden, he courteously asked them who they were, to which saladin answered, 'we are merchants from cyprus and are bound to paris on our occasions.' 'would to god,' cried messer torello, 'that this our country produced gentlemen of such a fashion as i see cyprus doth merchants!' in these and other discourses they abode till it was time to sup, whereupon he left it to them to honour themselves at table,[ ] and there, for an improvised supper, they were very well and orderly served; nor had they abidden long after the tables were removed, when messer torello, judging them to be weary, put them to sleep in very goodly beds and himself a little after in like manner betook himself to rest. [footnote : _i.e._ to place themselves according to their several ranks, which were unknown to torello.] meanwhile the servant sent to pavia did his errand to the lady, who, with no womanly, but with a royal spirit, let call in haste a great number of the friends and servants of messer torello and made ready all that behoved unto a magnificent banquet. moreover, she let bid by torchlight many of the noblest of the townfolk to the banquet and bringing out cloths and silks and furs, caused throughly order that which her husband had sent to bid her do. the day come, saladin and his companions arose, whereupon messer torello took horse with them and sending for his falcons, carried them to a neighbouring ford and there showed them how the latter flew; then, saladin enquiring for some one who should bring him to pavia and to the best inn, his host said, 'i will be your guide, for that it behoveth me go thither.' the others, believing this, were content and set out in company with him for the city, which they reached about tierce and thinking to be on their way to the best inn, were carried by messer torello to his own house, where a good half-hundred of the most considerable citizens were already come to receive the stranger gentlemen and were straightway about their bridles and stirrups. saladin and his companions, seeing this, understood but too well what was forward and said, 'messer torello, this is not what we asked of you; you have done enough for us this past night, ay, and far more than we are worth; wherefore you might now fitly suffer us fare on our way.' 'gentlemen,' replied messer torello, 'for my yesternight's dealing with you i am more indebted to fortune than to you, which took you on the road at an hour when it behoved you come to my poor house; but of your this morning's visit i shall be beholden to yourselves, and with me all these gentlemen who are about you and to whom an it seem to you courteous to refuse to dine with them, you can do so, if you will.' saladin and his companions, overcome, dismounted and being joyfully received by the assembled company, were carried to chambers which had been most sumptuously arrayed for them, where having put off their travelling gear and somewhat refreshed themselves, they repaired to the saloon, where the banquet was splendidly prepared. water having been given to the hands, they were seated at table with the goodliest and most orderly observance and magnificently served with many viands, insomuch that, were the emperor himself come thither, it had been impossible to do him more honour, and albeit saladin and his companions were great lords and used to see very great things, natheless, they were mightily wondered at this and it seemed to them of the greatest, having regard to the quality of the gentleman, whom they knew to be only a citizen and not a lord. dinner ended and the tables removed, they conversed awhile of divers things; then, at messer torello's instance, the heat being great, the gentlemen of pavia all betook themselves to repose, whilst he himself, abiding alone with his three guests, carried them into a chamber and (that no precious thing of his should remain unseen of them) let call thither his noble lady. accordingly, the latter, who was very fair and tall of her person, came in to them, arrayed in rich apparel and flanked by two little sons of hers, as they were two angels, and saluted them courteously. the strangers, seeing her, rose to their feet and receiving her with worship, caused her sit among them and made much of her two fair children. therewithal she entered into pleasant discourse with them and presently, messer torello having gone out awhile, she asked them courteously whence they were and whither they went; to which they made answer even as they had done to her husband; whereupon quoth she, with a blithe air, 'then see i that my womanly advisement will be useful; wherefore i pray you, of your especial favour, refuse me not neither disdain a slight present, which i shall cause bring you, but accept it, considering that women, of their little heart, give little things and regarding more the goodwill of the giver than the value of the gift.' then, letting fetch them each two gowns, one lined with silk and the other with miniver, no wise citizens' clothes nor merchants, but fit for great lords to wear, and three doublets of sendal and linen breeches to match, she said, 'take these; i have clad my lord in gowns of the like fashion, and the other things, for all they are little worth, may be acceptable to you, considering that you are far from your ladies and the length of the way you have travelled and that which is yet to travel and that merchants are proper men and nice of their persons.' the saracens marvelled and manifestly perceived that messer torello was minded to leave no particular of hospitality undone them; nay, seeing the magnificence of the unmerchantlike gowns, they misdoubted them they had been recognized of him. however, one of them made answer to the lady, saying, 'madam, these are very great matters and such as should not lightly be accepted, an your prayers, to which it is impossible to say no, constrained us not thereto.' this done and messer torello being now returned, the lady, commending them to god, took leave of them and let furnish their servants with like things such as sorted with their condition. messer torello with many prayers prevailed upon them to abide with him all that day; wherefore, after they had slept awhile, they donned their gowns and rode with him somedele about the city; then, the supper-hour come, they supped magnificently with many worshipful companions and in due time betook themselves to rest. on the morrow they arose with day and found, in place of their tired hackneys, three stout and good palfreys, and on likewise fresh and strong horses for their servants, which when saladin saw, he turned to his companions and said, 'i vow to god that never was there a more accomplished gentleman nor a more courteous and apprehensive than this one, and if the kings of the christians are kings of such a fashion as this is a gentleman, the soldan of babylon can never hope to stand against a single one of them, not to speak of the many whom we see make ready to fall upon him.' then, knowing that it were in vain to seek to refuse this new gift, they very courteously thanked him therefor and mounted to horse. messer torello, with many companions, brought them a great way without the city, till, grievous as it was to saladin to part from him, (so much was he by this grown enamoured of him,) natheless, need constraining him to press on, he presently besought him to turn back; whereupon, loath as he was to leave them, 'gentlemen,' quoth he, 'since it pleaseth you, i will do it; but one thing i will e'en say to you; i know not who you are nor do i ask to know more thereof than it pleaseth you to tell me; but, be you who you may, you will never make me believe that you are merchants, and so i commend you to god.' saladin, having by this taken leave of all messer torello's companions, replied to him, saying, 'sir, we may yet chance to let you see somewhat of our merchandise, whereby we may confirm your belief;[ ] meantime, god be with you.' thereupon he departed with his followers, firmly resolved, if life should endure to him and the war he looked for undo him not, to do messer torello no less honour than that which he had done him, and much did he discourse with his companions of him and of his lady and all his affairs and fashions and dealings, mightily commending everything. then, after he had, with no little fatigue, visited all the west, he took ship with his companions and returned to alexandria, where, being now fully informed, he addressed himself to his defence. as for messer torello, he returned to pavia and went long in thought who these might be, but never hit upon the truth, no, nor came near it. [footnote : sic (_la vostra credenza raffermeremo_); but the meaning is, "whereby we may amend your unbelief and give you cause to credit our assertion that we are merchants."] the time being now come for the crusade and great preparations made everywhere, messer torello, notwithstanding the tears and entreaties of his wife, was altogether resolved to go thereon and having made his every provision and being about to take horse, he said to his lady, whom he loved over all, 'wife, as thou seest, i go on this crusade, as well for the honour of my body as for the health of my soul. i commend to thee our affairs and our honour, and for that i am certain of the going, but of the returning, for a thousand chances that may betide, i have no assurance, i will have thee do me a favour, to wit, that whatever befall of me, an thou have not certain news of my life, thou shalt await me a year and a month and a day, ere thou marry again, beginning from this the day of my departure.' the lady, who wept sore, answered, 'messer torello, i know not how i shall endure the chagrin wherein you leave me by your departure; but, an my life prove stronger than my grief and aught befall you, you may live and die assured that i shall live and die the wife of messer torello and of his memory.' 'wife,' rejoined messer torello, 'i am very certain that, inasmuch as in thee lieth, this that thou promisest me will come to pass; but thou art a young woman and fair and of high family and thy worth is great and everywhere known; wherefore i doubt not but many great and noble gentlemen will, should aught be misdoubted of me,[ ] demand thee of thy brethren and kinsfolk; from whose importunities, how much soever thou mightest wish, thou wilt not be able to defend thyself and it will behove thee perforce comply with their wishes; and this is why i ask of thee this term and not a greater one.' quoth the lady, 'i will do what i may of that which i have told you, and should it nevertheless behove me to do otherwise, i will assuredly obey you in this that you enjoin me; but i pray god that he bring nor you nor me to such an extremity in these days.' this said, she embraced him, weeping, and drawing a ring from her finger, gave it to him, saying, 'and it chance that i die ere i see you again, remember me when you look upon this ring.' [footnote : _i.e._ should any rumour get wind of death.] torello took the ring and mounted to horse; then, bidding all his people adieu, he set out on his journey and came presently with his company to genoa. there he embarked on board a galleon and coming in a little while to acre, joined himself to the other army[ ] of the christians, wherein, well nigh out of hand, there began a sore sickness and mortality. during this, whether by saladin's skill or of his good fortune, well nigh all the remnant of the christians who had escaped alive were taken by him, without blow stricken, and divided among many cities and imprisoned. messer torello was one of those taken and was carried prisoner to alexandria, where, being unknown and fearing to make himself known, he addressed himself, of necessity constrained, to the training of hawks, of which he was a great master, and by this he came under the notice of saladin, who took him out of prison and entertained him for his falconer. messer torello, who was called by the soldan by none other name than the christian, recognized him not nor did saladin recognize him; nay, all his thoughts were in pavia and he had more than once essayed to flee, but without avail; wherefore, certain genoese coming ambassadors to saladin, to treat for the ransom of sundry of their townsmen, and being about to depart, he bethought himself to write to his lady, giving her to know that he was alive and would return to her as quickliest he might and bidding her await him. accordingly, he wrote letters to this effect and instantly besought one of the ambassadors, whom he knew, to cause them come to the hands of the abbot of san pietro in ciel d'oro, who was his uncle. [footnote : sic (_all' altro esercito_). the meaning of this does not appear, as no mention has yet been made of two christian armies. perhaps we should translate "the rest of the army," _i.e._ such part of the remnant of the christian host as fled to acre and shut themselves up there after the disastrous day of hittin ( june, ). acre fell on the th july, .] things being at this pass with him, it befell one day that, as saladin was devising with him of his hawks, messer torello chanced to smile and made a motion with his mouth, which the former had much noted, what while he was in his house at pavia. this brought the gentleman to his mind and looking steadfastly upon him, himseemed it was himself; wherefore, leaving the former discourse, 'harkye, christian, said he, 'what countryman art thou of the west?' 'my lord,' replied torello, 'i am a lombard of a city called pavia, a poor man and of mean condition.' saladin, hearing this, was in a manner certified of the truth of his suspicion and said joyfully in himself, 'god hath vouchsafed me an opportunity of showing this man how grateful his courtesy was to me.' accordingly, without saying otherwhat, he let lay out all his apparel in a chamber and carrying him thither, said to him, 'look, christian, if there be any among these gowns that thou hast ever seen.' torello looked and saw those which his lady had given saladin; but, natheless, conceiving not that they could possibly be the same, he answered, 'my lord, i know none of them; albeit, in good sooth, these twain do favour certain gowns wherewithal i, together with three merchants who came to my house, was invested aforetime.' thereupon saladin, unable to contain himself farther, embraced him tenderly, saying, 'you are messer torello d'istria and i am one of the three merchants to whom your lady gave these gowns; and now is the time come to certify you what manner merchandise mine is, even as i told you, at my parting from you, might chance to betide.' messer torello, hearing this, was at once rejoiced and ashamed; rejoiced to have had such a guest and ashamed for that himseemed he had entertained him but scurvily. then said saladin, 'messer torello, since god hath sent you hither to me, henceforth consider that not i, but you are master here.' accordingly, after they had mightily rejoiced in each other, he clad him in royal apparel and carrying him into the presence of all his chief barons, commanded, after saying many things in praise of his worth, that he should of all who held his favour dear be honoured as himself, which was thenceforward done of all, but above all of the two gentlemen who had been saladin's companions in his house. the sudden height of glory to which messer torello thus found himself advanced put his lombardy affairs somedele out of his mind, more by token that he had good reason to hope that his letters were by this come to his uncle's hands. now there had died and been buried in the camp or rather in the host, of the christians, the day they were taken by saladin, a provençal gentleman of little account, by name messer torello de dignes, by reason whereof, messer torello d'istria being renowned throughout the army for his magnificence, whosoever heard say, 'messer torello is dead,' believed it of messer torello d'istria, not of him of dignes. the hazard of the capture that ensued thereupon suffered not those who had been thus misled to be undeceived; wherefore many italians returned with this news, amongst whom were some who scrupled not to avouch that they had seen him dead and had been at the burial. this, coming to be known of his wife and kinsfolk, was the cause of grievous and inexpressible sorrow, not only to them, but to all who had known him. it were longsome to set forth what and how great was the grief and sorrow and lamentation of his lady; but, after having bemoaned herself some months in continual affliction, coming to sorrow less and being sought in marriage with the chiefest men in lombardy, she began to be presently importuned by her brothers and other her kinsfolk to marry again. after having again and again refused with many tears, needs must she at the last consent perforce to do her kinsfolk's will, on condition that she should abide, without going to a husband, so long as she had promised messer torello. the lady's affairs at pavia being at this pass and there lacking maybe eight days of the term appointed for her going to her new husband, it chanced that messer torello espied one day in alexandria one whom he had seen embark with the genoese ambassadors on board the galley that was to carry them back to genoa, and calling him, asked him what manner voyage they had had and when they had reached genoa; whereto the other replied, 'sir, the galleon (as i heard in crete, where i remained,) made an ill voyage; for that, as she drew near unto sicily, there arose a furious northerly wind, which drove her on to the barbary quicksands, nor was any one saved; and amongst the rest two brothers of mine perished there.' messer torello, giving credit to his words, which were indeed but too true, and remembering him that the term required by him of his wife ended a few days thence, concluded that nothing could be known at pavia of his condition and held it for certain that the lady must have married again; wherefore he fell into such a chagrin that he lost [sleep and] appetite and taking to his bed, determined to die. when saladin, who loved him above all, heard of this, he came to him and having, by dint of many and urgent prayers, learned the cause of his grief and his sickness, upbraided him sore for that he had not before told it to him and after besought him to be comforted, assuring him that, if he would but take heart, he would so contrive that he should be in pavia at the appointed term and told him how. messer torello, putting faith in saladin's words and having many a time heard say that this was possible and had indeed been often enough done, began to take comfort and pressed saladin to despatch. the soldan accordingly charged a nigromancer of his, of whose skill he had aforetime made proof, to cast about for a means whereby messer torello should be in one night transported upon a bed to pavia, to which the magician replied that it should be done, but that, for the gentleman's own weal, he must put him to sleep. this done, saladin returned to messer torello and finding him altogether resolved to seek at any hazard to be in pavia at the term appointed, if it were possible, and in default thereof, to die, bespoke him thus; 'messer torello, god knoweth that i neither will nor can anywise blame you if you tenderly love your lady and are fearful of her becoming another's, for that, of all the women i ever saw, she it is whose manners, whose fashions and whose demeanour, (leaving be her beauty, which is but a short-lived flower,) appear to me most worthy to be commended and held dear. it had been very grateful to me, since fortune hath sent you hither, that we should have passed together, as equal masters in the governance of this my realm, such time as you and i have to live, and if this was not to be vouchsafed me of god, it being fated that you should take it to heart to seek either to die or to find yourself in pavia at the appointed term, i should above all have desired to know it in time, that i might have you transported to your house with such honour, such magnificence and in such company as your worth meriteth. however, since this hath not been vouchsafed and you desire to be presently there, i will e'en, as i may, despatch you thither after the fashion whereof i have bespoken you.' 'my lord,' replied messer torello, 'your acts, without your words, have given me sufficient proof of your favour, which i have never merited in such supreme degree, and of that which you say, though you had not said it, i shall live and die most assured; but, since i have taken this resolve, i pray you that that which you tell me you will do may be done speedily, for that to-morrow is the last day i am to be looked for.' saladin answered that this should without fail be accomplished and accordingly, on the morrow, meaning to send him away that same night, he let make, in a great hall of his palace, a very goodly and rich bed of mattresses, all, according to their usance, of velvet and cloth of gold and caused lay thereon a counterpoint curiously wrought in various figures with great pearls and jewels of great price (the which here in italy was after esteemed an inestimable treasure) and two pillows such as sorted with a bed of that fashion. this done, he bade invest messer torello, who was presently well and strong again, in a gown of the saracen fashion, the richest and goodliest thing that had ever been seen of any, and wind about his head, after their guise, one of his longest turban-cloths.[ ] then, it growing late, he betook himself with many of his barons to the chamber where messer torello was and seating himself, well nigh weeping, by his side, bespoke him thus; 'messer torello, the hour draweth near that is to sunder me from you, and since i may not bear you company nor cause you to be accompanied, by reason of the nature of the journey you have to make, which suffereth it not, needs must i take leave of you here in this chamber, to which end i am come hither. wherefore, ere i commend you to god, i conjure you, by that love and that friendship that is between us, that you remember you of me and if it be possible, ere our times come to an end, that, whenas you have ordered your affairs in lombardy, you come at the least once to see me, to the end that, what while i am cheered by your sight, i may then supply the default which needs must i presently commit by reason of your haste; and against that betide, let it not irk you to visit me with letters and require me of such things as shall please you; for that of a surety i will more gladly do them for you than for any man alive.' [footnote : it may be well to remind the european reader that the turban consists of two parts, _i.e._ a skull-cap and a linen cloth, which is wound round it in various folds and shapes, to form the well-known eastern head-dress.] as for messer torello, he could not contain his tears; wherefore, being hindered thereby, he answered, in a few words, that it was impossible his benefits and his nobility should ever escape his mind and that he would without fail do that which he enjoined him, whenas occasion should be afforded him; whereupon saladin, having tenderly embraced him and kissed him, bade him with many tears god speed and departed the chamber. the other barons then all took leave of him and followed the soldan into the hall where he had caused make ready the bed. meanwhile, it waxing late and the nigromant awaiting and pressing for despatch, there came a physician to messer torello with a draught and making him believe that he gave it him to fortify him, caused him drink it; nor was it long ere he fell asleep and so, by saladin's commandment, was carried into the hall and laid upon the bed aforesaid, whereon the soldan placed a great and goodly crown of great price and inscribed it on such wise that it was after manifestly understood to be sent by him to messer torello's lady; after which he put on torello's finger a ring, wherein was a carbuncle enchased, so resplendent that it seemed a lighted flambeau, the value whereof could scarce be reckoned, and girt him with a sword, whose garniture might not lightly be appraised. moreover, he let hang a fermail on his breast, wherein were pearls whose like were never seen, together with other precious stones galore, and on his either side he caused set two great basins of gold, full of doubloons, and many strings of pearls and rings and girdles and other things, which it were tedious to recount, round about him. this done, he kissed him once more and bade the nigromant despatch, whereupon, in his presence, the bed was incontinent taken away, messer torello and all, and saladin abode devising of him with his barons. meanwhile, messer torello had been set down, even as he had requested, in the church of san pietro in ciel d'oro at pavia, with all the jewels and ornaments aforesaid, and yet slept when, matins having sounded, the sacristan of the church entered, with a light in his hand, and chancing suddenly to espy the rich bed, not only marvelled, but, seized with a terrible fright, turned and fled. the abbot and the monks, seeing him flee, marvelled and questioned him of the cause, which he told them; whereupon quoth the abbot, 'marry, thou art no child nor art thou new to the church that thou shouldst thus lightly take fright; let us go see who hath played the bugbear with thee.' accordingly, kindling several lights, the abbot and all his monks entered the church and saw that wonder-rich and goodly bed and thereon the gentleman asleep; and what while, misdoubting and fearful, they gazed upon the noble jewels, without drawing anywise near to the bed, it befell that, the virtue of the draught being spent, messer torello awoke and heaved a great sigh, which when the monks saw and heard, they took to flight, abbot and all, affrighted and crying, 'lord aid us!' messer torello opened his eyes and looking about him, plainly perceived himself to be whereas he had asked saladin to have him carried, at which he was mightily content. then, sitting up, he particularly examined that which he had about him, and for all he had before known of the magnificence of saladin, it seemed to him now greater and he knew it more. nevertheless, without moving farther, seeing the monks flee and divining why, he proceeded to call the abbot by name, praying him be not afraid, for that he was torello his nephew. the abbot, hearing this, waxed yet more fearful, as holding him as dead many months before; but, after awhile, taking assurance by true arguments and hearing himself called, he made the sign of the cross and went up to him; whereupon quoth messer torello, 'how now, father mine, of what are you adread? godamercy, i am alive and returned hither from beyond seas.' the abbot, for all he had a great beard and was clad after the saracen fashion, presently recognized him and altogether reassured, took him by the hand, saying, 'my son, thou art welcome back.' then he continued, 'thou must not marvel at our affright, for that there is not a man in these parts but firmly believeth thee to be dead, insomuch that i must tell thee that madam adalieta thy wife, overmastered by the prayers and threats of her kinsfolk and against her own will, is married again and is this morning to go to her new husband; ay, and the bride-feast and all that pertaineth unto the nuptial festivities is prepared.' therewithal messer torello arose from off the rich bed and greeting the abbot and the monks with marvellous joyance, prayed them all to speak with none of that his return, against he should have despatched an occasion of his; after which, having caused lay up the costly jewels in safety, he recounted to his uncle all that had befallen him up to that moment. the abbot rejoiced in his happy fortunes and together with him, rendered thanks to god, after which messer torello asked him who was his lady's new husband. the abbot told him and torello said, 'i have a mind, ere folk know of my return, to see what manner countenance is that of my wife in these nuptials; wherefore, albeit it is not the usance of men of your habit to go to entertainments of this kind, i would have you contrive, for the love of me, that we may go thither, you and i.' the abbot replied that he would well and accordingly, as soon as it was day, he sent to the new bridegroom, saying that he would fain be at his nuptials with a friend of his, whereto the gentleman answered that it liked him passing well. accordingly, eating-time come, messer torello, clad as he was, repaired with his uncle to the bridegroom's house, beheld with wonderment of all who saw him, but recognized of none; and the abbot told every one that he was a saracen sent ambassador from the soldan to the king of france. he was, therefore, seated at a table right overagainst his lady, whom he beheld with the utmost pleasure, and himseemed she was troubled in countenance at these new nuptials. she, in her turn, looked whiles upon him, but not of any cognizance that she had of him, for that his great beard and outlandish habit and the firm assurance she had that he was dead hindered her thereof. presently, whenas it seemed to him time to essay if she remembered her of him, he took the ring she had given him at his parting and calling a lad who served before her, said to him, 'say to the bride, on my part, that it is the usance in my country, whenas any stranger, such as i am here, eateth at the bride-feast of any new-married lady, like herself, that she, in token that she holdeth him welcome at her table, send him the cup, wherein she drinketh, full of wine, whereof after the stranger hath drunken what he will, the cup being covered again, the bride drinketh the rest.' the page did his errand to the lady, who, like a well-bred and discreet woman as she was, believing him to be some great gentleman, commanded, to show him that she had his coming in gree, that a great gilded cup, which stood before her, should be washed and filled with wine and carried to the gentleman; and so it was done. messer torello, taking her ring in his mouth, contrived in drinking to drop it, unseen of any, into the cup, wherein having left but a little wine, he covered it again and despatched it to the lady. madam adalieta, taking the cup and uncovering it, that she might accomplish his usance, set it to her mouth and seeing the ring, considered it awhile, without saying aught; then, knowing it for that which she had given to messer torello at parting, she took it up and looking fixedly upon him whom she deemed a stranger, presently recognized him; whereupon, as she were waxen mad, she overthrew the table she had before her and cried out, saying, 'it is my lord, it is indeed messer torello!' then, running to the place where he sat, she cast herself as far forward as she might, without taking thought to her clothes or to aught that was on the table, and clipped him close in her arms nor could, for word or deed of any there, be loosed from his neck till she was bidden of messer torello contain herself somewhat, for that time enough would yet be afforded her to embrace him. she accordingly having arisen and the nuptials being by this all troubled, albeit in part more joyous than ever for the recovery of such a gentleman, every one, at messer torello's request, abode quiet; whereupon he related to them all that had betided him from the day of his departure up to that moment, concluding that the gentleman, who, deeming him dead, had taken his lady to wife, must not hold it ill if he, being alive, took her again unto himself. the bridegroom, though somewhat mortified, answered frankly and as a friend that it rested with himself to do what most pleased him of his own. accordingly, the lady put off the ring and crown had of her new groom and donned the ring which she had taken from the cup and the crown sent her by the soldan; then, issuing forth of the house where they were, they betook themselves, with all the nuptial train, to messer torello's house and there recomforted his disconsolate friends and kindred and all the townsfolk, who regarded his return as well nigh a miracle, with long and joyous festival. as for messer torello, after imparting of his precious jewels to him who had had the expense of the nuptials, as well as to the abbot and many others, and signifying his happy repatriation by more than one message to saladin, whose friend and servant he still professed himself, he lived many years thereafterward with his noble lady and thenceforth, used more hospitality and courtesy than ever. such then was the issue of the troubles of messer torello and his beloved lady and the recompense of their cheerful and ready hospitalities, the which many study to practise, who, albeit they have the wherewithal, do yet so ill contrive it that they make those on whom they bestow their courtesies buy them, ere they have done with them, for more than their worth; wherefore, if no reward ensue to them thereof, neither themselves nor others should marvel thereat." the tenth story [day the tenth] the marquess of saluzzo, constrained by the prayers of his vassals to marry, but determined to do it after his own fashion, taketh to wife the daughter of a peasant and hath of her two children, whom he maketh believe to her to put to death; after which, feigning to be grown weary of her and to have taken another wife, he letteth bring his own daughter home to his house, as she were his new bride, and turneth his wife away in her shift; but, finding her patient under everything, he fetcheth her home again, dearer than ever, and showing her her children grown great, honoureth and letteth honour her as marchioness the king's long story being ended and having, to all appearance, much pleased all, dioneo said, laughing, "the good man,[ ] who looked that night to abase the phantom's tail upright,[ ] had not given a brace of farthings of all the praises that you bestow on messer torello." then, knowing that it rested with him alone to tell, he proceeded: "gentle ladies mine, it appeareth to me that this day hath been given up to kings and soldans and the like folk; wherefore, that i may not remove overfar from you, i purpose to relate to you of a marquess, not an act of magnificence, but a monstrous folly, which, albeit good ensued to him thereof in the end, i counsel not any to imitate, for it was a thousand pities that weal betided him thereof. [footnote : _i.e._ he who was to have married madam adalieta.] [footnote : see p. .] it is now a great while agone since the chief of the house among the marquesses of saluzzo was a youth called gualtieri, who, having neither wife nor children, spent his time in nought but hunting and hawking nor had any thought of taking a wife nor of having children; wherein he deserved to be reputed very wise. the thing, however, not pleasing his vassals, they besought him many times to take a wife, so he might not abide without an heir nor they without a lord, and offered themselves to find him one of such a fashion and born of such parents that good hopes might be had of her and he be well content with her; whereto he answered, 'my friends, you constrain me unto that which i was altogether resolved never to do, considering how hard a thing it is to find a wife whose fashions sort well within one's own humour and how great an abundance there is of the contrary sort and how dour a life is his who happeneth upon a woman not well suited unto him. to say that you think, by the manners and fashions of the parents, to know the daughters, wherefrom you argue to give me a wife such as will please me, is a folly, since i know not whence you may avail to know their fathers nor yet the secrets of their mothers; and even did you know them, daughters are often unlike their parents. however, since it e'en pleaseth you to bind me in these chains, i am content to do your desire; but, that i may not have occasion to complain of other than myself, if it prove ill done, i mean to find a wife for myself, certifying you that, whomsoever i may take me, if she be not honoured of you as your lady and mistress, you shall prove, to your cost, how much it irketh me to have at your entreaty taken a wife against mine own will.' the good honest men replied that they were content, so he would but bring himself to take a wife. now the fashions of a poor girl, who was of a village near to his house, had long pleased gualtieri, and himseeming she was fair enough, he judged that he might lead a very comfortable life with her; wherefore, without seeking farther, he determined to marry her and sending for her father, who was a very poor man, agreed with him to take her to wife. this done, he assembled all his friends of the country round and said to them, 'my friends, it hath pleased and pleaseth you that i should dispose me to take a wife and i have resigned myself thereto, more to complease you than of any desire i have for marriage. you know what you promised me, to wit, that you would be content with and honour as your lady and mistress her whom i should take, whosoever she might be; wherefore the time is come when i am to keep my promise to you and when i would have you keep yours to me. i have found a damsel after mine own heart and purpose within some few days hence to marry her and bring her home to my house; wherefore do you bethink yourselves how the bride-feast may be a goodly one and how you may receive her with honour, on such wise that i may avouch myself contented of your promise, even as you will have cause to be of mine.' the good folk all answered joyfully that this liked them well and that, be she who he would, they would hold her for lady and mistress and honour her as such in all things; after which they all addressed themselves to hold fair and high and glad festival and on like wise did gualtieri, who let make ready very great and goodly nuptials and bade thereto many his friends and kinsfolk and great gentlemen and others of the neighbourhood. moreover, he let cut and fashion store of rich and goodly apparel, after the measure of a damsel who seemed to him like of her person to the young woman he was purposed to marry, and provided also rings and girdles and a rich and goodly crown and all that behoveth unto a bride. the day come that he had appointed for the nuptials, gualtieri towards half tierce mounted to horse, he and all those who were come to do him honour, and having ordered everything needful. 'gentlemen,' quoth he, 'it is time to go fetch the bride.' then, setting out with all his company, he rode to the village and betaking himself to the house of the girl's father, found her returning in great haste with water from the spring, so she might after go with other women to see gualtieri's bride come. when the marquess saw her, he called her by name, to wit, griselda, and asked her where her father was; to which she answered bashfully, 'my lord, he is within the house.' thereupon gualtieri dismounted and bidding all await him, entered the poor house alone, where he found her father, whose name was giannucolo, and said to him, 'i am come to marry griselda, but first i would fain know of her somewhat in thy presence.' accordingly, he asked her if, an he took her to wife, she would still study to please him, nor take umbrage at aught that he should do or say, and if she would be obedient, and many other like things, to all of which she answered ay; whereupon gualtieri, taking her by the hand, led her forth and in the presence of all his company and of every one else, let strip her naked. then, sending for the garments which he had let make, he caused forthright clothe and shoe her and would have her set the crown on her hair, all tumbled as it was; after which, all marvelling at this, he said, 'gentlemen, this is she who i purpose shall be my wife, an she will have me to husband.' then, turning to her, where she stood, all shamefast and confounded, he said to her, 'griselda, wilt thou have me to thy husband?' to which she answered, 'ay, my lord.' quoth he, 'and i will have thee to my wife'; and espoused her in the presence of all. then, mounting her on a palfrey, he carried her, honourably accompanied, to his mansion, where the nuptials were celebrated with the utmost splendour and rejoicing, no otherwise than as he had taken to wife the king's daughter of france. the young wife seemed to have, together with her clothes, changed her mind and her manners. she was, as we have already said, goodly of person and countenance, and even as she was fair, on like wise she became so engaging, so pleasant and so well-mannered that she seemed rather to have been the child of some noble gentleman than the daughter of giannucolo and a tender of sheep; whereof she made every one marvel who had known her aforetime. moreover, she was so obedient to her husband and so diligent in his service that he accounted himself the happiest and best contented man in the world; and on like wise she bore herself with such graciousness and such loving kindness towards her husband's subjects that there was none of them but loved and honoured her with his whole heart, praying all for her welfare and prosperity and advancement; and whereas they were used to say that gualtieri had done as one of little wit to take her to wife, they now with one accord declared that he was the sagest and best-advised man alive, for that none other than he might ever have availed to know her high worth, hidden as it was under poor clothes and a rustic habit. brief, it was no great while ere she knew so to do that, not only in her husband's marquisate, but everywhere else, she made folk talk of her virtues and her well-doing and turned to the contrary whatsoever had been said against her husband on her account, whenas he married her. she had not long abidden with gualtieri ere she conceived with child and in due time bore a daughter, whereat he rejoiced greatly. but, a little after, a new[ ] thought having entered his mind, to wit, to seek, by dint of long tribulation and things unendurable, to make trial of her patience, he first goaded her with words, feigning himself troubled and saying that his vassals were exceeding ill content with her, by reason of her mean extraction, especially since they saw that she bore children, and that they did nothing but murmur, being sore chagrined for the birth of her daughter. the lady, hearing this, replied, without anywise changing countenance or showing the least distemperature, 'my lord, do with me that which thou deemest will be most for thine honour and solace, for that i shall be content with all, knowing, as i do, that i am of less account than they[ ] and that i was unworthy of this dignity to which thou hast advanced me of thy courtesy.' this reply was mighty agreeable to gualtieri, for that he saw she was not uplifted into aught of pridefulness for any honour that himself or others had done her; but, a little after, having in general terms told her that his vassals could not brook this girl that had been born of her, he sent to her a serving-man of his, whom he had lessoned and who said to her with a very woeful countenance, 'madam, an i would not die, needs must i do that which my lord commandeth me. he hath bidden me take this your daughter and....' and said no more. the lady, hearing this and seeing the servant's aspect and remembering her of her husband's words, concluded that he had enjoined him put the child to death; whereupon, without changing countenance, albeit she felt a sore anguish at heart, she straightway took her from the cradle and having kissed and blessed her, laid her in the servant's arms, saying, 'take her and punctually do that which thy lord hath enjoined thee; but leave her not to be devoured of the beasts and the birds, except he command it thee.' the servant took the child and reported that which the lady had said to gualtieri, who marvelled at her constancy and despatched him with the child to a kinswoman of his at bologna, praying her to bring her up and rear her diligently, without ever saying whose daughter she was. [footnote : or "strange" (_nuovo_); see ante, passim.] [footnote : _i.e._ his vassals.] in course of time the lady again conceived and in due season bore a male child, to her husband's great joy; but, that which he had already done sufficing him not, he addressed himself to probe her to the quick with a yet sorer stroke and accordingly said to her one day with a troubled air, 'wife, since thou hast borne this male child, i have nowise been able to live in peace with these my people, so sore do they murmur that a grandson of giannucolo should become their lord after me; wherefore i misdoubt me, an i would not be driven forth of my domains, it will behove me do in this case that which i did otherwhen and ultimately put thee away and take another wife.' the lady gave ear to him with a patient mind nor answered otherwhat then, 'my lord, study to content thyself and to satisfy thy pleasure and have no thought of me, for that nothing is dear to me save in so much as i see it please thee.' not many days after, gualtieri sent for the son, even as he had sent for the daughter, and making a like show of having him put to death, despatched him to bologna, there to be brought up, even as he had done with the girl; but the lady made no other countenance nor other words thereof than she had done of the girl; whereat gualtieri marvelled sore and affirmed in himself that no other woman could have availed to do this that she did; and had he not seen her tender her children with the utmost fondness, what while it pleased him, he had believed that she did this because she recked no more of them; whereas in effect he knew that she did it of her discretion. his vassals, believing that he had caused put the children to death, blamed him sore, accounting him a barbarous man, and had the utmost compassion of his wife, who never answered otherwhat to the ladies who condoled with her for her children thus slain, than that that which pleased him thereof who had begotten them, pleased her also. at last, several years being passed since the birth of the girl, gualtieri, deeming it time to make the supreme trial of her endurance, declared, in the presence of his people, that he could no longer endure to have griselda to wife and that he perceived that he had done ill and boyishly in taking her, wherefore he purposed, as far as in him lay, to make interest with the pope to grant him a dispensation, so he might put her away and take another wife. for this he was roundly taken to task by many men of worth, but answered them nothing save that needs must it be so. the lady, hearing these things and herseeming she must look to return to her father's house and maybe tend sheep again as she had done aforetime, what while she saw another woman in possession of him to whom she willed all her weal, sorrowed sore in herself; but yet, even as she had borne the other affronts of fortune, so with a firm countenance she addressed herself to bear this also. gualtieri no great while after let come to him from rome counterfeit letters of dispensation and gave his vassals to believe that the pope had thereby licensed him to take another wife and leave griselda; then, sending for the latter, he said to her, in presence of many, 'wife, by concession made me of the pope, i am free to take another wife and put thee away, and accordingly, for that mine ancestors have been great gentlemen and lords of this country, whilst thine have still been husbandmen, i mean that thou be no more my wife, but that thou return to giannucolo his house with the dowry which thou broughtest me, and i will after bring hither another wife, for that i have found one more sorted to myself.' the lady, hearing this, contained her tears, contrary to the nature of woman, though not without great unease, and answered, 'my lord, i ever knew my mean estate to be nowise sortable with your nobility, and for that which i have been with you i have still confessed myself indebted to you and to god, nor have i ever made nor held it mine, as given to me, but have still accounted it but as a loan. it pleaseth you to require it again and it must and doth please me to restore it to you. here is your ring wherewith you espoused me; take it. you bid me carry away with me that dowry which i brought hither, which to do you will need no paymaster and i neither purse nor packhorse, for i have not forgotten that you had me naked, and if you account it seemly that this my body, wherein i have carried children begotten of you, be seen of all, i will begone naked; but i pray you, in requital of my maidenhead, which i brought hither and bear not hence with me, that it please you i may carry away at the least one sole shift over and above my dowry.' gualtieri, who had more mind to weep than to otherwhat, natheless kept a stern countenance and said, 'so be it; carry away a shift.' as many as stood around besought him to give her a gown, so that she who had been thirteen years and more his wife should not be seen go forth of his house on such mean and shameful wise as it was to depart in her shift; but their prayers all went for nothing; wherefore the lady, having commended them to god, went forth his house in her shift, barefoot and nothing on her head, and returned to her father, followed by the tears and lamentations of all who saw her. giannucolo, who had never been able to believe it true that gualtieri should entertain his daughter to wife and went in daily expectation of this event, had kept her the clothes which she had put off the morning that gualtieri had married her and now brought them to her; whereupon she donned them and addressed herself, as she had been wont to do, to the little offices of her father's house, enduring the cruel onslaught of hostile fortune with a stout heart. gualtieri, having done this, gave out to his people that he had chosen a daughter of one of the counts of panago and letting make great preparations for the nuptials, sent for griselda to come to him and said to her, 'i am about to bring home this lady, whom i have newly taken to wife, and mean, at this her first coming, to do her honour. thou knowest i have no women about me who know how to array me the rooms nor to do a multitude of things that behove unto such a festival; wherefore do thou, who art better versed than any else in these household matters, order that which is to do here and let bid such ladies as it seemeth good to thee and receive them as thou wert mistress here; then, when the nuptials are ended, thou mayst begone back to thy house.' albeit these words were all daggers to griselda's heart, who had been unable to lay down the love she bore him as she had laid down her fair fortune, she replied, 'my lord, i am ready and willing.' then, in her coarse homespun clothes, entering the house, whence she had a little before departed in her shift, she fell to sweeping and ordering the chambers and letting place hangings and cover-cloths about the saloons and make ready the viands, putting her hand to everything, as she were some paltry serving-wench of the house, nor ever gave over till she had arrayed and ordered everything as it behoved. thereafter, having let invite all the ladies of the country on gualtieri's part, she awaited the day of the festival, which being come, with a cheerful countenance and the spirit and bearing of a lady of high degree, for all she had mean clothes on her back, she received all the ladies who came thither. meanwhile, gualtieri, who had caused the two children be diligently reared in bologna by his kinswoman, (who was married to a gentleman of the panago family,) the girl being now twelve years old and the fairest creature that ever was seen and the boy six, had sent to his kinsman[ ] at bologna, praying him be pleased to come to saluzzo with his son and daughter and take order to bring with him a goodly and honourable company and bidding him tell every one that he was carrying him the young lady to his wife, without otherwise discovering to any aught of who she was. the gentleman did as the marquess prayed him and setting out, with the girl and boy and a goodly company of gentlefolk, after some days' journey, arrived, about dinner-time, at saluzzo, where he found all the countryfolk and many others of the neighbourhood awaiting gualtieri's new bride. the latter, being received by the ladies and come into the saloon where the tables were laid, griselda came to meet her, clad as she was, and accosted her blithely, saying, 'welcome and fair welcome to my lady.' thereupon the ladies (who had urgently, but in vain, besought gualtieri to suffer griselda to abide in a chamber or lend her one of the gowns that had been hers, so that she might not go thus before his guests) were seated at table and it was proceeded to serve them. the girl was eyed by every one and all declared that gualtieri had made a good exchange; and among the rest griselda commended her amain, both her and her young brother. [footnote : _i.e._ the husband of his kinswoman aforesaid.] gualtieri perceiving that the strangeness of the case in no wise changed her and being assured that this proceeded not from lack of understanding, for that he knew her to be very quick of wit, himseemed he had now seen fully as much as he desired of his lady's patience and he judged it time to deliver her from the bitterness which he doubted not she kept hidden under her constant countenance; wherefore, calling her to himself, he said to her, smiling, in the presence of every one, 'how deemest thou of our bride?' 'my lord,' answered she, 'i deem exceeding well of her, and if, as i believe, she is as discreet as she is fair, i doubt not a whit but you will live the happiest gentleman in the world with her; but i beseech you, as most i may, that you inflict not on her those pangs which you inflicted whilere on her who was sometime yours; for methinketh she might scarce avail to endure them, both because she is younger and because she hath been delicately reared, whereas the other had been in continual fatigues from a little child.' thereupon, gualtieri, seeing she firmly believed that the young lady was to be his wife nor therefore spoke anywise less than well, seated her by his side and said to her, 'griselda, it is now time that thou reap the fruits of thy long patience and that those who have reputed me cruel and unjust and brutish should know that this which i have done i wrought to an end aforeseen, willing to teach thee to be a wife and to show them how to take and use one and at the same time to beget myself perpetual quiet, what while i had to live with thee; the which, whenas i came to take a wife, i was sore afraid might not betide me, and therefore, to make proof thereof, i probed and afflicted thee after such kind as thou knowest. and meseeming, for that i have never perceived that either in word or in deed hast thou departed from my pleasure, that i have of thee that solace which i desired, i purpose presently to restore thee, at one stroke, that which i took from thee at many and to requite thee with a supreme delight the pangs i have inflicted on thee. wherefore with a joyful heart take this whom thou deemest my bride and her brother for thy children and mine; for these be they whom thou and many others have long accounted me to have barbarously let put to death; and i am thy husband, who loveth thee over all else, believing i may vaunt me that there is none else who can be so content of his wife as can i.' so saying, he embraced her and kissed her; then, rising up, he betook himself with griselda, who wept for joy, whereas the daughter, hearing these things, sat all stupefied, and tenderly embracing her and her brother, undeceived her and many others who were there. thereupon the ladies arose from table, overjoyed, and withdrew with griselda into a chamber, where, with happier augury, pulling off her mean attire, they clad her anew in a magnificent dress of her own and brought her again to the saloon, as a gentlewoman, which indeed she appeared, even in rags. there she rejoiced in her children with wonder-great joy, and all being overjoyed at this happy issue, they redoubled in feasting and merrymaking and prolonged the festivities several days, accounting gualtieri a very wise man, albeit they held the trials which he had made of his lady overharsh, nay, intolerable; but over all they held griselda most sage. the count of panago returned, after some days, to bologna, and gualtieri, taking giannucolo from his labour, placed him in such estate as befitted his father-in-law, so that he lived in honour and great solace and so ended his days; whilst he himself, having nobly married his daughter, lived long and happily with griselda, honouring her as most might be. what more can here be said save that even in poor cottages there rain down divine spirits from heaven, like as in princely palaces there be those who were worthier to tend swine than to have lordship over men? who but griselda could, with a countenance, not only dry,[ ] but cheerful, have endured the barbarous and unheard proofs made by gualtieri? which latter had not belike been ill requited, had he happened upon one who, when he turned her out of doors in her shift, had let jumble her furbelows of another to such purpose that a fine gown had come of it." [footnote : _i.e._ unwetted with tears.] * * * * * dioneo's story being finished and the ladies having discoursed amain thereof, some inclining to one side and some to another, this blaming one thing and that commending it, the king, lifting his eyes to heaven and seeing that the sun was now low and the hour of vespers at hand, proceeded, without arising from session, to speak thus, "charming ladies, as i doubt not you know, the understanding of mortals consisteth not only in having in memory things past and taking cognizance of things present; but in knowing, by means of the one and the other of these, to forecast things future is reputed by men of mark to consist the greatest wisdom. to-morrow, as you know, it will be fifteen days since we departed florence, to take some diversion for the preservation of our health and of our lives, eschewing the woes and dolours and miseries which, since this pestilential season began, are continually to be seen about our city. this, to my judgment, we have well and honourably done; for that, an i have known to see aright, albeit merry stories and belike incentive to concupiscence have been told here and we have continually eaten and drunken well and danced and sung and made music, all things apt to incite weak minds to things less seemly, i have noted no act, no word, in fine nothing blameworthy, either on your part or on that of us men; nay, meseemeth i have seen and felt here a continual decency, an unbroken concord and a constant fraternal familiarity; the which, at once for your honour and service and for mine own, is, certes, most pleasing to me. lest, however, for overlong usance aught should grow thereof that might issue in tediousness, and that none may avail to cavil at our overlong tarriance,--each of us, moreover, having had his or her share of the honour that yet resideth in myself,--i hold it meet, an it be your pleasure, that we now return whence we came; more by token that, if you consider aright, our company, already known to several others of the neighbourhood, may multiply after a fashion that will deprive us of our every commodity. wherefore, if you approve my counsel, i will retain the crown conferred on me until our departure, which i purpose shall be to-morrow morning; but, should you determine otherwise, i have already in mind whom i shall invest withal for the ensuing day." much was the debate between the ladies and the young men; but ultimately they all took the king's counsel for useful and seemly and determined to do as he proposed; whereupon, calling the seneschal, he bespoke him of the manner which he should hold on the ensuing morning and after, having dismissed the company until supper-time, he rose to his feet. the ladies and the young men, following his example, gave themselves, this to one kind of diversion and that to another, no otherwise than of their wont; and supper-time come, they betook themselves to table with the utmost pleasure and after fell to singing and carolling and making music. presently, lauretta leading up a dance, the king bade fiammetta sing a song, whereupon she very blithely proceeded to sing thus: if love came but withouten jealousy, i know no lady born so blithe as i were, whosoe'er she be. if gladsome youthfulness in a fair lover might content a maid, virtue and worth discreet, valiance or gentilesse, wit and sweet speech and fashions all arrayed in pleasantness complete, certes, i'm she for whose behoof these meet in one; for, love-o'erborne, all these in him who is my hope i see. but for that i perceive that other women are as wise as i, i tremble for affright and tending to believe the worst, in others the desire espy of him who steals my spright; thus this that is my good and chief delight enforceth me, forlorn, sigh sore and live in dole and misery. if i knew fealty such in him my lord as i know merit there, i were not jealous, i; but here is seen so much lovers to tempt, how true they be soe'er, i hold all false; whereby i'm all disconsolate and fain would die, of each with doubting torn who eyes him, lest she bear him off from me. be, then, each lady prayed by god that she in this be not intent 'gainst me to do amiss; for, sure, if any maid should or with words or becks or blandishment my detriment in this seek or procure and if i know't, ywis, be all my charms forsworn but i will make her rue it bitterly. no sooner had fiammetta made an end of her song than dioneo, who was beside her, said, laughing, "madam, you would do a great courtesy to let all the ladies know who he is, lest you be ousted of his possession through ignorance, since you would be so sore incensed thereat." after this divers other songs were sung and the night being now well nigh half spent, they all, by the king's commandment, betook themselves to repose. as the new day appeared, they arose and the seneschal having already despatched all their gear in advance, they returned, under the guidance of their discreet king, to florence, where the three young men took leave of the seven ladies and leaving them in santa maria novella, whence they had set out with them, went about their other pleasures, whilst the ladies, whenas it seemed to them time, returned to their houses. here endeth the tenth and last day of the decameron _conclusion of the author_ most noble damsels, for whose solace i have addressed myself to so long a labour, i have now, methinketh, with the aid of the divine favour, (vouchsafed me, as i deem, for your pious prayers and not for my proper merits,) throughly accomplished that which i engaged, at the beginning of this present work, to do; wherefore, returning thanks first to god and after to you, it behoveth to give rest to my pen and to my tired hand. which ere i accord them, i purpose briefly to reply, as to objections tacitly broached, to certain small matters that may peradventure be alleged by some one of you or by others, since meseemeth very certain that these stories have no especial privilege more than other things; nay, i mind me to have shown, at the beginning of the fourth day, that they have none such. there are, peradventure, some of you who will say that i have used overmuch license in inditing these stories, as well as in making ladies whiles say and very often hearken to things not very seemly either to be said or heard of modest women. this i deny, for that there is nothing so unseemly as to be forbidden unto any one, so but he express it in seemly terms, as meseemeth indeed i have here very aptly done. but let us suppose that it is so (for that i mean not to plead with you, who would overcome me,) i say that many reasons very readily offer themselves in answer why i have done this. firstly, if there be aught thereof[ ] in any of them, the nature of the stories required it, the which, an they be considered with the rational eye of a person of understanding, it will be abundantly manifest that i could not have otherwise recounted, an i would not altogether disfeature them. and if perchance there be therein some tittle, some wordlet or two freer, maybe, than liketh your squeamish hypocritical prudes, who weigh words rather than deeds and study more to appear, than to be, good, i say that it should no more be forbidden me to write them than it is commonly forbidden unto men and women to say all day long _hole_ and _peg_ and _mortar_ and _pestle_ and _sausage_ and _polony_ and all manner like things; without reckoning that no less liberty should be accorded to my pen than is conceded to the brush of the limner, who, without any (or, at the least, any just) reprehension, maketh--let be st. michael smite the serpent with sword or spear and st. george the dragon, whereas it pleaseth them--but adam male and eve female and affixeth to the cross, whiles with one nail and whiles with two, the feet of him himself who willed for the salvation of the human race to die upon the rood. moreover, it is eath enough to see that these things are spoken, not in the church, of the affairs whereof it behoveth to speak with a mind and in terms alike of the chastest (albeit among its histories there are tales enough to be found of anothergates fashion than those written by me), nor yet in the schools of philosophy, where decency is no less required than otherwhere, nor among churchmen or philosophers anywhere, but amidst gardens, in a place of pleasance and diversion and among men and women, though young, yet of mature wit and not to be led astray by stories, at a time when it was not forbidden to the most virtuous to go, for their own preservation, with their breeches on their heads. again, such as they are, these stories, like everything else, can both harm and profit, according to the disposition of the listener. who knoweth not that wine, though, according to cinciglione and scolajo[ ] and many others, an excellent thing for people in health,[ ] is hurtful unto whoso hath the fever? shall we say, then, because it harmeth the fevered, that it is naught? who knoweth not that fire is most useful, nay, necessary to mortals? shall we say, because it burneth houses and villages and cities, that it is naught? arms on like wise assure the welfare of those who desire to live in peace and yet oftentimes slay men, not of any malice of their own, but of the perversity of those who use them wrongfully. corrupt mind never understood word healthily, and even as seemly words profit not depraved minds, so those which are not altogether seemly avail not to contaminate the well-disposed, any more than mire can sully the rays of the sun or earthly foulness the beauties of the sky. what books, what words, what letters are holier, worthier, more venerable than those of the divine scriptures? yet many there be, who, interpreting them perversely, have brought themselves and others to perdition. everything in itself is good unto somewhat and ill used, may be in many things harmful; and so say i of my stories. if any be minded to draw therefrom ill counsel or ill practice, they will nowise forbid it him, if perchance they have it in them or be strained and twisted into having it; and who so will have profit and utility thereof, they will not deny it him, nor will they be ever styled or accounted other than useful and seemly, if they be read at those times and to those persons for which and for whom they have been recounted. whoso hath to say paternosters or to make tarts and puddings for her spiritual director, let her leave them be; they will not run after any to make her read them; albeit your she-saints themselves now and again say and even do fine things. [footnote : _i.e._ of overmuch licence.] [footnote : two noted wine-bidders of the time.] [footnote : lit. living folk (_viventi_).] there be some ladies also who will say that there are some stories here, which had been better away. granted; but i could not nor should write aught save those actually related, wherefore those who told them should have told them goodly and i would have written them goodly. but, if folk will e'en pretend that i am both the inventor and writer thereof (which i am not), i say that i should not take shame to myself that they were not all alike goodly, for that there is no craftsman living (barring god) who doth everything alike well and completely; witness charlemagne, who was the first maker of the paladins, but knew not to make so many thereof that he might avail to form an army of them alone. in the multitude of things, needs must divers qualities thereof be found. no field was ever so well tilled but therein or nettles or thistles or somewhat of briers or other weeds might be found mingled with the better herbs. besides, having to speak to simple lasses, such as you are for the most part, it had been folly to go seeking and wearying myself to find very choice and exquisite matters, and to use great pains to speak very measuredly. algates, whoso goeth reading among these, let him leave those which offend and read those which divert. they all, not to lead any one into error, bear branded upon the forefront that which they hold hidden within their bosoms. again, i doubt not but there be those who will say that some of them are overlong; to whom i say again that whoso hath overwhat to do doth folly to read these stories, even though they were brief. and albeit a great while is passed from the time when i began to write to this present hour whenas i come to the end of my toils, it hath not therefor escaped my memory that i proffered this my travail to idle women and not to others, and unto whoso readeth to pass away the time, nothing can be overlong, so but it do that for which he useth it. things brief are far better suited unto students, who study, not to pass away, but usefully to employ time, than to you ladies, who have on your hands all the time that you spend not in the pleasures of love; more by token that, as none of you goeth to athens or bologna or paris to study, it behoveth to speak to you more at large than to those who have had their wits whetted by study. again, i doubt not a jot but there be yet some of you who will say that the things aforesaid are full of quips and cranks and quodlibets and that it ill beseemeth a man of weight and gravity to have written thus. to these i am bound to render and do render thanks, for that, moved by a virtuous jealousy, they are so tender of my fame; but to their objection i reply on this wise; i confess to being a man of weight and to have been often weighed in my time, wherefore, speaking to those ladies who have not weighed me, i declare that i am not heavy; nay, i am so light that i abide like a nutgall in water, and considering that the preachments made of friars, to rebuke men of their sins, are nowadays for the most part seen full of quips and cranks and gibes, i conceived that these latter would not sit amiss in my stories written to ease women of melancholy. algates, an they should laugh overmuch on that account, the lamentations of jeremiah, the passion of our saviour and the complaint of mary magdalen will lightly avail to cure them thereof. again, who can doubt but there will to boot be found some to say that i have an ill tongue and a venomous, for that i have in sundry places written the truth anent the friars? to those who shall say thus it must be forgiven, since it is not credible that they are moved by other than just cause, for that the friars are a good sort of folk, who eschew unease for the love of god and who grind with a full head of water and tell no tales, and but that they all savour somewhat of the buck-goat, their commerce would be far more agreeable. natheless, i confess that the things of this world have no stability and are still on the change, and so may it have befallen of my tongue, the which, not to trust to mine own judgment, (which i eschew as most i may in my affairs,) a she-neighbour of mine told me, not long since, was the best and sweetest in the world; and in good sooth, were this the case, there had been few of the foregoing stories to write. but, for that those who say thus speak despitefully, i will have that which hath been said suffice them for a reply; wherefore, leaving each of you henceforth to say and believe as seemeth good to her, it is time for me to make an end of words, humbly thanking him who hath, after so long a labour, brought us with his help to the desired end. and you, charming ladies, abide you in peace with his favour, remembering you of me, if perchance it profit any of you aught to have read these stories. here endeth the book called decameron and surnamed prince galahalt the decameron of giovanni boccaccio faithfully translated by j.m. rigg with illustrations by louis chalon volume ii contents - fifth day - novel i. - cimon, by loving, waxes wise, wins his wife iphigenia by capture on the high seas, and is imprisoned at rhodes. he is delivered by lysimachus; and the twain capture cassandra and recapture iphigenia in the hour of their marriage. they flee with their ladies to crete, and having there married them, are brought back to their homes. novel ii. - gostanza loves martuccio gomito, and hearing that he is dead, gives way to despair, and hies her alone aboard a boat, which is wafted by the wind to susa. she finds him alive in tunis, and makes herself known to him, who, having by his counsel gained high place in the king's favour, marries her, and returns with her wealthy to lipari. novel iii. - pietro boccamazza runs away with agnolella, and encounters a gang of robbers: the girl takes refuge in a wood, and is guided to a castle. pietro is taken, but escapes out of the hands of the robbers, and after some adventures arrives at the castle where agnolella is, marries her, and returns with her to rome. novel iv. - ricciardo manardi is found by messer lizio da valbona with his daughter, whom he marries, and remains at peace with her father. novel v. - guidotto da cremona dies leaving a girl to giacomino da pavia. she has two lovers in faenza, to wit, giannole di severino and minghino di mingole, who fight about her. she is discovered to be giannole's sister, and is given to minghino to wife. novel vi. - gianni di procida, being found with a damsel that he loves, and who had been given to king frederic, is bound with her to a stake, so to be burned. he is recognized by ruggieri dell' oria, is delivered, and marries her. novel vii. - teodoro, being enamoured of violante, daughter of messer amerigo, his lord, gets her with child, and is sentenced to the gallows; but while he is being scourged thither, he is recognized by his father, and being set at large, takes violante to wife. novel viii. - nastagio degli onesti, loving a damsel of the traversari family, by lavish expenditure gains not her love. at the instance of his kinsfolk he hies him to chiassi, where he sees a knight hunt a damsel and slay her and cause her to be devoured by two dogs. he bids his kinsfolk and the lady that he loves to breakfast. during the meal the said damsel is torn in pieces before the eyes of the lady, who, fearing a like fate, takes nastagio to husband. novel ix. - federigo degli alberighi loves and is not loved in return: he wastes his substance by lavishness until nought is left but a single falcon, which, his lady being come to see him at his house, he gives her to eat: she, knowing his case, changes her mind, takes him to husband and makes him rich. novel x. - pietro di vinciolo goes from home to sup: his wife brings a boy into the house to bear her company: pietro returns, and she hides her gallant under a hen-coop: pietro explains that in the house of ercolano, with whom he was to have supped, there was discovered a young man bestowed there by ercolano's wife: the lady thereupon censures ercolano's wife: but unluckily an ass treads on the fingers of the boy that is hidden under the hen-coop, so that he cries for pain: pietro runs to the place, sees him, and apprehends the trick played on him by his wife, which nevertheless he finally condones, for that he is not himself free from blame. - sixth day - novel i. - a knight offers to carry madonna oretta a horseback with a story, but tells it so ill that she prays him to dismount her. novel ii. - cisti, a baker, by an apt speech gives messer geri spina to know that he has by inadvertence asked that of him which he should not. novel iii. - monna nonna de' pulci by a ready retort silences the scarce seemly jesting of the bishop of florence. novel iv. - chichibio, cook to currado gianfigliazzi, owes his safety to a ready answer, whereby he converts currado's wrath into laughter, and evades the evil fate with which currado had threatened him. novel v. - messer forese da rabatta and master giotto, the painter, journeying together from mugello, deride one another's scurvy appearance. novel vi. - michele scalza proves to certain young men that the baronci are the best gentlemen in the world and the maremma, and wins a supper. novel vii. - madonna filippa, being found by her husband with her lover, is cited before the court, and by a ready and jocund answer acquits herself, and brings about an alteration of the statute. novel viii. - fresco admonishes his niece not to look at herself in the glass, if 'tis, as she says, grievous to her to see nasty folk. novel ix. - guido cavalcanti by a quip meetly rebukes certain florentine gentlemen who had taken him at a disadvantage. novel x. - fra cipolla promises to shew certain country-folk a feather of the angel gabriel, in lieu of which he finds coals, which he avers to be of those with which st. lawrence was roasted. - seventh day - novel i. - gianni lotteringhi hears a knocking at his door at night: he awakens his wife, who persuades him that 'tis the bogey, which they fall to exorcising with a prayer; whereupon the knocking ceases. novel ii. - her husband returning home, peronella bestows her lover in a tun; which, being sold by her husband, she avers to have been already sold by herself to one that is inside examining it to set if it be sound. whereupon the lover jumps out, and causes the husband to scour the tun for him, and afterwards to carry it to his house. novel iii. - fra rinaldo lies with his gossip: her husband finds him in the room with her; and they make him believe that he was curing his godson of worms by a charm. novel iv. - tofano one night locks his wife out of the house: she, finding that by no entreaties may she prevail upon him to let her in, feigns to throw herself into a well, throwing therein a great stone. tofano hies him forth of the house, and runs to the spot: she goes into the house, and locks him out, and hurls abuse at him from within. novel v. - a jealous husband disguises himself as a priest, and hears his own wife's confession: she tells him that she loves a priest, who comes to her every night. the husband posts himself at the door to watch for the priest, and meanwhile the lady brings her lover in by the roof, and tarries with him. novel vi. - madonna isabella has with her leonetto, her accepted lover, when she is surprised by one messer lambertuccio, by whom she is beloved: her husband coming home about the same time, she sends messer lambertuccio forth of the house drawn sword in hand, and the husband afterwards escorts leonetto home. novel vii. - lodovico discovers to madonna beatrice the love that he bears her: she sends egano, her husband, into a garden disguised as herself, and lies with lodovico; who thereafter, being risen, hies him to the garden and cudgels egano. novel viii. - a husband grows jealous of his wife, and discovers that she has warning of her lover's approach by a piece of pack-thread, which she ties to her great toe a nights. while he is pursuing her lover, she puts another woman in bed in her place. the husband, finding her there, beats her, and cuts off her hair. he then goes and calls his wife's brothers, who, holding his accusation to be false, give him a rating. novel ix. - lydia, wife of nicostratus, loves pyrrhus, who to assure himself thereof, asks three things of her, all of which she does, and therewithal enjoys him in presence of nicostratus, and makes nicostratus believe that what he saw was not real. novel x. - two sienese love a lady, one of them being her gossip: the gossip dies, having promised his comrade to return to him from the other world; which he does, and tells him what sort of life is led there. - eighth day - novel i. - gulfardo borrows moneys of guasparruolo, which he has agreed to give guasparruolo's wife, that he may lie with her. he gives them to her, and in her presence tells guasparruolo that he has done so, and she acknowledges that 'tis true. novel ii. - the priest of varlungo lies with monna belcolore: he leaves with her his cloak by way of pledge, and receives from her a mortar. he returns the mortar, and demands of her the cloak that he had left in pledge, which the good lady returns him with a gibe. novel iii. - calandrino, bruno and buffalmacco go in quest of the heliotrope beside the mugnone. thinking to have found it, calandrino gets him home laden with stones. his wife chides him: whereat he waxes wroth, beats her, and tells his comrades what they know better than he. novel iv. - the rector of fiesole loves a widow lady, by whom he is not loved, and thinking to lie with her, lies with her maid, with whom the lady's brothers cause him to be found by his bishop. novel v. - three young men pull down the breeches of a judge from the marches, while he is administering justice on the bench. novel vi. - bruno and buffalmacco steal a pig from calandrino, and induce him to essay its recovery by means of pills of ginger and vernaccia. of the said pills they give him two, one after the other, made of dog-ginger compounded with aloes; and it then appearing as if he had had the pig himself, they constrain him to buy them off, if he would not have them tell his wife. novel vii. - a scholar loves a widow lady, who, being enamoured of another, causes him to spend a winter's night awaiting her in the snow. he afterwards by a stratagem causes her to stand for a whole day in july, naked upon a tower, exposed to the flies, the gadflies, and the sun. novel viii. - two men keep with one another: the one lies with the other's wife: the other, being ware thereof, manages with the aid of his wife to have the one locked in a chest, upon which he then lies with the wife of him that is locked therein. novel ix. - bruno and buffalmacco prevail upon master simone, a physician, to betake him by night to a certain place, there to be enrolled in a company that go the course. buffalmacco throws him into a foul ditch, and there they leave him. novel x. - a sicilian woman cunningly conveys from a merchant that which he has brought to palermo; he, making a shew of being come back thither with far greater store of goods than before, borrows money of her, and leaves her in lieu thereof water and tow. - ninth day - novel i. - madonna francesca, having two lovers, the one rinuccio, the other alessandro, by name, and loving neither of them, induces the one to simulate a corpse in a tomb, and the other to enter the tomb to fetch him out: whereby, neither satisfying her demands, she artfully rids herself of both. novel ii. - an abbess rises in haste and in the dark, with intent to surprise an accused nun abed with her lover: thinking to put on her veil, she puts on instead the breeches of a priest that she has with her: the nun, espying her headgear, and doing her to wit thereof, is acquitted, and thenceforth finds it easier to forgather with her lover. novel iii. - master simone, at the instance of bruno and buffalmacco and nello, makes calandrino believe that he is with child. calandrino, accordingly, gives them capons and money for medicines, and is cured without being delivered. novel iv. - cecco, son of messer fortarrigo, loses his all at play at buonconvento, besides the money of cecco, son of messer angiulieri, whom, running after him in his shirt and crying out that he has robbed him, he causes to be taken by peasants: he then puts on his clothes, mounts his palfrey, and leaves him to follow in his shirt. novel v. - calandrino being enamoured of a damsel, bruno gives him a scroll, averring that, if he but touch her therewith, she will go with him: he is found with her by his wife, who subjects him to a most severe and vexatious examination. novel vi. - two young men lodge at an inn, of whom the one lies with the host's daughter, his wife by inadvertence lying with the other. he that lay with the daughter afterwards gets into her father's bed and tells him all, taking him to be his comrade. they bandy words: whereupon the good woman, apprehending the circumstances, gets her to bed with her daughter, and by divers apt words re-establishes perfect accord. novel vii. - talano di molese dreams that a wolf tears and rends all the neck and face of his wife: he gives her warning thereof, which she heeds not, and the dream comes true. novel viii. - biondello gulls ciacco in the matter of a breakfast: for which prank ciacco is cunningly avenged on biondello, causing him to be shamefully beaten. novel ix. - two young men ask counsel of solomon; the one, how he is to make himself beloved, the other, how he is to reduce an unruly wife to order. the king bids the one to love, and the other to go to the bridge of geese. novel x. - dom gianni at the instance of his gossip pietro uses an enchantment to transform pietro's wife into a mare; but, when he comes to attach the tail, gossip pietro, by saying that he will have none of the tail, makes the enchantment of no effect. - tenth day - novel i. - a knight in the service of the king of spain deems himself ill requited. wherefore the king, by most cogent proof, shews him that the blame rests not with him, but with the knight's own evil fortune; after which, he bestows upon him a noble gift. novel ii. - ghino di tacco, captures the abbot of cluny, cures him of a disorder of the stomach, and releases him. the abbot, on his return to the court of rome, reconciles ghino with pope boniface, and makes him prior of the hospital. novel iii. - mitridanes, holding nathan in despite by reason of his courtesy, journey with intent to kill him, and falling in with him unawares, is advised by him how to compass his end. following his advice, he finds him in a copse, and recognizing him, is shame-stricken, and becomes his friend. novel iv. - messer gentile de' carisendi, being come from modena, disinters a lady that he loves, who has been buried for dead. she, being reanimated, gives birth to a male child; and messer gentile restores her, with her son, to niccoluccio caccianimico, her husband. novel v. - madonna dianora craves of messer ansaldo a garden that shall be as fair in january as in may. messer ansaldo binds himself to a necromancer, and thereby gives her the garden. her husband gives her leave to do messer ansaldo's pleasure: he, being apprised of her husband's liberality, releases her from her promise; and the necromancer releases messer ansaldo from his bond, and will tale nought of his. novel vi. - king charles the old, being conqueror, falls in love with a young maiden, and afterward growing ashamed of his folly bestows her and her sister honourably in marriage. novel vii. - king pedro, being apprised of the fervent love borne him by lisa, who thereof is sick, comforts her, and forthwith gives her in marriage to a young gentleman, and having kissed her on the brow, ever after professes himself her knight. novel viii. - sophronia, albeit she deems herself wife to gisippus, is wife to titus quintius fulvus, and goes with him to rome, where gisippus arrives in indigence, and deeming himself scorned by titus, to compass his own death, avers that he has slain a man. titus recognizes him, and to save his life, alleges that 'twas he that slew the man: whereof he that did the deed being witness, he discovers himself as the murderer. whereby it comes to pass that they are all three liberated by octavianus; and titus gives gisippus his sister to wife, and shares with him all his substance. novel ix. - saladin, in guise of a merchant, is honourably entreated by messer torello. the crusade ensuing, messer torello appoints a date, after which his wife may marry again: he is taken prisoner, and by training hawks comes under the soldan's notice. the soldan recognizes him, makes himself known to him, and entreats him with all honour. messer torello falls sick, and by magic arts is transported in a single night to pavia, where his wife's second marriage is then to be solemnized, and being present thereat, is recognized by her, and returns with her to his house. novel x. - the marquis of saluzzo, overborne by the entreaties of his vassals, consents to take a wife, but, being minded to please himself in the choice of her, takes a husbandman's daughter. he has two children by her, both of whom he makes her believe that he has put to death. afterward, feigning to be tired of her, and to have taken another wife, he turns her out of doors in her shift, and brings his daughter into the house in guise of his bride; but, finding her patient under it all, he brings her home again, and shews her her children, now grown up, and honours her, and causes her to be honoured, as marchioness. illustrations to the decameron volume ii pietro and agnolella (fifth day, third story) gianni and restituta (fifth day, sixth story) calandrino singing (ninth day, fifth story) titus, gisippus, and sophronia (tenth day, eighth story) -- endeth here the fourth day of the decameron, beginneth the fifth, in which under the rule of fiammetta discourse is had of good fortune befalling lovers after divers direful or disastrous adventures. -- all the east was white, nor any part of our hemisphere unillumined by the rising beams, when the carolling of the birds that in gay chorus saluted the dawn among the boughs induced fiammetta to rise and rouse the other ladies and the three gallants; with whom adown the hill and about the dewy meads of the broad champaign she sauntered, talking gaily of divers matters, until the sun had attained some height. then, feeling his rays grow somewhat scorching, they retraced their steps, and returned to the villa; where, having repaired their slight fatigue with excellent wines and comfits, they took their pastime in the pleasant garden until the breakfast hour; when, all things being made ready by the discreet seneschal, they, after singing a stampita,( ) and a balladette or two, gaily, at the queen's behest, sat them down to eat. meetly ordered and gladsome was the meal, which done, heedful of their rule of dancing, they trod a few short measures with accompaniment of music and song. thereupon, being all dismissed by the queen until after the siesta, some hied them to rest, while others tarried taking their pleasure in the fair garden. but shortly after none, all, at the queen's behest, reassembled, according to their wont, by the fountain; and the queen, having seated herself on her throne, glanced towards pamfilo, and bade him with a smile lead off with the stories of good fortune. whereto pamfilo gladly addressed himself, and thus began. ( ) a song accompanied by music, but without dancing. novel i. -- cimon, by loving, waxes wise, wins his wife iphigenia by capture on the high seas, and is imprisoned at rhodes. he is delivered by lysimachus; and the twain capture cassandra and recapture iphigenia in the hour of their marriage. they flee with their ladies to crete, and having there married them, are brought back to their homes. -- many stories, sweet my ladies, occur to me as meet for me to tell by way of ushering in a day so joyous as this will be: of which one does most commend itself to my mind, because not only has it, one of those happy endings of which to-day we are in quest, but 'twill enable you to understand how holy, how mighty and how salutary are the forces of love, which not a few, witting not what they say, do most unjustly reprobate and revile: which, if i err not, should to you, for that i take you to be enamoured, be indeed welcome. once upon a time, then, as we have read in the ancient histories of the cypriotes, there was in the island of cyprus a very great noble named aristippus, a man rich in all worldly goods beyond all other of his countrymen, and who might have deemed himself incomparably blessed, but for a single sore affliction that fortune had allotted him. which was that among his sons he had one, the best grown and handsomest of them all, that was well-nigh a hopeless imbecile. his true name was galesus; but, as neither his tutor's pains, nor his father's coaxing or chastisement, nor any other method had availed to imbue him with any tincture of letters or manners, but he still remained gruff and savage of voice, and in his bearing liker to a beast than to a man, all, as in derision, were wont to call him cimon, which in their language signifies the same as "bestione" (brute)( ) in ours. the father, grieved beyond measure to see his son's life thus blighted, and having abandoned all hope of his recovery, nor caring to have the cause of his mortification ever before his eyes, bade him betake him to the farm, and there keep with his husbandmen. to cimon the change was very welcome, because the manners and habits of the uncouth hinds were more to his taste than those of the citizens. so to the farm cimon hied him, and addressed himself to the work thereof; and being thus employed, he chanced one afternoon as he passed, staff on shoulder, from one domain to another, to enter a plantation, the like of which for beauty there was not in those parts, and which was then--for 'twas the month of may--a mass of greenery; and, as he traversed it, he came, as fortune was pleased to guide him, to a meadow girt in with trees exceeding tall, and having in one of its corners a fountain most fair and cool, beside which he espied a most beautiful girl lying asleep on the green grass, clad only in a vest of such fine stuff that it scarce in any measure veiled the whiteness of her flesh, and below the waist nought but an apron most white and fine of texture; and likewise at her feet there slept two women and a man, her slaves. no sooner did cimon catch sight of her, than, as if he had never before seen form of woman, he stopped short, and leaning on his cudgel, regarded her intently, saying never a word, and lost in admiration. and in his rude soul, which, despite a thousand lessons, had hitherto remained impervious to every delight that belongs to urbane life, he felt the awakening of an idea, that bade his gross and coarse mind acknowledge, that this girl was the fairest creature that had ever been seen by mortal eye. and thereupon he began to distinguish her several parts, praising her hair, which shewed to him as gold, her brow, her nose and mouth, her throat and arms, and above all her bosom, which was as yet but in bud, and as he gazed, he changed of a sudden from a husbandman into a judge of beauty, and desired of all things to see her eyes, which the weight of her deep slumber kept close shut, and many a time he would fain have awakened her, that he might see them. but so much fairer seemed she to him than any other woman that he had seen, that he doubted she must be a goddess; and as he was not so devoid of sense but that he deemed things divine more worthy of reverence than things mundane, he forbore, and waited until she should awake of her own accord; and though he found the delay overlong, yet, enthralled by so unwonted a delight, he knew not how to be going. however, after he had tarried a long while, it so befell that iphigenia--such was the girl's name--her slaves still sleeping, awoke, and raised her head, and opened her eyes, and seeing cimon standing before her, leaning on his staff, was not a little surprised, and said:--"cimon, what seekest thou in this wood at this hour?" for cimon she knew well, as indeed did almost all the country-side, by reason alike of his uncouth appearance as of the rank and wealth of his father. to iphigenia's question he answered never a word; but as soon as her eyes were open, nought could he do but intently regard them, for it seemed to him that a soft influence emanated from them, which filled his soul with a delight that he had never before known. which the girl marking began to misdoubt that by so fixed a scrutiny his boorish temper might be prompted to some act that should cause her dishonour: wherefore she roused her women, and got up, saying:--"keep thy distance, cimon, in god's name." whereto cimon made answer:--"i will come with thee." and, albeit the girl refused his escort, being still in fear of him, she could not get quit of him; but he attended her home; after which he hied him straight to his father's house, and announced that he was minded on no account to go back to the farm: which intelligence was far from welcome to his father and kinsmen; but nevertheless they suffered him to stay, and waited to see what might be the reason of his change of mind. so cimon, whose heart, closed to all teaching, love's shaft, sped by the beauty of iphigenia, had penetrated, did now graduate in wisdom with such celerity as to astonish his father and kinsmen, and all that knew him. he began by requesting his father to let him go clad in the like apparel, and with, in all respects, the like personal equipment as his brothers: which his father very gladly did. mixing thus with the gallants, and becoming familiar with the manners proper to gentlemen, and especially to lovers, he very soon, to the exceeding great wonder of all, not only acquired the rudiments of letters, but waxed most eminent among the philosophic wits. after which (for no other cause than the love he bore to iphigenia) he not only modulated his gruff and boorish voice to a degree of smoothness suitable to urbane life, but made himself accomplished in singing and music; in riding also and in all matters belonging to war, as well by sea as by land, he waxed most expert and hardy. and in sum (that i go not about to enumerate each of his virtues in detail) he had not completed the fourth year from the day of his first becoming enamoured before he was grown the most gallant, and courteous, ay, and the most perfect in particular accomplishments, of the young cavaliers that were in the island of cyprus. what then, gracious ladies, are we to say of cimon? verily nought else but that the high faculties, with which heaven had endowed his noble soul, invidious fortune had bound with the strongest of cords, and circumscribed within a very narrow region of his heart; all which cords love, more potent than fortune, burst and brake in pieces; and then with the might, wherewith he awakens dormant powers, he brought them forth of the cruel obfuscation, in which they lay, into clear light, plainly shewing thereby, whence he may draw, and whither he may guide, by his beams the souls that are subject to his sway. now, albeit by his love for iphigenia cimon was betrayed, as young lovers very frequently are, into some peccadillos, yet aristippus, reflecting that it had turned him from a booby into a man, not only bore patiently with him, but exhorted him with all his heart to continue steadfast in his love. and cimon, who still refused to be called galesus, because 'twas as cimon that iphigenia had first addressed him, being desirous to accomplish his desire by honourable means, did many a time urge his suit upon her father, cipseus, that he would give her him to wife: whereto cipseus always made the same answer, to wit, that he had promised her to pasimondas, a young rhodian noble, and was not minded to break faith with him. however, the time appointed for iphigenia's wedding being come, and the bridegroom having sent for her, cimon said to himself:--'tis now for me to shew thee, o iphigenia, how great is my love for thee: 'tis by thee that i am grown a man, nor doubt i, if i shall have thee, that i shall wax more glorious than a god, and verily thee will i have, or die. having so said, he privily enlisted in his cause certain young nobles that were his friends, and secretly fitted out a ship with all equipment meet for combat, and put to sea on the look-out for the ship that was to bear iphigenia to rhodes and her husband. and at length, when her father had done lavishing honours upon her husband's friends, iphigenia embarked, and, the mariners shaping their course for rhodes, put to sea. cimon was on the alert, and overhauled them the very next day, and standing on his ship's prow shouted amain to those that were aboard iphigenia's ship:--"bring to; strike sails, or look to be conquered and sunk in the sea." then, seeing that the enemy had gotten their arms above deck, and were making ready to make a fight of it, he followed up his words by casting a grapnel upon the poop of the rhodians, who were making great way; and having thus made their poop fast to his prow, he sprang, fierce as a lion, reckless whether he were followed or no, on to the rhodians' ship, making, as it were, no account of them, and animated by love, hurled himself, sword in hand, with prodigious force among the enemy, and cutting and thrusting right and left, slaughtered them like sheep; insomuch that the rhodians, marking the fury of his onset, threw down their arms, and as with one voice did all acknowledge themselves his prisoners. to whom cimon:--"gallants," quoth he, "'twas neither lust of booty nor enmity to you that caused me to put out from cyprus to attack you here with force of arms on the high seas. moved was i thereto by that which to gain is to me a matter great indeed, which peaceably to yield me is to you but a slight matter; for 'tis even iphigenia, whom more than aught else i love; whom, as i might not have her of her father in peaceable and friendly sort, love has constrained me to take from you in this high-handed fashion and by force of arms; to whom i mean to be even such as would have been your pasimondas: wherefore give her to me, and go your way, and god's grace go with you." yielding rather to force than prompted by generosity, the rhodians surrendered iphigenia, all tears, to cimon; who, marking her tears, said to her:--"grieve not, noble lady; thy cimon am i, who, by my long love, have established a far better right to thee than pasimondas by the faith that was plighted to him." so saying, he sent her aboard his ship, whither he followed her, touching nought that belonged to the rhodians, and suffering them to go their way. to have gotten so dear a prize made him the happiest man in the world, but for a time 'twas all he could do to assuage her grief: then, after taking counsel with his comrades, he deemed it best not to return to cyprus for the present: and so, by common consent they shaped their course for crete, where most of them, and especially cimon, had alliances of old or recent date, and friends not a few, whereby they deemed that there they might tarry with iphigenia in security. but fortune, that had accorded cimon so gladsome a capture of the lady, suddenly proved fickle, and converted the boundless joy of the enamoured gallant into woeful and bitter lamentation. 'twas not yet full four hours since cimon had parted from the rhodians, when with the approach of night, that night from which cimon hoped such joyance as he had never known, came weather most turbulent and tempestuous, which wrapped the heavens in cloud, and swept the sea with scathing blasts; whereby 'twas not possible for any to see how the ship was to be worked or steered, or to steady himself so as to do any duty upon her deck. whereat what grief was cimon's, it boots not to ask. indeed it seemed to him that the gods had granted his heart's desire only that it might be harder for him to die, which had else been to him but a light matter. not less downcast were his comrades; but most of all iphigenia, who, weeping bitterly and shuddering at every wave that struck the ship, did cruelly curse cimon's love and censure his rashness, averring that this tempest was come upon them for no other cause than that the gods had decreed, that, as 'twas in despite of their will that he purposed to espouse her, he should be frustrate of his presumptuous intent, and having lived to see her expire, should then himself meet a woeful death. while thus and yet more bitterly they bewailed them, and the mariners were at their wits' end, as the gale grew hourly more violent, nor knew they, nor might conjecture, whither they went, they drew nigh the island of rhodes, albeit that rhodes it was they wist not, and set themselves, as best and most skilfully they might, to run the ship aground. in which enterprise fortune favoured them, bringing them into a little bay, where, shortly before them, was arrived the rhodian ship that cimon had let go. nor were they sooner ware that 'twas rhodes they had made, than day broke, and, the sky thus brightening a little, they saw that they were about a bow-shot from the ship that they had released on the preceding day. whereupon cimon, vexed beyond measure, being apprehensive of that which in fact befell them, bade make every effort to win out of the bay, and let fortune carry them whither she would, for nowhere might they be in worse plight than there. so might and main they strove to bring the ship out, but all in vain: the violence of the gale thwarted them to such purpose as not only to preclude their passage out of the bay but to drive them, willing nilling, ashore. whither no sooner were they come, than they were recognized by the rhodian mariners, who were already landed. of whom one ran with all speed to a farm hard by, whither the rhodian gallants were gone, and told them that fortune had brought cimon and iphigenia aboard their ship into the same bay to which she had guided them. whereat the gallants were overjoyed, and taking with them not a few of the farm-servants, hied them in hot haste to the shore, where, cimon and his men being already landed with intent to take refuge in a neighbouring wood, they took them all (with iphigenia) and brought them to the farm. whence, pursuant to an order of the senate of rhodes, to which, so soon as he received the news, pasimondas made his complaint, cimon and his men were all marched off to prison by lysimachus, chief magistrate of the rhodians for that year, who came down from the city for the purpose with an exceeding great company of men at arms. on such wise did our hapless and enamoured cimon lose his so lately won iphigenia before he had had of her more than a kiss or two. iphigenia was entertained and comforted of the annoy, occasioned as well by her recent capture as by the fury of the sea, by not a few noble ladies of rhodes, with whom she tarried until the day appointed for her marriage. in recompense of the release of the rhodian gallants on the preceding day the lives of cimon and his men were spared, notwithstanding that pasimondas pressed might and main for their execution; and instead they were condemned to perpetual imprisonment: wherein, as may be supposed, they abode in dolorous plight, and despaired of ever again knowing happiness. however, it so befell that, pasimondas accelerating his nuptials to the best of his power, fortune, as if repenting her that in her haste she had done cimon so evil a turn, did now by a fresh disposition of events compass his deliverance. pasimondas had a brother, by name hormisdas, his equal in all respects save in years, who had long been contract to marry cassandra, a fair and noble damsel of rhodes, of whom lysimachus was in the last degree enamoured; but owing to divers accidents the marriage had been from time to time put off. now pasimondas, being about to celebrate his nuptials with exceeding great pomp, bethought him that he could not do better than, to avoid a repetition of the pomp and expense, arrange, if so he might, that his brother should be wedded on the same day with himself. so, having consulted anew with cassandra's kinsfolk, and come to an understanding with them, he and his brother and they conferred together, and agreed that on the same day that pasimondas married iphigenia, hormisdas should marry cassandra. lysimachus, getting wind of this arrangement, was mortified beyond measure, seeing himself thereby deprived of the hope which he cherished of marrying cassandra himself, if hormisdas should not forestall him. but like a wise man he concealed his chagrin, and cast about how he might frustrate the arrangement: to which end he saw no other possible means but to carry cassandra off. it did not escape him that the office which he held would render this easily feasible, but he deemed it all the more dishonourable than if he had not held the office; but, in short, after much pondering, honour yielded place to love, and he made up his mind that, come what might, he would carry cassandra off. then, as he took thought what company he should take with him, and how he should go about the affair, he remembered cimon, whom he had in prison with his men, and it occurred to him that he could not possibly have a better or more trusty associate in such an enterprise than cimon. wherefore the same night he caused cimon to be brought privily to him in his own room, and thus addressed him:--"cimon, as the gods are most generous and liberal to bestow their gifts on men, so are they also most sagacious to try their virtue; and those whom they find to be firm and steadfast in all circumstances they honour, as the most worthy, with the highest rewards. they have been minded to be certified of thy worth by better proofs than thou couldst afford them, as long as thy life was bounded by thy father's house amid the superabundant wealth which i know him to possess: wherefore in the first place they so wrought upon thee with the shrewd incitements of love that from an insensate brute, as i have heard, thou grewest to be a man; since when, it has been and is their intent to try whether evil fortune and harsh imprisonment may avail to change thee from the temper that was thine when for a short while thou hadst joyance of the prize thou hadst won. and so thou prove the same that thou wast then, they have in store for thee a boon incomparably greater than aught that they vouchsafed thee before: what that boon is, to the end thou mayst recover heart and thy wonted energies, i will now explain to thee. pasimondas, exultant in thy misfortune and eager to compass thy death, hastens to the best of his power his nuptials with thy iphigenia; that so he may enjoy the prize that fortune, erstwhile smiling, gave thee, and forthwith, frowning, reft from thee. whereat how sore must be thy grief, if rightly i gauge thy love, i know by my own case, seeing that his brother hormisdas addresses himself to do me on the same day a like wrong in regard of cassandra, whom i love more than aught else in the world. nor see i that fortune has left us any way of escape from this her unjust and cruel spite, save what we may make for ourselves by a resolved spirit and the might of our right hands: take we then the sword, and therewith make we, each, prize of his lady, thou for the second, i for the first time: for so thou value the recovery, i say not of thy liberty, for without thy lady i doubt thou wouldst hold it cheap, but of thy lady, the gods have placed it in thine own hands, if thou art but minded to join me in my enterprise." these words restored to cimon all that he had lost of heart and hope, nor pondered he long, before he replied:--"lysimachus, comrade stouter or more staunch than i thou mightst not have in such an enterprise, if such indeed it be as thou sayst: wherefore lay upon me such behest as thou shalt deem meet, and thou shalt marvel to witness the vigour of my performance." whereupon lysimachus:--"on the third day from now," quoth he, "their husbands' houses will be newly entered by the brides, and on the same day at even we too will enter them in arms, thou with thy men, and i with some of mine, in whom i place great trust, and forcing our way among the guests and slaughtering all that dare to oppose us, will bear the ladies off to a ship which i have had privily got ready." cimon approved the plan, and kept quiet in prison until the appointed time; which being come, the nuptials were celebrated with great pomp and magnificence, that filled the houses of the two brothers with festal cheer. then lysimachus having made ready all things meet, and fired cimon and his men and his own friends for the enterprise by a long harangue, disposed them in due time, all bearing arms under their cloaks, in three companies; and having privily despatched one company to the port, that, when the time should come to embark, he might meet with no let, he marched with the other two companies to the house of pasimondas, posted the one company at the gate, that, being entered, they might not be shut in or debarred their egress, and, with the other company and cimon, ascended the stairs, and gained the saloon, where the brides and not a few other ladies were set at several tables to sup in meet order: whereupon in they rushed, and overthrew the tables and seized each his own lady, and placed them in charge of their men, whom they bade bear them off forthwith to the ship that lay ready to receive them. whereupon the brides and the other ladies and the servants with one accord fell a sobbing and shrieking, insomuch that a confused din and lamentation filled the whole place. cimon, lysimachus and their band, none withstanding, but all giving way before them, gained the stairs, which they were already descending when they encountered pasimondas, who, carrying a great staff in his hand, was making in the direction of the noise; but one doughty stroke of cimon's sword sufficed to cleave his skull in twain, and lay him dead at cimon's feet, and another stroke disposed of hapless hormisdas, as he came running to his brother's aid. some others who ventured to approach them were wounded and beaten off by the retinue. so forth of the house, that reeked with blood and resounded with tumult and lamentation and woe, sped simon and lysimachus with all their company, and without any let, in close order, with their fair booty in their midst, made good their retreat to the ship; whereon with the ladies they one and all embarked, for the shore was now full of armed men come to rescue the ladies, and, the oarsmen giving way, put to sea elate. arrived at crete, they met with a hearty welcome on the part of their many friends and kinsfolk; and, having married their ladies, they made greatly merry, and had gladsome joyance of their fair booty. their doings occasioned, both in cyprus and in rhodes, no small stir and commotion, which lasted for a long while: but in the end, by the good offices of their friends and kinsfolk in both islands, 'twas so ordered as that after a certain term of exile cimon returned with iphigenia to cyprus, and in like manner lysimachus returned with cassandra to rhodes; and long and blithely thereafter lived they, each well contented with his own wife in his own land. ( ) one of the augmentative forms of bestia. novel ii. -- gostanza loves martuccio gomito, and hearing that he is dead, gives way to despair, and hies her alone aboard a boat, which is wafted by the wind to susa. she finds him alive in tunis, and makes herself known to him, who, having by his counsel gained high place in the king's favour, marries her, and returns with her wealthy to lipari. -- pamfilo's story being ended, the queen, after commending it not a little, called for one to follow from emilia; who thus began:-- meet and right it is that one should rejoice when events so fall out that passion meets with its due reward: and as love merits in the long run rather joy than suffering, far gladlier obey i the queen's than i did the king's behest, and address myself to our present theme. you are to know then, dainty ladies, that not far from sicily there is an islet called lipari, in which, no great while ago, there dwelt a damsel, gostanza by name, fair as fair could be, and of one of the most honourable families in the island. and one martuccio gomito, who was also of the island, a young man most gallant and courteous, and worthy for his condition, became enamoured of gostanza; who in like manner grew so afire for him that she was ever ill at ease, except she saw him. martuccio, craving her to wife, asked her of her father, who made answer that, martuccio being poor, he was not minded to give her to him. mortified to be thus rejected by reason of poverty, martuccio took an oath in presence of some of his friends and kinsfolk that lipari should know him no more, until he was wealthy. so away he sailed, and took to scouring the seas as a rover on the coast of barbary, preying upon all whose force matched not his own. in which way of life he found fortune favourable enough, had he but known how to rest and be thankful: but 'twas not enough that he and his comrades in no long time waxed very wealthy; their covetousness was inordinate, and, while they sought to gratify it, they chanced in an encounter with certain saracen ships to be taken after a long defence, and despoiled, and, most part of them, thrown into the sea by their captors, who, after sinking his ship, took martuccio with them to tunis, and clapped him in prison, and there kept him a long time in a very sad plight. meanwhile, not by one or two, but by divers and not a few persons, tidings reached lipari that all that were with martuccio aboard his bark had perished in the sea. the damsel, whose grief on martuccio's departure had known no bounds, now hearing that he was dead with the rest, wept a great while, and made up her mind to have done with life; but, lacking the resolution to lay violent hands upon herself, she bethought her how she might devote herself to death by some novel expedient. so one night she stole out of her father's house, and hied her to the port, and there by chance she found, lying a little apart from the other craft, a fishing boat, which, as the owners had but just quitted her, was still equipped with mast and sails and oars. aboard which boat she forthwith got, and being, like most of the women of the island, not altogether without nautical skill, she rowed some distance out to sea, and then hoisted sail, and cast away oars and tiller, and let the boat drift, deeming that a boat without lading or steersman would certainly be either capsized by the wind or dashed against some rock and broken in pieces, so that escape she could not, even if she would, but must perforce drown. and so, her head wrapped in a mantle, she stretched herself weeping on the floor of the boat. but it fell out quite otherwise than she had conjectured: for, the wind being from the north, and very equable, with next to no sea, the boat kept an even keel, and next day about vespers bore her to land hard by a city called susa, full a hundred miles beyond tunis. to the damsel 'twas all one whether she were at sea or ashore, for, since she had been aboard, she had never once raised, nor, come what might, meant she ever to raise, her head. now it so chanced, that, when the boat grounded, there was on the shore a poor woman that was in the employ of some fishermen, whose nets she was just taking out of the sunlight. seeing the boat under full sail, she marvelled how it should be suffered to drive ashore, and conjectured that the fishermen on board were asleep. so to the boat she hied her, and finding therein only the damsel fast asleep, she called her many times, and at length awakened her; and perceiving by her dress that she was a christian, she asked her in latin how it was that she was come thither all alone in the boat. hearing the latin speech, the damsel wondered whether the wind had not shifted, and carried her back to lipari: so up she started, gazed about her, and finding herself ashore and the aspect of the country strange, asked the good woman where she was. to which the good woman made answer:--"my daughter, thou art hard by susa in barbary." whereupon the damsel, sorrowful that god had not seen fit to accord her the boon of death, apprehensive of dishonour, and at her wits' end, sat herself down at the foot of her boat, and burst into tears. which the good woman saw not without pity, and persuaded her to come with her into her hut, and there by coaxing drew from her how she was come thither; and knowing that she could not but be fasting, she set before her her own coarse bread and some fish and water, and prevailed upon her to eat a little. gostanza thereupon asked her, who she was that thus spoke latin; whereto she answered that her name was carapresa, and that she was from trapani, where she had served some christian fishermen. to the damsel, sad indeed though she was, this name carapresa, wherefore she knew not, seemed to be of happy augury, so that she began to take hope, she knew not why, and to grow somewhat less fain of death: wherefore without disclosing who or whence she was, she earnestly besought the good woman for the love of god to have pity on her youth, and advise her how best to avoid insult. whereupon carapresa, good woman that she was, left her in her hut, while with all speed she picked up her nets; and on her return she wrapped her in her own mantle, and led her to susa. arrived there, she said to her:--"gostanza, i shall bring thee to the house of an excellent saracen lady, for whom i frequently do bits of work, as she has occasion: she is an old lady and compassionate: i will commend thee to her care as best i may, and i doubt not she will right gladly receive thee, and entreat thee as her daughter: and thou wilt serve her, and, while thou art with her, do all thou canst to gain her favour, until such time as god may send thee better fortune;" and as she said, so she did. the old lady listened, and then, gazing steadfastly in the damsel's face, shed tears, and taking her hand, kissed her forehead, and led her into the house, where she and some other women dwelt quite by themselves, doing divers kinds of handiwork in silk and palm leaves and leather. wherein the damsel in a few days acquired some skill, and thenceforth wrought together with them; and rose wondrous high in the favour and good graces of all the ladies, who soon taught her their language. now while the damsel, mourned at home as lost and dead, dwelt thus at susa, it so befell that, mariabdela being then king of tunis, a young chieftain in granada, of great power, and backed by mighty allies, gave out that the realm of tunis belonged to him, and having gathered a vast army, made a descent upon tunis with intent to expel the king from the realm. martuccio gomito, who knew the language of barbary well, heard the tidings in prison, and learning that the king of tunis was mustering a mighty host for the defence of his kingdom, said to one of the warders that were in charge of him and his comrades:--"if i might have speech of the king, i am confident that the advice that i should give him would secure him the victory." the warder repeated these words to his chief, who forthwith carried them to the king. wherefore by the king's command martuccio was brought before him, and being asked by him what the advice, of which he had spoken, might be, answered on this wise:--"sire, if in old days, when i was wont to visit this country of yours, i duly observed the manner in which you order your battle, methinks you place your main reliance upon archers; and therefore, if you could contrive that your enemy's supply of arrows should give out and your own continue plentiful, i apprehend that you would win the battle." "ay indeed," replied the king, "i make no doubt that, could i but accomplish that, i should conquer." "nay but, sire," returned martuccio, "you may do it, if you will. listen, and i will tell you how. you must fit the bows of your archers with strings much finer than those that are in common use, and match them with arrows, the notches of which will not admit any but these fine strings; and this you must do so secretly that your enemy may not know it, else he will find means to be even with you. which counsel i give you for the following reason:--when your and your enemy's archers have expended all their arrows, you wot that the enemy will fall to picking up the arrows that your men have shot during the battle, and your men will do the like by the enemy's arrows; but the enemy will not be able to make use of your men's arrows, by reason that their fine notches will not suffice to admit the stout strings, whereas your men will be in the contrary case in regard of the enemy's arrows, for the fine string will very well receive the large-notched arrow, and so your men will have an abundant supply of arrows, while the enemy will be at a loss for them." the king, who lacked not sagacity, appreciated martuccio's advice, and gave full effect to it; whereby he came out of the war a conqueror, and martuccio, being raised to the chief place in his favour, waxed rich and powerful. which matters being bruited throughout the country, it came to the ears of gostanza that martuccio gomito, whom she had long supposed to be dead, was alive; whereby her love for him, some embers of which still lurked in her heart, burst forth again in sudden flame, and gathered strength, and revived her dead hope. wherefore she frankly told all her case to the good lady with whom she dwelt, saying that she would fain go to tunis, that her eyes might have assurance of that which the report received by her ears had made them yearn to see. the lady fell heartily in with the girl's desire, and, as if she had been her mother, embarked with her for tunis, where on their arrival they were honourably received in the house of one of her kinswomen. carapresa, who had attended her, being sent to discover what she might touching martuccio, brought back word that he was alive, and high in honour and place. the gentlewoman was minded that none but herself should apprise martuccio of the arrival of his gostanza: wherefore she hied her one day to martuccio, and said:--"martuccio, there is come to my house a servant of thine from lipari, who would fain speak with thee here privily, and for that he would not have me trust another, i am come hither myself to deliver his message." martuccio thanked her, and forthwith hied him with her to her house: where no sooner did the girl see him than she all but died for joy, and carried away by her feelings, fell upon his neck with open arms and embraced him, and, what with sorrow of his past woes and her present happiness, said never a word, but softly wept. martuccio regarded her for a while in silent wonder; then, heaving a sigh, he said:--"thou livest then, my gostanza? long since i heard that thou wast lost; nor was aught known of thee at home." which said, he tenderly and with tears embraced her. gostanza told him all her adventures, and how honourably she had been entreated by the gentlewoman with whom she had dwelt. and so long time they conversed, and then martuccio parted from her, and hied him back to his lord the king, and told him all, to wit, his own adventures and those of the girl, adding that with his leave he was minded to marry her according to our law. which matters the king found passing strange; and having called the girl to him, and learned from her that 'twas even as martuccio had said:--"well indeed," quoth he, "hast thou won thy husband." then caused he gifts most ample and excellent to be brought forth, part of which he gave to gostanza, and part to martuccio, leaving them entirely to their own devices in regard of one another. then martuccio, in terms most honourable, bade farewell to the old lady with whom gostanza had dwelt, thanking her for the service she had rendered to gostanza, and giving her presents suited to her condition, and commending her to god, while gostanza shed many a tear: after which, by leave of the king, they went aboard a light bark, taking with them carapresa, and, sped by a prosperous breeze, arrived at lipari, where they were received with such cheer as 'twere vain to attempt to describe. there were martuccio and gostanza wedded with all pomp and splendour; and there long time in easeful peace they had joyance of their love. novel iii. -- pietro boccamazza runs away with agnolella, and encounters a gang of robbers: the girl takes refuge in a wood, and is guided to a castle. pietro is taken, but escapes out of the hands of the robbers, and after some adventures arrives at the castle where agnolella is, marries her, and returns with her to rome. -- ended emilia's story, which none of the company spared to commend, the queen, turning to elisa, bade her follow suit; and she, with glad obedience, thus began:-- 'tis a story, sweet ladies, of a woeful night passed by two indiscreet young lovers that i have in mind; but, as thereon ensued not a few days of joy, 'tis not inapposite to our argument, and shall be narrated. 'tis no long time since at rome, which, albeit now the tail,( ) was of yore the head, of the world, there dwelt a young man, pietro boccamazza by name, a scion of one of the most illustrious of the roman houses, who became enamoured of a damsel exceeding fair, and amorous withal--her name agnolella--the daughter of one gigliuozzo saullo, a plebeian, but in high repute among the romans. nor, loving thus, did pietro lack the address to inspire in agnolella a love as ardent as his own. wherefore, overmastered by his passion, and minded no longer to endure the sore suffering that it caused him, he asked her in marriage. whereof his kinsfolk were no sooner apprised, than with one accord they came to him and strongly urged him to desist from his purpose: they also gave gigliuozzo saullo to understand that he were best to pay no sort of heed to pietro's words, for that, if he so did, they would never acknowledge him as friend or relative. thus to see himself debarred of the one way by which he deemed he might attain to his desire, pietro was ready to die for grief, and, all his kinsfolk notwithstanding, he would have married gigliuozzo's daughter, had but the father consented. wherefore at length he made up his mind that, if the girl were willing, nought should stand in the way; and having through a common friend sounded the damsel and found her apt, he brought her to consent to elope with him from rome. the affair being arranged, pietro and she took horse betimes one morning, and sallied forth for anagni, where pietro had certain friends, in whom he placed much trust; and as they rode, time not serving for full joyance of their love, for they feared pursuit, they held converse thereof, and from time to time exchanged a kiss. now it so befell, that, the way being none too well known to pietro, when, perhaps eight miles from rome, they should have turned to the right, they took instead a leftward road. whereon when they had ridden but little more than two miles, they found themselves close to a petty castle, whence, so soon as they were observed, there issued some dozen men at arms; and, as they drew near, the damsel, espying them, gave a cry, and said:--"we are attacked, pietro, let us flee;" and guiding her nag as best she knew towards a great forest, she planted the spurs in his sides, and so, holding on by the saddle-bow, was borne by the goaded creature into the forest at a gallop. pietro, who had been too engrossed with her face to give due heed to the way, and thus had not been ware, as soon as she, of the approach of the men at arms, was still looking about to see whence they were coming, when they came up with him, and took him prisoner, and forced him to dismount. then they asked who he was, and, when he told them, they conferred among themselves, saying:--"this is one of the friends of our enemies: what else can we do but relieve him of his nag and of his clothes, and hang him on one of these oaks in scorn of the orsini?" to which proposal all agreeing, they bade pietro strip himself: but while, already divining his fate, he was so doing, an ambuscade of full five-and-twenty men at arms fell suddenly upon them, crying:--"death, death!" thus surprised, they let pietro go, and stood on the defensive; but, seeing that the enemy greatly outnumbered them, they took to their heels, the others giving chase. whereupon pietro hastily resumed his clothes, mounted his nag, and fled with all speed in the direction which he had seen the damsel take. but finding no road or path through the forest, nor discerning any trace of a horse's hooves, he was--for that he found not the damsel--albeit he deemed himself safe out of the clutches of his captors and their assailants, the most wretched man alive, and fell a weeping and wandering hither and thither about the forest, uttering agnolella's name. none answered; but turn back he dared not: so on he went, not knowing whither he went; besides which, he was in mortal dread of the wild beasts that infest the forest, as well on account of himself as of the damsel, whom momently he seemed to see throttled by some bear or wolf. thus did our unfortunate pietro spend the whole day, wandering about the forest, making it to resound with his cries of agnolella's name, and harking at times back, when he thought to go forward; until at last, what with his cries and his tears and his fears and his long fasting, he was so spent that he could go no further. 'twas then nightfall, and, as he knew not what else to do, he dismounted at the foot of an immense oak, and having tethered his nag to the trunk, climbed up into the branches, lest he should be devoured by the wild beasts during the night. shortly afterwards the moon rose with a very clear sky, and pietro, who dared not sleep, lest he should fall, and indeed, had he been secure from that risk, his misery and his anxiety on account of the damsel would not have suffered him to sleep, kept watch, sighing and weeping and cursing his evil luck. now the damsel, who, as we said before, had fled she knew not whither, allowing her nag to carry her whithersoever he would, strayed so far into the forest that she lost sight of the place where she had entered it, and spent the whole day just as pietro had done, wandering about the wilderness, pausing from time to time, and weeping, and uttering his name, and bewailing her evil fortune. at last, seeing that 'twas now the vesper hour and pietro came not, she struck into a path, which the nag followed, until, after riding some two miles, she espied at some distance a cottage, for which she made with all speed, and found there a good man, well stricken in years, with his wife, who was likewise aged. seeing her ride up alone, they said:--"daughter, wherefore ridest thou thus alone at this hour in these parts?" weeping, the damsel made answer that she had lost her companion in the forest, and asked how far might anagni be from there? "my daughter," returned the good man, "this is not the road to anagni; 'tis more than twelve miles away." "and how far off," inquired the damsel, "are the nearest houses in which one might find lodging for the night?" "there are none so near," replied the good man, "that thou canst reach them to-day." "then, so please you," said the damsel, "since go elsewhither i cannot, for god's sake let me pass the night here with you." whereto the good man made answer:--"damsel, welcome art thou to tarry the night with us; but still thou art to know that these parts are infested both by day and by night by bands, which, be they friends or be they foes, are alike ill to meet with, and not seldom do much despite and mischief, and if by misadventure one of these bands should visit us while thou wert here, and marking thy youth and beauty should do thee despite and dishonour, we should be unable to afford thee any succour. this we would have thee know, that if it should so come to pass, thou mayst not have cause to reproach us." the damsel heard not the old man's words without dismay; but, seeing that the hour was now late, she answered:--"god, if he be so pleased, will save both you and me from such molestation, and if not, 'tis a much lesser evil to be maltreated by men than to be torn in pieces by the wild beasts in the forest." so saying, she dismounted, and entered the cottage, where, having supped with the poor man and his wife on such humble fare as they had, she laid herself in her clothes beside them in their bed. she slept not, however; for her own evil plight and that of pietro, for whom she knew not how to augur aught but evil, kept her sighing and weeping all night long. and towards matins she heard a great noise as of men that marched; so up she got and hied her into a large courtyard that was in rear of the cottage, and part of which was covered with a great heap of hay, which she espying, hid herself therein, that, if the men came there, they might not so readily find her. scarce had she done so than the men, who proved to be a strong company of marauders, were at the door of the cottage, which they forced open; and having entered, and found the damsel's nag, still saddled, they asked who was there. the damsel being out of sight, the good man answered:--"there is none here but my wife and i; but this nag, which has given some one the slip, found his way hither last night, and we housed him, lest he should be devoured by the wolves." "so!" said the chief of the band, "as he has no owner, he will come in very handy for us." whereupon, in several parties, they ransacked the cottage from top to bottom; and one party went out into the courtyard, where, as they threw aside their lances and targets, it so befell that one of them, not knowing where else to bestow his lance, tossed it into the hay, and was within an ace of killing the damsel that lay hid there, as likewise she of betraying her whereabouts, for the lance all but grazing her left breast, insomuch that the head tore her apparel, she doubted she was wounded, and had given a great shriek, but that, remembering where she was, she refrained for fear. by and by the company cooked them a breakfast of kid's and other meat, and having eaten and drunken, dispersed in divers directions, as their affairs required, taking the girl's nag with them. and when they were gotten some little way off, the good man asked his wife:--"what became of the damsel, our guest of last night, that i have not seen her since we rose?" the good woman answered that she knew not where the damsel was, and went to look for her. the damsel, discovering that the men were gone, came forth of the hay, and the good man, seeing her, was overjoyed that she had not fallen into the hands of the ruffians, and, as day was breaking, said to her:--"now that day is at hand, we will, so it like thee, escort thee to a castle, some five miles hence, where thou wilt be in safety; but thou must needs go afoot, because these villains, that are but just gone, have taken thy nag with them." the damsel, resigning herself to her loss, besought them for god's sake to take her to the castle: whereupon they set forth, and arrived there about half tierce. now the castle belonged to one of the orsini, liello di campo di fiore by name, whose wife, as it chanced, was there. a most kindly and good woman she was, and, recognizing the damsel as soon as she saw her, gave her a hearty welcome and would fain have from her a particular account of how she came there. so the damsel told her the whole story. the lady, to whom pietro was also known, as being a friend of her husband, was distressed to hear of his misadventure, and being told where he was taken, gave him up for dead. so she said to the damsel:--"since so it is that thou knowest not how pietro has fared, thou shalt stay here with me until such time as i may have opportunity to send thee safely back to rome." meanwhile pietro, perched on his oak in as woeful a plight as might be, had espied, when he should have been in his first sleep, a full score of wolves, that, as they prowled, caught sight of the nag, and straightway were upon him on all sides. the horse, as soon as he was ware of their approach, strained on the reins till they snapped, and tried to make good his escape; but, being hemmed in, was brought to bay, and made a long fight of it with his teeth and hooves; but in the end they bore him down and throttled him and forthwith eviscerated him, and, the whole pack falling upon him, devoured him to the bone before they had done with him. whereat pietro, who felt that in the nag he had lost a companion and a comfort in his travail, was sorely dismayed, and began to think that he should never get out of the forest. but towards dawn, he, perched there in the oak, almost dead with cold, looking around him as he frequently did, espied about a mile off a huge fire. wherefore, as soon as 'twas broad day, he got down, not without trepidation, from the oak, and bent his steps towards the fire; and being come to it, he found, gathered about it, a company of shepherds, eating and making merry, who took pity on him and made him welcome. and when he had broken his fast and warmed himself, he told them the mishap that had befallen him, and how it was that he was come there alone, and asked them if there was a farm or castle in those parts, whither he might betake him. the shepherds said that about three miles away there was a castle belonging to liello di campo di fiore, where his lady was then tarrying. pietro, much comforted, requested to be guided thither by some of their company; whereupon two of them right gladly escorted him. so pietro arrived at the castle, where he found some that knew him; and while he was endeavouring to set on foot a search for the damsel in the forest, the lady summoned him to her presence, and he, forthwith obeying, and seeing agnolella with her, was the happiest man that ever was. he yearned till he all but swooned to go and embrace her, but refrained, for bashfulness, in the lady's presence. and overjoyed as he was, the joy of the damsel was no less. the lady received him with great cheer, and though, when she had heard the story of his adventures from his own lips, she chid him not a little for having set at nought the wishes of his kinsfolk; yet, seeing that he was still of the same mind, and that the damsel was also constant, she said to herself:--to what purpose give i myself all this trouble? they love one another, they know one another; they love with equal ardour; their love is honourable, and i doubt not is well pleasing to god, seeing that the one has escaped the gallows and the other the lance, and both the wild beasts: wherefore be it as they would have it. then, turning to them, she said:--"if 'tis your will to be joined in wedlock as man and wife, mine jumps with it: here shall your nuptials be solemnized and at liello's charges, and for the rest i will see that your peace is made with your kinsfolk." so in the castle the pair were wedded, pietro only less blithe than agnolella, the lady ordering the nuptials as honourably as might be in her mountain-home, and there they had most sweet joyance of the first fruits of their love. so some days they tarried there, and then accompanied by the lady with a strong escort, they took horse and returned to rome, where, very wroth though she found pietro's kinsfolk for what he had done, the lady re-established solid peace between him and them; and so at rome pietro and agnolella lived together to a good old age in great tranquillity and happiness. ( ) in reference to the forlorn condition of the city while the seat of the papacy was at avignon, - . novel iv. -- ricciardo manardi is found by messer lizio da valbona with his daughter, whom he marries, and remains at peace with her father. -- in silence elisa received the praise bestowed on her story by her fair companions; and then the queen called for a story from filostrato, who with a laugh began on this wise:--chidden have i been so often and by so many of you for the sore burden, which i laid upon you, of discourse harsh and meet for tears, that, as some compensation for such annoy, i deem myself bound to tell you somewhat that may cause you to laugh a little: wherefore my story, which will be of the briefest, shall be of a love, the course whereof, save for sighs and a brief passage of fear mingled with shame, ran smooth to a happy consummation. know then, noble ladies, that 'tis no long time since there dwelt in romagna a right worthy and courteous knight, messer lizio da valbona by name, who was already verging upon old age, when, as it happened, there was born to him of his wife, madonna giacomina, a daughter, who, as she grew up, became the fairest and most debonair of all the girls of those parts, and, for that she was the only daughter left to them, was most dearly loved and cherished by her father and mother, who guarded her with most jealous care, thinking to arrange some great match for her. now there was frequently in messer lizio's house, and much in his company, a fine, lusty young man, one ricciardo de' manardi da brettinoro, whom messer lizio and his wife would as little have thought of mistrusting as if he had been their own son: who, now and again taking note of the damsel, that she was very fair and graceful, and in bearing and behaviour most commendable, and of marriageable age, fell vehemently in love with her, which love he was very careful to conceal. the damsel detected it, however, and in like manner plunged headlong into love with him, to ricciardo's no small satisfaction. again and again he was on the point of speaking to her, but refrained for fear; at length, however, he summoned up his courage, and seizing his opportunity, thus addressed her:--"caterina, i implore thee, suffer me not to die for love of thee." whereto the damsel forthwith responded:--"nay, god grant that it be not rather that i die for love of thee." greatly exhilarated and encouraged, ricciardo made answer:--"'twill never be by default of mine that thou lackest aught that may pleasure thee; but it rests with thee to find the means to save thy life and mine." then said the damsel:--"thou seest, ricciardo, how closely watched i am, insomuch that i see not how 'twere possible for thee to come to me; but if thou seest aught that i may do without dishonour, speak the word, and i will do it." ricciardo was silent a while, pondering many matters: then, of a sudden, he said:--"sweet my caterina, there is but one way that i can see, to wit, that thou shouldst sleep either on or where thou mightst have access to the terrace by thy father's garden, where, so i but knew that thou wouldst be there at night, i would without fail contrive to meet thee, albeit 'tis very high." "as for my sleeping there," replied caterina, "i doubt not that it may be managed, if thou art sure that thou canst join me." ricciardo answered in the affirmative. whereupon they exchanged a furtive kiss, and parted. on the morrow, it being now towards the close of may, the damsel began complaining to her mother that by reason of the excessive heat she had not been able to get any sleep during the night. "daughter," said the lady, "what heat was there? nay, there was no heat at all." "had you said, 'to my thinking,' mother," rejoined caterina, "you would perhaps have said sooth; but you should bethink you how much more heat girls have in them than ladies that are advanced in years." "true, my daughter," returned the lady, "but i cannot order that it shall be hot and cold, as thou perchance wouldst like; we must take the weather as we find it, and as the seasons provide it: perchance to-night it will be cooler, and thou wilt sleep better." "god grant it be so," said caterina, "but 'tis not wonted for the nights to grow cooler as the summer comes on." "what then," said the lady, "wouldst thou have me do?" "with your leave and my father's," answered caterina, "i should like to have a little bed made up on the terrace by his room and over his garden, where, hearing the nightingales sing, and being in a much cooler place, i should sleep much better than in your room." whereupon:--"daughter, be of good cheer," said the mother; "i will speak to thy father, and we will do as he shall decide." so the lady told messer lizio what had passed between her and the damsel; but he, being old and perhaps for that reason a little morose, said:--"what nightingale is this, to whose chant she would fain sleep? i will see to it that the cicalas shall yet lull her to sleep." which speech, coming to caterina's ears, gave her such offence, that for anger, rather than by reason of the heat, she not only slept not herself that night, but suffered not her mother to sleep, keeping up a perpetual complaint of the great heat. wherefore her mother hied her in the morning to messer lizio, and said to him:--"sir, you hold your daughter none too dear; what difference can it make to you that she lie on the terrace? she has tossed about all night long by reason of the heat; and besides, can you wonder that she, girl that she is, loves to hear the nightingale sing? young folk naturally affect their likes." whereto messer lizio made answer:--"go, make her a bed there to your liking, and set a curtain round it, and let her sleep there, and hear the nightingale sing to her heart's content." which the damsel no sooner learned, than she had a bed made there with intent to sleep there that same night; wherefore she watched until she saw ricciardo, whom by a concerted sign she gave to understand what he was to do. messer lizio, as soon as he had heard the damsel go to bed, locked a door that led from his room to the terrace, and went to sleep himself. when all was quiet, ricciardo with the help of a ladder got upon a wall, and standing thereon laid hold of certain toothings of another wall, and not without great exertion and risk, had he fallen, clambered up on to the terrace, where the damsel received him quietly with the heartiest of cheer. many a kiss they exchanged; and then got them to bed, where well-nigh all night long they had solace and joyance of one another, and made the nightingale sing not a few times. but, brief being the night and great their pleasure, towards dawn, albeit they wist it not, they fell asleep, caterina's right arm encircling ricciardo's neck, while with her left hand she held him by that part of his person which your modesty, my ladies, is most averse to name in the company of men. so, peacefully they slept, and were still asleep when day broke and messer lizio rose; and calling to mind that his daughter slept on the terrace, softly opened the door, saying to himself:--let me see what sort of night's rest the nightingale has afforded our caterina? and having entered, he gently raised the curtain that screened the bed, and saw ricciardo asleep with her and in her embrace as described, both being quite naked and uncovered; and having taken note of ricciardo, he went away, and hied him to his lady's room, and called her, saying:--"up, up, wife, come and see; for thy daughter has fancied the nightingale to such purpose that she has caught him, and holds him in her hand." "how can this be?" said the lady. "come quickly, and thou shalt see," replied messer lizio. so the lady huddled on her clothes, and silently followed messer lizio, and when they were come to the bed, and had raised the curtain, madonna giacomina saw plainly enough how her daughter had caught, and did hold the nightingale, whose song she had so longed to hear. whereat the lady, deeming that ricciardo had played her a cruel trick, would have cried out and upbraided him; but messer lizio said to her:--"wife, as thou valuest my love, say not a word; for in good sooth, seeing that she has caught him, he shall be hers. ricciardo is a gentleman and wealthy; an alliance with him cannot but be to our advantage: if he would part from me on good terms, he must first marry her, so that the nightingale shall prove to have been put in his own cage and not in that of another." whereby the lady was reassured, seeing that her husband took the affair so quietly, and that her daughter had had a good night, and was rested, and had caught the nightingale. so she kept silence; nor had they long to wait before ricciardo awoke; and, seeing that 'twas broad day, deemed that 'twas as much as his life was worth, and aroused caterina, saying:--"alas! my soul, what shall we do, now that day has come and surprised me here?" which question messer lizio answered by coming forward, and saying:--"we shall do well." at sight of him ricciardo felt as if his heart were torn out of his body, and sate up in the bed, and said:--"my lord, i cry you mercy for god's sake. i wot that my disloyalty and delinquency have merited death; wherefore deal with me even as it may seem best to you: however, i pray you, if so it may be, to spare my life, that i die not." "ricciardo," replied messer lizio, "the love i bore thee, and the faith i reposed in thee, merited a better return; but still, as so it is, and youth has seduced thee into such a transgression, redeem thy life, and preserve my honour, by making caterina thy lawful spouse, that thine, as she has been for this past night, she may remain for the rest of her life. in this way thou mayst secure my peace and thy safety; otherwise commend thy soul to god." pending this colloquy, caterina let go the nightingale, and having covered herself, began with many a tear to implore her father to forgive ricciardo, and ricciardo to do as messer lizio required, that thereby they might securely count upon a long continuance of such nights of delight. but there needed not much supplication; for, what with remorse for the wrong done, and the wish to make amends, and the fear of death, and the desire to escape it, and above all ardent love, and the craving to possess the beloved one, ricciardo lost no time in making frank avowal of his readiness to do as messer lizio would have him. wherefore messer lizio, having borrowed a ring from madonna giacomina, ricciardo did there and then in their presence wed caterina. which done, messer lizio and the lady took their leave, saying:--"now rest ye a while; for so perchance 'twere better for you than if ye rose." and so they left the young folks, who forthwith embraced, and not having travelled more than six miles during the night, went two miles further before they rose, and so concluded their first day. when they were risen, ricciardo and messer lizio discussed the matter with more formality; and some days afterwards ricciardo, as was meet, married the damsel anew in presence of their friends and kinsfolk, and brought her home with great pomp, and celebrated his nuptials with due dignity and splendour. and so for many a year thereafter he lived with her in peace and happiness, and snared the nightingales day and night to his heart's content. novel v. -- guidotto da cremona dies leaving a girl to giacomino da pavia. she has two lovers in faenza, to wit, giannole di severino and minghino di mingole, who fight about her. she is discovered to be giannole's sister, and is given to minghino to wife. -- all the ladies laughed so heartily over the story of the nightingale, that, even when filostrato had finished, they could not control their merriment. however, when the laughter was somewhat abated, the queen said:--"verily if thou didst yesterday afflict us, to-day thou hast tickled us to such purpose that none of us may justly complain of thee." then, as the turn had now come round to neifile, she bade her give them a story. and thus, blithely, neifile began:--as filostrato went to romagna for the matter of his discourse, i too am fain to make a short journey through the same country in what i am about to relate to you. i say, then, that there dwelt of yore in the city of fano two lombards, the one ycleped guidotto da cremona and the other giacomino da pavia, men advanced in life, who, being soldiers, had spent the best part of their youth in feats of arms. now guidotto, being at the point of death, and having no son or any friend or kinsman in whom he placed more trust than in giacomino, left him a girl of about ten years, and all that he had in the world, and so, having given him to know not a little of his affairs, he died. about the same time the city of faenza, which had long been at war and in a most sorry plight, began to recover some measure of prosperity; and thereupon liberty to return thither on honourable terms was accorded to all that were so minded. whither, accordingly, giacomino, who had dwelt there aforetime, and liked the place, returned with all his goods and chattels, taking with him the girl left him by guidotto, whom he loved and entreated as his daughter. the girl grew up as beautiful a maiden as was to be found in the city; and no less debonair and modest was she than fair. wherefore she lacked not admirers; but above all two young men, both very gallant and of equal merit, the one giannole di severino, the other minghino di mingole, affected her with so ardent a passion, that, growing jealous, they came to hate one another with an inordinate hatred. right gladly would each have espoused her, she being now fifteen years old, but that his kinsmen forbade it; wherefore seeing that neither might have her in an honourable way, each determined to compass his end as best he might. now giacomino had in his house an ancient maid, and a man, by name crivello, a very pleasant and friendly sort of fellow, with whom giannole grew familiar, and in due time confided to him all his love, praying him to further the attainment of his desire, and promising to reward him handsomely, if he did so. crivello made answer:--"thou must know that there is but one way in which i might be of service to thee in this affair: i might contrive that thou shouldst be where she is when giacomino is gone off to supper; but, were i to presume to say aught to her on thy behalf, she would never listen to me. this, if it please thee, i promise to do for thee, and will be as good as my word; and then thou canst do whatever thou mayst deem most expedient." giannole said that he asked no more; and so 'twas arranged. meanwhile minghino on his part had made friends with the maid, on whom he had so wrought that she had carried several messages to the girl, and had gone far to kindle her to his love, and furthermore had promised to contrive that he should meet her when for any cause giacomino should be from home in the evening. and so it befell that no long time after these parleys, giacomino, by crivello's management, was to go sup at the house of a friend, and by preconcert between crivello and giannole, upon signal given, giannole was to come to giacomino's house and find the door open. the maid, on her part, witting nought of the understanding between crivello and giannole, let minghino know that giacomino would not sup at home, and bade him be near the house, so that he might come and enter it on sight of a signal from her. the evening came; neither of the lovers knew aught of what the other was about; but, being suspicious of one another, they came to take possession, each with his own company of armed friends. minghino, while awaiting the signal, rested with his company in the house of one of his friends hard by the girl's house: giannole with his company was posted a little farther off. crivello and the maid, when giacomino was gone, did each their endeavour to get the other out of the way. crivello said to the maid:--"how is it thou takest not thyself off to bed, but goest still hither and thither about the house?" and the maid said to crivello:--"nay, but why goest thou not after thy master? thou hast supped; what awaitest thou here?" and so, neither being able to make the other quit the post, crivello, the hour concerted with giannole being come, said to himself:--what care i for her? if she will not keep quiet, 'tis like to be the worse for her. whereupon he gave the signal, and hied him to the door, which he had no sooner opened, than giannole entered with two of his companions, and finding the girl in the saloon, laid hands on her with intent to carry her off. the girl struggled, and shrieked amain, as did also the maid. minghino, fearing the noise, hasted to the spot with his companions; and, seeing that the girl was already being borne across the threshold, they drew their swords, and cried out in chorus:--"ah! traitors that ye are, ye are all dead men! 'twill go otherwise than ye think for. what means this force?" which said, they fell upon them with their swords, while the neighbours, alarmed by the noise, came hurrying forth with lights and arms, and protested that 'twas an outrage, and took minghino's part. so, after a prolonged struggle, minghino wrested the girl from giannole, and set her again in giacomino's house. nor were the combatants separated before the officers of the governor of the city came up and arrested not a few of them; among them minghino and giannole and crivello, whom they marched off to prison. however, peace being restored and giacomino returned, 'twas with no little chagrin that he heard of the affair; but finding upon investigation that the girl was in no wise culpable, he was somewhat reassured; and determined, lest the like should again happen, to bestow the girl in marriage as soon as might be. on the morrow the kinsfolk of the two lovers, having learned the truth of the matter, and knowing what evil might ensue to the captives, if giacomino should be minded to take the course which he reasonably might, came and gave him good words, beseeching him to let the kindly feeling, the love, which they believed he bore to them, his suppliants, count for more with him than the wrong that the hare-brained gallants had done him, and on their part and their own offering to make any amend that he might require. giacomino, who had seen many things in his time, and lacked not sound sense, made answer briefly:--"gentlemen, were i in my own country, as i am in yours, i hold myself in such sort your friend that nought would i do in this matter, or in any other, save what might be agreeable to you: besides which, i have the more reason to consider your wishes, because 'tis against you yourselves that you have offended, inasmuch as this damsel, whatever many folk may suppose, is neither of cremona nor of pavia, but is of faenza, albeit neither i nor she, nor he from whom i had her, did ever wot whose daughter she was: wherefore, touching that you ask of me, i will even do just as you bid me." the worthy men found it passing strange that the girl should be of faenza; and having thanked giacomino for his handsome answer, they besought him that he would be pleased to tell them how she had come into his hands, and how he knew that she was of faenza. to whom giacomino replied on this wise:--"a comrade and friend i had, guidotto da cremona, who, being at the point of death, told me that, when this city of faenza was taken by the emperor frederic, he and his comrades, entering one of the houses during the sack, found there good store of booty, and never a soul save this girl, who, being two years old or thereabouts, greeted him as father as he came up the stairs; wherefore he took pity on her, and carried her with whatever else was in the house away with him to fano; where on his deathbed he left her to me, charging me in due time to bestow her in marriage, and give her all his goods and chattels by way of dowry: but, albeit she is now of marriageable age, i have not been able to provide her with a husband to my mind; though right glad should i be to do so, that nought like the event of yesterday may again befall me." now among the rest of those present was one guglielmo da medicina, who had been with guidotto on that occasion, and knew well whose house it was that guidotto had sacked; and seeing the owner there among the rest, he went up to him, and said:--"dost hear, bernabuccio, what giacomino says?" "ay," answered bernabuccio, "and i gave the more heed thereto, for that i call to mind that during those disorders i lost a little daughter of just the age that giacomino speaks of." "'tis verily she then," said guglielmo, "for once when i was with guidotto i heard him describe what house it was that he had sacked, and i wist that 'twas thine. wherefore search thy memory if there be any sign by which thou thinkest to recognize her, and let her be examined that thou mayst be assured that she is thy daughter." so bernabuccio pondered a while, and then recollected that she ought to have a scar, shewing like a tiny cross, above her left ear, being where he had excised a tumour a little while before that affair: wherefore without delay he went up to giacomino, who was still there, and besought him to let him go home with him and see the damsel. giacomino gladly did so, and no sooner was the girl brought into bernabuccio's presence, than, as he beheld her, 'twas as if he saw the face of her mother, who was still a beautiful woman. however, he would not rest there, but besought giacomino of his grace to permit him to lift a lock or two of hair above her left ear; whereto giacomino consented. so bernabuccio approached her where she stood somewhat shamefast, and with his right hand lifted her locks, and, seeing the cross, wist that in very truth she was his daughter, and tenderly wept and embraced her, albeit she withstood him; and then, turning to giacomino, he said:--"my brother, the girl is my daughter; 'twas my house that guidotto sacked, and so sudden was the assault that my wife, her mother, forgot her, and we have always hitherto supposed, that, my house being burned that same day, she perished in the flames." catching his words, and seeing that he was advanced in years, the girl inclined to believe him, and impelled by some occult instinct, suffered his embraces, and melting, mingled her tears with his. bernabuccio forthwith sent for her mother and her sisters and other kinswomen and her brothers, and having shewn her to them all, and told the story, after they had done her great cheer and embraced her a thousand times, to giacomino's no small delight, he brought her home with him. which coming to the ears of the governor of the city, the worthy man, knowing that giannole, whom he had in ward, was bernabuccio's son and the girl's brother, made up his mind to deal leniently with giannole: wherefore he took upon himself the part of mediator in the affair, and having made peace between bernabuccio and giacomino and giannole and minghino, gave agnesa--such was the damsel's name--to minghino to wife, to the great delight of all minghino's kinsfolk, and set at liberty not only giannole and minghino but crivello, and the others their confederates in the affair. whereupon minghino with the blithest of hearts wedded agnesa with all due pomp and circumstance, and brought her home, where for many a year thereafter he lived with her in peace and prosperity. novel vi. -- gianni di procida, being found with a damsel that he loves, and who had been given to king frederic, is bound with her to a stake, so to be burned. he is recognized by ruggieri dell' oria, is delivered, and marries her. -- neifile's story, with which the ladies were greatly delighted, being ended, the queen called for one from pampinea; who forthwith raised her noble countenance, and thus began:--mighty indeed, gracious ladies, are the forces of love, and great are the labours and excessive and unthought of the perils which they induce lovers to brave; as is manifest enough by what we have heard to-day and on other occasions: howbeit i mean to shew you the same once more by a story of an enamoured youth. hard by naples is the island of ischia, in which there dwelt aforetime with other young damsels one, restituta by name, daughter of one marin bolgaro, a gentleman of the island. very fair was she, and blithe of heart, and by a young gallant, gianni by name, of the neighbouring islet of procida, was beloved more dearly than life, and in like measure returned his love. now, not to mention his daily resort to ischia to see her, there were times not a few when gianni, not being able to come by a boat, would swim across from procida by night, that he might have sight, if of nought else, at least of the walls of her house. and while their love burned thus fervently, it so befell that one summer's day, as the damsel was all alone on the seashore, picking her way from rock to rock, detaching, as she went, shells from their beds with a knife, she came to a recess among the rocks, where for the sake, as well of the shade as of the comfort afforded by a spring of most cool water that was there, some sicilian gallants, that were come from naples, had put in with their felucca. who, having taken note of the damsel, that she was very fair, and that she was not yet ware of them, and was alone, resolved to capture her, and carry her away; nor did they fail to give effect to their resolve; but, albeit she shrieked amain, they laid hands on her, and set her aboard their boat, and put to sea. arrived at calabria, they fell a wrangling as to whose the damsel should be, and in brief each claimed her for his own: wherefore, finding no means of coming to an agreement, and fearing that worse might befall them, and she bring misfortune upon them, they resolved with one accord to give her to frederic, king of sicily, who was then a young man, and took no small delight in commodities of that quality; and so, being come to palermo, they did. marking her beauty, the king set great store by her; but as she was somewhat indisposed, he commanded that, till she was stronger, she should be lodged and tended in a very pretty villa that was in one of his gardens, which he called cuba; and so 'twas done. the purloining of the damsel caused no small stir in ischia, more especially because 'twas impossible to discover by whom she had been carried off. but gianni, more concerned than any other, despairing of finding her in ischia, and being apprised of the course the felucca had taken, equipped one himself, and put to sea, and in hot haste scoured the whole coast from minerva to scalea in calabria, making everywhere diligent search for the damsel, and in scalea learned that she had been taken by sicilian mariners to palermo. whither, accordingly, he hied him with all speed; and there after long search discovering that she had been given to the king, who kept her at cuba, he was sore troubled, insomuch that he now scarce ventured to hope that he should ever set eyes on her, not to speak of having her for his own, again. but still, holden by love, and seeing that none there knew him, he sent the felucca away, and tarried there, and frequently passing by cuba, he chanced one day to catch sight of her at a window, and was seen of her, to their great mutual satisfaction. and gianni, taking note that the place was lonely, made up to her, and had such speech of her as he might, and being taught by her after what fashion he must proceed, if he would have further speech of her, he departed, but not till he had made himself thoroughly acquainted with the configuration of the place; and having waited until night was come and indeed far spent, he returned thither, and though the ascent was such that 'twould scarce have afforded lodgment to a woodpecker, won his way up and entered the garden, where, finding a pole, he set it against the window which the damsel had pointed out as hers, and thereby swarmed up easily enough. the damsel had aforetime shewn herself somewhat distant towards him, being careful of her honour, but now deeming it already lost, she had bethought her that there was none to whom she might more worthily give herself than to him; and reckoning upon inducing him to carry her off, she had made up her mind to gratify his every desire; and to that end had left the window open that his ingress might be unimpeded. so, finding it open, gianni softly entered, lay down beside the damsel, who was awake, and before they went further, opened to him all her mind, beseeching him most earnestly to take her thence, and carry her off. gianni replied that there was nought that would give him so much pleasure, and that without fail, upon leaving her, he would make all needful arrangements for bringing her away when he next came. whereupon with exceeding great delight they embraced one another, and plucked that boon than which love has no greater to bestow; and having so done divers times, they unwittingly fell asleep in one another's arms. now towards daybreak the king, who had been greatly charmed with the damsel at first sight, happened to call her to mind, and feeling himself fit, resolved, notwithstanding the hour, to go lie with her a while; and so, attended by a few of his servants, he hied him privily to cuba. having entered the house, he passed (the door being softly opened) into the room in which he knew the damsel slept. a great blazing torch was borne before him, and so, as he bent his glance on the bed, he espied the damsel and gianni lying asleep, naked and in one another's arms. whereat he was seized with a sudden and vehement passion of wrath, insomuch that, albeit he said never a word, he could scarce refrain from slaying both of them there and then with a dagger that he had with him. then, bethinking him that 'twere the depth of baseness in any man--not to say a king--to slay two naked sleepers, he mastered himself, and determined to do them to death in public and by fire. wherefore, turning to a single companion that he had with him, he said:--"what thinkest thou of this base woman, in whom i had placed my hope?" and then he asked whether he knew the gallant, that had presumed to enter his house to do him such outrage and despite. whereto the other replied that he minded not ever to have seen him. thereupon the king hied him out of the room in a rage, and bade take the two lovers, naked as they were, and bind them, and, as soon as 'twas broad day, bring them to palermo, and bind them back to back to a stake in the piazza, there to remain until tierce, that all might see them, after which they were to be burned, as they had deserved. and having so ordered, he went back to palermo, and shut himself up in his room, very wroth. no sooner was he gone than there came unto the two lovers folk not a few, who, having awakened them, did forthwith ruthlessly take and bind them: whereat, how they did grieve and tremble for their lives, and weep and bitterly bewail their fate, may readily be understood. pursuant to the king's commandment they were brought to palermo, and bound to a stake in the piazza; and before their eyes faggots and fire were made ready to burn them at the hour appointed by the king. great was the concourse of the folk of palermo, both men and women, that came to see the two lovers, the men all agog to feast their eyes on the damsel, whom they lauded for shapeliness and loveliness, and no less did the women commend the gallant, whom in like manner they crowded to see, for the same qualities. meanwhile the two hapless lovers, both exceeding shamefast, stood with bent heads bitterly bewailing their evil fortune, and momently expecting their death by the cruel fire. so they awaited the time appointed by the king; but their offence being bruited abroad, the tidings reached the ears of ruggieri dell' oria, a man of peerless worth, and at that time the king's admiral, who, being likewise minded to see them, came to the place where they were bound, and after gazing on the damsel and finding her very fair, turned to look at the gallant, whom with little trouble he recognized, and drawing nearer to him, he asked him if he were gianni di procida. gianni raised his head, and recognizing the admiral, made answer:--"my lord, he, of whom you speak, i was; but i am now as good as no more." the admiral then asked him what it was that had brought him to such a pass. whereupon:--"love and the king's wrath," quoth gianni. the admiral induced him to be more explicit, and having learned from him exactly how it had come about, was turning away, when gianni called him back, saying:--"oh! my lord, if so it may be, procure me one favour of him by whose behest i thus stand here." "what favour?" demanded ruggieri. "i see," returned gianni, "that die i must, and that right soon. i crave, then, as a favour, that, whereas this damsel and i, that have loved one another more dearly than life, are here set back to back, we may be set face to face, that i may have the consolation of gazing on her face as i depart." ruggieri laughed as he replied:--"with all my heart. i will so order it that thou shalt see enough of her to tire of her." he then left him and charged the executioners to do nothing more without further order of the king; and being assured of their obedience, he hied him forthwith to the king, to whom, albeit he found him in a wrathful mood, he spared not to speak his mind, saying:--"sire, wherein have they wronged thee, those two young folk, whom thou hast ordered to be burned down there in the piazza?" the king told him. whereupon ruggieri continued:--"their offence does indeed merit such punishment, but not at thy hands, and if misdeeds should not go unpunished, services should not go unrewarded; nay, may warrant indulgence and mercy. knowest thou who they are whom thou wouldst have burned?" the king signified that he did not. whereupon ruggieri:--"but i," quoth he, "am minded that thou shouldst know them, to the end that thou mayst know with what discretion thou surrenderest thyself to a transport of rage. the young man is the son of landolfo di procida, brother of messer gianni di procida, to whom thou owest it that thou art lord and king of this island. the damsel is a daughter of marin bolgaro, whose might alone to-day prevents ischia from throwing off thy yoke. moreover, these young folk have long been lovers, and 'tis for that the might of love constrained them, and not that they would do despite to thy lordship, that they have committed this offence, if indeed 'tis meet to call that an offence which young folk do for love's sake. wherefore, then, wouldst thou do them to death, when thou shouldst rather do them all cheer, and honour them with lordly gifts?" the king gave ear to ruggieri's words, and being satisfied that he spoke sooth, repented him, not only of his evil purpose, but of what he had already done, and forthwith gave order to loose the two young folk from the stake, and bring them before him; and so 'twas done. and having fully apprised himself of their case, he saw fit to make them amends of the wrong he had done them with honours and largess. wherefore he caused them to be splendidly arrayed, and being assured that they were both minded to wed, he himself gave gianni his bride, and loading them with rich presents, sent them well content back to ischia, where they were welcomed with all festal cheer, and lived long time thereafter to their mutual solace and delight. novel vii. -- teodoro, being enamoured of violante, daughter of messer amerigo, his lord, gets her with child, and is sentenced to the gallows; but while he is being scourged thither, he is recognized by his father, and being set at large, takes violante to wife. -- while they doubted whether the two lovers would be burned, the ladies were all fear and suspense; but when they heard of their deliverance, they all with one accord put on a cheerful countenance, praising god. the story ended, the queen ordained that the next should be told by lauretta, who blithely thus began:-- fairest ladies, what time good king guglielmo ruled sicily there dwelt on the island a gentleman, messer amerigo abate da trapani by name, who was well provided, as with other temporal goods, so also with children. for which cause being in need of servants, he took occasion of the appearance in trapani waters of certain genoese corsairs from the levant, who, scouring the coast of armenia, had captured not a few boys, to purchase of them some of these youngsters, supposing them to be turks; among whom, albeit most shewed as mere shepherd boys, there was one, teodoro, by name, whose less rustic mien seemed to betoken gentle blood. who, though still treated as a slave, was suffered to grow up in the house with messer amerigo's children, and, nature getting the better of circumstance, bore himself with such grace and dignity that messer amerigo gladly gave him his freedom, and still deeming him to be a turk, had him baptized and named pietro, and made him his majordomo, and placed much trust in him. now among the other children that grew up in messer amerigo's house was his fair and dainty daughter, violante; and, as her father was in no hurry to give her in marriage, it so befell that she became enamoured of pietro, but, for all her love and the great conceit she had of his qualities and conduct, she nevertheless was too shamefast to discover her passion to him. however, love spared her the pains, for pietro had cast many a furtive glance in her direction, and had grown so enamoured of her that 'twas never well with him except he saw her; but great was his fear lest any should detect his passion, for he deemed 'twould be the worse for him. the damsel, who was fain indeed of the sight of him, understood his case; and to encourage him dissembled not her exceeding great satisfaction. on which footing they remained a great while, neither venturing to say aught to the other, much as both longed to do so. but, while they both burned with a mutual flame, fortune, as if their entanglement were of her preordaining, found means to banish the fear and hesitation that kept them tongue-tied. messer amerigo possessed, a mile or so from trapani, a goodly estate, to which he was wont not seldom to resort with his daughter and other ladies by way of recreation; and on one of these days, while there they tarried with pietro, whom they had brought with them, suddenly, as will sometimes happen in summer, the sky became overcast with black clouds, insomuch that the lady and her companions, lest the storm should surprise them there, set out on their return to trapani, making all the haste they might. but pietro and the girl being young, and sped perchance by love no less than by fear of the storm, completely outstripped her mother and the other ladies; and when they were gotten so far ahead as to be well-nigh out of sight of the lady and all the rest, the thunder burst upon them peal upon peal, hard upon which came a fall of hail very thick and close, from which the lady sought shelter in the house of a husbandman. pietro and the damsel, finding no more convenient refuge, betook them to an old, and all but ruinous, and now deserted, cottage, which, however, still had a bit of roof left, whereunder they both took their stand in such close quarters, owing to the exiguity of the shelter, that they perforce touched one another. which contact was the occasion that they gathered somewhat more courage to disclose their love; and so it was that pietro began on this wise:--"now would to god that this hail might never cease, that so i might stay here for ever!" "and well content were i," returned the damsel. and by and by their hands met, not without a tender pressure, and then they fell to embracing and so to kissing one another, while the hail continued. and not to dwell on every detail, the sky was not clear before they had known the last degree of love's felicity, and had taken thought how they might secretly enjoy one another in the future. the cottage being close to the city gate, they hied them thither, as soon as the storm was overpast, and having there awaited the lady, returned home with her. nor, using all discretion, did they fail thereafter to meet from time to time in secret, to their no small solace; and the affair went so far that the damsel conceived, whereby they were both not a little disconcerted; insomuch that the damsel employed many artifices to arrest the course of nature, but to no effect. wherefore pietro, being in fear of his life, saw nothing for it but flight, and told her so. whereupon:--"if thou leave me," quoth she, "i shall certainly kill myself." much as he loved her, pietro answered:--"nay but, my lady, wherefore wouldst thou have me tarry here? thy pregnancy will discover our offence: thou wilt be readily forgiven; but 'twill be my woeful lot to bear the penalty of thy sin and mine." "pietro," returned the damsel, "too well will they wot of my offence, but be sure that, if thou confess not, none will ever wot of thine." then quoth he:--"since thou givest me this promise, i will stay; but mind thou keep it." the damsel, who had done her best to keep her condition secret, saw at length by the increase of her bulk that 'twas impossible: wherefore one day most piteously bewailing herself, she made her avowal to her mother, and besought her to shield her from the consequences. distressed beyond measure, the lady chid her severely, and then asked her how it had come to pass. the damsel, to screen pietro, invented a story by which she put another complexion on the affair. the lady believed her, and, that her fall might not be discovered, took her off to one of their estates; where, the time of her delivery being come, and she, as women do in such a case, crying out for pain, it so befell that messer amerigo, whom the lady expected not, as indeed he was scarce ever wont, to come there, did so, having been out a hawking, and passing by the chamber where the damsel lay, marvelled to hear her cries, and forthwith entered, and asked what it meant. on sight of whom the lady rose and sorrowfully gave him her daughter's version of what had befallen her. but he, less credulous than his wife, averred that it could not be true that she knew not by whom she was pregnant, and was minded to know the whole truth: let the damsel confess and she might regain his favour; otherwise she must expect no mercy and prepare for death. the lady did all she could to induce her husband to rest satisfied with what she had told him; but all to no purpose. mad with rage, he rushed, drawn sword in hand, to his daughter's bedside (she, pending the parley, having given birth to a boy) and cried out:--"declare whose this infant is, or forthwith thou diest." overcome by fear of death, the damsel broke her promise to pietro, and made a clean breast of all that had passed between him and her. whereat the knight, grown fell with rage, could scarce refrain from slaying her. however, having given vent to his wrath in such words as it dictated, he remounted his horse and rode to trapani, and there before one messer currado, the king's lieutenant, laid information of the wrong done him by pietro, in consequence whereof pietro, who suspected nothing, was forthwith taken, and being put to the torture, confessed all. some days later the lieutenant sentenced him to be scourged through the city, and then hanged by the neck; and messer amerigo, being minded that one and the same hour should rid the earth of the two lovers and their son (for to have compassed pietro's death was not enough to appease his wrath), mingled poison and wine in a goblet, and gave it to one of his servants with a drawn sword, saying:--"get thee with this gear to violante, and tell her from me to make instant choice of one of these two deaths, either the poison or the steel; else, i will have her burned, as she deserves, in view of all the citizens; which done, thou wilt take the boy that she bore a few days ago, and beat his brains out against the wall, and cast his body for a prey to the dogs." hearing the remorseless doom thus passed by the angry father upon both his daughter and his grandson, the servant, prompt to do evil rather than good, hied him thence. now, as pietro in execution of his sentence was being scourged to the gallows by the serjeants, 'twas so ordered by the leaders of the band that he passed by an inn, where were three noblemen of armenia, sent by the king of that country as ambassadors to rome, to treat with the pope of matters of the highest importance, touching a crusade that was to be; who, having there alighted to rest and recreate them for some days, had received not a few tokens of honour from the nobles of trapani, and most of all from messer amerigo. hearing the tramp of pietro's escort, they came to a window to see what was toward; and one of them, an aged man, and of great authority, fineo by name, looking hard at pietro, who was stripped from the waist up, and had his hands bound behind his back, espied on his breast a great spot of scarlet, not laid on by art, but wrought in the skin by operation of nature, being such as the ladies here call a rose. which he no sooner saw, than he was reminded of a son that had been stolen from him by corsairs on the coast of lazistan some fifteen years before, nor had he since been able to hear tidings of him; and guessing the age of the poor wretch that was being scourged, he set it down as about what his son's would be, were he living, and, what with the mark and the age, he began to suspect that 'twas even his son, and bethought him that, if so, he would scarce as yet have forgotten his name or the speech of armenia. wherefore, as he was within earshot he called to him:--"teodoro!" at the word pietro raised his head: whereupon fineo, speaking in armenian, asked him:--"whence and whose son art thou?" the serjeants, that were leading him, paused in deference to the great man, and so pietro answered:--"of armenia was i, son of one fineo, brought hither by folk i wot not of, when i was but a little child." then fineo, witting that in very truth 'twas the boy that he had lost, came down with his companions, weeping; and, all the serjeants making way, he ran to him, and embraced him, and doffing a mantle of richest texture that he wore, he prayed the captain of the band to be pleased to tarry there until he should receive orders to go forward, and was answered by the captain that he would willingly so wait. fineo already knew, for 'twas bruited everywhere, the cause for which pietro was being led to the gallows; wherefore he straightway hied him with his companions and their retinue to messer currado, and said to him:--"sir, this lad, whom you are sending to the gallows like a slave, is freeborn, and my son, and is ready to take to wife her whom, as 'tis said, he has deflowered; so please you, therefore, delay the execution until such time as it may be understood whether she be minded to have him for husband, lest, should she be so minded, you be found to have broken the law." messer currado marvelled to hear that pietro was fineo's son, and not without shame, albeit 'twas not his but fortune's fault, confessed that 'twas even as fineo said: and having caused pietro to be taken home with all speed, and messer amerigo to be brought before him, told him the whole matter. messer amerigo, who supposed that by this time his daughter and grandson must be dead, was the saddest man in the world to think that 'twas by his deed, witting that, were the damsel still alive, all might very easily be set right: however, he sent post haste to his daughter's abode, revoking his orders, if they were not yet carried out. the servant, whom he had earlier despatched, had laid the sword and poison before the damsel, and, for that she was in no hurry to make her choice, was giving her foul words, and endeavouring to constrain her thereto, when the messenger arrived; but on hearing the injunction laid upon him by his lord, he desisted, and went back, and told him how things stood. whereupon messer amerigo, much relieved, hied him to fineo, and well-nigh weeping, and excusing himself for what had befallen, as best he knew how, craved his pardon, and professed himself well content to give teodoro, so he were minded to have her, his daughter to wife. fineo readily accepted his excuses, and made answer:--"'tis my will that my son espouse your daughter, and, so he will not, let thy sentence passed upon him be carried out." so fineo and messer amerigo being agreed, while teodoro still languished in fear of death, albeit he was glad at heart to have found his father, they questioned him of his will in regard of this matter. when he heard that, if he would, he might have violante to wife, teodoro's delight was such that he seemed to leap from hell to paradise, and said that, if 'twas agreeable to them all, he should deem it the greatest of favours. so they sent to the damsel to learn her pleasure: who, having heard how it had fared, and was now like to fare, with teodoro, albeit, saddest of women, she looked for nought but death, began at length to give some credence to their words, and to recover heart a little, and answered that, were she to follow the bent of her desire, nought that could happen would delight her more than to be teodoro's wife; but nevertheless she would do as her father bade her. so, all agreeing, the damsel was espoused with all pomp and festal cheer, to the boundless delight of all the citizens, and was comforted, and nurtured her little boy, and in no long time waxed more beautiful than ever before; and, her confinement being ended, she presented herself before fineo, who was then about to quit rome on his homeward journey, and did him such reverence as is due to a father. fineo, mighty well pleased to have so fair a daughter-in-law, caused celebrate her nuptials most bravely and gaily, and received, and did ever thereafter entreat, her as his daughter. and so he took her, not many days after the festivities were ended, with his son and little grandson, aboard a galley, and brought them to lazistan, and there thenceforth the two lovers dwelt with him in easeful and lifelong peace. novel viii. -- nastagio degli onesti, loving a damsel of the traversari family, by lavish expenditure gains not her love. at the instance of his kinsfolk he hies him to chiassi, where he sees a knight hunt a damsel and slay her and cause her to be devoured by two dogs. he bids his kinsfolk and the lady that he loves to breakfast. during the meal the said damsel is torn in pieces before the eyes of the lady, who, fearing a like fate, takes nastagio to husband. -- lauretta was no sooner silent than thus at the queen's behest began filomena:--sweet ladies, as in us pity has ever its meed of praise, even so divine justice suffers not our cruelty to escape severe chastisement: the which that i may shew you, and thereby dispose you utterly to banish that passion from your souls, i am minded to tell you a story no less touching than delightsome. in ravenna, that most ancient city of romagna, there dwelt of yore noblemen and gentlemen not a few, among whom was a young man, nastagio degli onesti by name, who by the death of his father and one of his uncles inherited immense wealth. being without a wife, nastagio, as 'tis the way with young men, became enamoured of a daughter of messer paolo traversaro, a damsel of much higher birth than his, whose love he hoped to win by gifts and the like modes of courting, which, albeit they were excellent and fair and commendable, not only availed him not, but seemed rather to have the contrary effect, so harsh and ruthless and unrelenting did the beloved damsel shew herself towards him; for whether it was her uncommon beauty or her noble lineage that puffed her up, so haughty and disdainful was she grown that pleasure she had none either in him or in aught that pleased him. the burden of which disdain nastagio found so hard to bear, that many a time, when he had made his moan, he longed to make away with himself. however he refrained therefrom, and many a time resolved to give her up altogether, or, if so he might, to hold her in despite, as she did him: but 'twas all in vain, for it seemed as if, the more his hope dwindled, the greater grew his love. and, as thus he continued, loving and spending inordinately, certain of his kinsfolk and friends, being apprehensive lest he should waste both himself and his substance, did many a time counsel and beseech him to depart ravenna, and go tarry for a time elsewhere, that so he might at once cool his flame and reduce his charges. for a long while nastagio answered their admonitions with banter; but as they continued to ply him with them, he grew weary of saying no so often, and promised obedience. whereupon he equipped himself as if for a journey to france or spain, or other distant parts, got on horseback and sallied forth of ravenna, accompanied by not a few of his friends, and being come to a place called chiassi, about three miles from ravenna, he halted, and having sent for tents and pavilions, told his companions that there he meant to stay, and they might go back to ravenna. so nastagio pitched his camp, and there commenced to live after as fine and lordly a fashion as did ever any man, bidding divers of his friends from time to time to breakfast or sup with him, as he had been wont to do. now it so befell that about the beginning of may, the season being very fine, he fell a brooding on the cruelty of his mistress, and, that his meditations might be the less disturbed, he bade all his servants leave him, and sauntered slowly, wrapt in thought, as far as the pinewood. which he had threaded for a good half-mile, when, the fifth hour of the day being well-nigh past, yet he recking neither of food nor of aught else, 'twas as if he heard a woman wailing exceedingly and uttering most piercing shrieks: whereat, the train of his sweet melancholy being broken, he raised his head to see what was toward, and wondered to find himself in the pinewood; and saw, moreover, before him running through a grove, close set with underwood and brambles, towards the place where he was, a damsel most comely, stark naked, her hair dishevelled, and her flesh all torn by the briers and brambles, who wept and cried piteously for mercy; and at her flanks he saw two mastiffs, exceeding great and fierce, that ran hard upon her track, and not seldom came up with her and bit her cruelly; and in the rear he saw, riding a black horse, a knight sadly accoutred, and very wrathful of mien, carrying a rapier in his hand, and with despiteful, blood-curdling words threatening her with death. whereat he was at once amazed and appalled, and then filled with compassion for the hapless lady, whereof was bred a desire to deliver her, if so he might, from such anguish and peril of death. wherefore, as he was unarmed, he ran and took in lieu of a cudgel a branch of a tree, with which he prepared to encounter the dogs and the knight. which the knight observing, called to him before he was come to close quarters, saying:--"hold off, nastagio, leave the dogs and me alone to deal with this vile woman as she has deserved." and, even as he spoke, the dogs gripped the damsel so hard on either flank that they arrested her flight, and the knight, being come up, dismounted. whom nastagio approached, saying:--"i know not who thou art, that knowest me so well, but thus much i tell thee: 'tis a gross outrage for an armed knight to go about to kill a naked woman, and set his dogs upon her as if she were a wild beast: rest assured that i shall do all i can to protect her." whereupon:--"nastagio," replied the knight, "of the same city as thou was i, and thou wast yet a little lad when i, messer guido degli anastagi by name, being far more enamoured of this damsel than thou art now of her of the traversari, was by her haughtiness and cruelty brought to so woeful a pass that one day in a fit of despair i slew myself with this rapier which thou seest in my hand; for which cause i am condemned to the eternal pains. nor was it long after my death that she, who exulted therein over measure, also died, and for that she repented her not of her cruelty and the joy she had of my sufferings, for which she took not blame to herself, but merit, was likewise condemned to the pains of hell. nor had she sooner made her descent, than for her pain and mine 'twas ordained, that she should flee before me, and that i, who so loved her, should pursue her, not as my beloved lady, but as my mortal enemy, and so, as often as i come up with her, i slay her with this same rapier with which i slew myself, and having ripped her up by the back, i take out that hard and cold heart, to which neither love nor pity had ever access, and therewith her other inward parts, as thou shalt forthwith see, and cast them to these dogs to eat. and in no long time, as the just and mighty god decrees, she rises even as if she had not died, and recommences her dolorous flight, i and the dogs pursuing her. and it so falls out that every friday about this hour i here come up with her, and slaughter her as thou shalt see; but ween not that we rest on other days; for there are other places in which i overtake her, places in which she used, or devised how she might use, me cruelly; on which wise, changed as thou seest from her lover into her foe, i am to pursue her for years as many as the months during which she shewed herself harsh to me. wherefore leave me to execute the decree of the divine justice, and presume not to oppose that which thou mayst not avail to withstand." affrighted by the knight's words, insomuch that there was scarce a hair on his head but stood on end, nastagio shrank back, still gazing on the hapless damsel, and waited all a tremble to see what the knight would do. nor had he long to wait; for the knight, as soon as he had done speaking, sprang, rapier in hand, like a mad dog upon the damsel, who, kneeling, while the two mastiffs gripped her tightly, cried him mercy; but the knight, thrusting with all his force, struck her between the breasts, and ran her clean through the body. thus stricken, the damsel fell forthwith prone on the ground sobbing and shrieking: whereupon the knight drew forth a knife, and having therewith opened her in the back, took out the heart and all the circumjacent parts, and threw them to the two mastiffs, who, being famished, forthwith devoured them. and in no long time the damsel, as if nought thereof had happened, started to her feet, and took to flight towards the sea, pursued, and ever and anon bitten, by the dogs, while the knight, having gotten him to horse again, followed them as before, rapier in hand; and so fast sped they that they were quickly lost to nastagio's sight. long time he stood musing on what he had seen, divided between pity and terror, and then it occurred to him that, as this passed every friday, it might avail him not a little. so, having marked the place, he rejoined his servants, and in due time thereafter sent for some of his kinsfolk and friends, and said to them:--"'tis now a long while that you urge me to give up loving this lady that is no friend to me, and therewith make an end of my extravagant way of living; and i am now ready so to do, provided you procure me one favour, to wit, that next friday messer paolo traversaro, and his wife and daughter, and all the ladies, their kinswomen, and as many other ladies as you may be pleased to bid, come hither to breakfast with me: when you will see for yourselves the reason why i so desire." a small matter this seemed to them; and so, on their return to ravenna, they lost no time in conveying nastagio's message to his intended guests: and, albeit she was hardly persuaded, yet in the end the damsel that nastagio loved came with the rest. nastagio caused a lordly breakfast to be prepared, and had the tables set under the pines about the place where he had witnessed the slaughter of the cruel lady; and in ranging the ladies and gentlemen at table he so ordered it, that the damsel whom he loved was placed opposite the spot where it should be enacted. the last course was just served, when the despairing cries of the hunted damsel became audible to all, to their no small amazement; and each asking, and none knowing, what it might import, up they all started intent to see what was toward; and perceived the suffering damsel, and the knight and the dogs, who in a trice were in their midst. they hollaed amain to dogs and knight, and not a few advanced to succour the damsel: but the words of the knight, which were such as he had used to nastagio, caused them to fall back, terror-stricken and lost in amazement. and when the knight proceeded to do as he had done before, all the ladies that were there, many of whom were of kin to the suffering damsel and to the knight, and called to mind his love and death, wept as bitterly as if 'twere their own case. when 'twas all over, and the lady and the knight had disappeared, the strange scene set those that witnessed it pondering many and divers matters: but among them all none was so appalled as the cruel damsel that nastagio loved, who, having clearly seen and heard all that had passed, and being ware that it touched her more nearly than any other by reason of the harshness that she had ever shewn to nastagio, seemed already to be fleeing from her angered lover, and to have the mastiffs on her flanks. and so great was her terror that, lest a like fate should befall her, she converted her aversion into affection, and as soon as occasion served, which was that very night, sent a trusty chambermaid privily to nastagio with a request that he would be pleased to come to her, for that she was ready in all respects to pleasure him to the full. nastagio made answer that he was greatly flattered, but that he was minded with her consent to have his pleasure of her in an honourable way, to wit, by marrying her. the damsel, who knew that none but herself was to blame that she was not already nastagio's wife, made answer that she consented. wherefore by her own mouth she acquainted her father and mother that she agreed to marry nastagio; and, they heartily approving her choice, nastagio wedded her on the ensuing sunday, and lived happily with her many a year. nor was it in her instance alone that this terror was productive of good: on the contrary, it so wrought among the ladies of ravenna that they all became, and have ever since been, much more compliant with men's desires than they had been wont to be. novel ix. -- federigo degli alberighi loves and is not loved in return: he wastes his substance by lavishness until nought is left but a single falcon, which, his lady being come to see him at his house, he gives her to eat: she, knowing his case, changes her mind, takes him to husband and makes him rich. -- so ended filomena; and the queen, being ware that besides herself only dioneo (by virtue of his privilege) was left to speak, said with gladsome mien:--'tis now for me to take up my parable; which, dearest ladies, i will do with a story like in some degree to the foregoing, and that, not only that you may know how potent are your charms to sway the gentle heart, but that you may also learn how upon fitting occasions to make bestowal of your guerdons of your own accord, instead of always waiting for the guidance of fortune, which most times, not wisely, but without rule or measure, scatters her gifts. you are then to know, that coppo di borghese domenichi, a man that in our day was, and perchance still is, had in respect and great reverence in our city, being not only by reason of his noble lineage, but, and yet more, for manners and merit most illustrious and worthy of eternal renown, was in his old age not seldom wont to amuse himself by discoursing of things past with his neighbours and other folk; wherein he had not his match for accuracy and compass of memory and concinnity of speech. among other good stories, he would tell, how that there was of yore in florence a gallant named federigo di messer filippo alberighi, who for feats of arms and courtesy had not his peer in tuscany; who, as is the common lot of gentlemen, became enamoured of a lady named monna giovanna, who in her day held rank among the fairest and most elegant ladies of florence; to gain whose love he jousted, tilted, gave entertainments, scattered largess, and in short set no bounds to his expenditure. however the lady, no less virtuous than fair, cared not a jot for what he did for her sake, nor yet for him. spending thus greatly beyond his means, and making nothing, federigo could hardly fail to come to lack, and was at length reduced to such poverty that he had nothing left but a little estate, on the rents of which he lived very straitly, and a single falcon, the best in the world. the estate was at campi, and thither, deeming it no longer possible for him to live in the city as he desired, he repaired, more in love than ever before; and there, in complete seclusion, diverting himself with hawking, he bore his poverty as patiently as he might. now, federigo being thus reduced to extreme poverty, it so happened that one day monna giovanna's husband, who was very rich, fell ill, and, seeing that he was nearing his end, made his will, whereby he left his estate to his son, who was now growing up, and in the event of his death without lawful heir named monna giovanna, whom he dearly loved, heir in his stead; and having made these dispositions he died. monna giovanna, being thus left a widow, did as our ladies are wont, and repaired in the summer to one of her estates in the country which lay very near to that of federigo. and so it befell that the urchin began to make friends with federigo, and to shew a fondness for hawks and dogs, and having seen federigo's falcon fly not a few times, took a singular fancy to him, and greatly longed to have him for his own, but still did not dare to ask him of federigo, knowing that federigo prized him so much. so the matter stood when by chance the boy fell sick; whereby the mother was sore distressed, for he was her only son, and she loved him as much as might be, insomuch that all day long she was beside him, and ceased not to comfort him, and again and again asked him if there were aught that he wished for, imploring him to say the word, and, if it might by any means be had, she would assuredly do her utmost to procure it for him. thus repeatedly exhorted, the boy said:--"mother mine, do but get me federigo's falcon, and i doubt not i shall soon be well." whereupon the lady was silent a while, bethinking her what she should do. she knew that federigo had long loved her, and had never had so much as a single kind look from her: wherefore she said to herself:--how can i send or go to beg of him this falcon, which by what i hear is the best that ever flew, and moreover is his sole comfort? and how could i be so unfeeling as to seek to deprive a gentleman of the one solace that is now left him? and so, albeit she very well knew that she might have the falcon for the asking, she was perplexed, and knew not what to say, and gave her son no answer. at length, however, the love she bore the boy carried the day, and she made up her mind, for his contentment, come what might, not to send, but to go herself and fetch him the falcon. so:--"be of good cheer, my son," she said, "and doubt not thou wilt soon be well; for i promise thee that the very first thing that i shall do tomorrow morning will be to go and fetch thee the falcon." whereat the child was so pleased that he began to mend that very day. on the morrow the lady, as if for pleasure, hied her with another lady to federigo's little house, and asked to see him. 'twas still, as for some days past, no weather for hawking, and federigo was in his garden, busy about some small matters which needed to be set right there. when he heard that monna giovanna was at the door, asking to see him, he was not a little surprised and pleased, and hied him to her with all speed. as soon as she saw him, she came forward to meet him with womanly grace, and having received his respectful salutation, said to him:--"good morrow, federigo," and continued:--"i am come to requite thee for what thou hast lost by loving me more than thou shouldst: which compensation is this, that i and this lady that accompanies me will breakfast with thee without ceremony this morning." "madam," federigo replied with all humility, "i mind not ever to have lost aught by loving you, but rather to have been so much profited that, if i ever deserved well in aught, 'twas to your merit that i owed it, and to the love that i bore you. and of a surety had i still as much to spend as i have spent in the past, i should not prize it so much as this visit you so frankly pay me, come as you are to one who can afford you but a sorry sort of hospitality." which said, with some confusion, he bade her welcome to his house, and then led her into his garden, where, having none else to present to her by way of companion, he said:--"madam, as there is none other here, this good woman, wife of this husbandman, will bear you company, while i go to have the table set." now, albeit his poverty was extreme, yet he had not known as yet how sore was the need to which his extravagance had reduced him; but this morning 'twas brought home to him, for that he could find nought wherewith to do honour to the lady, for love of whom he had done the honours of his house to men without number: wherefore, distressed beyond measure, and inwardly cursing his evil fortune, he sped hither and thither like one beside himself, but never a coin found he, nor yet aught to pledge. meanwhile it grew late, and sorely he longed that the lady might not leave his house altogether unhonoured, and yet to crave help of his own husbandman was more than his pride could brook. in these desperate straits his glance happened to fall on his brave falcon on his perch in his little parlour. and so, as a last resource, he took him, and finding him plump, deemed that he would make a dish meet for such a lady. wherefore, without thinking twice about it, he wrung the bird's neck, and caused his maid forthwith pluck him and set him on a spit, and roast him carefully; and having still some spotless table linen, he had the table laid therewith, and with a cheerful countenance hied him back to his lady in the garden, and told her that such breakfast as he could give her was ready. so the lady and her companion rose and came to table, and there, with federigo, who waited on them most faithfully, ate the brave falcon, knowing not what they ate. when they were risen from table, and had dallied a while in gay converse with him, the lady deemed it time to tell the reason of her visit: wherefore, graciously addressing federigo, thus began she:--"federigo, by what thou rememberest of thy past life and my virtue, which, perchance, thou hast deemed harshness and cruelty, i doubt not thou must marvel at my presumption, when thou hearest the main purpose of my visit; but if thou hadst sons, or hadst had them, so that thou mightest know the full force of the love that is borne them, i should make no doubt that thou wouldst hold me in part excused. nor, having a son, may i, for that thou hast none, claim exemption from the laws to which all other mothers are subject, and, being thus bound to own their sway, i must, though fain were i not, and though 'tis neither meet nor right, crave of thee that which i know thou dost of all things and with justice prize most highly, seeing that this extremity of thy adverse fortune has left thee nought else wherewith to delight, divert and console thee; which gift is no other than thy falcon, on which my boy has so set his heart that, if i bring him it not, i fear lest he grow so much worse of the malady that he has, that thereby it may come to pass that i lose him. and so, not for the love which thou dost bear me, and which may nowise bind thee, but for that nobleness of temper, whereof in courtesy more conspicuously than in aught else thou hast given proof, i implore thee that thou be pleased to give me the bird, that thereby i may say that i have kept my son alive, and thus made him for aye thy debtor." no sooner had federigo apprehended what the lady wanted, than, for grief that 'twas not in his power to serve her, because he had given her the falcon to eat, he fell a weeping in her presence, before he could so much as utter a word. at first the lady supposed that 'twas only because he was loath to part with the brave falcon that he wept, and as good as made up her mind that he would refuse her: however, she awaited with patience federigo's answer, which was on this wise:--"madam, since it pleased god that i should set my affections upon you there have been matters not a few, in which to my sorrow i have deemed fortune adverse to me; but they have all been trifles in comparison of the trick that she now plays me: the which i shall never forgive her, seeing that you are come here to my poor house, where, while i was rich, you deigned not to come, and ask a trifling favour of me, which she has put it out of my power to grant: how 'tis so, i will briefly tell you. when i learned that you, of your grace, were minded to breakfast with me, having respect to your high dignity and desert, i deemed it due and seemly that in your honour i should regale you, to the best of my power, with fare of a more excellent quality than is commonly set before others; and, calling to mind the falcon which you now ask of me, and his excellence, i judged him meet food for you, and so you have had him roasted on the trencher this morning; and well indeed i thought i had bestowed him; but, as now i see that you would fain have had him in another guise, so mortified am i that i am not able to serve you, that i doubt i shall never know peace of mind more." in witness whereof he had the feathers and feet and beak of the bird brought in and laid before her. the first thing the lady did, when she had heard federigo's story, and seen the relics of the bird, was to chide him that he had killed so fine a falcon to furnish a woman with a breakfast; after which the magnanimity of her host, which poverty had been and was powerless to impair, elicited no small share of inward commendation. then, frustrate of her hope of possessing the falcon, and doubting of her son's recovery, she took her leave with the heaviest of hearts, and hied her back to the boy: who, whether for fretting, that he might not have the falcon, or by the unaided energy of his disorder, departed this life not many days after, to the exceeding great grief of his mother. for a while she would do nought but weep and bitterly bewail herself; but being still young, and left very wealthy, she was often urged by her brothers to marry again, and though she would rather have not done so, yet being importuned, and remembering federigo's high desert, and the magnificent generosity with which he had finally killed his falcon to do her honour, she said to her brothers:--"gladly, with your consent, would i remain a widow, but if you will not be satisfied except i take a husband, rest assured that none other will i ever take save federigo degli alberighi." whereupon her brothers derided her, saying:--"foolish woman, what is't thou sayst? how shouldst thou want federigo, who has not a thing in the world?" to whom she answered:--"my brothers, well wot i that 'tis as you say; but i had rather have a man without wealth than wealth without a man." the brothers, perceiving that her mind was made up, and knowing federigo for a good man and true, poor though he was, gave her to him with all her wealth. and so federigo, being mated with such a wife, and one that he had so much loved, and being very wealthy to boot, lived happily, keeping more exact accounts, to the end of his days. novel x. -- pietro di vinciolo goes from home to sup: his wife brings a boy into the house to bear her company: pietro returns, and she hides her gallant under a hen-coop: pietro explains that in the house of ercolano, with whom he was to have supped, there was discovered a young man bestowed there by ercolano's wife: the lady thereupon censures ercolano's wife: but unluckily an ass treads on the fingers of the boy that is hidden under the hen-coop, so that he cries for pain: pietro runs to the place, sees him, and apprehends the trick played on him by his wife, which nevertheless he finally condones, for that he is not himself free from blame. -- when the queen had done speaking, and all had praised god that he had worthily rewarded federigo, dioneo, who never waited to be bidden, thus began:--i know not whether i am to term it a vice accidental and superinduced by bad habits in us mortals, or whether it be a fault seated in nature, that we are more prone to laugh at things dishonourable than at good deeds, and that more especially when they concern not ourselves. however, as the sole scope of all my efforts has been and still shall be to dispel your melancholy, and in lieu thereof to minister to you laughter and jollity; therefore, enamoured my damsels, albeit the ensuing story is not altogether free from matter that is scarce seemly, yet, as it may afford you pleasure, i shall not fail to relate it; premonishing you my hearers, that you take it with the like discretion as when, going into your gardens, you stretch forth your delicate hands and cull the roses, leaving the thorns alone: which, being interpreted, means that you will leave the caitiff husband to abide in sorry plight with his dishonour, and will gaily laugh at the amorous wiles or his wife, and commiserate her unfortunate gallant, when occasion requires. 'tis no great while since there dwelt at perugia a rich man named pietro di vinciolo, who rather, perchance, to blind others and mitigate the evil repute in which he was held by the citizens of perugia, than for any desire to wed, took a wife: and such being his motive, fortune provided him with just such a spouse as he merited. for the wife of his choice was a stout, red-haired young woman, and so hot-blooded that two husbands would have been more to her mind than one, whereas one fell to her lot that gave her only a subordinate place in his regard. which she perceiving, while she knew herself to be fair and lusty, and felt herself to be gamesome and fit, waxed very wroth, and now and again had high words with her husband, and led but a sorry life with him at most times. then, seeing that thereby she was more like to fret herself than to dispose her husband to conduct less base, she said to herself:--this poor creature deserts me to go walk in pattens in the dry; wherefore it shall go hard but i will bring another aboard the ship for the wet weather. i married him, and brought him a great and goodly dowry, knowing that he was a man, and supposing him to have the desires which men have and ought to have; and had i not deemed him to be a man, i should never have married him. he knew me to be a woman: why then took he me to wife, if women were not to his mind? 'tis not to be endured. had i not been minded to live in the world, i had become a nun; and being minded there to live, as i am, if i am to wait until i have pleasure or solace of him, i shall wait perchance until i am old; and then, too late, i shall bethink me to my sorrow that i have wasted my youth; and as to the way in which i should seek its proper solace i need no better teacher and guide than him, who finds his delight where i should find mine, and finds it to his own condemnation, whereas in me 'twere commendable. 'tis but the laws that i shall set at nought, whereas he sets both them and nature herself at nought. so the good lady reasoned, and peradventure more than once; and then, casting about how she might privily compass her end, she made friends with an old beldam, that shewed as a veritable santa verdiana, foster-mother of vipers, who was ever to be seen going to pardonings with a parcel of paternosters in her hand, and talked of nothing but the lives of the holy fathers, and the wounds of st. francis, and was generally reputed a saint; to whom in due time she opened her whole mind. "my daughter," replied the beldam, "god, who knows all things, knows that thou wilt do very rightly indeed: were it for no other reason, 'twould be meet for thee and every other young woman so to do, that the heyday of youth be not wasted; for there is no grief like that of knowing that it has been wasted. and what the devil are we women fit for when we are old except to pore over the cinders on the hearth? the which if any know, and may attest it, 'tis i, who, now that i am old, call to mind the time that i let slip from me, not without most sore and bitter and fruitless regret: and albeit 'twas not all wasted, for i would not have thee think that i was entirely without sense, yet i did not make the best use of it: whereof when i bethink me, and that i am now, even as thou seest me, such a hag that never a spark of fire may i hope to get from any, god knows how i rue it. now with men 'tis otherwise: they are born meet for a thousand uses, not for this alone; and the more part of them are of much greater consequence in old age than in youth: but women are fit for nought but this, and 'tis but for that they bear children that they are cherished. whereof, if not otherwise, thou mayst assure thyself, if thou do but consider that we are ever ready for it; which is not the case with men; besides which, one woman will tire out many men without being herself tired out. seeing then that 'tis for this we are born, i tell thee again that thou wilt do very rightly to give thy husband thy loaf for his cake, that in thy old age thy soul may have no cause of complaint against thy flesh. every one has just as much of this life as he appropriates: and this is especially true of women, whom therefore it behoves, much more than men, to seize the moment as it flies: indeed, as thou mayst see for thyself, when we grow old neither husband, nor any other man will spare us a glance; but, on the contrary, they banish us to the kitchen, there to tell stories to the cat, and to count the pots and pans; or, worse, they make rhymes about us:--'to the damsel dainty bits; to the beldam ague-fits;' and such-like catches. but to make no more words about it, i tell thee at once that there is no person in the world to whom thou couldst open thy mind with more advantage than to me; for there is no gentleman so fine but i dare speak my mind to him, nor any so harsh and forbidding but i know well how to soften him and fashion him to my will. tell me only what thou wouldst have, and leave the rest to me: but one word more: i pray thee to have me in kindly remembrance, for that i am poor; and thou shalt henceforth go shares with me in all my indulgences and every paternoster that i say, that god may make thereof light and tapers for thy dead:" wherewith she ended. so the lady came to an understanding with the beldam, that, as soon as she set eyes on a boy that often came along that street, and of whom the lady gave her a particular description, she would know what she was to do: and thereupon the lady gave her a chunk of salt meat, and bade her god-speed. the beldam before long smuggled into the lady's chamber the boy of whom she had spoken, and not long after another, such being the humour of the lady, who, standing in perpetual dread of her husband, was disposed, in this particular, to make the most of her opportunities. and one of these days, her husband being to sup in the evening with a friend named ercolano, the lady bade the beldam bring her a boy as pretty and dainty as was to be found in perugia; and so the beldam forthwith did. but the lady and the boy being set at table to sup, lo, pietro's voice was heard at the door, bidding open to him. whereupon the lady gave herself up for dead; but being fain, if she might, to screen the boy, and knowing not where else to convey or conceal him, bestowed him under a hen-coop that stood in a veranda hard by the chamber in which they were supping, and threw over it a sorry mattress that she had that day emptied of its straw; which done she hastened to open the door to her husband; saying to him as he entered:--"you have gulped your supper mighty quickly to-night." whereto pietro replied:--"we have not so much as tasted it." "how so?" enquired the lady. "i will tell thee," said pietro. "no sooner were we set at table, ercolano, his wife, and i, than we heard a sneeze close to us, to which, though 'twas repeated, we paid no heed; but as the sneezer continued to sneeze a third, a fourth, a fifth, and many another time to boot, we all began to wonder, and ercolano, who was somewhat out of humour with his wife, because she had kept us a long time at the door before she opened it, burst out in a sort of rage with:--'what means this? who is't that thus sneezes?' and made off to a stair hard by, beneath which and close to its foot was a wooden closet, of the sort which, when folk are furnishing their houses, they commonly cause to be placed there, to stow things in upon occasion. and as it seemed to him that the sneezing proceeded thence, he undid the wicket, and no sooner had he opened it than out flew never so strong a stench of brimstone; albeit we had already been saluted by a whiff of it, and complained thereof, but had been put off by the lady with:--''tis but that a while ago i bleached my veils with brimstone, having sprinkled it on a dish, that they might catch its fumes, which dish i then placed under the stair, so that it still smells a little.' "however the door being now, as i have said, open, and the smoke somewhat less dense, ercolano, peering in, espied the fellow that had sneezed, and who still kept sneezing, being thereto constrained by the pungency of the brimstone. and for all he sneezed, yet was he by this time so well-nigh choked with the brimstone that he was like neither to sneeze nor to do aught else again. as soon as he caught sight of him, ercolano bawled out:--'now see i, madam, why it was that a while ago, when we came here, we were kept waiting so long at the gate before 'twas opened; but woe betide me for the rest of my days, if i pay you not out.' whereupon the lady, perceiving that her offence was discovered, ventured no excuse, but fled from the table, whither i know not. ercolano, ignoring his wife's flight, bade the sneezer again and again to come forth; but he, being by this time fairly spent, budged not an inch for aught that ercolano said. wherefore ercolano caught him by one of his feet, and dragged him forth, and ran off for a knife with intent to kill him; but i, standing in fear of the signory on my own account, got up and would not suffer him to kill the fellow or do him any hurt, and for his better protection raised the alarm, whereby some of the neighbours came up and took the lad, more dead than alive, and bore him off, i know not whither. however, our supper being thus rudely interrupted, not only have not gulped it, but i have not so much as tasted it, as i said before!" her husband's story shewed his wife that there were other ladies as knowing as she, albeit misfortune might sometimes overtake them and gladly would she have spoken out in defence of ercolano's wife, but, thinking that, by censuring another's sin, she would secure more scope for her own, she launched out on this wise:--"fine doings indeed, a right virtuous and saintly lady she must be: here is the loyalty of an honest woman, and one to whom i had lief have confessed, so spiritual i deemed her; and the worst of it is that, being no longer young, she sets a rare example to those that are so. curses on the hour that she came into the world: curses upon her that she make not away with herself, basest, most faithless of women that she must needs be, the reproach of her sex, the opprobrium of all the ladies of this city, to cast aside all regard for her honour, her marriage vow, her reputation before the world, and, lost to all sense of shame, to scruple not to bring disgrace upon a man so worthy, a citizen so honourable, a husband by whom she was so well treated, ay, and upon herself to boot! by my hope of salvation no mercy should be shewn to such women; they should pay the penalty with their lives; to the fire with them while they yet live, and let them be burned to ashes." then, calling to mind the lover that she had close at hand in the hen-coop, she fell to coaxing pietro to get him to bed, for the hour grew late. pietro, who was more set on eating than sleeping, only asked whether there was aught he might have by way of supper. "supper, forsooth!" replied the lady. "ay, of course 'tis our way to make much of supper when thou art not at home. as if i were ercolano's wife! now, wherefore tarry longer? go, get thy night's rest: 'twere far better for thee." now so it was that some of pietro's husbandmen had come to the house that evening with divers things from the farm, and had put up their asses in a stable that adjoined the veranda, but had neglected to water them; and one of the asses being exceeding thirsty, got his head out of the halter and broke loose from the stable, and went about nosing everything, if haply he might come by water: whereby he came upon the hen-coop, beneath which was the boy; who, being constrained to stand on all fours, had the fingers of one hand somewhat protruding from under the hen-coop; and so as luck or rather ill-luck would have it, the ass trod on them; whereat, being sorely hurt, he set up a great howling, much to the surprise of pietro, who perceived that 'twas within his house. so forth he came, and hearing the boy still moaning and groaning, for the ass still kept his hoof hard down on the fingers, called out:--"who is there?" and ran to the hen-coop and raised it, and espied the fellow, who, besides the pain that the crushing of his fingers by the ass's hoof occasioned him, trembled in every limb for fear that pietro should do him a mischief. he was one that pietro had long been after for his foul purposes: so pietro, recognizing him, asked him:--"what dost thou here?" the boy making no answer, save to beseech him for the love of god to do him no hurt, pietro continued:--"get up, have no fear that i shall hurt thee; but tell me:--how, and for what cause comest thou to be here?" the boy then confessed everything. whereupon pietro, as elated by the discovery as his wife was distressed, took him by the hand; and led him into the room where the lady in the extremity of terror awaited him; and, having seated himself directly in front of her, said:--"'twas but a moment ago that thou didst curse ercolano's wife, and averred that she ought to be burned, and that she was the reproach of your sex: why saidst thou not, of thyself? or, if thou wast not minded to accuse thyself, how hadst thou the effrontery to censure her, knowing that thou hadst done even as she? verily 'twas for no other reason than that ye are all fashioned thus, and study to cover your own misdeeds with the delinquencies of others: would that fire might fall from heaven and burn you all, brood of iniquity that ye are!" the lady, marking that in the first flush of his wrath he had given her nothing worse than hard words, and discerning, as she thought, that he was secretly overjoyed to hold so beautiful a boy by the hand, took heart of grace and said:--"i doubt not indeed that thou wouldst be well pleased that fire should fall from heaven and devour us all, seeing that thou art as fond of us as a dog is of the stick, though by the holy rood thou wilt be disappointed; but i would fain have a little argument with thee, to know whereof thou complainest. well indeed were it with me, didst thou but place me on an equality with ercolano's wife, who is an old sanctimonious hypocrite, and has of him all that she wants, and is cherished by him as a wife should be: but that is not my case. for, granted that thou givest me garments and shoes to my mind, thou knowest how otherwise ill bested i am, and how long it is since last thou didst lie with me; and far liefer had i go barefoot and in rags, and have thy benevolence abed, than have all that i have, and be treated as thou dost treat me. understand me, pietro, be reasonable; consider that i am a woman like other women, with the like craving; whereof if thou deny me the gratification, 'tis no blame to me that i seek it elsewhere; and at least i do thee so much honour as not forgather with stable-boys or scurvy knaves." pietro perceived that she was like to continue in this vein the whole night: wherefore, indifferent as he was to her, he said:--"now, madam, no more of this; in the matter of which thou speakest i will content thee; but of thy great courtesy let us have something to eat by way of supper; for, methinks, the boy, as well as i, has not yet supped." "ay, true enough," said the lady, "he has not supped; for we were but just sitting down to table to sup, when, beshrew thee, thou madest thy appearance." "go then," said pietro, "get us some supper; and by and by i will arrange this affair in such a way that thou shalt have no more cause of complaint." the lady, perceiving that her husband was now tranquil, rose, and soon had the table laid again and spread with the supper which she had ready; and so they made a jolly meal of it, the caitiff husband, the lady and the boy. what after supper pietro devised for their mutual satisfaction has slipped from my memory. but so much as this i know, that on the morrow as he wended his way to the piazza, the boy would have been puzzled to say, whether of the twain, the wife or the husband, had had the most of his company during the night. but this i would say to you, dear my ladies, that whoso gives you tit, why, just give him tat; and if you cannot do it at once, why, bear it in mind until you can, that even as the ass gives, so he may receive. dioneo's story, whereat the ladies laughed the less for shamefastness rather than for disrelish, being ended, the queen, taking note that the term of her sovereignty was come, rose to her feet, and took off the laurel wreath and set it graciously upon elisa's head, saying:--"madam, 'tis now your turn to bear sway." the dignity accepted, elisa followed in all respects the example of her predecessors: she first conferred with the seneschal, and directed him how meetly to order all things during the time of her sovereignty; which done to the satisfaction of the company:--"ofttimes," quoth she, "have we heard how with bright sallies, and ready retorts, and sudden devices, not a few have known how to repugn with apt checks the bites of others, or to avert imminent perils; and because 'tis an excellent argument, and may be profitable, i ordain that to-morrow, god helping us, the following be the rule of our discourse; to wit, that it be of such as by some sprightly sally have repulsed an attack, or by some ready retort or device have avoided loss, peril or scorn." the rule being heartily approved by all, the queen rose and dismissed them till supper-time. so the honourable company, seeing the queen risen, rose all likewise, and as their wont was, betook them to their diversions as to each seemed best. but when the cicalas had hushed their chirping, all were mustered again for supper; and having blithely feasted, they all addressed them to song and dance. and the queen, while emilia led a dance, called for a song from dioneo, who at once came out with:--'monna aldruda, come perk up thy mood, a piece of glad tidings i bring thee.' whereat all the ladies fell a laughing, and most of all the queen, who bade him give them no more of that, but sing another. quoth dioneo:--"madam, had i a tabret, i would sing:--'up with your smock, monna lapa!' or:--'oh! the greensward under the olive!' or perchance you had liefer i should give you:--'woe is me, the wave of the sea!' but no tabret have i: wherefore choose which of these others you will have. perchance you would like:--'now hie thee to us forth, that so it may be cut, as may the fields about.'" "no," returned the queen, "give us another." "then," said dioneo, "i will sing:--'monna simona, embarrel, embarrel. why, 'tis not the month of october.'"( ) "now a plague upon thee," said the queen, with a laugh; "give us a proper song, wilt thou? for we will have none of these." "never fear, madam," replied dioneo; "only say which you prefer. i have more than a thousand songs by heart. perhaps you would like:--'this my little covert, make i ne'er it overt'; or:--'gently, gently, husband mine'; or:--'a hundred pounds were none too high a price for me a cock to buy.'" the queen now shewed some offence, though the other ladies laughed, and:--"a truce to thy jesting, dioneo," said she, "and give us a proper song: else thou mayst prove the quality of my ire." whereupon dioneo forthwith ceased his fooling, and sang on this wise:-- so ravishing a light doth from the fair eyes of my mistress move as keeps me slave to her and thee, o love. a beam from those bright orbs did radiate that flame that through mine own eyes to my breast did whilom entrance gain. thy majesty, o love, thy might, how great they be, 'twas her fair face did manifest: whereon to brood still fain, i felt thee take and chain each sense, my soul enthralling on such wise that she alone henceforth evokes my sighs. wherefore, o dear my lord, myself i own thy slave, and, all obedience, wait and yearn, till thy might me console. yet wot i not if it be throughly known how noble is the flame wherewith i burn, my loyalty how whole to her that doth control ev'n in such sort my mind that shall i none, nor would i, peace receive, save hers alone. and so i pray thee, sweet my lord, that thou give her to feel thy fire, and shew her plain how grievous my disease. this service deign to render; for that now thou seest me waste for love, and in the pain dissolve me by degrees: and then the apt moment seize my cause to plead with her, as is but due from thee to me, who fain with thee would sue. when dioneo's silence shewed that his song was ended, the queen accorded it no stinted meed of praise; after which she caused not a few other songs to be sung. thus passed some part of the night; and then the queen, taking note that its freshness had vanquished the heat of the day, bade all go rest them, if they would, till the morning. ( ) the song is evidently amoebean. -- endeth here the fifth day of the decameron, beginneth the sixth, wherein, under the rule of elisa, discourse is had of such as by some sprightly sally have repulsed an attack, or by some ready retort or device have avoided loss, peril or scorn. -- still in mid heaven, the moon had lost her radiance, nor was any part of our world unillumined by the fresh splendour of the dawn, when, the queen being risen and having mustered her company, they hied them, gently sauntering, across the dewy mead some distance from the beautiful hill, conversing now of this, now of the other matter, canvassing the stories, their greater or less degree of beauty, and laughing afresh at divers of their incidents, until, the sun being now in his higher ascendant, they began to feel his heat, and turning back by common consent, retraced their steps to the palace, where, the tables being already set, and fragrant herbs and fair flowers strewn all about, they by the queen's command, before it should grow hotter, addressed themselves to their meal. so, having blithely breakfasted, they first of all sang some dainty and jocund ditties, and then, as they were severally minded, composed them to sleep or sat them down to chess or dice, while dioneo and lauretta fell a singing of troilus and cressida. the hour of session being come, they took their places, at the queen's summons, in their wonted order by the fountain; but, when the queen was about to call for the first story, that happened which had not happened before; to wit, there being a great uproar in the kitchen among the maids and men, the sound thereof reached the ears of the queen and all the company. whereupon the queen called the seneschal and asked him who bawled so loud, and what was the occasion of the uproar. the seneschal made answer that 'twas some contention between licisca and tindaro; but the occasion he knew not, having but just come to quiet them, when he received her summons. the queen then bade him cause licisca and tindaro to come thither forthwith: so they came, and the queen enquired of them the cause of the uproar. tindaro was about to make answer, when licisca, who was somewhat advanced in years, and disposed to give herself airs, and heated to the strife of words, turned to tindaro, and scowling upon him said:--"unmannerly varlet that makest bold to speak before me; leave me to tell the story." then, turning to the queen, she said:--"madam, this fellow would fain instruct me as to sicofante's wife, and--neither more or less--as if i had not known her well--would have me believe that, the first night that sicofante lay with her, 'twas by force and not without effusion of blood that master yard made his way into dusky hill; which i deny, averring that he met with no resistance, but, on the contrary, with a hearty welcome on the part of the garrison. and such a numskull is he as fondly to believe that the girls are so simple as to let slip their opportunities, while they wait on the caprice of father or brothers, who six times out of seven delay to marry them for three or four years after they should. ay, ay indeed, doubtless they were well advised to tarry so long! christ's faith! i should know the truth of what i swear; there is never a woman in my neighbourhood whose husband had her virginity; and well i know how many and what manner of tricks our married dames play their husbands; and yet this booby would fain teach me to know women as if i were but born yesterday." while licisca thus spoke, the ladies laughed till all their teeth were ready to start from their heads. six times at least the queen bade her be silent: but all in vain; she halted not till she had said all that she had a mind to. when she had done, the queen turned with a smile to dioneo saying:--"this is a question for thee to deal with, dioneo; so hold thyself in readiness to give final judgment upon it, when our stories are ended." "madam," replied dioneo forthwith, "i give judgment without more ado: i say that licisca is in the right; i believe that 'tis even as she says, and that tindaro is a fool." whereupon licisca burst out laughing, and turning to tindaro:--"now did i not tell thee so?" quoth she. "begone in god's name: dost think to know more than i, thou that art but a sucking babe? thank god, i have not lived for nothing, not i." and had not the queen sternly bade her be silent, and make no more disturbance, unless she had a mind to be whipped, and sent both her and tindaro back to the kitchen, the whole day would have been spent in nought but listening to her. so licisca and tindaro having withdrawn, the queen charged filomena to tell the first story: and gaily thus filomena began. novel i. -- a knight offers to carry madonna oretta a horseback with a story, but tells it so ill that she prays him to dismount her. -- as stars are set for an ornament in the serene expanse of heaven, and likewise in springtime flowers and leafy shrubs in the green meadows, so, damsels, in the hour of rare and excellent discourse, is wit with its bright sallies. which, being brief, are much more proper for ladies than for men, seeing that prolixity of speech, where brevity is possible, is much less allowable to them. but for whatever cause, be it the sorry quality of our understanding, or some especial enmity that heaven bears to our generation, few ladies or none are left to-day that, when occasion prompts, are able to meet it with apt speech, ay, or if aught of the kind they hear, can understand it aright: to our common shame be it spoken! but as, touching this matter, enough has already been said by pampinea,( ) i purpose not to enlarge thereon; but, that you may know what excellence resides in speech apt for the occasion, i am minded to tell you after how courteous a fashion a lady imposed silence upon a gentleman. 'tis no long time since there dwelt in our city a lady, noble, debonair and of excellent discourse, whom not a few of you may have seen or heard of, whose name--for such high qualities merit not oblivion--was madonna oretta, her husband being messer geri spina. now this lady, happening to be, as we are, in the country, moving from place to place for pleasure with a company of ladies and gentlemen, whom she had entertained the day before at breakfast at her house, and the place of their next sojourn, whither they were to go afoot, being some considerable distance off, one of the gentlemen of the company said to her:--"madonna oretta, so please you, i will carry you great part of the way a horseback with one of the finest stories in the world." "indeed, sir," replied the lady, "i pray you do so; and i shall deem it the greatest of favours." whereupon the gentleman, who perhaps was no better master of his weapon than of his story, began a tale, which in itself was indeed excellent, but which, by repeating the same word three, four or six times, and now and again harking back, and saying:--"i said not well"; and erring not seldom in the names, setting one in place of another, he utterly spoiled; besides which, his mode of delivery accorded very ill with the character of the persons and incidents: insomuch that madonna oretta, as she listened, did oft sweat, and was like to faint, as if she were ill and at the point of death. and being at length able to bear no more of it, witting that the gentleman had got into a mess and was not like to get out of it, she said pleasantly to him:--"sir, this horse of yours trots too hard; i pray you be pleased to set me down." the gentleman, being perchance more quick of apprehension than he was skilful in narration, missed not the meaning of her sally, and took it in all good and gay humour. so, leaving unfinished the tale which he had begun, and so mishandled, he addressed himself to tell her other stories. ( ) cf. first day, novel x. novel ii. -- cisti, a baker, by an apt speech gives messer geri spina to know that he has by inadvertence asked that of him which he should not. -- all the ladies and the men alike having greatly commended madonna oretta's apt saying, the queen bade pampinea follow suit, and thus she began:-- fair ladies, i cannot myself determine whether nature or fortune be the more at fault, the one in furnishing a noble soul with a vile body, or the other in allotting a base occupation to a body endowed with a noble soul, whereof we may have seen an example, among others, in our fellow-citizen, cisti; whom, furnished though he was with a most lofty soul, fortune made a baker. and verily i should curse nature and fortune alike, did i not know that nature is most discreet, and that fortune, albeit the foolish imagine her blind, has a thousand eyes. for 'tis, i suppose, that, being wise above a little, they do as mortals ofttimes do, who, being uncertain as to their future, provide against contingencies by burying their most precious treasures in the basest places in their houses, as being the least likely to be suspected; whence, in the hour of their greatest need, they bring them forth, the base place having kept them more safe than the dainty chamber would have done. and so these two arbitresses of the world not seldom hide their most precious commodities in the obscurity of the crafts that are reputed most base, that thence being brought to light they may shine with a brighter splendour. whereof how in a trifling matter cisti, the baker, gave proof, restoring the eyes of the mind to messer geri spina, whom the story of his wife, madonna oretta, has brought to my recollection, i am minded to shew you in a narrative which shall be of the briefest. i say then that pope boniface, with whom messer geri spina stood very high in favour and honour, having sent divers of his courtiers to florence as ambassadors to treat of certain matters of great moment, and they being lodged in messer geri's house, where he treated with them of the said affairs of the pope, 'twas, for some reason or another, the wont of messer geri and the ambassadors of the pope to pass almost every morning by santa maria ughi, where cisti, the baker, had his bakehouse, and plied his craft in person. now, albeit fortune had allotted him a very humble occupation, she had nevertheless prospered him therein to such a degree that he was grown most wealthy, and without ever aspiring to change it for another, lived in most magnificent style, having among his other good things a cellar of the best wines, white and red, that were to be found in florence, or the country parts; and marking messer geri and the ambassadors of the pope pass every morning by his door, he bethought him that, as 'twas very hot, 'twould be a very courteous thing to give them to drink of his good wine; but comparing his rank with that of messer geri, he deemed it unseemly to presume to invite him, and cast about how he might lead messer geri to invite himself. so, wearing always the whitest of doublets and a spotless apron, that denoted rather the miller, than the baker, he let bring, every morning about the hour that he expected messer geri and the ambassadors to pass by his door, a spick-and-span bucket of fresh and cool spring water, and a small bolognese flagon of his good white wine, and two beakers that shone like silver, so bright were they: and there down he sat him, as they came by, and after hawking once or twice, fell a drinking his wine with such gusto that 'twould have raised a thirst in a corpse. which messer geri having observed on two successive mornings, said on the third:--"what is't, cisti? is't good?" whereupon cisti jumped up, and answered:--"ay, sir, good it is; but in what degree i might by no means make you understand, unless you tasted it." messer geri, in whom either the heat of the weather, or unwonted fatigue, or, perchance, the gusto with which he had seen cisti drink, had bred a thirst, turned to the ambassadors and said with a smile:--"gentlemen, 'twere well to test the quality of this worthy man's wine: it may be such that we shall not repent us." and so in a body they came up to where cisti stood; who, having caused a goodly bench to be brought out of the bakehouse, bade them be seated, and to their servants, who were now coming forward to wash the beakers, said:--"stand back, comrades, and leave this office to me, for i know as well how to serve wine as to bake bread; and expect not to taste a drop yourselves." which said, he washed four fine new beakers with his own hands, and having sent for a small flagon of his good wine, he heedfully filled the beakers, and presented them to messer geri and his companions; who deemed the wine the best that they had drunk for a great while. so messer geri, having praised the wine not a little, came there to drink every morning with the ambassadors as long as they tarried with him. now when the ambassadors had received their conge, and were about to depart, messer geri gave a grand banquet, to which he bade some of the most honourable of the citizens, and also cisti, who could by no means be induced to come. however, messer geri bade one of his servants go fetch a flask of cisti's wine, and serve half a beaker thereof to each guest at the first course. the servant, somewhat offended, perhaps, that he had not been suffered to taste any of the wine, took with him a large flask, which cisti no sooner saw, than:--"son," quoth he, "messer geri does not send thee to me": and often as the servant affirmed that he did, he could get no other answer: wherewith he was fain at last to return to messer geri. "go, get thee back, said messer geri, and tell him that i do send thee to him, and if he answers thee so again, ask him, to whom then i send thee." so the servant came back, and said:--"cisti, messer geri does, for sure, send me to thee." "son," answered cisti, "messer geri does, for sure, not send thee to me." "to whom then," said the servant, "does he send me?" "to arno," returned cisti. which being reported by the servant to messer geri, the eyes of his mind were straightway opened, and:--"let me see," quoth he to the servant, "what flask it is thou takest there." and when he had seen it:--"cisti says sooth," he added; and having sharply chidden him, he caused him take with him a suitable flask, which when cisti saw:--"now know i," quoth he, "that 'tis indeed messer geri that sends thee to me," and blithely filled it. and having replenished the rundlet that same day with wine of the same quality, he had it carried with due care to messer geri's house, and followed after himself; where finding messer geri he said:--"i would not have you think, sir, that i was appalled by the great flask your servant brought me this morning; 'twas but that i thought you had forgotten that which by my little beakers i gave you to understand, when you were with me of late; to wit, that this is no table wine; and so wished this morning to refresh your memory. now, however, being minded to keep the wine no longer, i have sent you all i have of it, to be henceforth entirely at your disposal." messer geri set great store by cisti's gift, and thanked him accordingly, and ever made much of him and entreated him as his friend. novel iii. -- monna nonna de' pulci by a ready retort silences the scarce seemly jesting of the bishop of florence. -- pampinea's story ended, and praise not a little bestowed on cisti alike for his apt speech and for his handsome present, the queen was pleased to call forthwith for a story from lauretta, who blithely thus began:-- debonair my ladies, the excellency of wit, and our lack thereof, have been noted with no small truth first by pampinea and after her by filomena. to which topic 'twere bootless to return: wherefore to that which has been said touching the nature of wit i purpose but to add one word, to remind you that its bite should be as a sheep's bite and not as a dog's; for if it bite like a dog, 'tis no longer wit but discourtesy. with which maxim the words of madonna oretta, and the apt reply of cisti, accorded excellently. true indeed it is that if 'tis by way of retort, and one that has received a dog's bite gives the biter a like bite in return, it does not seem to be reprehensible, as otherwise it would have been. wherefore one must consider how and when and on whom and likewise where one exercises one's wit. by ill observing which matters one of our prelates did once upon a time receive no less shrewd a bite than he gave; as i will shew you in a short story. while messer antonio d'orso, a prelate both worthy and wise, was bishop of florence, there came thither a catalan gentleman, messer dego della ratta by name, being king ruberto's marshal. now dego being very goodly of person, and inordinately fond of women, it so befell that of the ladies of florence she that he regarded with especial favour was the very beautiful niece of a brother of the said bishop. and having learned that her husband, though of good family, was but a caitiff, and avaricious in the last degree, he struck a bargain with him that he should lie one night with the lady for five hundred florins of gold: whereupon he had the same number of popolins( ) 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,( ) and took note of the ladies, the bishop espied a young gentlewoman, whom this present pestilence has reft from us, monna nonna de' pulci by name, a cousin of messer alesso rinucci, whom you all must know; whom, for that she was lusty and fair, and of excellent discourse and a good courage, and but just settled with her husband in porta san piero, the bishop presented to the marshal; and then, being close beside her, he laid his hand on the marshal's shoulder and said to her:--"nonna, what thinkest thou of this gentleman? that thou mightst make a conquest of him?" which words the lady resented as a jibe at her honour, and like to tarnish it in the eyes of those, who were not a few, in whose hearing they were spoken. wherefore without bestowing a thought upon the vindication of her honour, but being minded to return blow for blow, she retorted hastily:--"perchance, sir, he might not make a conquest of me; but if he did so, i should want good money." the answer stung both the marshal and the bishop to the quick, the one as contriver of the scurvy trick played upon the bishop's brother in regard of his niece, the other as thereby outraged in the person of his brother's niece; insomuch that they dared not look one another in the face, but took themselves off in shame and silence, and said never a word more to her that day. in such a case, then, the lady having received a bite, 'twas allowable in her wittily to return it. ( ) a coin of the same size and design as the fiorino d'oro, but worth only two soldi. ( ) a sort of horse-race still in vogue at siena. novel iv. -- chichibio, cook to currado gianfigliazzi, owes his safety to a ready answer, whereby he converts currado's wrath into laughter, and evades the evil fate with which currado had threatened him. -- lauretta being now silent, all lauded nonna to the skies; after which neifile received the queen's command to follow suit, and thus began:-- albeit, loving ladies, ready wit not seldom ministers words apt and excellent and congruous with the circumstances of the speakers, 'tis also true that fortune at times comes to the aid of the timid, and unexpectedly sets words upon the tongue, which in a quiet hour the speaker could never have found for himself: the which 'tis my purpose to shew you by my story. currado gianfigliazzi, as the eyes and ears of each of you may bear witness, has ever been a noble citizen of our city, open-handed and magnificent, and one that lived as a gentleman should with hounds and hawks, in which, to say nothing at present of more important matters, he found unfailing delight. now, having one day hard by peretola despatched a crane with one of his falcons, finding it young and plump, he sent it to his excellent cook, a venetian, chichibio by name, bidding him roast it for supper and make a dainty dish of it. chichibio, who looked, as he was, a very green-head, had dressed the crane, and set it to the fire and was cooking it carefully, when, the bird being all but roasted, and the fumes of the cooking very strong, it so chanced that a girl, brunetta by name, that lived in the same street, and of whom chichibio was greatly enamoured, came into the kitchen, and perceiving the smell and seeing the bird, began coaxing chichibio to give her a thigh. by way of answer chichibio fell a singing:--"you get it not from me, madam brunetta, you get it not from me." whereat madam brunetta was offended, and said to him:--"by god, if thou givest it me not, thou shalt never have aught from me to pleasure thee." in short there was not a little altercation; and in the end chichibio, fain not to vex his mistress, cut off one of the crane's thighs, and gave it to her. so the bird was set before currado and some strangers that he had at table with him, and currado, observing that it had but one thigh, was surprised, and sent for chichibio, and demanded of him what was become of the missing thigh. whereto the mendacious venetian answered readily:--"the crane, sir, has but one thigh and one leg." "what the devil?" rejoined currado in a rage: "so the crane has but one thigh and one leg? thinkst thou i never saw crane before this?" but chichibio continued:--"'tis even so as i say, sir; and, so please you, i will shew you that so it is in the living bird." currado had too much respect for his guests to pursue the topic; he only said:--"since thou promisest to shew me in the living bird what i have never seen or heard tell of, i bid thee do so to-morrow, and i shall be satisfied, but if thou fail, i swear to thee by the body of christ that i will serve thee so that thou shalt ruefully remember my name for the rest of thy days." no more was said of the matter that evening, but on the morrow, at daybreak, currado, who had by no means slept off his wrath, got up still swelling therewith, and ordered his horses, mounted chichibio on a hackney, and saying to him:--"we shall soon see which of us lied yesternight, thou or i," set off with him for a place where there was much water, beside which there were always cranes to be seen about dawn. chichibio, observing that currado's ire was unabated, and knowing not how to bolster up his lie, rode by currado's side in a state of the utmost trepidation, and would gladly, had he been able, have taken to flight; but, as he might not, he glanced, now ahead, now aback, now aside, and saw everywhere nought but cranes standing on two feet. however, as they approached the river, the very first thing they saw upon the bank was a round dozen of cranes standing each and all on one foot, as is their wont, when asleep. which chichibio presently pointed out to currado, saying:--"now may you see well enough, sir, that 'tis true as i said yesternight, that the crane has but one thigh and one leg; mark but how they stand over there." whereupon currado:--"wait," quoth he, "and i will shew thee that they have each thighs and legs twain." so, having drawn a little nigher to them, he ejaculated, "oho!" which caused the cranes to bring each the other foot to the ground, and, after hopping a step or two, to take to flight. currado then turned to chichibio, saying:--"how now, rogue? art satisfied that the bird has thighs and legs twain?" whereto chichibio, all but beside himself with fear, made answer:--"ay, sir; but you cried not, oho! to our crane of yestereve: had you done so, it would have popped its other thigh and foot forth, as these have done." which answer currado so much relished, that, all his wrath changed to jollity and laughter:--"chichibio," quoth he, "thou art right, indeed i ought to have so done." thus did chichibio by his ready and jocund retort arrest impending evil, and make his peace with his master. novel v. -- messer forese da rabatta and master giotto, the painter, journeying together from mugello, deride one another's scurvy appearance. -- neifile being silent, and the ladies having made very merry over chichibio's retort, pamfilo at the queen's command thus spoke:--dearest ladies, if fortune, as pampinea has shewn us, does sometimes bide treasures most rich of native worth in the obscurity of base occupations, so in like manner 'tis not seldom found that nature has enshrined prodigies of wit in the most ignoble of human forms. whereof a notable example is afforded by two of our citizens, of whom i purpose for a brief while to discourse. the one, messer forese da rabatta by name, was short and deformed of person and withal flat-cheeked and flat-nosed, insomuch that never a baroncio( ) had a visage so misshapen but his would have shewed as hideous beside it; yet so conversant was this man with the laws, that by not a few of those well able to form an opinion he was reputed a veritable storehouse of civil jurisprudence. the other, whose name was giotto, was of so excellent a wit that, let nature, mother of all, operant ever by continual revolution of the heavens, fashion what she would, he with his style and pen and pencil would depict its like on such wise that it shewed not as its like, but rather as the thing itself, insomuch that the visual sense of men did often err in regard thereof, mistaking for real that which was but painted. wherefore, having brought back to light that art which had for many ages lain buried beneath the blunders of those who painted rather to delight the eyes of the ignorant than to satisfy the intelligence of the wise, he may deservedly be called one of the lights that compose the glory of florence, and the more so, the more lowly was the spirit in which he won that glory, who, albeit he was, while he yet lived, the master of others, yet did ever refuse to be called their master. and this title that he rejected adorned him with a lustre the more splendid in proportion to the avidity with which it was usurped by those who were less knowing than he, or were his pupils. but for all the exceeding greatness of his art, yet in no particular had he the advantage of messer forese either in form or in feature. but to come to the story:--'twas in mugello that messer forese, as likewise giotto, had his country-seat, whence returning from a sojourn that he had made there during the summer vacation of the courts, and being, as it chanced, mounted on a poor jade of a draught horse, he fell in with the said giotto, who was also on his way back to florence after a like sojourn on his own estate, and was neither better mounted, nor in any other wise better equipped, than messer forese. and so, being both old men, they jogged on together at a slow pace: and being surprised by a sudden shower, such as we frequently see fall in summer, they presently sought shelter in the house of a husbandman that was known to each of them, and was their friend. but after a while, as the rain gave no sign of ceasing, and they had a mind to be at florence that same day, they borrowed of the husbandman two old cloaks of romagnole cloth, and two hats much the worse for age (there being no better to be had), and resumed their journey. whereon they had not proceeded far, when, taking note that they were soaked through and through, and liberally splashed with the mud cast up by their nags' hooves (circumstances which are not of a kind to add to one's dignity), they, after long silence, the sky beginning to brighten a little, began to converse. and messer forese, as he rode and hearkened to giotto, who was an excellent talker, surveyed him sideways, and from head to foot, and all over, and seeing him in all points in so sorry and scurvy a trim, and recking nought of his own appearance, broke into a laugh and said:--"giotto, would e'er a stranger that met us, and had not seen thee before, believe, thinkst thou, that thou wert, as thou art, the greatest painter in the world." whereto giotto answered promptly:--"methinks, sir, he might, if, scanning you, he gave you credit for knowing the a b c." which hearing, messer forese recognized his error, and perceived that he had gotten as good as he brought. ( ) 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, . novel vi. -- michele scalza proves to certain young men that the baronci are the best gentlemen in the world and the maremma, and wins a supper. -- the ladies were still laughing over giotto's ready retort, when the queen charged fiammetta to follow suit; wherefore thus fiammetta began:--pamfilo's mention of the baronci, who to you, damsels, are perchance not so well known as to him, has brought to my mind a story in which 'tis shewn how great is their nobility; and, for that it involves no deviation from our rule of discourse, i am minded to tell it you. 'tis no long time since there dwelt in our city a young man, michele scalza by name, the pleasantest and merriest fellow in the world, and the best furnished with quaint stories: for which reason the florentine youth set great store on having him with them when they forgathered in company. now it so befell that one day, he being with a party of them at mont' ughi, they fell a disputing together on this wise; to wit, who were the best gentlemen and of the longest descent in florence. one said, the uberti, another, the lamberti, or some other family, according to the predilection of the speaker. whereat scalza began to smile, and said:--"now out upon you, out upon you, blockheads that ye are: ye know not what ye say. the best gentlemen and of longest descent in all the world and the maremma (let alone florence) are the baronci by the common consent of all phisopholers,( ) and all that know them as i do; and lest you should otherwise conceive me, i say that 'tis of your neighbours the baronci( ) of santa maria maggiore that i speak." whereupon the young men, who had looked for somewhat else from him, said derisively:--"thou dost but jest with us; as if we did not know the baronci as well as thou!" quoth scalza:--"by the gospels i jest not, but speak sooth; and if there is any of you will wager a supper to be given to the winner and six good fellows whom he shall choose, i will gladly do the like, and--what is more--i will abide by the decision of such one of you as you may choose." then said one of them whose name was neri mannini:--"i am ready to adventure this supper;" and so they agreed together that piero di fiorentino, in whose house they were, should be judge, and hied them to him followed by all the rest, eager to see scalza lose, and triumph in his discomfiture, and told piero all that had been said. piero, who was a young man of sound sense, heard what neri had to say; and then turning to scalza:--"and how," quoth he, "mayst thou make good what thou averrest?" "i will demonstrate it," returned scalza, "by reasoning so cogent that not only you, but he that denies it shall acknowledge that i say sooth. you know, and so they were saying but now, that the longer men's descent, the better is their gentility, and i say that the baronci are of longer descent, and thus better gentlemen than any other men. if, then, i prove to you that they are of longer descent than any other men, without a doubt the victory in this dispute will rest with me. now you must know that when god made the baronci, he was but a novice in his art, of which, when he made the rest of mankind, he was already master. and to assure yourself that herein i say sooth, you have but to consider the baronci, how they differ from the rest of mankind, who all have faces well composed and duly proportioned, whereas of the baronci you will see one with a face very long and narrow, another with a face inordinately broad, one with a very long nose, another with a short one, one with a protruding and upturned chin, and great jaws like an ass's; and again there will be one that has one eye larger than its fellow, or set on a lower plane; so that their faces resemble those that children make when they begin to learn to draw. whereby, as i said, 'tis plainly manifest that, when god made them, he was but novice in his art; and so they are of longer descent than the rest of mankind, and by consequence better gentlemen." by which entertaining argument piero, the judge, and neri who had wagered the supper, and all the rest, calling to mind the baronci's ugliness, were so tickled, that they fell a laughing, and averred that scalza was in the right, and that he had won the wager, and that without a doubt the baronci were the best gentlemen, and of the longest descent, not merely in florence, but in the world and the maremma to boot. wherefore 'twas not without reason that pamfilo, being minded to declare messer forese's ill-favouredness, said that he would have been hideous beside a baroncio. ( ) in the italian fisofoli: an evidently intentional distortion. ( ) villani, istorie fiorentine, iv. cap. ix., and dante, paradiso, xvi. , spell the name barucci. novel vii. -- madonna filippa, being found by her husband with her lover, is cited before the court, and by a ready and jocund answer acquits herself, and brings about an alteration of the statute. -- fiammetta had been silent some time, but scalza's novel argument to prove the pre-eminent nobility of the baronci kept all still laughing, when the queen called for a story from filostrato, who thus began:--noble ladies, an excellent thing is apt speech on all occasions, but to be proficient therein i deem then most excellent when the occasion does most imperatively demand it. as was the case with a gentlewoman, of whom i purpose to speak to you, who not only ministered gaiety and merriment to her hearers, but extricated herself, as you shall hear, from the toils of an ignominious death. there was aforetime in the city of prato a statute no less censurable than harsh, which, making no distinction between the wife whom her husband took in adultery with her lover, and the woman found pleasuring a stranger for money, condemned both alike to be burned. while this statute was in force, it befell that a gentlewoman, fair and beyond measure enamoured, madonna filippa by name, was by her husband, rinaldo de' pugliesi, found in her own chamber one night in the arms of lazzarino de' guazzagliotri, a handsome young noble of the same city, whom she loved even as herself. whereat rinaldo, very wroth, scarce refrained from falling upon them and killing them on the spot; and indeed, but that he doubted how he should afterwards fare himself, he had given way to the vehemence of his anger, and so done. nor, though he so far mastered himself, could he forbear recourse to the statute, thereby to compass that which he might not otherwise lawfully compass, to wit, the death of his lady. wherefore, having all the evidence needful to prove her guilt, he took no further counsel; but, as soon as 'twas day, he charged the lady and had her summoned. like most ladies that are veritably enamoured, the lady was of a high courage; and, though not a few of her friends and kinsfolk sought to dissuade her, she resolved to appear to the summons, having liefer die bravely confessing the truth than basely flee and for defiance of the law live in exile, and shew herself unworthy of such a lover as had had her in his arms that night. and so, attended by many ladies and gentlemen, who all exhorted her to deny the charge, she came before the podesta, and with a composed air and unfaltering voice asked whereof he would interrogate her. the podesta, surveying her, and taking note of her extraordinary beauty, and exquisite manners, and the high courage that her words evinced, was touched with compassion for her, fearing she might make some admission, by reason whereof, to save his honour, he must needs do her to death. but still, as he could not refrain from examining her of that which was laid to her charge, he said:--"madam, here, as you see, is your husband, rinaldo, who prefers a charge against you, alleging that he has taken you in adultery, and so he demands that, pursuant to a statute which is in force here, i punish you with death: but this i may not do, except you confess; wherefore be very careful what you answer, and tell me if what your husband alleges against you be true." the lady, no wise dismayed, and in a tone not a little jocund, thus made answer:--"true it is, sir, that rinaldo is my husband, and that last night he found me in the arms of lazzarino, in whose arms for the whole-hearted love that i bear him i have ofttimes lain; nor shall i ever deny it; but, as well i wot you know, the laws ought to be common and enacted with the common consent of all that they affect; which conditions are wanting to this law, inasmuch as it binds only us poor women, in whom to be liberal is much less reprehensible than it were in men; and furthermore the consent of no woman was--i say not had, but--so much as asked before 'twas made; for which reasons it justly deserves to be called a bad law. however, if in scathe of my body and your own soul, you are minded to put it in force, 'tis your affair; but, i pray you, go not on to try this matter in any wise, until you have granted me this trifling grace, to wit, to ask my husband if i ever gainsaid him, but did not rather accord him, when and so often as he craved it, complete enjoyment of myself." whereto rinaldo, without awaiting the podesta's question, forthwith answered, that assuredly the lady had ever granted him all that he had asked of her for his gratification. "then," promptly continued the lady, "if he has ever had of me as much as sufficed for his solace, what was i or am i to do with the surplus? am i to cast it to the dogs? is it not much better to bestow it on a gentleman that loves me more dearly than himself, than to suffer it to come to nought or worse?" which jocund question being heard by well-nigh all the folk of prato, who had flocked thither all agog to see a dame so fair and of such quality on her trial for such an offence, they laughed loud and long, and then all with one accord, and as with one voice, exclaimed that the lady was in the right and said well; nor left they the court until in concert with the podesta they had so altered the harsh statute as that thenceforth only such women as should wrong their husbands for money should be within its purview. wherefore rinaldo left the court, discomfited of his foolish enterprise; and the lady blithe and free, as if rendered back to life from the burning, went home triumphant. novel viii. -- fresco admonishes his niece not to look at herself in the glass, if 'tis, as she says, grievous to her to see nasty folk. -- 'twas not at first without some flutterings of shame, evinced by the modest blush mantling on their cheeks, that the ladies heard filostrato's story; but afterwards, exchanging glances, they could scarce forbear to laugh, and hearkened tittering. however, when he had done, the queen turning to emilia bade her follow suit. whereupon emilia, fetching a deep breath as if she were roused from sleep, thus began:--loving ladies, brooding thought has kept my spirit for so long time remote from here that perchance i may make a shift to satisfy our queen with a much shorter story than would have been forthcoming but for my absence of mind, wherein i purpose to tell you how a young woman's folly was corrected by her uncle with a pleasant jest, had she but had the sense to apprehend it. my story, then, is of one, fresco da celatico by name, that had a niece, ciesca, as she was playfully called, who, being fair of face and person, albeit she had none of those angelical charms that we ofttimes see, had so superlative a conceit of herself, that she had contracted a habit of disparaging both men and women and all that she saw, entirely regardless of her own defects, though for odiousness, tiresomeness, and petulance she had not her match among women, insomuch that there was nought that could be done to her mind: besides which, such was her pride that had she been of the blood royal of france, 'twould have been inordinate. and when she walked abroad, so fastidious was her humour, she was ever averting her head, as if there was never a soul she saw or met but reeked with a foul smell. now one day--not to speak of other odious and tiresome ways that she had--it so befell that being come home, where fresco was, she sat herself down beside him with a most languishing air, and did nought but fume and chafe. whereupon:--"ciesca," quoth he, "what means this, that, though 'tis a feast-day, yet thou art come back so soon?" she, all but dissolved with her vapourish humours, made answer:--"why, the truth is, that i am come back early because never, i believe, were there such odious and tiresome men and women in this city as there are to-day. i cannot pass a soul in the street that i loathe not like ill-luck; and i believe there is not a woman in the world that is so distressed by the sight of odious people as i am; and so i am come home thus soon to avoid the sight of them." whereupon fresco, to, whom his niece's bad manners were distasteful in the extreme:--"daughter," quoth he, "if thou loathe odious folk as much as thou sayest, thou wert best, so thou wouldst live happy, never to look at thyself in the glass." but she, empty as a reed, albeit in her own conceit a match for solomon in wisdom, was as far as any sheep from apprehending the true sense of her uncle's jest; but answered that on the contrary she was minded to look at herself in the glass like other women. and so she remained, and yet remains, hidebound in her folly. novel ix. -- guido cavalcanti by a quip meetly rebukes certain florentine gentlemen who had taken him at a disadvantage. -- the queen, perceiving that emilia had finished her story, and that none but she, and he who had the privilege of speaking last, now remained to tell, began on this wise:--albeit, debonair my ladies, you have forestalled me to-day of more than two of the stories, of which i had thought to tell one, yet one is still left me to recount, which carries at the close of it a quip of such a sort, that perhaps we have as yet heard nought so pregnant. you are to know, then, that in former times there obtained in our city customs excellent and commendable not a few, whereof today not one is left to us, thanks to the greed which, growing with the wealth of our folk, has banished them all from among us. one of which customs was that in divers quarters of florence the gentlemen that there resided would assemble together in companies of a limited number, taking care to include therein only such as might conveniently bear the expenses, and to-day one, another to-morrow, each in his turn for a day, would entertain the rest of the company; and so they would not seldom do honour to gentlemen from distant parts when they visited the city, and also to their fellow-citizens; and in like manner they would meet together at least once a year all in the same trim, and on the most notable days would ride together through the city, and now and again they would tilt together, more especially on the greater feasts, or when the city was rejoiced by tidings of victory or some other glad event. among which companies was one of which messer betto brunelleschi was the leading spirit, into which messer betto and his comrades had striven hard to bring guido, son of cavalcante de' cavalcanti, and not without reason, inasmuch as, besides being one of the best logicians in the world, and an excellent natural philosopher (qualities of which the company made no great account), he was without a peer for gallantry and courtesy and excellence of discourse and aptitude for all matters which he might set his mind to, and that belonged to a gentleman; and therewithal he was very rich, and, when he deemed any worthy of honour, knew how to bestow it to the uttermost. but, as messer betto had never been able to gain him over, he and his comrades supposed that 'twas because guido, being addicted to speculation, was thereby estranged from men. and, for that he was somewhat inclined to the opinion of the epicureans, the vulgar averred that these speculations of his had no other scope than to prove that god did not exist. now one day it so befell that, guido being come, as was not seldom his wont, from or san michele by the corso degli adimari as far as san giovanni, around which were then the great tombs of marble that are to-day in santa reparata, besides other tombs not a few, and guido being between the columns of porphyry, that are there, and the tombs and the door of san giovanni, which was locked, messer betto and his company came riding on to the piazza of santa reparata, and seeing him among the tombs, said:--"go we and flout him." so they set spurs to their horses, and making a mock onset, were upon him almost before he saw them. whereupon:--"guido," they began, "thou wilt be none of our company; but, lo now, when thou hast proved that god does not exist, what wilt thou have achieved?" guido, seeing that he was surrounded, presently answered:--"gentlemen, you may say to me what you please in your own house." thereupon he laid his hand on one of the great tombs, and being very nimble, vaulted over it, and so evaded them, and went his way, while they remained gazing in one another's faces, and some said that he had taken leave of his wits, and that his answer was but nought, seeing that the ground on which they stood was common to them with the rest of the citizens, and among them guido himself. but messer betto, turning to them:--"nay but," quoth he, "'tis ye that have taken leave of your wits, if ye have not understood him; for meetly and in few words he has given us never so shrewd a reprimand; seeing that, if you consider it well, these tombs are the houses of the dead, that are laid and tarry therein; which he calls our house, to shew us that we, and all other simple, unlettered men, are, in comparison of him and the rest of the learned, in sorrier case than dead men, and so being here, we are in our own house." then none was there but understood guido's meaning and was abashed, insomuch that they flouted him no more, and thenceforth reputed messer betto a gentleman of a subtle and discerning wit. novel x. -- fra cipolla promises to shew certain country-folk a feather of the angel gabriel, in lieu of which he finds coals, which he avers to be of those with which st. lawrence was roasted. -- all the company save dioneo being delivered of their several stories, he wist that 'twas his turn to speak. wherefore, without awaiting any very express command, he enjoined silence on those that were commending guido's pithy quip, and thus began:--sweet my ladies, albeit 'tis my privilege to speak of what likes me most, i purpose not to-day to deviate from that theme whereon you have all discoursed most appositely; but, following in your footsteps, i am minded to shew you with what adroitness and readiness of resource one of the friars of st. antony avoided a pickle that two young men had in readiness for him. nor, if, in order to do the story full justice, i be somewhat prolix of speech, should it be burdensome to you, if you will but glance at the sun, which is yet in mid-heaven. certaldo, as perchance you may have heard, is a town of val d'elsa within our country-side, which, small though it is, had in it aforetime people of rank and wealth. thither, for that there he found good pasture, 'twas long the wont of one of the friars of st. antony to resort once every year, to collect the alms that fools gave them. fra cipolla( )--so hight the friar--met with a hearty welcome, no less, perchance, by reason of his name than for other cause, the onions produced in that district being famous throughout tuscany. he was little of person, red-haired, jolly-visaged, and the very best of good fellows; and therewithal, though learning he had none, he was so excellent and ready a speaker that whoso knew him not would not only have esteemed him a great rhetorician, but would have pronounced him tully himself or, perchance, quintilian; and in all the country-side there was scarce a soul to whom he was not either gossip or friend or lover. being thus wont from time to time to visit certaldo, the friar came there once upon a time in the month of august, and on a sunday morning, all the good folk of the neighbouring farms being come to mass in the parish church, he took occasion to come forward and say:--"ladies and gentlemen, you wot 'tis your custom to send year by year to the poor of baron master st. antony somewhat of your wheat and oats, more or less, according to the ability and the devoutness of each, that blessed st. antony may save your oxen and asses and pigs and sheep from harm; and you are also accustomed, and especially those whose names are on the books of our confraternity, to pay your trifling annual dues. to collect which offerings, i am hither sent by my superior, to wit, master abbot; wherefore, with the blessing of god, after none, when you hear the bells ring, you will come out of the church to the place where in the usual way i shall deliver you my sermon, and you will kiss the cross; and therewithal, knowing, as i do, that you are one and all most devoted to baron master st. antony, i will by way of especial grace shew you a most holy and goodly relic, which i brought myself from the holy land overseas, which is none other than one of the feathers of the angel gabriel, which he left behind him in the room of the virgin mary, when he came to make her the annunciation in nazareth." and having said thus much, he ceased, and went on with the mass. now among the many that were in the church, while fra cipolla made this speech, were two very wily young wags, the one giovanni del bragoniera by name, the other biagio pizzini; who, albeit they were on the best of terms with fra cipolla and much in his company, had a sly laugh together over the relic, and resolved to make game of him and his feather. so, having learned that fra cipolla was to breakfast that morning in the town with one of his friends, as soon as they knew that he was at table, down they hied them into the street, and to the inn where the friar lodged, having complotted that biagio should keep the friar's servant in play, while giovanni made search among the friar's goods and chattels for this feather, whatever it might be, to carry it off, that they might see how the friar would afterwards explain the matter to the people. now fra cipolla had for servant one guccio,( ) whom some called by way of addition balena,( ) others imbratta,( ) others again porco,( ) and who was such a rascallion that sure it is that lippo topo( ) himself never painted his like. concerning whom fra cipolla would ofttimes make merry with his familiars, saying:--"my servant has nine qualities, any one of which in solomon, aristotle, or seneca, would have been enough to spoil all their virtue, wisdom and holiness. consider, then, what sort of a man he must be that has these nine qualities, and yet never a spark of either virtue or wisdom or holiness." and being asked upon divers occasions what these nine qualities might be, he strung them together in rhyme, and answered:--"i will tell you. lazy and uncleanly and a liar he is, negligent, disobedient and foulmouthed, iwis, and reckless and witless and mannerless: and therewithal he has some other petty vices, which 'twere best to pass over. and the most amusing thing about him is, that, wherever he goes, he is for taking a wife and renting a house, and on the strength of a big, black, greasy beard he deems himself so very handsome a fellow and seductive, that he takes all the women that see him to be in love with him, and, if he were left alone, he would slip his girdle and run after them all. true it is that he is of great use to me, for that, be any minded to speak with me never so secretly, he must still have his share of the audience; and, if perchance aught is demanded of me, such is his fear lest i should be at a loss what answer to make, that he presently replies, ay or no, as he deems meet." now, when he left this knave at the inn, fra cipolla had strictly enjoined him on no account to suffer any one to touch aught of his, and least of all his wallet, because it contained the holy things. but guccio imbratta, who was fonder of the kitchen than any nightingale of the green boughs, and most particularly if he espied there a maid, and in the host's kitchen had caught sight of a coarse fat woman, short and misshapen, with a pair of breasts that shewed as two buckets of muck and a face that might have belonged to one of the baronci, all reeking with sweat and grease and smoke, left fra cipolla's room and all his things to take care of themselves, and like a vulture swooping down upon the carrion, was in the kitchen in a trice. where, though 'twas august, he sat him down by the fire, and fell a gossiping with nuta--such was the maid's name--and told her that he was a gentleman by procuration,( ) 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,( ) and of his rent and patched doublet, inlaid with filth about the neck and under the armpits, and so stained that it shewed hues more various than ever did silk from tartary or the indies, and of his shoes that were all to pieces, and of his hose that were all in tatters, he told her in a tone that would have become the sieur de chatillon, that he was minded to rehabit her and put her in trim, and raise her from her abject condition, and place her where, though she would not have much to call her own, at any rate she would have hope of better things, with much more to the like effect; which professions, though made with every appearance of good will, proved, like most of his schemes, insubstantial as air, and came to nothing. finding guccio porco thus occupied with nuta, the two young men gleefully accounted their work half done, and, none gainsaying them, entered fra cipolla's room, which was open, and lit at once upon the wallet, in which was the feather. the wallet opened, they found, wrapt up in many folds of taffeta, a little casket, on opening which they discovered one of the tail-feathers of a parrot, which they deemed must be that which the friar had promised to shew the good folk of certaldo. and in sooth he might well have so imposed upon them, for in those days the luxuries of egypt had scarce been introduced into tuscany, though they have since been brought over in prodigious abundance, to the grave hurt of all italy. and though some conversance with them there was, yet in those parts folk knew next to nothing of them; but, adhering to the honest, simple ways of their forefathers, had not seen, nay for the most part had not so much as heard tell of, a parrot. so the young men, having found the feather, took it out with great glee; and looking around for something to replace it, they espied in a corner of the room some pieces of coal, wherewith they filled the casket; which they then closed, and having set the room in order exactly as they had found it, they quitted it unperceived, and hied them merrily off with the feather, and posted themselves where they might hear what fra cipolla would say when he found the coals in its stead. mass said, the simple folk that were in the church went home with the tidings that the feather of the angel gabriel was to be seen after none; and this goodman telling his neighbour, and that goodwife her gossip, by the time every one had breakfasted, the town could scarce hold the multitude of men and women that flocked thither all agog to see this feather. fra cipolla, having made a hearty breakfast and had a little nap, got up shortly after none, and marking the great concourse of country-folk that were come to see the feather, sent word to guccio imbratta to go up there with the bells, and bring with him the wallet. guccio, though 'twas with difficulty that he tore himself away from the kitchen and nuta, hied him up with the things required; and though, when he got up, he was winded, for he was corpulent with drinking nought but water, he did fra cipolla's bidding by going to the church door and ringing the bells amain. when all the people were gathered about the door, fra cipolla, all unwitting that aught of his was missing, began his sermon, and after much said in glorification of himself, caused the confiteor to be recited with great solemnity, and two torches to be lit by way of preliminary to the shewing of the feather of the angel gabriel: he then bared his head, carefully unfolded the taffeta, and took out the casket, which, after a few prefatory words in praise and laudation of the angel gabriel and his relic, he opened. when he saw that it contained nought but coals, he did not suspect guccio balena of playing the trick, for he knew that he was not clever enough, nor did he curse him, that his carelessness had allowed another to play it, but he inly imprecated himself, that he had committed his things to the keeping of one whom he knew to be "negligent and disobedient, reckless and witless." nevertheless, he changed not colour, but with face and hands upturned to heaven, he said in a voice that all might hear:--"o god, blessed be thy might for ever and ever." then, closing the casket, and turning to the people:--"ladies and gentlemen," he said, "you are to know, that when i was yet a very young man, i was sent by my superior into those parts where the sun rises, and i was expressly bidden to search until i should find the privileges of porcellana, which, though they cost nothing to seal, are of much more use to others than to us. on which errand i set forth, taking my departure from venice, and traversing the borgo de' greci,( ) and thence on horseback the realm of algarve,( ) and so by baldacca( ) i came to parione,( ) whence, somewhat athirst, i after a while got on to sardinia.( ) but wherefore go i about to enumerate all the lands in which i pursued my quest? having passed the straits of san giorgio, i arrived at truffia( ) and buffia,( ) countries thickly populated and with great nations, whence i pursued my journey to menzogna,( ) where i met with many of our own brethren, and of other religious not a few, intent one and all on eschewing hardship for the love of god, making little account of others! toil, so they might ensue their own advantage, and paying in nought but unminted coin( ) 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;( ) and a little further on i found folk that carried bread in staves and wine in sacks.( ) and leaving them, i arrived at the mountains of the bachi,( ) where all the waters run downwards. in short i penetrated so far that i came at last to india pastinaca,( ) where i swear to you by the habit that i wear, that i saw pruning-hooks( ) fly: a thing that none would believe that had not seen it. whereof be my witness that i lie not maso del saggio, that great merchant, whom i found there cracking nuts, and selling the shells by retail! however, not being able to find that whereof i was in quest, because from thence one must travel by water, i turned back, and so came at length to the holy land, where in summer cold bread costs four deniers, and hot bread is to be had for nothing. and there i found the venerable father nonmiblasmetesevoipiace,( ) 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,( ) and some of the vestments of the holy catholic faith, and some of the rays of the star that appeared to the magi in the east, and a phial of the sweat of st. michael a battling with the devil and the jaws of death of st. lazarus, and other relics. and for that i gave him a liberal supply of the acclivities( ) of monte morello in the vulgar and some chapters of caprezio, of which he had long been in quest, he was pleased to let me participate in his holy relics, and gave me one of the teeth of the holy cross, and in a small phial a bit of the sound of the bells of solomon's temple, and this feather of the angel gabriel, whereof i have told you, and one of the pattens of san gherardo da villa magna, which, not long ago, i gave at florence to gherardo di bonsi, who holds him in prodigious veneration. he also gave me some of the coals with which the most blessed martyr, st. lawrence, was roasted. all which things i devoutly brought thence, and have them all safe. true it is that my superior has not hitherto permitted me to shew them, until he should be certified that they are genuine. however, now that this is avouched by certain miracles wrought by them, of which we have tidings by letter from the patriarch, he has given me leave to shew them. but, fearing to trust them to another, i always carry them with me; and to tell you the truth i carry the feather of the angel gabriel, lest it should get spoiled, in a casket, and the coals, with which st. lawrence was roasted, in another casket; which caskets are so like the one to the other, that not seldom i mistake one for the other, which has befallen me on this occasion; for, whereas i thought to have brought with me the casket wherein is the feather, i have brought instead that which contains the coals. nor deem i this a mischance; nay, methinks, 'tis by interposition, of god, and that he himself put the casket of coals in my hand, for i mind me that the feast of st. lawrence falls but two days hence. wherefore god, being minded that by shewing you the coals, with which he was roasted, i should rekindle in your souls the devotion that you ought to feel towards him, guided my hand, not to the feather which i meant to take, but to the blessed coals that were extinguished by the humours that exuded from that most holy body. and so, blessed children, bare your heads and devoutly draw nigh to see them. but first of all i would have you know, that whoso has the sign of the cross made upon him with these coals, may live secure for the whole of the ensuing year, that fire shall not touch him, that he feel it not." having so said, the friar, chanting a hymn in praise of st. lawrence, opened the casket, and shewed the coals. whereon the foolish crowd gazed a while in awe and reverent wonder, and then came pressing forward in a mighty throng about fra cipolla with offerings beyond their wont, each and all praying him to touch them with the coals. wherefore fra cipolla took the coals in his hand, and set about making on their white blouses, and on their doublets, and on the veils of the women crosses as big as might be, averring the while that whatever the coals might thus lose would be made good to them again in the casket, as he had often proved. on this wise, to his exceeding great profit, he marked all the folk of certaldo with the cross, and, thanks to his ready wit and resource, had his laugh at those, who by robbing him of the feather thought to make a laughing-stock of him. they, indeed, being among his hearers, and marking his novel expedient, and how voluble he was, and what a long story he made of it, laughed till they thought their jaws would break; and, when the congregation was dispersed, they went up to him, and never so merrily told him what they had done, and returned him his feather; which next year proved no less lucrative to him than that day the coals had been. ( ) onion. ( ) diminutive of arriguccio. ( ) whale. ( ) filth. ( ) hog. ( ) the works of this painter seem to be lost. ( ) one of the humorous ineptitudes of which boccaccio is fond. ( ) an abbey near lucca famous for its doles of broth. ( ) 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. ( ) 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. . villani, istorie fiorentine, iv. , xii. . ( ) a famous tavern in florence. florio, vocab. ital. e ingl., ed torriano, . ( ) a "borgo" in florence. villani, istorie fiorentine, iv. . ( ) a suburb of florence on the arno, ib. ix. . ( ) the land of cajolery. ( ) the land of drollery. ( ) the land of lies. ( ) i.e. in false promises: suggested by dante's pagando di moneta senza conio. parad. xxix. . ( ) a reference to sausage-making. ( ) i.e. cakes fashioned in a hollow ring, and wines in leathern bottles. ( ) grubs. ( ) in allusion to the shapeless fish, so called, which was proverbially taken as a type of the outlandish. ( ) a jeu de mots, "pennati," pruning-hooks, signifying also feathered, though "pennuti" is more common in that sense. ( ) takemenottotaskanitlikeyou. ( ) fatti alle finestre, a subterfuge for factum est. ( ) piagge, jocularly for pagine: doubtless some mighty tome of school divinity is meant. immense was the delight and diversion which this story afforded to all the company alike, and great and general was the laughter over fra cipolla, and more especially at his pilgrimage, and the relics, as well those that he had but seen as those that he had brought back with him. which being ended, the queen, taking note that therewith the close of her sovereignty was come, stood up, took off the crown, and set it on dioneo's head, saying with a laugh:--"'tis time, dioneo, that thou prove the weight of the burden of having ladies to govern and guide. be thou king then; and let thy rule be such that, when 'tis ended, we may have cause to commend it." dioneo took the crown, and laughingly answered:--"kings worthier far than i you may well have seen many a time ere now--i speak of the kings in chess; but let me have of you that obedience which is due to a true king, and of a surety i will give you to taste of that solace, without which perfection of joy there may not be in any festivity. but enough of this: i will govern as best i may." then, as was the wont, he sent for the seneschal, and gave him particular instruction how to order matters during the term of his sovereignty; which done, he said:--"noble ladies, such and so diverse has been our discourse of the ways of men and their various fortunes, that but for the visit that we had a while ago from madam licisca, who by what she said has furnished me with matter of discourse for to-morrow, i doubt i had been not a little put to it to find a theme. you heard how she said that there was not a woman in her neighbourhood whose husband had her virginity; adding that well she knew how many and what manner of tricks they, after marriage, played their husbands. the first count we may well leave to the girls whom it concerns; the second, methinks, should prove a diverting topic: wherefore i ordain that, taking our cue from madam licisca, we discourse to-morrow of the tricks that, either for love or for their deliverance from peril, ladies have heretofore played their husbands, and whether they were by the said husbands detected or no." to discourse of such a topic some of the ladies deemed unmeet for them, and besought the king to find another theme. but the king made answer:--"ladies, what manner of theme i have prescribed i know as well as you, nor was i to be diverted from prescribing it by that which you now think to declare unto me, for i wot the times are such that, so only men and women have a care to do nought that is unseemly, 'tis allowable to them to discourse of what they please. for in sooth, as you must know, so out of joint are the times that the judges have deserted the judgment-seat, the laws are silent, and ample licence to preserve his life as best he may is accorded to each and all. wherefore, if you are somewhat less strict of speech than is your wont, not that aught unseemly in act may follow, but that you may afford solace to yourselves and others, i see not how you can be open to reasonable censure on the part of any. furthermore, nought that has been said from the first day to the present moment has, methinks, in any degree sullied the immaculate honour of your company, nor, god helping us, shall aught ever sully it. besides, who is there that knows not the quality of your honour? which were proof, i make no doubt, against not only the seductive influence of diverting discourse, but even the terror of death. and, to tell you the truth, whoso wist that you refused to discourse of these light matters for a while, would be apt to suspect that 'twas but for that you had yourselves erred in like sort. and truly a goodly honour would you confer upon me, obedient as i have ever been to you, if after making me your king and your lawgiver, you were to refuse to discourse of the theme which i prescribe. away, then, with this scruple fitter for low minds than yours, and let each study how she may give us a goodly story, and fortune prosper her therein." so spake the king, and the ladies, hearkening, said that, even as he would, so it should be: whereupon he gave all leave to do as they might be severally minded until the supper-hour. the sun was still quite high in the heaven, for they had not enlarged in their discourse: wherefore, dioneo with the other gallants being set to play at dice, elisa called the other ladies apart, and said:--"there is a nook hard by this place, where i think none of you has ever been: 'tis called the ladies' vale: whither, ever since we have been here, i have desired to take you, but time meet i have not found until today, when the sun is still so high: if, then, you are minded to visit it, i have no manner of doubt that, when you are there, you will be very glad you came." the ladies answered that they were ready, and so, saying nought to the young men, they summoned one of their maids, and set forth; nor had they gone much more than a mile, when they arrived at the vale of ladies. they entered it by a very strait gorge, through which there issued a rivulet, clear as crystal, and a sight, than which nought more fair and pleasant, especially at that time when the heat was great, could be imagined, met their eyes. within the valley, as one of them afterwards told me, was a plain about half-a-mile in circumference, and so exactly circular that it might have been fashioned according to the compass, though it seemed a work of nature's art, not man's: 'twas girdled about by six hills of no great height, each crowned with a palace that shewed as a goodly little castle. the slopes of the hills were graduated from summit to base after the manner of the successive tiers, ever abridging their circle, that we see in our theatres; and as many as fronted the southern rays were all planted so close with vines, olives, almond-trees, cherry-trees, fig-trees and other fruitbearing trees not a few, that there was not a hand's-breadth of vacant space. those that fronted the north were in like manner covered with copses of oak saplings, ashes and other trees, as green and straight as might be. besides which, the plain, which was shut in on all sides save that on which the ladies had entered, was full of firs, cypresses, and bay-trees, with here and there a pine, in order and symmetry so meet and excellent as had they been planted by an artist, the best that might be found in that kind; wherethrough, even when the sun was in the zenith, scarce a ray of light might reach the ground, which was all one lawn of the finest turf, pranked with the hyacinth and divers other flowers. add to which--nor was there aught there more delightsome--a rivulet that, issuing from one of the gorges between two of the hills, descended over ledges of living rock, making, as it fell, a murmur most gratifying to the ear, and, seen from a distance, shewed as a spray of finest, powdered quick-silver, and no sooner reached the little plain, than 'twas gathered into a tiny channel, by which it sped with great velocity to the middle of the plain, where it formed a diminutive lake, like the fishponds that townsfolk sometimes make in their gardens, when they have occasion for them. the lake was not so deep but that a man might stand therein with his breast above the water; and so clear, so pellucid was the water that the bottom, which was of the finest gravel, shewed so distinct, that one, had he wished, who had nought better to do, might have counted the stones. nor was it only the bottom that was to be seen, but such a multitude of fishes, glancing to and fro, as was at once a delight and a marvel to behold. bank it had none, but its margin was the lawn, to which it imparted a goodlier freshness. so much of the water as it might not contain was received by another tiny channel, through which, issuing from the vale, it glided swiftly to the plain below. to which pleasaunce the damsels being come surveyed it with roving glance, and finding it commendable, and marking the lake in front of them, did, as 'twas very hot, and they deemed themselves secure from observation, resolve to take a bath. so, having bidden their maid wait and keep watch over the access to the vale, and give them warning, if haply any should approach it, they all seven undressed and got into the water, which to the whiteness of their flesh was even such a veil as fine glass is to the vermeil of the rose. they, being thus in the water, the clearness of which was thereby in no wise affected, did presently begin to go hither and thither after the fish, which had much ado where to bestow themselves so as to escape out of their hands. in which diversion they spent some time, and caught a few, and then they hied them out of the water and dressed them again, and bethinking them that 'twas time to return to the palace, they began slowly sauntering thither, dilating much as they went upon the beauty of the place, albeit they could not extol it more than they had already done. 'twas still quite early when they reached the palace, so that they found the gallants yet at play where they had left them. to whom quoth pampinea with a smile:--"we have stolen a march upon you to-day." "so," replied dioneo, "'tis with you do first and say after?" "ay, my lord," returned pampinea, and told him at large whence they came, and what the place was like, and how far 'twas off, and what they had done. what she said of the beauty of the spot begat in the king a desire to see it: wherefore he straightway ordered supper, whereof when all had gaily partaken, the three gallants parted from the ladies and hied them with their servants to the vale, where none of them had ever been before, and, having marked all its beauties, extolled it as scarce to be matched in all the world. then, as the hour was very late, they did but bathe, and as soon as they had resumed their clothes, returned to the ladies, whom they found dancing a carol to an air that fiammetta sang, which done, they conversed of the ladies' vale, waxing eloquent in praise thereof: insomuch that the king called the seneschal, and bade him have some beds made ready and carried thither on the morrow, that any that were so minded might there take their siesta. he then had lights and wine and comfits brought; and when they had taken a slight refection, he bade all address them to the dance. so at his behest pamfilo led a dance, and then the king, turning with gracious mien to elisa:--"fair damsel," quoth he, "'twas thou to-day didst me this honour of the crown; and 'tis my will that thine to-night be the honour of the song; wherefore sing us whatsoever thou hast most lief." "that gladly will i," replied elisa smiling; and thus with dulcet voice began:-- if of thy talons, love, be quit i may, i deem it scarce can be but other fangs i may elude for aye. service i took with thee, a tender maid, in thy war thinking perfect peace to find, and all my arms upon the ground i laid, yielding myself to thee with trustful mind: thou, harpy-tyrant, whom no faith may bind, eftsoons didst swoop on me, and with thy cruel claws mad'st me thy prey. then thy poor captive, bound with many a chain, thou tookst, and gav'st to him, whom fate did call hither my death to be; for that in pain and bitter tears i waste away, his thrall: nor heave i e'er a sigh, or tear let fall, so harsh a lord is he, that him inclines a jot my grief to allay. my prayers upon the idle air are spent: he hears not, will not hear; wherefore in vain the more each hour my soul doth her torment; nor may i die, albeit to die were gain. ah! lord, have pity of my bitter pain! help have i none but thee; then take and bind and at my feet him lay. but if thou wilt not, do my soul but loose from hope, that her still binds with triple chain. sure, o my lord, this prayer thou'lt not refuse: the which so thou to grant me do but deign, i look my wonted beauty to regain, and banish misery with roses white and red bedecked and gay. so with a most piteous sigh ended elisa her song, whereat all wondered exceedingly, nor might any conjecture wherefore she so sang. but the king, who was in a jolly humour, sent for tindaro, and bade him out with his cornemuse, and caused them tread many a measure thereto, until, no small part of the night being thus spent, he gave leave to all to betake them to rest. -- endeth here the sixth day of the decameron, beginneth the seventh, in which, under the rule of dioneo, discourse is had of the tricks which, either for love or for their deliverance from peril, ladies have heretofore played their husbands, and whether they were by the said husbands detected, or no. -- fled was now each star from the eastern sky, save only that which we call lucifer, which still glowed in the whitening dawn, when uprose the seneschal, and with a goodly baggage-train hied him to the ladies' vale, there to make all things ready according to the ordinance and commandment of the king. nor was it long after his departure that the king rose, being awaked by the stir and bustle that the servants made in lading the horses, and being risen he likewise roused all the ladies and the other gallants; and so, when as yet 'twas scarce clear daybreak, they all took the road; nor seemed it to them that the nightingales and the other birds had ever chanted so blithely as that morning. by which choir they were attended to the ladies' vale, where they were greeted by other warblers not a few, that seemed rejoiced at their arrival. roving about the vale, and surveying its beauties afresh, they rated them higher than on the previous day, as indeed the hour was more apt to shew them forth. then with good wine and comfits they broke their fast, and, that they might not lag behind the songsters, they fell a singing, whereto the vale responded, ever echoing their strains; nor did the birds, as minded not to be beaten, fail to swell the chorus with notes of unwonted sweetness. however, breakfast-time came, and then, the tables being laid under a living canopy of trees, and beside other goodly trees that fringed the little lake, they sat them down in order as to the king seemed meet. so they took their meal, glancing from time to time at the lake, where the fish darted to and fro in multitudinous shoals, which afforded not only delight to their eyes but matter for converse. breakfast ended, and the tables removed, they fell a singing again more blithely than before. after which, there being set, in divers places about the little vale, beds which the discreet seneschal had duly furnished and equipped within and without with store of french coverlets, and other bedgear, all, that were so minded, had leave of the king to go to sleep, and those that cared not to sleep might betake them, as each might choose, to any of their wonted diversions. but, all at length being risen, and the time for addressing them to the story-telling being come, the king had carpets spread on the sward no great way from the place where they had breakfasted; and, all having sat them down beside the lake, he bade emilia begin; which, blithe and smiling, emilia did on this wise. novel i. -- gianni lotteringhi hears a knocking at his door at night: he awakens his wife, who persuades him that 'tis the bogey, which they fall to exorcising with a prayer; whereupon the knocking ceases. -- my lord, glad indeed had i been, that, saving your good pleasure, some other than i had had precedence of discourse upon so goodly a theme as this of which we are to speak--i doubt i am but chosen to teach others confidence; but, such being your will, i will gladly obey it. and my endeavour shall be, dearest ladies, to tell you somewhat that may be serviceable to you in the future: for, if you are, as i am, timorous, and that most especially of the bogey, which, god wot, i know not what manner of thing it may be, nor yet have found any that knew, albeit we are all alike afraid of it, you may learn from this my story how to put it to flight, should it intrude upon you, with a holy, salutary and most efficacious orison. there dwelt of yore at florence, in the quarter of san pancrazio, a master-spinner, gianni lotteringhi by name, one that had prospered in his business, but had little understanding of aught else; insomuch that being somewhat of a simpleton, he had many a time been chosen leader of the band of laud-singers of santa maria novella, and had charge of their school; and not a few like offices had he often served, upon which he greatly plumed himself. howbeit, 'twas all for no other reason than that, being a man of substance, he gave liberal doles to the friars; who, for that they got thereof, this one hose, another a cloak, and a third a hood, would teach him good orisons, or give him the paternoster in the vernacular, or the chant of st. alexis, or the lament of st. bernard, or the laud of lady matilda, or the like sorry stuff, which he greatly prized, and guarded with jealous care, deeming them all most conducive to the salvation of his soul. now our simple master-spinner had a most beautiful wife, and amorous withal, her name monna tessa. daughter she was of mannuccio dalla cuculla, and not a little knowing and keen-witted; and being enamoured of federigo di neri pegolotti, a handsome and lusty gallant, as he also of her, she, knowing her husband's simplicity, took counsel with her maid, and arranged that federigo should come to chat with her at a right goodly pleasure-house that the said gianni had at camerata, where she was wont to pass the summer, gianni coming now and again to sup and sleep, and going back in the morning to his shop, or, maybe, to his laud-singers. federigo, who desired nothing better, went up there punctually on the appointed day about vespers, and as the evening passed without gianni making his appearance, did most comfortably, and to his no small satisfaction, sup and sleep with the lady, who lying in his arms taught him that night some six of her husband's lauds. but, as neither she nor federigo was minded that this beginning should also be the end of their intercourse, and that it might not be needful for the maid to go each time to make the assignation with him, they came to the following understanding; to wit, that as often as he came and went between the house and an estate that he had a little higher up, he should keep an eye on a vineyard that was beside the house, where he would see an ass's head stuck on one of the poles of the vineyard, and as often as he observed the muzzle turned towards florence, he might visit her without any sort of misgiving; and if he found not the door open, he was to tap it thrice, and she would open it; and when he saw the muzzle of the ass's head turned towards fiesole, he was to keep away, for then gianni would be there. following which plan, they forgathered not seldom: but on one of these evenings, when federigo was to sup with monna tessa on two fat capons that she bad boiled, it so chanced that gianni arrived there unexpectedly and very late, much to the lady's chagrin: so she had a little salt meat boiled apart, on which she supped with her husband; and the maid by her orders carried the two boiled capons laid in a spotless napkin with plenty of fresh eggs and a bottle of good wine into the garden, to which there was access otherwise than from the house, and where she was wont at times to sup with federigo; and there the maid set them down at the foot of a peach-tree, that grew beside a lawn. but in her vexation she forgot to tell the maid to wait till federigo should come, and let him know that gianni was there, and he must take his supper in the garden: and she and gianni and the maid were scarce gone to bed, when federigo came and tapped once at the door, which being hard by the bedroom, gianni heard the tap, as did also the lady, albeit, that gianni might have no reason to suspect her, she feigned to be asleep. federigo waited a little, and then gave a second tap; whereupon, wondering what it might mean, gianni nudged his wife, saying:--"tessa, dost hear what i hear? methinks some one has tapped at our door." the lady, who had heard the noise much better than he, feigned to wake up, and:--"how? what sayst thou?" quoth she. "i say," replied gianni, "that, meseems, some one has tapped at our door." "tapped at it?" quoth the lady. "alas, my gianni, wottest thou not what that is? 'tis the bogey, which for some nights past has so terrified me as never was, insomuch that i never hear it but i pop my head under the clothes and venture not to put it out again until 'tis broad day." "come, come, wife," quoth gianni, "if such it is, be not alarmed; for before we got into bed i repeated the te lucis, the intemerata, and divers other good orisons, besides which i made the sign of the cross in the name of the father, son and holy spirit at each corner of the bed; wherefore we need have no fear that it may avail to hurt us, whatever be its power." the lady, lest federigo, perchance suspecting a rival, should take offence, resolved to get up, and let him understand that gianni was there: so she said to her husband:--"well well; so sayst thou; but i for my part shall never deem myself safe and secure, unless we exorcise it, seeing that thou art here." "oh!" said gianni, "and how does one exorcise it?" "that," quoth the lady, "i know right well; for t'other day, when i went to fiesole for the pardoning, one of those anchoresses, the saintliest creature, my gianni, god be my witness, knowing how much afraid i am of the bogey, taught me a holy and salutary orison, which she said she had tried many a time before she was turned anchoress, and always with success. god wot, i should never have had courage to try it alone; but as thou art here, i propose that we go exorcise it together." gianni made answer that he was quite of the same mind; so up they got, and stole to the door, on the outside of which federigo, now suspicious, was still waiting. and as soon as they were there:--"now," quoth the lady to gianni, "thou wilt spit, when i tell thee." "good," said gianni. whereupon the lady began her orison, saying:-- "bogey, bogey that goest by night, tail erect, thou cam'st, tail erect, take thy flight hie thee to the garden, and the great peach before, grease upon grease, and droppings five score of my hen shalt thou find: set the flask thy lips to, then away like the wind, and no scathe unto me or my gianni do." and when she had done:--"now, gianni," quoth she, "spit": and gianni spat. there was no more room for jealousy in federigo's mind as he heard all this from without; nay, for all his disappointment, he was like to burst with suppressed laughter, and when gianni spat, he muttered under his breath:--"now out with thy teeth." the lady, having after this fashion thrice exorcised the bogey, went back to bed with her husband. federigo, disappointed of the supper that he was to have had with her, and apprehending the words of the orison aright, hied him to the garden, and having found the two capons and the wine and the eggs at the foot of the peach-tree, took them home with him, and supped very comfortably. and many a hearty laugh had he and the lady over the exorcism during their subsequent intercourse. now, true it is that some say that the lady had in fact turned the ass's head towards fiesole, but that a husbandman, passing through the vineyard, had given it a blow with his stick, whereby it had swung round, and remained fronting florence, and so it was that federigo thought that he was invited, and came to the house, and that the lady's orison was on this wise:-- "bogey, a god's name, away thee hie, for whoe'er turned the ass's head, 'twas not i: another it was, foul fall his eyne; and here am i with gianni mine." wherefore federigo was fain to take himself off, having neither slept nor supped. but a neighbour of mine, a lady well advanced in years, tells me that, by what she heard when she was a girl, both stories are true; but that the latter concerned not gianni lotteringhi but one gianni di nello, that lived at porta san piero, and was no less a numskull than gianni lotteringhi. wherefore, dear my ladies, you are at liberty to choose which exorcism you prefer, or take both if you like. they are both of extraordinary and approved virtue in such cases, as you have heard: get them by heart, therefore, and they may yet stand you in good stead. novel ii. -- her husband returning home, peronella bestows her lover in a tun; which, being sold by her husband, she avers to have been already sold by herself to one that is inside examining it to see if it be sound. whereupon the lover jumps out, and causes the husband to scour the tun for him, and afterwards to carry it to his house. -- great indeed was the laughter with which emilia's story was received; which being ended, and her orison commended by all as good and salutary, the king bade filostrato follow suit; and thus filostrato began:--dearest my ladies, so many are the tricks that men play you, and most of all your husbands, that, when from time to time it so befalls that some lady plays her husband a trick, the circumstance, whether it come within your own cognizance or be told you by another, should not only give you joy but should incite you to publish it on all hands, that men may be ware, that, knowing as they are, their ladies also, on their part, know somewhat: which cannot but be serviceable to you, for that one does not rashly essay to take another with guile whom one wots not to lack that quality. can we doubt, then, that, should but the converse that we shall hold to-day touching this matter come to be bruited among men, 'twould serve to put a most notable check upon the tricks they play you, by doing them to wit of the tricks, which you, in like manner, when you are so minded, may play them? wherefore 'tis my intention to tell you in what manner a young girl, albeit she was but of low rank, did, on the spur of the moment, beguile her husband to her own deliverance. 'tis no long time since at naples a poor man, a mason by craft, took to wife a fair and amorous maiden--peronella was her name--who eked out by spinning what her husband made by his craft; and so the pair managed as best they might on very slender means. and as chance would have it, one of the gallants of the city, taking note of this peronella one day, and being mightily pleased with her, fell in love with her, and by this means and that so prevailed that he won her to accord him her intimacy. their times of forgathering they concerted as follows:--to wit, that, her husband being wont to rise betimes of a morning to go to work or seek for work, the gallant was to be where he might see him go forth, and, the street where she dwelt, which is called avorio, being scarce inhabited, was to come into the house as soon as her husband was well out of it; and so times not a few they did. but on one of these occasions it befell that, the good man being gone forth, and giannello sirignario--such was the gallant's name--being come into the house, and being with peronella, after a while, back came the good man, though 'twas not his wont to return until the day was done; and finding the door locked, he knocked, and after knocking, he fell a saying to himself:--o god, praised be thy name forever; for that, albeit thou hast ordained that i be poor, at least thou hast accorded me the consolation of a good and honest girl for wife. mark what haste she made to shut the door when i was gone forth, that none else might enter to give her trouble. now peronella knew by his knock that 'twas her husband; wherefore:--"alas, giannello mine," quoth she, "i am a dead woman, for lo, here is my husband, foul fall him! come back! what it may import, i know not, for he is never wont to come back at this hour; perchance he caught sight of thee as thou camest in. however, for the love of god, be it as it may, get thee into this tun that thou seest here, and i will go open to him, and we shall see what is the occasion of this sudden return this morning." so giannello forthwith got into the tun, and peronella went to the door, and let in her husband, and gave him black looks, saying:--"this is indeed a surprise that thou art back so soon this morning! by what i see thou hast a mind to make this a holiday, that thou returnest tools in hand; if so, what are we to live on? whence shall we get bread to eat? thinkest thou i will let thee pawn my gown and other bits of clothes? day and night i do nought else but spin, insomuch that the flesh is fallen away from my nails, that at least i may have oil enough to keep our lamp alight. husband, husband, there is never a woman in the neighbourhood but marvels and mocks at me, that i am at such labour and pains; and thou comest home to me with thy hands hanging idle, when thou shouldst be at work." which said, she fell a weeping and repeating:--"alas, alas, woe 's me, in what evil hour was i born? in what luckless moment came i hither, i, that might have had so goodly a young man, and i would not, to take up with one that bestows never a thought on her whom he has made his wife? other women have a good time with their lovers, and never a one have we here but has two or three; they take their pleasure, and make their husbands believe that the moon is the sun; and i, alas! for that i am an honest woman, and have no such casual amours, i suffer, and am hard bested. i know not why i provide not myself with one of these lovers, as others do. give good heed, husband, to what i say: were i disposed to dishonour thee, i were at no loss to find the man: for here are gallants enough, that love me, and court me, and have sent me many an offer of money--no stint--or dresses or jewels, should i prefer them; but my pride would never suffer it, because i was not born of a woman of that sort: and now thou comest home to me when thou oughtest to be at work." whereto the husband:--"wife, wife, for god's sake distress not thyself: thou shouldst give me credit for knowing what manner of woman thou art, as indeed i have partly seen this morning. true it is that i went out to work; but 'tis plain that thou knowest not, as indeed i knew not, that to-day 'tis the feast of san galeone, and a holiday, and that is why i am come home at this hour; but nevertheless i have found means to provide us with bread for more than a month; for i have sold to this gentleman, whom thou seest with me, the tun, thou wottest of, seeing that it has encumbered the house so long, and he will give me five gigliats for it." quoth then peronella:--"and all this but adds to my trouble: thou, that art a man, and goest abroad, and shouldst know affairs, hast sold for five gigliats a tun, which i, that am but a woman, and was scarce ever out of doors, have, for that it took up so much room in the house, sold for seven gigliats to a good man, that but now, as thou cam'st back, got therein, to see if 'twere sound." so hearing, the husband was overjoyed, and said to the man that was come to take it away:--"good man, i wish thee godspeed; for, as thou hearest, my wife has sold the tun for seven gigliats, whereas thou gavest me only five." whereupon:--"so be it," said the good man, and took himself off. then said peronella to her husband:--"now, as thou art here, come up, and arrange the matter with the good man." now giannello, who, meanwhile, had been all on the alert to discover if there were aught he had to fear or be on his guard against, no sooner heard peronella's last words, than he sprang out of the tun, and feigning to know nought of her husband's return, began thus:--"where art thou, good dame?" whereto the husband, coming up, answered:--"here am i: what wouldst thou of me?" quoth giannello:--"and who art thou? i would speak with the lady with whom i struck the bargain for this tun." then said the good man:--"have no fear, you can deal with me; for i am her husband." quoth then giannello:--"the tun seems to me sound enough; but i think you must have let the lees remain in it; for 'tis all encrusted with i know not what that is so dry, that i cannot raise it with the nail; wherefore i am not minded to take it unless i first see it scoured." whereupon peronella:--"to be sure: that shall not hinder the bargain; my husband will scour it clean." and:--"well and good," said the husband. so he laid down his tools, stripped himself to his vest, sent for a light and a rasp, and was in the tun, and scraping away, in a trice. whereupon peronella, as if she were curious to see what he did, thrust her head into the vent of the tun, which was of no great size, and therewithal one of her arms up to the shoulder, and fell a saying:--"scrape here, and here, and there too, and look, there is a bit left here." so, she being in this posture, directing and admonishing her husband, giannello, who had not, that morning, fully satisfied his desire, when the husband arrived, now seeing that as he would, he might not, brought his mind to his circumstances, and resolved to take his pleasure as he might: wherefore he made up to the lady, who completely blocked the vent of the tun; and even on such wise as on the open champaign the wild and lusty horses do amorously assail the mares of parthia, he sated his youthful appetite; and so it was that almost at the same moment that he did so, and was off, the tun was scoured, the husband came forth of it, and peronella withdrew her head from the vent, and turning to giannello, said:--"take this light, good man, and see if 'tis scoured to thy mind." whereupon giannello, looking into the tun, said that 'twas in good trim, and that he was well content, and paid the husband the seven gigliats, and caused him carry the tun to his house. novel iii. -- fra rinaldo lies with his gossip: her husband finds him in the room with her; and they make him believe that he was curing his godson of worms by a charm. -- filostrato knew not how so to veil what he said touching the mares of parthia, but that the keen-witted ladies laughed thereat, making as if 'twas at somewhat else. however, his story being ended, the king called for one from elisa, who, all obedience, thus began:--debonair my ladies, we heard from emilia how the bogey is exorcised, and it brought to my mind a story of another incantation: 'tis not indeed so good a story as hers; but, as no other, germane to our theme, occurs to me at present, i will relate it. you are to know, then, that there dwelt aforetime at siena a young man, right gallant and of honourable family, his name rinaldo; who, being in the last degree enamoured of one of his neighbours, a most beautiful gentlewoman and the wife of a rich man, was not without hopes that, if he could but find means to speak with her privately, he might have of her all that he desired; but seeing no way, and the lady being pregnant, he cast about how he might become her child's godfather. wherefore, having ingratiated himself with her husband, he broached the matter to him in as graceful a manner as he might; and 'twas arranged. so rinaldo, being now godfather to madonna agnesa's child, and having a more colourable pretext for speaking to her, took courage, and told her in words that message of his heart which she had long before read in his eyes; but though 'twas not displeasing to the lady to hear, it availed him but little. now not long afterwards it so befell that, whatever may have been his reason, rinaldo betook him to friarage; and whether it was that he found good pasture therein, or what not, he persevered in that way of life. and though for a while after he was turned friar, he laid aside the love he bore his gossip, and certain other vanities, yet in course of time, without putting off the habit, he resumed them, and began to take a pride in his appearance, and to go dressed in fine clothes, and to be quite the trim gallant, and to compose songs and sonnets and ballades, and to sing them, and to make a brave shew in all else that pertained to his new character. but why enlarge upon our fra rinaldo, of whom we speak? what friars are there that do not the like? ah! opprobrium of a corrupt world! sleek-faced and sanguine, daintily clad, dainty in all their accessories, they ruffle it shamelessly before the eyes of all, shewing not as doves but as insolent cocks with raised crest and swelling bosom, and, what is worse (to say nought of the vases full of electuaries and unguents, the boxes packed with divers comfits, the pitchers and phials of artificial waters, and oils, the flagons brimming with malmsey and greek and other wines of finest quality, with which their cells are so packed that they shew not as the cells of friars, but rather as apothecaries' or perfumers' shops), they blush not to be known to be gouty, flattering themselves that other folk wot not that long fasts and many of them, and coarse fare and little of it, and sober living, make men lean and thin and for the most part healthy; or if any malady come thereof, at any rate 'tis not the gout, the wonted remedy for which is chastity and all beside that belongs to the regimen of a humble friar. they flatter themselves, too, that others wot not that over and above the meagre diet, long vigils and orisons and strict discipline ought to mortify men and make them pale, and that neither st. dominic nor st. francis went clad in stuff dyed in grain or any other goodly garb, but in coarse woollen habits innocent of the dyer's art, made to keep out the cold, and not for shew. to which matters 'twere well god had a care, no less than to the souls of the simple folk by whom our friars are nourished. fra rinaldo, then, being come back to his first affections, took to visiting his gossip very frequently; and gaining confidence, began with more insistence than before to solicit her to that which he craved of her. so, being much urged, the good lady, to whom fra rinaldo, perhaps, seemed now more handsome than of yore, had recourse one day, when she felt herself unusually hard pressed by him, to the common expedient of all that would fain concede what is asked of them, and said:--"oh! but fra rinaldo, do friars then do this sort of thing?" "madam," replied fra rinaldo, "when i divest myself of this habit, which i shall do easily enough, you will see that i am a man furnished as other men, and no friar." whereto with a truly comical air the lady made answer:--"alas! woe's me! you are my child's godfather: how might it be? nay, but 'twere a very great mischief; and many a time i have heard that 'tis a most heinous sin; and without a doubt, were it not so, i would do as you wish." "if," said fra rinaldo, "you forego it for such a scruple as this, you are a fool for your pains. i say not that 'tis no sin; but there is no sin so great but god pardons it, if one repent. now tell me: whether is more truly father to your son, i that held him at the font, or your husband that begot him?" "my husband," replied the lady. "sooth say you," returned the friar, "and does not your husband lie with you?" "why, yes," said the lady. "then," rejoined the friar, "i that am less truly your son's father than your husband, ought also to lie with you, as does your husband." the lady was no logician, and needed little to sway her: she therefore believed or feigned to believe that what the friar said was true. so:-- "who might avail to answer your words of wisdom?" quoth she; and presently forgot the godfather in the lover, and complied with his desires. nor had they begun their course to end it forthwith: but under cover of the friar's sponsorship, which set them more at ease, as it rendered them less open to suspicion, they forgathered again and again. but on one of these occasions it so befell that fra rinaldo, being come to the lady's house, where he espied none else save a very pretty and dainty little maid that waited on the lady, sent his companion away with her into the pigeon-house, there to teach her the paternoster, while he and the lady, holding her little boy by the hand, went into the bedroom, locked themselves in, got them on to a divan that was there, and began to disport them. and while thus they sped the time, it chanced that the father returned, and, before any was ware of him, was at the bedroom door, and knocked, and called the lady by her name. whereupon:--"'tis as much as my life is worth," quoth madonna agnesa; "lo, here is my husband; and the occasion of our intimacy cannot but be now apparent to him." "sooth say you," returned fra rinaldo, who was undressed, that is to say, had thrown off his habit and hood, and was in his tunic; "if i had but my habit and hood on me in any sort, 'twould be another matter; but if you let him in, and he find me thus, 'twill not be possible to put any face on it." but with an inspiration as happy as sudden:--"now get them on you," quoth the lady; "and when you have them on, take your godson in your arms, and give good heed to what i shall say to him, that your words may accord with mine; and leave the rest to me." the good man was still knocking, when his wife made answer:-- "coming, coming." and so up she got, and put on a cheerful countenance and hied her to the door, and opened it and said:--"husband mine: well indeed was it for us that in came fra rinaldo, our sponsor; 'twas god that sent him to us; for in sooth, but for that, we had to-day lost our boy." which the poor simpleton almost swooned to hear; and:--"how so?" quoth he. "o husband mine," replied the lady, "he was taken but now, all of a sudden, with a fainting fit, so that i thought he was dead: and what to do or say i knew not, had not fra rinaldo, our sponsor, come just in the nick of time, and set him on his shoulder, and said:--'gossip, 'tis that he has worms in his body, and getting, as they do, about the heart, they might only too readily be the death of him; but fear not; i will say a charm that will kill them all; and before i take my leave, you will see your boy as whole as you ever saw him.' and because to say certain of the prayers thou shouldst have been with us, and the maid knew not where to find thee, he caused his companion to say them at the top of the house, and he and i came in here. and for that 'tis not meet for any but the boy's mother to assist at such a service, that we might not be troubled with any one else, we locked the door; and he yet has him in his arms; and i doubt not that he only waits till his companion have said his prayers, and then the charm will be complete; for the boy is already quite himself again." the good simple soul, taking all this for sooth, and overwrought by the love he bore his son, was entirely without suspicion of the trick his wife was playing him, and heaving a great sigh, said:--"i will go look for him." "nay," replied the wife, "go not: thou wouldst spoil the efficacy of the charm: wait here; i will go see if thou mayst safely go; and will call thee." whereupon fra rinaldo, who had heard all that passed, and was in his canonicals, and quite at his ease, and had the boy in his arms, having made sure that all was as it should be, cried out:--"gossip, do i not hear the father's voice out there?" "ay indeed, sir," replied the simpleton. "come in then," said fra rinaldo. so in came the simpleton. whereupon quoth fra rinaldo:--"i restore to you your boy made whole by the grace of god, whom but now i scarce thought you would see alive at vespers. you will do well to have his image fashioned in wax, not less than life-size, and set it for a thanksgiving to god, before the statue of master st. ambrose, by whose merits you have this favour of god." the boy, catching sight of his father, ran to him with joyous greetings, as little children are wont; and the father, taking him in his arms, and weeping as if he were restored to him from the grave, fell by turns a kissing him and thanking his godfather, that he had cured him. fra rinaldo's companion, who had taught the maid not one paternoster only, but peradventure four or more, and by giving her a little purse of white thread that a nun had given him, had made her his devotee, no sooner heard fra rinaldo call the simpleton into his wife's room, than he stealthily got him to a place whence he might see and hear what was going on. observing that the affair was now excellently arranged, he came down, and entered the chamber, saying:--"fra rinaldo, those four prayers that you bade me say, i have said them all." "then well done, my brother," quoth fra rinaldo, "well-breathed must thou be. for my part, i had but said two, when my gossip came in; but what with thy travail and mine, god of his grace has vouchsafed-us the healing or the boy." the simpleton then had good wine and comfits brought in, and did the honours to the godfather and his companion in such sort as their occasions did most demand. he then ushered them forth of the house, commending them to god; and without delay had the waxen image made, and directed it to be set up with the others in front of the statue of st. ambrose, not, be it understood, st. ambrose of milan.( ) ( ) the statue would doubtless be that of st. ambrose of siena, of the dominican order. novel iv. -- tofano one night locks his wife out of the house: she, finding that by no entreaties may she prevail upon him to let her in, feigns to throw herself into a well, throwing therein a great stone. tofano hies him forth of the house, and runs to the spot: she goes into the house, and locks him out, and hurls abuse at him from within. -- the king no sooner wist that elisa's story was ended, than, turning to lauretta, he signified his will that she should tell somewhat: wherefore without delay she began:--o love, how great and signal is thy potency! how notable thy stratagems, thy devices! was there ever, shall there ever be, philosopher or adept competent to inspire, counsel and teach in such sort as thou by thine unpremeditated art dost tutor those that follow thy lead? verily laggard teachers are they all in comparison of thee, as by the matters heretofore set forth may very well be understood. to which store i will add, loving ladies, a stratagem used by a woman of quite ordinary understanding, and of such a sort that i know not by whom she could have been taught it save by love. know, then, that there dwelt aforetime at arezzo a rich man, tofano by name, who took to wife monna ghita, a lady exceeding fair, of whom, for what cause he knew not, he presently grew jealous. whereof the lady being ware, waxed resentful, and having on divers occasions demanded of him the reason of his jealousy, and gotten from him nought precise, but only generalities and trivialities, resolved at last to give him cause enough to die of that evil which without cause he so much dreaded. and being ware that a gallant, whom she deemed well worthy of her, was enamoured of her, she, using due discretion, came to an understanding with him; which being brought to the point that it only remained to give effect to their words in act, the lady cast about to devise how this might be. and witting that, among other bad habits that her husband had, he was too fond of his cups, she would not only commend indulgence, but cunningly and not seldom incite him thereto; insomuch that, well-nigh as often as she was so minded, she led him to drink to excess; and when she saw that he was well drunken, she would put him to bed; and so not once only but divers times without any manner of risk she forgathered with her lover; nay, presuming upon her husband's intoxication, she grew so bold that, not content with bringing her lover into her house, she would at times go spend a great part of the night with him at his house, which was not far off. now such being the enamoured lady's constant practice, it so befell that the dishonoured husband took note that, while she egged him on to drink, she herself drank never a drop; whereby he came to suspect the truth, to wit, that the lady was making him drunk, that afterwards she might take her pleasure while he slept. and being minded to put his surmise to the proof, one evening, having drunken nought all day, he mimicked never so drunken a sot both in speech and in carriage. the lady, deeming him to be really as he appeared, and that 'twas needless to ply him with liquor, presently put him to bed. which done, she, as she at times was wont, hied her forth to her lover's house, where she tarried until midnight. tofano no sooner perceived that his wife was gone, than up he got, hied him to the door, locked it, and then posted himself at the window to observe her return, and let her know that he was ware of her misconduct. so there he stood until the lady returned, and finding herself locked out, was annoyed beyond measure, and sought to force the door open. tofano let her try her strength upon it a while, and then:--"madam," quoth he, "'tis all to no purpose: thou canst not get in. go get thee back thither where thou hast tarried all this while, and rest assured that thou shalt never recross this threshold, until i have done thee such honour as is meet for thee in the presence of thy kinsfolk and neighbours." thereupon the lady fell entreating him to be pleased to open to her for the love of god, for that she was not come whence he supposed, but had only been passing the time with one of her gossips, because the nights were long, and she could not spend the whole time either in sleep or in solitary watching. but her supplications availed her nothing, for the fool was determined that all arezzo should know their shame, whereof as yet none wist aught. so as 'twas idle to entreat, the lady assumed a menacing tone, saying:--"so thou open not to me, i will make thee the saddest man alive." whereto tofano made answer:--"and what then canst thou do?" the lady, her wits sharpened by love, rejoined:--"rather than endure the indignity to which thou wouldst unjustly subject me, i will cast myself into the well hard by here, and when i am found dead there, all the world will believe that 'twas thou that didst it in thy cups, and so thou wilt either have to flee and lose all that thou hast and be outlawed, or forfeit thy head as guilty of my death, as indeed thou wilt be." but, for all she said, tofano wavered not a jot in his foolish purpose. so at last:--"lo, now," quoth the lady, "i can no more abide thy surly humour: god forgive thee: i leave thee my distaff here, which be careful to bestow in a safe place." so saying, away she hied her to the well, and, the night being so dark that wayfarers could scarce see one another as they passed, she took up a huge stone that was by the well, and ejaculating, "god forgive me!" dropped it therein. tofano, hearing the mighty splash that the stone made as it struck the water, never doubted that she had cast herself in: so, bucket and rope in hand, he flung himself out of the house, and came running to the well to her rescue. the lady had meanwhile hidden herself hard by the door, and seeing him make for the well, was in the house in a trice, and having locked the door, hied her to the window, and greeted him with:--"'tis while thou art drinking, not now, when the night is far spent, that thou shouldst temper thy wine with water." thus derided, tofano came back to the door, and finding his ingress barred, began adjuring her to let him in. whereupon, changing the low tone she had hitherto used for one so shrill that 'twas well-nigh a shriek, she broke out with:--"by the holy rood, tedious drunken sot that thou art, thou gettest no admittance here to-night; thy ways are more than i can endure: 'tis time i let all the world know what manner of man thou art, and at what hour of the night thou comest home." tofano, on his part, now grew angry, and began loudly to upbraid her; insomuch that the neighbours, aroused by the noise, got up, men and women alike, and looked out of the windows, and asked what was the matter. whereupon the lady fell a weeping and saying:--"'tis this wicked man, who comes home drunk at even, or falls asleep in some tavern, and then returns at this hour. long and to no purpose have i borne with him; but 'tis now past endurance, and i have done him this indignity of locking him out of the house in the hope that perchance it may cause him to mend his ways." tofano, on his part, told, dolt that he was, just what had happened, and was mighty menacing. whereupon:--"now mark," quoth the lady to the neighbours, "the sort of man he is! what would you say if i were, as he is, in the street, and he were in the house, as i am? god's faith, i doubt you would believe what he said. hereby you may gauge his sense. he tells you that i have done just what, i doubt not, he has done himself. he thought to terrify me by throwing i know not what into the well, wherein would to god he had thrown himself indeed, and drowned himself, whereby the wine of which he has taken more than enough, had been watered to some purpose!" the neighbours, men and women alike, now with one accord gave tongue, censuring tofano, throwing all the blame upon him, and answering what he alleged against the lady with loud recrimination; and in short the bruit, passing from neighbour to neighbour, reached at last the ears of the lady's kinsfolk; who hied them to the spot, and being apprised of the affair from this, that and the other of the neighbours, laid hands on tofano, and beat him till he was black and blue from head to foot. which done, they entered his house, stripped it of all that belonged to the lady, and took her home with them, bidding tofano look for worse to come. thus hard bested, and ruing the plight in which his jealousy had landed him, tofano, who loved his wife with all his heart, set some friends to work to patch matters up, whereby he did in fact induce his lady to forgive him and live with him again, albeit he was fain to promise her never again to be jealous, and to give her leave to amuse herself to her heart's content, provided she used such discretion that he should not be ware of it. on such wise, like the churl and booby that he was, being despoiled, he made terms. now long live love, and perish war, and all that wage it! novel v. -- a jealous husband disguises himself as a priest, and hears his own wife's confession: she tells him that she loves a priest, who comes to her every night. the husband posts himself at the door to watch for the priest, and meanwhile the lady brings her lover in by the roof, and tarries with him. -- when lauretta had done speaking, and all had commended the lady, for that she had done well, and treated her caitiff husband as he had deserved, the king, not to lose time, turned to fiammetta, and graciously bade her take up her parable; which she did on this wise:--most noble ladies, the foregoing story prompts me likewise to discourse of one of these jealous husbands, deeming that they are justly requited by their wives, more especially when they grow jealous without due cause. and had our legislators taken account of everything, i am of opinion that they would have visited ladies in such a case with no other penalty than such as they provide for those that offend in self-defence, seeing that a jealous husband does cunningly practise against the life of his lady, and most assiduously machinate her death. all the week the wife stays at home, occupied with her domestic duties; after which, on the day that is sacred to joy, she, like every one else, craves some solace, some peace, some recreation, not unreasonably, for she craves but what the husbandmen take in the fields, the craftsmen in the city, the magistrates in the courts, nay what god himself took, when he rested from all his labours on the seventh day, and which laws human and divine, mindful alike of the honour of god and the common well-being, have ordained, appropriating certain days to work, and others to repose. to which ordinance these jealous husbands will in no wise conform; on the contrary by then most sedulously secluding their wives, they make those days which to all other women are gladsome, to them most grievous and dolorous. and what an affliction it is to the poor creatures, they alone know, who have proved it; for which reason, to sum up, i say that a wife is rather to be commended than censured, if she take her revenge upon a husband that is jealous without cause. know then that at rimini there dwelt a merchant, a man of great substance in lands and goods and money, who, having a most beautiful woman to wife, waxed inordinately jealous of her, and that for no better reason than that, loving her greatly, and esteeming her exceeding fair, and knowing that she did her utmost endeavour to pleasure him, he must needs suppose that every man loved her, and esteemed her fair, and that she, moreover, was as zealous to stand well with every other man as with himself; whereby you may see that he was a poor creature, and of little sense. being thus so deeply infected with jealousy, he kept so strict and close watch over her, that some, maybe, have lain under sentence of death and been less rigorously confined by their warders. 'twas not merely that the lady might not go to a wedding, or a festal gathering, or even to church, or indeed set foot out of doors in any sort; but she dared not so much as shew herself at a window, or cast a glance outside the house, no matter for what purpose. wherefore she led a most woeful life of it, and found it all the harder to bear because she knew herself to be innocent. accordingly, seeing herself evilly entreated by her husband without good cause, she cast about how for her own consolation she might devise means to justify his usage of her. and for that, as she might not shew herself at the window, there could be no interchange of amorous glances between her and any man that passed along the street, but she wist that in the next house there was a goodly and debonair gallant, she bethought her, that, if there were but a hole in the wall that divided the two houses, she might watch thereat, until she should have sight of the gallant on such wise that she might speak to him, and give him her love, if he cared to have it, and, if so it might be contrived, forgather with him now and again, and after this fashion relieve the burden of her woeful life, until such time as the evil spirit should depart from her husband. so peering about, now here, now there, when her husband was away, she found in a very remote part of the house a place, where, by chance, the wall had a little chink in it. peering through which, she made out, though not without great difficulty, that on the other side was a room, and said to herself:--if this were filippo's room--filippo was the name of the gallant, her neighbour--i should be already halfway to my goal. so cautiously, through her maid, who was grieved to see her thus languish, she made quest, and discovered that it was indeed the gallant's room, where he slept quite alone. wherefore she now betook her frequently to the aperture, and whenever she was ware that the gallant was in the room, she would let fall a pebble or the like trifle; whereby at length she brought the gallant to the other side of the aperture to see what the matter was. whereupon she softly called him, and he knowing her voice, answered; and so, having now the opportunity she had sought, she in few words opened to him all her mind. the gallant, being overjoyed, wrought at the aperture on such wise that albeit none might be ware thereof, he enlarged it; and there many a time they held converse together, and touched hands, though further they might not go by reason of the assiduous watch that the jealous husband kept. now towards christmas the lady told her husband that, if he approved, she would fain go on christmas morning to church, and confess and communicate, like other christians. "and what sins," quoth he, "hast thou committed, that wouldst be shriven?" "how?" returned the lady; "dost thou take me for a saint? for all thou keepest me so close, thou must know very well that i am like all other mortals. however, i am not minded to confess to thee, for that thou art no priest." her husband, whose suspicions were excited by what she had said, cast about how he might discover these sins of hers, and having bethought him of what seemed an apt expedient, made answer that she had his consent, but he would not have her go to any church but their own chapel, where she might hie her betimes in the morning, and confess either to their own chaplain or some other priest that the chaplain might assign her, but to none other, and presently return to the house. the lady thought she half understood him, but she answered only that she would do as he required. christmas morning came, and with the dawn the lady rose, dressed herself, and hied her to the church appointed by her husband, who also rose, and hied him to the same church, where he arrived before her; and having already concerted matters with the priest that was in charge, he forthwith put on one of the priest's robes with a great hood, overshadowing the face, such as we see priests wear, and which he pulled somewhat forward; and so disguised he seated himself in the choir. on entering the church the lady asked for the priest, who came, and learning that she was minded to confess, said that he could not hear her himself, but would send her one of his brethren; so away he hied him and sent her, in an evil hour for him, her husband. for though he wore an air of great solemnity, and 'twas not yet broad day, and he had pulled the hood well over his eyes, yet all did not avail, but that his lady forthwith recognized him, and said to herself:--god be praised! why, the jealous rogue is turned priest: but leave it me to give him that whereof he is in quest. so she feigned not to know him, and seated herself at his feet. (i should tell you that he had put some pebbles in his mouth, that his speech, being impeded, might not betray him to his wife, and in all other respects he deemed himself so thoroughly disguised that there was nought whereby she might recognize him.) now, to come to the confession, the lady, after informing him that she was married, told him among other matters that she was enamoured of a priest, who came every night to lie with her. which to hear was to her husband as if he were stricken through the heart with a knife; and had it not been that he was bent on knowing more, he would have forthwith given over the confession, and taken himself off. however he kept his place, and:--"how?" said he to the lady, "does not your husband lie with you?" the lady replied in the affirmative. "how, then," quoth the husband, "can the priest also lie with you?" "sir," replied she, "what art the priest employs i know not; but door there is none, however well locked, in the house, that comes not open at his touch; and he tells me that, being come to the door of my room, before he opens it, he says certain words, whereby my husband forthwith falls asleep; whereupon he opens the door, and enters the room, and lies with me; and so 'tis always, without fail." "then 'tis very wrong, madam, and you must give it up altogether," said the husband. "that, sir," returned the lady, "i doubt i can never do; for i love him too much." "in that case," quoth the husband, "i cannot give you absolution." "the pity of it!" ejaculated the lady; "i came not hither to tell you falsehoods: if i could give it up, i would." "madam," replied the husband, "indeed i am sorry for you; for i see that you are in a fair way to lose your soul. however, this i will do for you; i will make special supplication to god on your behalf; and perchance you may be profited thereby. and from time to time i will send you one of my young clerks; and you will tell him whether my prayers have been of any help to you, or no, and if they have been so, i shall know what to do next." "nay, sir," quoth the lady, "do not so; send no man to me at home; for, should my husband come to know it, he is so jealous that nothing in the world would ever disabuse him of the idea that he came but for an evil purpose, and so i should have no peace with him all the year long." madam, returned the husband, "have no fear; rest assured that i will so order matters that you shall never hear a word about it from him." "if you can make sure of that," quoth the lady, "i have no more to say." and so, her confession ended, and her penance enjoined, she rose, and went to mass, while the luckless husband, fuming and fretting, hasted to divest himself of his priest's trappings, and then went home bent upon devising some means to bring the priest and his wife together, and take his revenge upon them both. when the lady came home from church she read in her husband's face that she had spoiled his christmas for him, albeit he dissembled to the uttermost, lest she should discover what he had done, and supposed himself to have learned. his mind was made up to keep watch for the priest that very night by his own front door. so to the lady he said:--"i have to go out to-night to sup and sleep; so thou wilt take care that the front door, and the mid-stair door, and the bedroom door are well locked; and for the rest thou mayst go to bed, at thine own time." "well and good," replied the lady: and as soon as she was able, off she hied her to the aperture, and gave the wonted signal, which filippo no sooner heard, than he was at the spot. the lady then told him what she had done in the morning, and what her husband had said to her after breakfast, adding:--"sure i am that he will not stir out of the house, but will keep watch beside the door; wherefore contrive to come in to-night by the roof, that we may be together." "madam," replied the gallant, nothing loath, "trust me for that." night came, the husband armed, and noiselessly hid himself in a room on the ground floor: the lady locked all the doors, being especially careful to secure the mid-stair door, to bar her husband's ascent; and in due time the gallant, having found his way cautiously enough over the roof, they got them to bed, and there had solace of one another and a good time; and at daybreak the gallant hied him back to his house. meanwhile the husband, rueful and supperless, half dead with cold, kept his armed watch beside his door, momently expecting the priest, for the best part of the night; but towards daybreak, his powers failing him, he lay down and slept in the ground-floor room. 'twas hard upon tierce when he awoke, and the front door was then open; so, making as if he had just come in, he went upstairs and breakfasted. not long afterwards he sent to his wife a young fellow, disguised as the priest's underling, who asked her if he of whom she wist had been with her again. the lady, who quite understood what that meant, made answer that he had not come that night, and that, if he continued to neglect her so, 'twas possible he might be forgotten, though she had no mind to forget him. now, to make a long story short, the husband passed many a night in the same way, hoping to catch the priest as he came in, the lady and her gallant meanwhile having a good time. but at last the husband, being able to stand it no longer, sternly demanded of his wife what she had said to the priest the morning when she was confessed. the lady answered that she was not minded to tell him, for that 'twas not seemly or proper so to do. whereupon:--"sinful woman," quoth the husband, "in thy despite i know what thou saidst to him, and know i must and will who this priest is, of whom thou art enamoured, and who by dint of his incantations lies with thee a nights, or i will sluice thy veins for thee." "'tis not true," replied the lady, "that i am enamoured of a priest." "how?" quoth the husband, "saidst thou not as much to the priest that confessed thee?" "thou canst not have had it from him," rejoined the lady. "wast thou then present thyself? for sure i never told him so." "then tell me," quoth the husband, "who this priest is; and lose no time about it." whereat the lady began to smile, and:--"i find it not a little diverting," quoth she, "that a wise man should suffer himself to be led by a simple woman as a ram is led by the horns to the shambles; albeit no wise man art thou: not since that fatal hour when thou gavest harbourage in thy breast, thou wist not why, to the evil spirit of jealousy; and the more foolish and insensate thou art, the less glory have i. deemest thou, my husband, that i am as blind of the bodily eye as thou art of the mind's eye? nay, but for sure i am not so. i knew at a glance the priest that confessed me, and that 'twas even thyself. but i was minded to give thee that of which thou wast in quest, and i gave it thee. howbeit, if thou hadst been the wise man thou takest thyself to be, thou wouldst not have chosen such a way as that to worm out thy good lady's secrets, nor wouldst thou have fallen a prey to a baseless suspicion, but wouldst have understood that what she confessed was true, and she all the while guiltless. i told thee that i loved a priest; and wast not thou, whom i love, though ill enough dost thou deserve it, turned priest? i told thee that there was no door in my house but would open when he was minded to lie with me: and when thou wouldst fain have access to me, what door was ever closed against thee? i told thee that the priest lay nightly with me: and what night was there that thou didst not lie with me? thou sentest thy young clerk to me: and thou knowest that, as often as thou hadst not been with me, i sent word that the priest had not been with me. who but thou, that hast suffered jealousy to blind thee, would have been so witless as not to read such a riddle? but thou must needs mount guard at night beside the door, and think to make me believe that thou hadst gone out to sup and sleep. consider thy ways, and court not the mockery of those that know them as i do, but turn a man again as thou wast wont to be: and let there be no more of this strict restraint in which thou keepest me; for i swear to thee by god that, if i were minded to set horns on thy brow, i should not fail so to take my pastime that thou wouldst never find it out, though thou hadst a hundred eyes, as thou hast but two." thus admonished, the jealous caitiff, who had flattered himself that he had very cunningly discovered his wife's secret, was ashamed, and made no answer save to commend his wife's wit and honour; and thus, having cause for jealousy, he discarded it, as he had erstwhile been jealous without cause. and so the adroit lady had, as it were, a charter of indulgence, and needed no more to contrive for her lover to come to her over the roof like a cat, but admitted him by the door, and using due discretion, had many a good time with him, and sped her life gaily. novel vi. -- madonna isabella has with her leonetto, her accepted lover, when she is surprised by one messer lambertuccio, by whom she is beloved: her husband coming home about the same time, she sends messer lambertuccio forth of the house drawn sword in hand, and the husband afterwards escorts leonetto home. -- wondrous was the delight that all the company had of fiammetta's story, nor was there any but affirmed that the lady had done excellent well, and dealt with her insensate husband as he deserved. however, it being ended, the king bade pampinea follow suit; which she did on this wise:--not a few there are that in their simplicity aver that love deranges the mind, insomuch that whoso loves becomes as it were witless: the folly of which opinion, albeit i doubt it not, and deem it abundantly proven by what has been already said, i purpose once again to demonstrate. in our city, rich in all manner of good things, there dwelt a young gentlewoman, fair exceedingly, and wedded to a most worthy and excellent gentleman. and as it not seldom happens that one cannot keep ever to the same diet, but would fain at times vary it, so this lady, finding her husband not altogether to her mind, became enamoured of a gallant, leonetto by name, who, though of no high rank, was not a little debonair and courteous, and he in like manner fell in love with her; and (as you know that 'tis seldom that what is mutually desired fails to come about) 'twas not long before they had fruition of their love. now the lady being, as i said, fair and winsome, it so befell that a gentleman, messer lambertuccio by name, grew mightily enamoured of her, but so tiresome and odious did she find him, that for the world she could not bring herself to love him. so, growing tired of fruitlessly soliciting her favour by ambassage, messer lambertuccio, who was a powerful signior, sent her at last another sort of message in which he threatened to defame her if she complied not with his wishes. wherefore the lady, knowing her man, was terrified, and disposed herself to pleasure him. now it so chanced that madonna isabella, for such was the lady's name, being gone, as is our florentine custom in the summer, to spend some time on a very goodly estate that she had in the contado, one morning finding herself alone, for her husband had ridden off to tarry some days elsewhere, she sent for leonetto to come and keep her company; and leonetto came forthwith in high glee. but while they were together, messer lambertuccio, who, having got wind that the husband was away, had mounted his horse and ridden thither quite alone, knocked at the door. whereupon the lady's maid hied her forthwith to her mistress, who was alone with leonetto, and called her, saying:--"madam, messer lambertuccio is here below, quite alone." whereat the lady was vexed beyond measure; and being also not a little dismayed, she said to leonetto:--"prithee, let it not irk thee to withdraw behind the curtain, and there keep close until messer lambertuccio be gone." leonetto, who stood in no less fear of messer lambertuccio than did the lady, got into his hiding-place; and the lady bade the maid go open to messer lambertuccio: she did so; and having dismounted and fastened his palfrey to a pin, he ascended the stairs; at the head of which the lady received him with a smile and as gladsome a greeting as she could find words for, and asked him on what errand he was come. the gentleman embraced and kissed her, saying:--"my soul, i am informed that your husband is not here, and therefore i am come to stay a while with you." which said, they went into the room, and locked them in, and messer lambertuccio fell a toying with her. now, while thus he sped the time with her, it befell that the lady's husband, albeit she nowise expected him, came home, and, as he drew nigh the palace, was observed by the maid, who forthwith ran to the lady's chamber, and said:--"madam, the master will be here anon; i doubt he is already in the courtyard." whereupon, for that she had two men in the house, and the knight's palfrey, that was in the courtyard, made it impossible to hide him, the lady gave herself up for dead. nevertheless she made up her mind on the spur of the moment, and springing out of bed "sir," quoth she to messer lambertuccio, "if you have any regard for me, and would save my life, you will do as i bid you: that is to say, you will draw your blade, and put on a fell and wrathful countenance, and hie you downstairs, saying:--'by god, he shall not escape me elsewhere.' and if my husband would stop you, or ask you aught, say nought but what i have told you, and get you on horseback and tarry with him on no account." "to hear is to obey," quoth messer lambertuccio, who, with the flush of his recent exertion and the rage that he felt at the husband's return still on his face, and drawn sword in hand, did as she bade him. the lady's husband, being now dismounted in the courtyard, and not a little surprised to see the palfrey there, was about to go up the stairs, when he saw messer lambertuccio coming down them, and marvelling both at his words and at his mien:--"what means this, sir?" quoth he. but messer lambertuccio clapped foot in stirrup, and mounted, saying nought but:--"zounds, but i will meet him elsewhere;" and so he rode off. the gentleman then ascended the stairs, at the head of which he found his lady distraught with terror, to whom he said:--"what manner of thing is this? after whom goes messer lambertuccio, so wrathful and menacing?" whereto the lady, drawing nigher the room, that leonetto might hear her, made answer:--"never, sir, had i such a fright as this. there came running in here a young man, who to me is quite a stranger, and at his heels messer lambertuccio with a drawn sword in his hand; and as it happened the young man found the door of this room open, and trembling in every limb, cried out:--'madam, your succour, for god's sake, that i die not in your arms.' so up i got, and would have asked him who he was, and how bested, when up came messer lambertuccio, exclaiming:--'where art thou, traitor?' i planted myself in the doorway, and kept him from entering, and seeing that i was not minded to give him admittance, he was courteous enough, after not a little parley, to take himself off, as you saw." whereupon:--"wife," quoth the husband, "thou didst very right. great indeed had been the scandal, had some one been slain here, and 'twas a gross affront on messer lambertuccio's part to pursue a fugitive within the house." he then asked where the young man was. whereto the lady answered:--"nay, where he may be hiding, sir, i wot not." so:--"where art thou?" quoth the knight. "fear not to shew thyself." then forth of his hiding-place, all of a tremble, for in truth he had been thoroughly terrified, crept leonetto, who had heard all that had passed. to whom:--"what hast thou to do with messer lambertuccio?" quoth the knight. "nothing in the world," replied the young man: "wherefore, i doubt he must either be out of his mind, or have mistaken me for another; for no sooner had he sight of me in the street hard by the palace, than he laid his hand on his sword, and exclaimed:--'traitor, thou art a dead man.' whereupon i sought not to know why, but fled with all speed, and got me here, and so, thanks to god and this gentlewoman, i escaped his hands." "now away with thy fears," quoth the knight; "i will see thee home safe and sound; and then 'twill be for thee to determine how thou shalt deal with him." and so, when they had supped, he set him on horseback, and escorted him to florence, and left him not until he was safe in his own house. and the very same evening, following the lady's instructions, leonetto spoke privily with messer lambertuccio, and so composed the affair with him, that, though it occasioned not a little talk, the knight never wist how he had been tricked by his wife. novel vii. -- lodovico discovers to madonna beatrice the love that he bears her: she sends egano, her husband, into a garden disguised as herself, and lies with lodovico; who thereafter, being risen, hies him to the garden and cudgels egano. -- this device of madonna isabella, thus recounted by pampinea, was held nothing short of marvellous by all the company. but, being bidden by the king to tell the next story, thus spake filomena:--loving ladies, if i mistake not, the device, of which you shall presently hear from me, will prove to be no less excellent than the last. you are to know, then, that there dwelt aforetime at paris a florentine gentleman, who, being by reason of poverty turned merchant, had prospered so well in his affairs that he was become very wealthy; and having by his lady an only son, lodovico by name, whose nobility disrelished trade, he would not put him in any shop; but that he might be with other gentlemen, he caused him to enter the service of the king of france, whereby he acquired very fine manners and other accomplishments. being in this service, lodovico was one day with some other young gallants that talked of the fair ladies of france, and england, and other parts of the world, when they were joined by certain knights that were returned from the holy sepulchre; and hearing their discourse, one of the knights fell a saying, that of a surety in the whole world, so far as he had explored it, there was not any lady, of all that he had ever seen, that might compare for beauty with madonna beatrice, the wife of egano de' galluzzi, of bologna: wherein all his companions, who in common with him had seen the lady at bologna, concurred. which report lodovico, who was as yet fancy-free, no sooner heard, than he burned with such a yearning to see the lady that he was able to think of nought else: insomuch that he made up his mind to betake him to bologna to see her, and if she pleased him, to remain there; to which end he gave his father to understand that he would fain visit the holy sepulchre, whereto his father after no little demur consented. so to bologna anichino--for so he now called himself--came; and, as fortune would have it, the very next day, he saw the lady at a festal gathering, and deemed her vastly more beautiful than he had expected: wherefore he waxed most ardently enamoured of her, and resolved never to quit bologna, until he had gained her love. so, casting about how he should proceed, he could devise no other way but to enter her husband's service, which was the more easy that he kept not a few retainers: on this wise lodovico surmised that, peradventure, he might compass his end. he therefore sold his horses and meetly bestowed his servants, bidding them make as if they knew him not; and being pretty familiar with his host, he told him that he was minded to take service with some worthy lord, it any such he might find. "thou wouldst make," quoth the host, "the very sort of retainer to suit a gentleman of this city, egano by name, who keeps not a few of them, and will have all of them presentable like thee: i will mention the matter to him." and so he accordingly did, and before he took leave of egano had placed anichino with him, to egano's complete satisfaction. being thus resident with egano, and having abundant opportunities of seeing the fair lady, anichino set himself to serve egano with no little zeal; wherein he succeeded so well, that egano was more than satisfied, insomuch that by and by there was nought he could do without his advice, and he entrusted to him the guidance not only of himself, but of all his affairs. now it so befell that one day when egano was gone a hawking, having left anichino at home, madonna beatrice, who as yet wist not of his love, albeit she had from time to time taken note of him and his manners, and had not a little approved and commended them, sat herself down with him to a game of chess, which, to please her, anichino most dexterously contrived to lose, to the lady's prodigious delight. after a while, the lady's women, one and all, gave over watching their play, and left them to it; whereupon anichino heaved a mighty sigh. the lady, looking hard at him, said:--"what ails thee, anichino? is it, then, such a mortification to thee to be conquered by me?" "nay, madam," replied anichino, "my sigh was prompted by a much graver matter." "then, if thou hast any regard for me," quoth the lady, "tell me what it is." hearing himself thus adjured by "any regard" he had for her whom he loved more than aught else, anichino heaved a yet mightier sigh, which caused the lady to renew her request that he would be pleased to tell her the occasion of his sighs. whereupon:--"madam," said anichino, "i greatly fear me, that, were i to tell it you, 'twould but vex you; and, moreover, i doubt you might repeat it to some one else." "rest assured," returned the lady, "that i shall neither be annoyed, nor, without thy leave, ever repeat to any other soul aught that thou mayst say." "then," said anichino, "having this pledge from you, i will tell it you." and, while the tears all but stood in his eyes, he told her, who he was, the report he had heard of her, and where and how he had become enamoured of her, and with what intent he had taken service with her husband: after which, he humbly besought her, that, if it might be, she would have pity on him, and gratify this his secret and ardent desire; and that, if she were not minded so to do, she would suffer him to retain his place there, and love her. ah! bologna! how sweetly mixed are the elements in thy women! how commendable in such a case are they all! no delight have they in sighs and tears, but are ever inclinable to prayers, and ready to yield to the solicitations of love. had i but words apt to praise them as they deserve, my eloquence were inexhaustible. the gentlewoman's gaze was fixed on anichino as he spoke; she made no doubt that all he said was true, and yielding to his appeal, she entertained his love within her heart in such measure that she too began to sigh, and after a sigh or two made answer:--"sweet my anichino, be of good cheer; neither presents nor promises, nor any courting by gentleman, or lord, or whoso else (for i have been and am still courted by not a few) was ever able to sway my soul to love any of them: but thou, by the few words that thou hast said, hast so wrought with me that, brief though the time has been, i am already in far greater measure thine than mine. my love i deem thee to have won right worthily; and so i give it thee, and vow to give thee joyance thereof before the coming night be past. to which end thou wilt come to my room about midnight; i will leave the door open; thou knowest the side of the bed on which i sleep; thou wilt come there; should i be asleep, thou hast but to touch me, and i shall awake, and give thee solace of thy long-pent desire. in earnest whereof i will even give thee a kiss." so saying, she threw her arms about his neck, and lovingly kissed him, as anichino her. their colloquy thus ended, anichino betook him elsewhere about some matters which he had to attend to, looking forward to midnight with boundless exultation. egano came in from his hawking; and after supper, being weary, went straight to bed, whither the lady soon followed him, leaving, as she had promised, the door of the chamber open. thither accordingly, at the appointed hour, came anichino, and having softly entered the chamber, and closed the door behind him, stole up to where the lady lay, and laying his hand upon her breast, found that she was awake. now, as soon as she wist that anichino was come, she took his hand in both her own; and keeping fast hold of him, she turned about in the bed, until she awoke egano; whereupon:--"husband," quoth she, "i would not say aught of this to thee, yestereve, because i judged thou wast weary; but tell me, upon thy hope of salvation, egano, whom deemest thou thy best and most loyal retainer, and the most attached to thee, of all that thou hast in the house?" "what a question is this, wife?" returned egano. "dost not know him? retainer i have none, nor ever had, so trusted, or loved, as anichino. but wherefore put such a question?" now, when anichino wist that egano was awake, and heard them talk of himself, he more than once tried to withdraw his hand, being mightily afraid lest the lady meant to play him false; but she held it so tightly that he might not get free, while thus she made answer to egano:--"i will tell thee what he is. i thought that he was all thou sayst, and that none was so loyal to thee as he, but he has undeceived me, for that yesterday, when thou wast out a hawking, he, being here, chose his time, and had the shamelessness to crave of me compliance with his wanton desires: and i, that i might not need other evidence than that of thine own senses to prove his guilt to thee, i made answer, that i was well content, and that to-night, after midnight, i would get me into the garden, and await him there at the foot of the pine. now go thither i shall certainly not; but, if thou wouldst prove the loyalty of thy retainer, thou canst readily do so, if thou but slip on one of my loose robes, and cover thy face with a veil, and go down and attend his coming, for come, i doubt not, he will." whereto egano:--"meet indeed it is," quoth he, "that i should go see;" and straightway up he got, and, as best he might in the dark, he put on one of the lady's loose robes and veiled his face, and then hied him to the garden, and sate down at the foot of the pine to await anichino. the lady no sooner wist that he was out of the room, than she rose, and locked the door. anichino, who had never been so terrified in all his life, and had struggled with all his might to disengage his hand from the lady's clasp, and had inwardly cursed her and his love, and himself for trusting her, a hundred thousand times, was overjoyed beyond measure at this last turn that she had given the affair. and so, the lady having got her to bed again, and he, at her bidding, having stripped and laid him down beside her, they had solace and joyance of one another for a good while. then, the lady, deeming it unmeet for anichino to tarry longer with her, caused him to get up and resume his clothes, saying to him:--"sweet my mouth, thou wilt take a stout cudgel, and get thee to the garden, and making as if i were there, and thy suit to me had been but to try me, thou wilt give egano a sound rating with thy tongue and a sound belabouring with thy cudgel, the sequel whereof will be wondrously gladsome and delightful." whereupon anichino hied him off to the garden, armed with a staff of wild willow; and as he drew nigh the pine, egano saw him, and rose and came forward to meet him as if he would receive him with the heartiest of cheer. but:--"ah! wicked woman!" quoth anichino; "so thou art come! thou didst verily believe, then, that i was, that i am, minded thus to wrong my lord? foul fall thee a thousand times!" and therewith he raised his cudgel, and began to lay about him. egano, however, had heard and seen enough, and without a word took to flight, while anichino pursued him, crying out:--"away with thee! god send thee a bad year, lewd woman that thou art; nor doubt that egano shall hear of this to-morrow." egano, having received sundry round knocks, got him back to his chamber with what speed he might; and being asked by the lady, whether anichino had come into the garden:--"would to god he had not!" quoth he, "for that, taking me for thee, he has beaten me black and blue with his cudgel, and rated me like the vilest woman that ever was: passing strange, indeed, it had seemed to me that he should have said those words to thee with intent to dishonour me; and now 'tis plain that 'twas but that, seeing thee so blithe and frolicsome, he was minded to prove thee." whereto:--"god be praised," returned the lady, "that he proved me by words, as thee by acts: and i doubt not he may say that i bear his words with more patience than thou his acts. but since he is so loyal to thee, we must make much of him and do him honour." "ay, indeed," quoth egano, "thou sayst sooth." thus was egano fortified in the belief that never had any gentleman wife so true, or retainer so loyal, as he; and many a hearty laugh had he with anichino and his lady over this affair, which to them was the occasion that, with far less let than might else have been, they were able to have solace and joyance of one another, so long as it pleased anichino to tarry at bologna. novel viii. -- a husband grows jealous of his wife, and discovers that she has warning of her lover's approach by a piece of pack-thread, which she ties to her great toe a nights. while he is pursuing her lover, she puts another woman in bed in her place. the husband, finding her there, beats her, and cuts off her hair. he then goes and calls his wife's brothers, who, holding his accusation to be false, give him a rating. -- rare indeed was deemed by common consent the subtlety shewn by madonna beatrice in the beguilement of her husband, and all affirmed that the terror of anichino must have been prodigious, when, the lady still keeping fast hold of him, he had heard her say that he had made suit of love to her. however, filomena being silent, the king turned to neifile, saying:--"'tis now for you to tell." whereupon neifile, while a slight smile died away upon her lips, thus began:--fair ladies, to entertain you with a goodly story, such as those which my predecessors have delighted you withal, is indeed a heavy burden, but, god helping me, i trust fairly well to acquit myself thereof. you are to know, then, that there dwelt aforetime in our city a most wealthy merchant, arriguccio berlinghieri by name, who foolishly, as we wot by daily experience is the way of merchants, thinking to compass gentility by matrimony, took to wife a young gentlewoman, by no means suited to him, whose name was monna sismonda. now monna sismonda, seeing that her husband was much abroad, and gave her little of his company, became enamoured of a young gallant, ruberto by name, who had long courted her: and she being grown pretty familiar with him, and using, perchance, too little discretion, for she affected him extremely, it so befell that arriguccio, whether it was that he detected somewhat, or howsoever, waxed of all men the most jealous, and gave up going abroad, and changed his way of life altogether, and made it his sole care to watch over his wife, insomuch that he never allowed himself a wink of sleep until he had seen her to bed: which occasioned the lady the most grievous dumps, because 'twas on no wise possible for her to be with her ruberto. so, casting about in many ways how she might contrive to meet him, and being thereto not a little plied by ruberto himself, she bethought her at last of the following expedient: to wit, her room fronting the street, and arriguccio, as she had often observed, being very hard put to it to get him to sleep, but thereafter sleeping very soundly, she resolved to arrange with ruberto that he should come to the front door about midnight, whereupon she would get her down, and open the door, and stay some time with him while her husband was in his deep sleep. and that she might have tidings of his arrival, yet so as that none else might wot aught thereof, she adopted the device of lowering a pack-thread from the bedroom window on such wise that, while with one end it should all but touch the ground, it should traverse the floor of the room, until it reached the bed, and then be brought under the clothes, so that, when she was abed, she might attach it to her great toe. having so done, she sent word to ruberto, that when he came, he must be sure to jerk the pack-thread, and, if her husband were asleep, she would loose it, and go open to him; but, if he were awake, she would hold it taut and draw it to herself, to let him know that he must not expect her. ruberto fell in with the idea, came there many times, and now forgathered with her and again did not. but at last, they still using this cunning practice, it so befell that one night, while the lady slept, arriguccio, letting his foot stray more than he was wont about the bed, came upon the pack-thread, and laying his hand upon it, found that it was attached to his lady's great toe, and said to himself:--this must be some trick: and afterwards discovering that the thread passed out of the window, was confirmed in his surmise. wherefore, he softly severed it from the lady's toe, and affixed it to his own; and waited, all attention, to learn the result of his experiment. nor had he long to wait before ruberto came, and arriguccio felt him jerk the thread according to his wont: and as arriguccio had not known how to attach the thread securely, and ruberto jerked it with some force, it gave way, whereby he understood that he was to wait, and did so. arriguccio straightway arose, caught up his arms, and hasted to the door to see who might be there, intent to do him a mischief. now arriguccio, for all he was a merchant, was a man of spirit, and of thews and sinews; and being come to the door, he opened it by no means gingerly, as the lady was wont; whereby ruberto, who was in waiting, surmised the truth, to wit, that 'twas arriguccio by whom the door was opened. wherefore he forthwith took to flight, followed by arriguccio. but at length, when he had run a long way, as arriguccio gave not up the pursuit, he being also armed, drew his sword, and faced about; and so they fell to, arriguccio attacking, and ruberto defending himself. now when arriguccio undid the bedroom door, the lady awoke, and finding the pack-thread cut loose from her toe, saw at a glance that her trick was discovered; and hearing arriguccio running after ruberto, she forthwith got up, foreboding what the result was like to be, and called her maid, who was entirely in her confidence: whom she so plied with her obsecrations that at last she got her into bed in her room, beseeching her not to say who she was, but to bear patiently all the blows that arriguccio might give her; and she would so reward her that she should have no reason to complain. then, extinguishing the light that was in the room, forth she hied her, and having found a convenient hiding-place in the house, awaited the turn of events. now arriguccio and ruberto being hotly engaged in the street, the neighbours, roused by the din of the combat, got up and launched their curses upon them. wherefore arriguccio, fearing lest he should be recognized, drew off before he had so much as discovered who the young gallant was, or done him any scathe, and in a fell and wrathful mood betook him home. stumbling into the bedroom, he cried out angrily:--"where art thou, lewd woman? thou hast put out the light, that i may not be able to find thee; but thou hast miscalculated." and going to the bedside, he laid hold of the maid, taking her to be his wife, and fell a pummelling and kicking her with all the strength he had in his hands and feet, insomuch that he pounded her face well-nigh to pulp, rating her the while like the vilest woman that ever was; and last of all he cut off her hair. the maid wept bitterly, as indeed she well might; and though from time to time she ejaculated an "alas! mercy, for god's sake!" or "spare me, spare me;" yet her voice was so broken by her sobs, and arriguccio's hearing so dulled by his wrath, that he was not able to discern that 'twas not his wife's voice but that of another woman. so, having soundly thrashed her, and cut off her hair, as we said:--"wicked woman," quoth he, "i touch thee no more; but i go to find thy brothers, and shall do them to wit of thy good works; and then they may come here, and deal with thee as they may deem their honour demands, and take thee hence, for be sure thou shalt no more abide in this house." with this he was gone, locking the door of the room behind him, and quitted the house alone. now no sooner did monna sismonda, who had heard all that passed, perceive that her husband was gone, than she opened the door of the bedroom, rekindled the light, and finding her maid all bruises and tears, did what she could to comfort her, and carried her back to her own room, where, causing her to be privily waited on and tended, she helped her so liberally from arriguccio's own store, that she confessed herself content. the maid thus bestowed in her room, the lady presently hied her back to her own, which she set all in neat and trim order, remaking the bed, so that it might appear as if it had not been slept in, relighting the lamp, and dressing and tiring herself, until she looked as if she had not been abed that night; then, taking with her a lighted lamp and some work, she sat her down at the head of the stairs, and began sewing, while she waited to see how the affair would end. arriguccio meanwhile had hied him with all speed straight from the house to that of his wife's brothers, where by dint of much knocking he made himself heard, and was admitted. the lady's three brothers, and her mother, being informed that 'twas arriguccio, got up, and having set lights a burning, came to him and asked him on what errand he was come there at that hour, and alone. whereupon arriguccio, beginning with the discovery of the pack-thread attached to his lady's great toe, gave them the whole narrative of his discoveries and doings down to the very end; and to clinch the whole matter, he put in their hands the locks which he had cut, as he believed, from his wife's head, adding that 'twas now for them to come for her and deal with her on such wise as they might deem their honour required, seeing that he would nevermore have her in his house. firmly believing what he told them, the lady's brothers were very wroth with her, and having provided themselves with lighted torches, set out with arriguccio, and hied them to his house with intent to scorn her, while their mother followed, weeping and beseeching now one, now another, not to credit these matters so hastily, until they had seen or heard somewhat more thereof; for that the husband might have some other reason to be wroth with her, and having ill-treated her, might have trumped up this charge by way of exculpation, adding that, if true, 'twas passing strange, for well she knew her daughter, whom she had brought up from her tenderest years, and much more to the like effect. however, being come to arriguccio's house, they entered, and were mounting the stairs, when monna sismonda, hearing them, called out:--"who is there?" whereto one of the brothers responded:--"lewd woman, thou shalt soon have cause enough to know who it is." "now lord love us!" quoth monna sismonda, "what would he be at?" then, rising, she greeted them with:--"welcome, my brothers but what seek ye abroad at this hour, all three of you?" they had seen her sitting and sewing with never a sign of a blow on her face, whereas arriguccio had averred that he had pummelled her all over: wherefore their first impression was one of wonder, and refraining the vehemence of their wrath, they asked her what might be the truth of the matter which arriguccio laid to her charge, and threatened her with direful consequences, if she should conceal aught. whereto the lady:--"what you would have me tell you," quoth she, "or what arriguccio may have laid to my charge, that know not i." arriguccio could but gaze upon her, as one that had taken leave of his wits, calling to mind how he had pummelled her about the face times without number, and scratched it for her, and mishandled her in all manner of ways, and there he now saw her with no trace of aught of it all upon her. however, to make a long story short, the lady's brothers told her what arriguccio had told them touching the pack-thread and the beating and all the rest of it. whereupon the lady turned to him with:--"alas, my husband, what is this that i hear? why givest thou me, to thy own great shame, the reputation of a lewd woman, when such i am not, and thyself the reputation of a wicked and cruel man, which thou art not? wast thou ever to-night, i say not in my company, but so much as in the house until now? or when didst thou beat me? for my part i mind me not of it." arriguccio began:--"how sayst thou, lewd woman? did we not go to bed together? did i not come back, after chasing thy lover? did i not give thee bruises not a few, and cut thy hair for thee?" but the lady interrupted him, saying:--"nay, thou didst not lie here to-night. but leave we this, of which my true words are my sole witness, and pass we to this of the beating thou sayst thou gavest me, and how thou didst cut my hair. never a beating had i from thee, and i bid all that are here, and thee among them, look at me, and say if i have any trace of a beating on my person; nor should i advise thee to dare lay hand upon me; for, by the holy rood, i would spoil thy beauty for thee. nor didst thou cut my hair, for aught that i saw or felt: however, thou didst it, perchance, on such wise that i was not ware thereof: so let me see whether 'tis cut or no." then, unveiling herself, she shewed that her hair was uncut and entire. wherefore her brothers and mother now turned to arriguccio with:--"what means this, arriguccio? this accords not with what thou gavest us to understand thou hadst done; nor know we how thou wilt prove the residue." arriguccio was lost, as it were, in a dream, and yet he would fain have spoken; but, seeing that what he had thought to prove was otherwise, he essayed no reply. so the lady turning to her brothers:--"i see," quoth she, "what he would have: he will not be satisfied unless i do what i never would otherwise have done, to wit, give you to know what a pitiful caitiff he is; as now i shall not fail to do. i make no manner of doubt that, as he has said, even so it befell, and so he did. how, you shall hear. this worthy man, to whom, worse luck! you gave me to wife, a merchant, as he calls himself, and as such would fain have credit, and who ought to be more temperate than a religious, and more continent than a girl, lets scarce an evening pass but he goes a boozing in the taverns, and consorting with this or the other woman of the town; and 'tis for me to await his return until midnight or sometimes until matins, even as you now find me. i doubt not that, being thoroughly well drunk, he got him to bed with one of these wantons, and, awaking, found the pack-thread on her foot, and afterwards did actually perform all these brave exploits of which he speaks, and in the end came back to her, and beat her, and cut her hair off, and being not yet quite recovered from his debauch, believed, and, i doubt not, still believes, that 'twas i that he thus treated; and if you will but scan his face closely, you will see that he is still half drunk. but, whatever he may have said about me, i would have you account it as nothing more than the disordered speech of a tipsy man; and forgive him as i do." whereupon the lady's mother raised no small outcry, saying:--"by the holy rood, my daughter, this may not be! a daughter, such as thou, to be mated with one so unworthy of thee! the pestilent, insensate cur should be slain on the spot! a pretty state of things, indeed! why, he might have picked thee up from the gutter! now foul fall him! but thou shalt no more be vexed with the tedious drivel of a petty dealer in ass's dung, some blackguard, belike, that came hither from the country because he was dismissed the service of some petty squire, clad in romagnole, with belfry-breeches, and a pen in his arse, and for that he has a few pence, must needs have a gentleman's daughter and a fine lady to wife, and set up a coat of arms, and say:--'i am of the such and such,' and 'my ancestors did thus and thus.' ah! had my sons but followed my advice! thy honour were safe in the house of the counts guidi, where they might have bestowed thee, though thou hadst but a morsel of bread to thy dowry: but they must needs give thee to this rare treasure, who, though better daughter and more chaste there is none than thou in florence, has not blushed this very midnight and in our presence to call thee a strumpet, as if we knew thee not. god's faith! so i were hearkened to, he should shrewdly smart for it." then, turning to her sons, she said:--"my sons, i told you plainly enough that this ought not to be. now, have you heard how your worthy brother-in-law treats your sister? petty twopenny trader that he is: were it for me to act, as it is for you, after what he has said of her and done to her, nought would satisfy or appease me, till i had rid the earth of him. and were i a man, who am but a woman, none, other but myself should meddle with the affair. god's curse upon him, the woeful, shameless sot!" whereupon the young men, incensed by what they had seen and heard, turned to arriguccio, and after giving him the soundest rating that ever was bestowed upon caitiff, concluded as follows:--"this once we pardon thee, witting thee to be a drunken knave--but as thou holdest thy life dear, have a care that henceforth we hear no such tales of thee; for rest assured that if aught of the kind do reach our ears, we will requite thee for both turns." which said, they departed. arriguccio, standing there like one dazed, not witting whether his late doings were actual fact or but a dream, made no more words about the matter, but left his wife in peace. thus did she by her address not only escape imminent peril, but open a way whereby in time to come she was able to gratify her passion to the full without any farther fear of her husband. novel ix. -- lydia, wife of nicostratus, loves pyrrhus, who to assure himself thereof, asks three things of her, all of which she does, and therewithal enjoys him in presence of nicostratus, and makes nicostratus believe that what he saw was not real. -- so diverting did the ladies find neifile's story that it kept them still laughing and talking, though the king, having bidden pamfilo tell his story, had several times enjoined silence upon them. however, as soon as they had done, pamfilo thus began:--methinks, worshipful ladies, there is no venture, though fraught with gravest peril, that whoso loves ardently will not make: of which truth, exemplified though it has been in stories not a few, i purpose to afford you yet more signal proof in one which i shall tell you; wherein you will hear of a lady who in her enterprises owed far more to the favour of fortune than to the guidance of reason: wherefore i should not advise any of you rashly to follow in her footsteps, seeing that fortune is not always in a kindly mood, nor are the eyes of all men equally holden. in argos, that most ancient city of achaia, the fame of whose kings of old time is out of all proportion to its size, there dwelt of yore nicostratus, a nobleman, to whom, when he was already verging on old age, fortune gave to wife a great lady, lydia by name, whose courage matched her charms. nicostratus, as suited with his rank and wealth, kept not a few retainers and hounds and hawks, and was mightily addicted to the chase. among his dependants was a young man named pyrrhus, a gallant of no mean accomplishment, and goodly of person and beloved and trusted by nicostratus above all other. of whom lydia grew mighty enamoured, insomuch that neither by day nor by night might her thoughts stray from him: but, whether it was that pyrrhus wist not her love, or would have none of it, he gave no sign of recognition; whereby the lady's suffering waxing more than she could bear, she made up her mind to declare her love to him; and having a chambermaid, lusca by name, in whom she placed great trust, she called her, and said:--"lusca, tokens thou hast had from me of my regard that should ensure thy obedience and loyalty; wherefore have a care that what i shall now tell thee reach the ears of none but him to whom i shall bid thee impart it. thou seest, lusca, that i am in the prime of my youth and lustihead, and have neither lack nor stint of all such things as folk desire, save only, to be brief, that i have one cause to repine, to wit, that my husband's years so far outnumber my own. wherefore with that wherein young ladies take most pleasure i am but ill provided, and, as my desire is no less than theirs, 'tis now some while since i determined that, if fortune has shewn herself so little friendly to me by giving me a husband so advanced in years, at least i will not be mine own enemy by sparing to devise the means whereby my happiness and health may be assured; and that herein, as in all other matters, my joy may be complete, i have chosen, thereto to minister by his embraces, our pyrrhus, deeming him more worthy than any other man, and have so set my heart upon him that i am ever ill at ease save when he is present either to my sight or to my mind, insomuch that, unless i forgather with him without delay, i doubt not that 'twill be the death of me. and so, if thou holdest my life dear, thou wilt shew him my love on such wise as thou mayst deem best, and make my suit to him that he be pleased to come to me, when thou shalt go to fetch him." "that gladly will i," replied the chambermaid; and as soon as she found convenient time and place, she drew pyrrhus apart, and, as best she knew how, conveyed her lady's message to him. which pyrrhus found passing strange to hear, for 'twas in truth a complete surprise to him, and he doubted the lady did but mean to try him. wherefore he presently, and with some asperity, answered thus:--"lusca, believe i cannot that this message comes from my lady: have a care, therefore, what thou sayst, and if, perchance, it does come from her, i doubt she does not mean it; and if perchance, she does mean it, why, then i am honoured by my lord above what i deserve, and i would not for my life do him such a wrong: so have a care never to speak of such matters to me again." lusca, nowise disconcerted by his uncompliant tone, rejoined:--"i shall speak to thee, pyrrhus, of these and all other matters, wherewith i may be commissioned by my lady, as often as she shall bid me, whether it pleases or irks thee; but thou art a blockhead." so, somewhat chafed, lusca bore pyrrhus' answer back to her lady, who would fain have died, when she heard it, and some days afterwards resumed the topic, saying:--"thou knowest, lusca, that 'tis not the first stroke that fells the oak; wherefore, methinks, thou wert best go back to this strange man, who is minded to evince his loyalty at my expense, and choosing a convenient time, declare to him all my passion, and do thy best endeavour that the affair be carried through; for if it should thus lapse, 'twould be the death of me; besides which, he would think we had but trifled with him, and, whereas 'tis his love we would have, we should earn his hatred." so, after comforting the lady, the maid hied her in quest of pyrrhus, whom she found in a gladsome and propitious mood, and thus addressed:--"'tis not many days, pyrrhus, since i declared to thee how ardent is the flame with which thy lady and mine is consumed for love of thee, and now again i do thee to wit thereof, and that, if thou shalt not relent of the harshness that thou didst manifest the other day, thou mayst rest assured that her life will be short: wherefore i pray thee to be pleased to give her solace of her desire, and shouldst thou persist in thy obduracy, i, that gave thee credit for not a little sense, shall deem thee a great fool. how flattered thou shouldst be to know thyself beloved above all else by a lady so beauteous and high-born! and how indebted shouldst thou feel thyself to fortune, seeing that she has in store for thee a boon so great and so suited to the cravings of thy youth, ay, and so like to be of service to thee upon occasion of need! bethink thee, if there be any of thine equals whose life is ordered more agreeably than thine will be if thou but be wise. which of them wilt thou find so well furnished with arms and horses, clothes and money as thou shalt be, if thou but give my lady thy love? receive, then, my words with open mind; be thyself again; bethink thee that 'tis fortune's way to confront a man but once with smiling mien and open lap, and, if he then accept not her bounty, he has but himself to blame, if afterward he find himself in want, in beggary. besides which, no such loyalty is demanded between servants and their masters as between friends and kinsfolk; rather 'tis for servants, so far as they may, to behave towards their masters as their masters behave towards them. thinkest thou, that, if thou hadst a fair wife or mother or daughter or sister that found favour in nicostratus' eyes, he would be so scrupulous on the point of loyalty as thou art disposed to be in regard of his lady? thou art a fool, if so thou dost believe. hold it for certain, that, if blandishments and supplications did not suffice, he would, whatever thou mightest think of it, have recourse to force. observe we, then, towards them and theirs the same rule which they observe towards us and ours. take the boon that fortune offers thee; repulse her not; rather go thou to meet her, and hail her advance; for be sure that, if thou do not so, to say nought of thy lady's death, which will certainly ensue, thou thyself wilt repent thee thereof so often that thou wilt be fain of death." since he had last seen lusca, pyrrhus had repeatedly pondered what she had said to him, and had made his mind up that, should she come again, he would answer her in another sort, and comply in all respects with the lady's desires, provided he might be assured that she was not merely putting him to the proof; wherefore he now made answer:--"lo, now, lusca, i acknowledge the truth of all that thou sayst; but, on the other hand, i know that my lord is not a little wise and wary, and, as he has committed all his affairs to my charge, i sorely misdoubt me that 'tis with his approbation, and by his advice, and but to prove me, that lydia does this: wherefore let her do three things which i shall demand of her for my assurance, and then there is nought that she shall crave of me, but i will certainly render her prompt obedience. which three things are these:--first, let her in nicostratus' presence kill his fine sparrow-hawk: then she must send me a lock of nicostratus' beard, and lastly one of his best teeth." hard seemed these terms to lusca, and hard beyond measure to the lady, but love, that great fautor of enterprise, and master of stratagem, gave her resolution to address herself to their performance: wherefore through the chambermaid she sent him word that what he required of her she would do, and that without either reservation or delay; and therewithal she told him, that, as he deemed nicostratus so wise, she would contrive that they should enjoy one another in nicostratus' presence, and that nicostratus should believe that 'twas a mere show. pyrrhus, therefore, anxiously expected what the lady would do. some days thus passed, and then nicostratus gave a great breakfast, as was his frequent wont, to certain gentlemen, and when the tables were removed, the lady, robed in green samite, and richly adorned, came forth of her chamber into the hall wherein they sate, and before the eyes of pyrrhus and all the rest of the company hied her to the perch, on which stood the sparrow-hawk that nicostratus so much prized, and loosed him, and, as if she were minded to carry him on her hand, took him by the jesses and dashed him against the wall so that he died. whereupon:--"alas! my lady, what hast thou done?" exclaimed nicostratus: but she vouchsafed no answer, save that, turning to the gentlemen that had sate at meat with him, she said:--"my lords, ill fitted were i to take vengeance on a king that had done me despite, if i lacked the courage to be avenged on a sparrow-hawk. you are to know that by this bird i have long been cheated of all the time that ought to be devoted by gentlemen to pleasuring their ladies; for with the first streaks of dawn nicostratus has been up and got him to horse, and hawk on hand hied him to the champaign to see him fly, leaving me, such as you see me, alone and ill content abed. for which cause i have oftentimes been minded to do that which i have now done, and have only refrained therefrom, that, biding my time, i might do it in the presence of men that should judge my cause justly, as i trust you will do." which hearing, the gentlemen, who deemed her affections no less fixed on nicostratus than her words imported, broke with one accord into a laugh, and turning to nicostratus, who was sore displeased, fell a saying:--"now well done of the lady to avenge her wrongs by the death of the sparrow-hawk!" and so, the lady being withdrawn to her chamber, they passed the affair off with divers pleasantries, turning the wrath of nicostratus to laughter. pyrrhus, who had witnessed what had passed, said to himself:--nobly indeed has my lady begun, and on such wise as promises well for the felicity of my love. god grant that she so continue. and even so lydia did: for not many days after she had killed the sparrow-hawk, she, being with nicostratus in her chamber, from caressing passed to toying and trifling with him, and he, sportively pulling her by the hair, gave her occasion to fulfil the second of pyrrhus' demands; which she did by nimbly laying hold of one of the lesser tufts of his beard, and, laughing the while, plucking it so hard that she tore it out of his chin. which nicostratus somewhat resenting:--"now what cause hast thou," quoth she, "to make such a wry face? 'tis but that i have plucked some half-dozen hairs from thy beard. thou didst not feel it as much as did i but now thy tugging of my hair." and so they continued jesting and sporting with one another, the lady jealously guarding the tuft that she had torn from the beard, which the very same day she sent to her cherished lover. the third demand caused the lady more thought; but, being amply endowed with wit, and powerfully, seconded by love, she failed not to hit upon an apt expedient. nicostratus had in his service two lads, who, being of gentle birth, had been placed with him by their kinsfolk, that they might learn manners, one of whom, when nicostratus sate at meat, carved before him, while the other gave him to drink. both lads lydia called to her, and gave them to understand that their breath smelt, and admonished them that, when they waited on nicostratus, they should hold their heads as far back as possible, saying never a word of the matter to any. the lads believing her, did as she bade them. whereupon she took occasion to say to nicostratus:--"hast thou marked what these lads do when they wait upon thee?" "troth, that have i," replied nicostratus; "indeed i have often had it in mind to ask them why they do so." "nay," rejoined the lady, "spare thyself the pains; for i can tell thee the reason, which i have for some time kept close, lest it should vex thee; but as i now see that others begin to be ware of it, it need no longer be withheld from thee. 'tis for that thy breath stinks shrewdly that they thus avert their heads from thee: 'twas not wont to be so, nor know i why it should be so; and 'tis most offensive when thou art in converse with gentlemen; and therefore 'twould be well to find some way of curing it." "i wonder what it could be," returned nicostratus; "is it perchance that i have a decayed tooth in my jaw?" "that may well be," quoth lydia: and taking him to a window, she caused him open his mouth, and after regarding it on this side and that:--"oh! nicostratus," quoth she, "how couldst thou have endured it so long? thou hast a tooth here, which, by what i see, is not only decayed, but actually rotten throughout; and beyond all manner of doubt, if thou let it remain long in thy head, 'twill infect its neighbours; so 'tis my advice that thou out with it before the matter grows worse." "my judgment jumps with thine," quoth nicostratus; "wherefore send without delay for a chirurgeon to draw it." "god forbid," returned the lady, "that chirurgeon come hither for such a purpose; methinks, the case is such that i can very well dispense with him, and draw the tooth myself. besides which, these chirurgeons do these things in such a cruel way, that i could never endure to see thee or know thee under the hands of any of them: wherefore my mind is quite made up to do it myself, that, at least, if thou shalt suffer too much, i may give it over at once, as a chirurgeon would not do." and so she caused the instruments that are used on such occasions to be brought her, and having dismissed all other attendants save lusca from the chamber, and locked the door, made nicostratus lie down on a table, set the pincers in his mouth, and clapped them on one of his teeth, which, while lusca held him, so that, albeit he roared for pain, he might not move, she wrenched by main force from his jaw, and keeping it close, took from lusca's hand another and horribly decayed tooth, which she shewed him, suffering and half dead as he was, saying:--"see what thou hadst in thy jaw; mark how far gone it is." believing what she said, and deeming that, now the tooth was out, his breath would no more be offensive, and being somewhat eased of the pain, which had been extreme, and still remained, so that he murmured not little, by divers comforting applications, he quitted the chamber: whereupon the lady forthwith sent the tooth to her lover, who, having now full assurance of her love, placed himself entirely at her service. but the lady being minded to make his assurance yet more sure, and deeming each hour a thousand till she might be with him, now saw fit, for the more ready performance of the promise she had given him, to feign sickness; and nicostratus, coming to see her one day after breakfast, attended only by pyrrhus, she besought him for her better solacement, to help her down to the garden. wherefore nicostratus on one side, and pyrrhus on the other, took her and bore her down to the garden, and set her on a lawn at the foot of a beautiful pear-tree: and after they had sate there a while, the lady, who had already given pyrrhus to understand what he must do, said to him:--"pyrrhus, i should greatly like to have some of those pears; get thee up the tree, and shake some of them down." pyrrhus climbed the tree in a trice, and began to shake down the pears, and while he did so:--"fie! sir," quoth he, "what is this you do? and you, madam, have you no shame, that you suffer him to do so in my presence? think you that i am blind? 'twas but now that you were gravely indisposed. your cure has been speedy indeed to permit of your so behaving: and as for such a purpose you have so many goodly chambers, why betake you not yourselves to one of them, if you must needs so disport yourselves? 'twould be much more decent than to do so in my presence." whereupon the lady, turning to her husband:--"now what can pyrrhus mean?" said she. "is he mad?" "nay, madam," quoth pyrrhus; "mad am not i. think you i see you not?" whereat nicostratus marvelled not a little; and:--"pyrrhus," quoth he, "i verily believe thou dreamest." "nay, my lord," replied pyrrhus, "not a whit do i dream; neither do you; rather you wag it with such vigour, that, if this pear-tree did the like, there would be never a pear left on it." then the lady:--"what can this mean?" quoth she: "can it be that it really seems to him to be as he says? upon my hope of salvation, were i but in my former health, i would get me up there to judge for myself what these wonders are which he professes to see." whereupon, as pyrrhus in the pear-tree continued talking in the same strange strain:--"come down," quoth nicostratus; and when he was down:--"now what," said nicostratus, "is it thou sayst thou seest up there?" "i suppose," replied pyrrhus, "that you take me to be deluded or dreaming: but as i must needs tell you the truth, i saw you lying upon your wife, and then, when i came down, i saw you get up and sit you down here where you now are." "therein," said nicostratus, "thou wast certainly deluded, for, since thou clombest the pear-tree, we have not budged a jot, save as thou seest." then said pyrrhus:--"why make more words about the matter? see you i certainly did; and, seeing you, i saw you lying upon your own." nicostratus' wonder now waxed momently, insomuch that he said:--"i am minded to see if this pear-tree be enchanted, so that whoso is in it sees marvels;" and so he got him up into it. whereupon the lady and pyrrhus fell to disporting them, and nicostratus, seeing what they were about, exclaimed:--"ah! lewd woman, what is this thou doest? and thou, pyrrhus, in whom i so much trusted!" and so saying, he began to climb down. meanwhile the lady and pyrrhus had made answer:--"we are sitting here:" and seeing him descending, they placed themselves as they had been when he had left them, whom nicostratus, being come down, no sooner saw, than he fell a rating them. then quoth pyrrhus:--"verily, nicostratus, i now acknowledge, that, as you said a while ago, what i saw when i was in the pear-tree was but a false show, albeit i had never understood that so it was but that i now see and know that thou hast also seen a false show. and that i speak truth, you may sufficiently assure yourself, if you but reflect whether 'tis likely that your wife, who for virtue and discretion has not her peer among women, would, if she were minded so to dishonour you, see fit to do so before your very eyes. of myself i say nought, albeit i had liefer be hewn in pieces than that i should so much as think of such a thing, much less do it in your presence. wherefore 'tis evident that 'tis some illusion of sight that is propagated from the pear-tree; for nought in the world would have made me believe that i saw not you lying there in carnal intercourse with your wife, had i not heard you say that you saw me doing that which most assuredly, so far from doing, i never so much as thought of." the lady then started up with a most resentful mien, and burst out with:--"foul fall thee, if thou knowest so little of me as to suppose that, if i were minded to do thee such foul dishonour as thou sayst thou didst see me do, i would come hither to do it before thine eyes! rest assured that for such a purpose, were it ever mine, i should deem one of our chambers more meet, and it should go hard but i would so order the matter that thou shouldst never know aught of it." nicostratus, having heard both, and deeming that what they both averred must be true, to wit, that they would never have ventured upon such an act in his presence, passed from chiding to talk of the singularity of the thing, and how marvellous it was that the vision should reshape itself for every one that clomb the tree. the lady, however, made a show of being distressed that nicostratus should so have thought of her, and:--"verily," quoth she, "no woman, neither i nor another, shall again suffer loss of honour by this pear-tree: run, pyrrhus, and bring hither an axe, and at one and the same time vindicate thy honour and mine by felling it, albeit 'twere better far nicostratus' skull should feel the weight of the axe, seeing that in utter heedlessness he so readily suffered the eyes of his mind to be blinded; for, albeit this vision was seen by the bodily eye, yet ought the understanding by no means to have entertained and affirmed it as real." so pyrrhus presently hied him to fetch the axe, and returning therewith felled the pear; whereupon the lady, turning towards nicostratus:--"now that this foe of my honour is fallen," quoth she, "my wrath is gone from me." nicostratus then craving her pardon, she graciously granted it him, bidding him never again to suffer himself to be betrayed into thinking such a thing of her, who loved him more dearly than herself. so the poor duped husband went back with her and her lover to the palace, where not seldom in time to come pyrrhus and lydia took their pastime together more at ease. god grant us the like. novel x. -- two sienese love a lady, one of them being her gossip: the gossip dies, having promised his comrade to return to him from the other world; which he does, and tells him what sort of life is led there. -- none now was left to tell, save the king, who, as soon as the ladies had ceased mourning over the fall of the pear-tree, that had done no wrong, and were silent, began thus:--most manifest it is that 'tis the prime duty of a just king to observe the laws that he has made; and, if he do not so, he is to be esteemed no king, but a slave that has merited punishment, into which fault, and under which condemnation, i, your king, must, as of necessity, fall. for, indeed, when yesterday i made the law which governs our discourse of to-day, i thought not to-day to avail myself of my privilege, but to submit to the law, no less than you, and to discourse of the same topic whereof you all have discoursed; but not only has the very story been told which i had intended to tell, but therewithal so many things else, and so very much goodlier have been said, that, search my memory as i may, i cannot mind me of aught, nor wot i that touching such a matter there is indeed aught, for me to say, that would be comparable with what has been said; wherefore, as infringe i must the law that i myself have made, i confess myself worthy of punishment, and instantly declaring my readiness to pay any forfeit that may be demanded of me, am minded to have recourse to my wonted privilege. and such, dearest ladies, is the potency of elisa's story of the godfather and his gossip, and therewith of the simplicity of the sienese, that i am prompted thereby to pass from this topic of the beguilement of foolish husbands by their cunning wives to a little story touching these same sienese, which, albeit there is not a little therein which you were best not to believe, may yet be in some degree entertaining to hear. know, then, that at siena there dwelt in porta salaia two young men of the people, named, the one, tingoccio mini, the other meuccio di tura, who, by what appeared, loved one another not a little, for they were scarce ever out of one another's company; and being wont, like other folk, to go to church and listen to sermons, they heard from time to time of the glory and the woe, which in the other world are allotted, according to merit, to the souls of the dead. of which matters craving, but being unable to come by, more certain assurance, they agreed together that, whichever of them should die first, should, if he might, return to the survivor, and certify him of that which he would fain know; and this agreement they confirmed with an oath. now, after they had made this engagement, and while they were still constantly together, tingoccio chanced to become sponsor to one ambruogio anselmini, that dwelt in campo reggi, who had had a son by his wife, monna mita. the lady was exceeding fair, and amorous withal, and tingoccio being wont sometimes to visit her as his gossip, and to take meuccio with him, he, notwithstanding his sponsorship, grew enamoured of her, as did also meuccio, for she pleased him not a little, and he heard her much commended by tingoccio. which love each concealed from the other; but not for the same reason. tingoccio was averse to discover it to meuccio, for that he deemed it an ignominious thing to love his gossip, and was ashamed to let any one know it. meuccio was on his guard for a very different reason, to wit, that he was already ware that the lady was in tingoccio's good graces. wherefore he said to himself:--if i avow my love to him, he will be jealous of me, and as, being her gossip, he can speak with her as often as he pleases, he will do all he can to make her hate me, and so i shall never have any favour of her. now, the two young men being thus, as i have said, on terms of most familiar friendship, it befell that tingoccio, being the better able to open his heart to the lady, did so order his demeanour and discourse that he had from her all that he desired. nor was his friend's success hidden from meuccio; though, much as it vexed him, yet still cherishing the hope of eventually attaining his end, and fearing to give tingoccio occasion to baulk or hamper him in some way, he feigned to know nought of the matter. so tingoccio, more fortunate than his comrade, and rival in love, did with such assiduity till his gossip's good land that he got thereby a malady, which in the course of some days waxed so grievous that he succumbed thereto, and departed this life. and on the night of the third day after his decease (perchance because earlier he might not) he made his appearance, according to his promise, in meuccio's chamber, and called meuccio, who was fast asleep, by his name. whereupon:--"who art thou?" quoth meuccio, as he awoke. "'tis i, tingoccio," replied he, "come back, in fulfilment of the pledge i gave thee, to give thee tidings of the other world." for a while meuccio saw him not without terror: then, his courage reviving:--"welcome, my brother," quoth he: and proceeded to ask him if he were lost. "nought is lost but what is irrecoverable," replied tingoccio: "how then should i be here, if i were lost?" "nay," quoth then meuccio; "i mean it not so: i would know of thee, whether thou art of the number of the souls that are condemned to the penal fire of hell." "why no," returned tingoccio, "not just that; but still for the sins that i did i am in most sore and grievous torment." meuccio then questioned tingoccio in detail of the pains there meted out for each of the sins done here; and tingoccio enumerated them all. whereupon meuccio asked if there were aught he might do for him here on earth. tingoccio answered in the affirmative; to wit, that he might have masses and prayers said and alms-deeds done for him, for that such things were of great service to the souls there. "that gladly will i," replied meuccio; and then, as tingoccio was about to take his leave, he bethought him of the gossip, and raising his head a little, he said:--"i mind me, tingoccio, of the gossip, with whom thou wast wont to lie when thou wast here. now what is thy punishment for that?" "my brother," returned tingoccio, "as soon as i got down there, i met one that seemed to know all my sins by heart, who bade me betake me to a place, where, while in direst torment i bewept my sins, i found comrades not a few condemned to the same pains; and so, standing there among them, and calling to mind what i had done with the gossip, and foreboding in requital thereof a much greater torment than had yet been allotted me, albeit i was in a great and most vehement flame, i quaked for fear in every part of me. which one that was beside me observing:--'what,' quoth he, 'hast thou done more than the rest of us that are here, that thou quakest thus as thou standest in the fire?' 'my friend,' quoth i, 'i am in mortal fear of the doom that i expect for a great sin that i once committed.' he then asked what sin it might be. ''twas on this wise,' replied i: 'i lay with my gossip, and that so much that i died thereof.' whereat, he did but laugh, saying:--'go to, fool, make thy mind easy; for here there is no account taken of gossips.' which completely revived my drooping spirits." 'twas now near daybreak: wherefore:--"adieu! meuccio," quoth his friend: "for longer tarry with thee i may not;" and so he vanished. as for meuccio, having learned that no account was taken of gossips in the other world, he began to laugh at his own folly in that he had already spared divers such; and so, being quit of his ignorance, he in that respect in course of time waxed wise. which matters had fra rinaldo but known, he would not have needed to go about syllogizing in order to bring his fair gossip to pleasure him. the sun was westering, and a light breeze blew, when the king, his story ended, and none else being left to speak, arose, and taking off the crown, set it on lauretta's head, saying:--"madam, i crown you with yourself( ) queen of our company: 'tis now for you, as our sovereign lady, to make such ordinances as you shall deem meet for our common solace and delectation;" and having so said, he sat him down again. queen lauretta sent for the seneschal, and bade him have a care that the tables should be set in the pleasant vale somewhat earlier than had been their wont, that their return to the palace might be more leisurely; after which she gave him to know what else he had to do during her sovereignty. then turning to the company:--"yesterday," quoth she, "dioneo would have it that to-day we should discourse of the tricks that wives play their husbands; and but that i am minded not to shew as of the breed of yelping curs, that are ever prompt to retaliate, i would ordain that to-morrow we discourse of the tricks that husbands play their wives. however, in lieu thereof, i will have every one take thought to tell of those tricks that, daily, woman plays man, or man woman, or one man another; wherein, i doubt not, there will be matter of discourse no less agreeable than has been that of to-day." so saying, she rose and dismissed the company until supper-time. so the ladies and the men being risen, some bared their feet and betook them to the clear water, there to disport them, while others took their pleasure upon the green lawn amid the trees that there grew goodly and straight. for no brief while dioneo and fiammetta sang in concert of arcite and palamon. and so, each and all taking their several pastimes, they sped the hours with exceeding great delight until supper-time. which being come, they sat them down at table beside the little lake, and there, while a thousand songsters charmed their ears, and a gentle breeze, that blew from the environing hills, fanned them, and never a fly annoyed them, reposefully and joyously they supped. the tables removed, they roved a while about the pleasant vale, and then, the sun being still high, for 'twas but half vespers, the queen gave the word, and they wended their way back to their wonted abode, and going slowly, and beguiling the way with quips and quirks without number upon divers matters, nor those alone of which they had that day discoursed, they arrived, hard upon nightfall, at the goodly palace. there, the short walk's fatigue dispelled by wines most cool and comfits, they presently gathered for the dance about the fair fountain, and now they footed it to the strains of tindaro's cornemuse, and now to other music. which done, the queen bade filomena give them a song; and thus filomena sang:-- ah! woe is me, my soul! ah! shall i ever thither fare again whence i was parted to my grievous dole? full sure i know not; but within my breast throbs ever the same fire of yearning there where erst i was to be. o thou in whom is all my weal, my rest, lord of my heart's desire, ah! tell me thou! for none to ask save thee neither dare i, nor see. ah! dear my lord, this wasted heart disdain thou wilt not, but with hope at length console. kindled the flame i know not what delight, which me doth so devour, that day and night alike i find no ease; for whether it was by hearing, touch, or sight, unwonted was the power, and fresh the fire that me each way did seize; wherein without release i languish still, and of thee, lord, am fain, for thou alone canst comfort and make whole. ah! tell me if it shall be, and how soon, that i again thee meet where those death-dealing eyes i kissed. thou, chief weal of my soul, my very soul, this boon deny not; say that fleet thou hiest hither: comfort thus my grief. ah! let the time be brief till thou art here, and then long time remain; for i, love-stricken, crave but love's control. let me but once again mine own thee call, no more so indiscreet as erst, i'll be, to let thee from me part: nay, i'll still hold thee, let what may befall, and of thy mouth so sweet such solace take as may content my heart so this be all my art, thee to entice, me with thine arms to enchain: whereon but musing inly chants my soul. this song set all the company conjecturing what new and delightsome love might now hold filomena in its sway; and as its words imported that she had had more joyance thereof than sight alone might yield, some that were there grew envious of her excess of happiness. however, the song being ended, the queen, bethinking her that the morrow was friday, thus graciously addressed them all:--"ye wot, noble ladies, and ye also, my gallants, that to-morrow is the day that is sacred to the passion of our lord, which, if ye remember, we kept devoutly when neifile was queen, intermitting delectable discourse, as we did also on the ensuing saturday. wherefore, being minded to follow neifile's excellent example, i deem that now, as then, 'twere a seemly thing to surcease from this our pastime of story-telling for those two days, and compose our minds to meditation on what was at that season accomplished for the weal of our souls." all the company having approved their queen's devout speech, she, as the night was now far spent, dismissed them; and so they all betook them to slumber. ( ) a play upon laurea (laurel wreath) and lauretta. -- endeth here the seventh day of the decameron, beginneth the eighth, in which, under the rule of lauretta, discourse is had of those tricks that, daily, woman plays man, or man woman, or one man another. -- the summits of the loftiest mountains were already illumined by the rays of the rising sun, the shades of night were fled, and all things plainly visible, when the queen and her company arose, and hied them first to the dewy mead, where for a while they walked: then, about half tierce, they wended their way to a little church that was hard by, where they heard divine service; after which, they returned to the palace, and having breakfasted with gay and gladsome cheer, and sung and danced a while, were dismissed by the queen, to rest them as to each might seem good. but when the sun was past the meridian, the queen mustered them again for their wonted pastime; and, all being seated by the fair fountain, thus, at her command, neifile began. novel i. -- gulfardo borrows moneys of guasparruolo, which he has agreed to give guasparruolo's wife, that he may lie with her. he gives them to her, and in her presence tells guasparruolo that he has done so, and she acknowledges that 'tis true. -- sith god has ordained that 'tis for me to take the lead to-day with my story, well pleased am i. and for that, loving ladies, much has been said touching the tricks that women play men, i am minded to tell you of one that a man played a woman, not because i would censure what the man did, or say that 'twas not merited by the woman, but rather to commend the man and censure the woman, and to shew that men may beguile those that think to beguile them, as well as be beguiled by those they think to beguile; for peradventure what i am about to relate should in strictness of speech not be termed beguilement, but rather retaliation; for, as it behoves woman to be most strictly virtuous, and to guard her chastity as her very life, nor on any account to allow herself to sully it, which notwithstanding, 'tis not possible by reason of our frailty that there should be as perfect an observance of this law as were meet, i affirm, that she that allows herself to infringe it for money merits the fire; whereas she that so offends under the prepotent stress of love will receive pardon from any judge that knows how to temper justice with mercy: witness what but the other day we heard from filostrato touching madonna filippa at prato.( ) know, then, that there was once at milan a german mercenary, gulfardo by name, a doughty man, and very loyal to those with whom he took service; a quality most uncommon in germans. and as he was wont to be most faithful in repaying whatever moneys he borrowed, he would have had no difficulty in finding a merchant to advance him any amount of money at a low rate of interest. now, tarrying thus at milan, gulfardo fixed his affection on a very fine woman, named madonna ambruogia, the wife of a wealthy merchant, one guasparruolo cagastraccio, with whom he was well acquainted and on friendly terms: which amour he managed with such discretion that neither the husband nor any one else wist aught of it. so one day he sent her a message, beseeching her of her courtesy to gratify his passion, and assuring her that he on his part was ready to obey her every behest. the lady made a great many words about the affair, the upshot of which was that she would do as gulfardo desired upon the following terms: to wit, that, in the first place, he should never discover the matter to a soul, and, secondly, that, as for some purpose or another she required two hundred florins of gold, he out of his abundance should supply her necessity; these conditions being satisfied she would be ever at his service. offended by such base sordidness in one whom he had supposed to be an honourable woman, gulfardo passed from ardent love to something very like hatred, and cast about how he might flout her. so he sent her word that he would right gladly pleasure her in this and in any other matter that might be in his power; let her but say when he was to come to see her, and he would bring the moneys with him, and none should know of the matter except a comrade of his, in whom he placed much trust, and who was privy to all that he did. the lady, if she should not rather be called the punk, gleefully made answer that in the course of a few days her husband, guasparruolo, was to go to genoa on business, and that, when he was gone, she would let gulfardo know, and appoint a time for him to visit her. gulfardo thereupon chose a convenient time, and hied him to guasparruolo, to whom:--"i am come," quoth he, "about a little matter of business which i have on hand, for which i require two hundred florins of gold, and i should be glad if thou wouldst lend them me at the rate of interest which thou art wont to charge me." "that gladly will i," replied guasparruolo, and told out the money at once. a few days later guasparruolo being gone to genoa, as the lady had said, she sent word to gulfardo that he should bring her the two hundred florins of gold. so gulfardo hied him with his comrade to the lady's house, where he found her expecting him, and lost no time in handing her the two hundred florins of gold in his comrade's presence, saying:--"you will keep the money, madam, and give it to your husband when he returns." witting not why gulfardo so said, but thinking that 'twas but to conceal from his comrade that it was given by way of price, the lady made answer:--"that will i gladly; but i must first see whether the amount is right;" whereupon she told the florins out upon a table, and when she found that the two hundred were there, she put them away in high glee, and turning to gulfardo, took him into her chamber, where, not on that night only but on many another night, while her husband was away, he had of her all that he craved. on guasparruolo's return gulfardo presently paid him a visit, having first made sure that the lady would be with him, and so in her presence:--"guasparruolo," quoth he, "i had after all no occasion for the money, to wit, the two hundred florins of gold that thou didst lend me the other day, being unable to carry through the transaction for which i borrowed them, and so i took an early opportunity of bringing them to thy wife, and gave them to her: thou wilt therefore cancel the account." whereupon guasparruolo turned to the lady, and asked her if she had had them. she, not daring to deny the fact in presence of the witness, answered:--"why, yes, i had them, and quite forgot to tell thee." "good," quoth then guasparruolo, "we are quits, gulfardo; make thy mind easy; i will see that thy account is set right." gulfardo then withdrew, leaving the flouted lady to hand over her ill-gotten gains to her husband; and so the astute lover had his pleasure of his greedy mistress for nothing. ( ) cf. sixth day, novel vii. novel ii. -- the priest of varlungo lies with monna belcolore: he leaves with her his cloak by way of pledge, and receives from her a mortar. he returns the mortar, and demands of her the cloak that he had left in pledge, which the good lady returns him with a gibe. -- ladies and men alike commended gulfardo for the check that he gave to the greed of the milanese lady; but before they had done, the queen turned to pamfilo, and with a smile bade him follow suit: wherefore thus pamfilo began:--fair my ladies, it occurs to me to tell you a short story, which reflects no credit on those by whom we are continually wronged without being able to retaliate, to wit, the priests, who have instituted a crusade against our wives, and deem that, when they have made conquest of one of them, they have done a work every whit as worthy of recompense by remission of sin and punishment as if they had brought the soldan in chains to avignon: in which respect 'tis not possible for the hapless laity to be even with them: howbeit they are as hot to make reprisals on the priests' mothers, sisters, mistresses, and daughters as the priests to attack their wives. wherefore i am minded to give you, as i may do in few words, the history of a rustic amour, the conclusion whereof was not a little laughable, nor barren of moral, for you may also gather therefrom, that 'tis not always well to believe everything that a priest says. i say then, that at varlungo, a village hard by here, as all of you, my ladies, should wot either of your own knowledge or by report, there dwelt a worthy priest, and doughty of body in the service of the ladies: who, albeit he was none too quick at his book, had no lack of precious and blessed solecisms to edify his flock withal of a sunday under the elm. and when the men were out of doors, he would visit their wives as never a priest had done before him, bringing them feast-day gowns and holy water, and now and again a bit of candle, and giving them his blessing. now it so befell that among those of his fair parishioners whom he most affected the first place was at length taken by one monna belcolore, the wife of a husbandman that called himself bentivegna del mazzo. and in good sooth she was a winsome and lusty country lass, brown as a berry and buxom enough, and fitter than e'er another for his mill. moreover she had not her match in playing the tabret and singing:--the borage is full sappy,( ) and in leading a brawl or a breakdown, no matter who might be next her, with a fair and dainty kerchief in her hand. which spells so wrought upon master priest, that for love of her he grew distracted, and did nought all day long but loiter about the village on the chance of catching sight of her. and if of a sunday morning he espied her in church, he strove might and main to acquit himself of his kyrie and sanctus in the style of a great singer, albeit his performance was liker to the braying of an ass: whereas, if he saw her not, he scarce exerted himself at all. however, he managed with such discretion that neither bentivegna del mazzo nor any of the neighbours wist aught of his love. and hoping thereby to ingratiate himself with monna belcolore, he from time to time would send her presents, now a clove of fresh garlic, the best in all the country-side, from his own garden, which he tilled with his own hands, and anon a basket of beans or a bunch of chives or shallots; and, when he thought it might serve his turn, he would give her a sly glance, and follow it up with a little amorous mocking and mowing, which she, with rustic awkwardness, feigned not to understand, and ever maintained her reserve, so that master priest made no headway. now it so befell that one day, when the priest at high noon was aimlessly gadding about the village, he encountered bentivegna del mazzo at the tail of a well laden ass; and greeted him, asking him whither he was going. "i'faith, sir," quoth bentivegna, "for sure 'tis to town i go, having an affair or two to attend to there; and i am taking these things to ser buonaccorri da ginestreto, to get him to stand by me in i wot not what matter, whereof the justice o' th' coram has by his provoker served me with a pertrumpery summons to appear before him." whereupon:--"'tis well, my son," quoth the priest, overjoyed, "my blessing go with thee: good luck to thee and a speedy return; and harkye, shouldst thou see lapuccio or naldino, do not forget to tell them to send me those thongs for my flails." "it shall be done," quoth bentivegna, and jogged on towards florence, while the priest, thinking that now was his time to hie him to belcolore and try his fortune, put his best leg forward, and stayed not till he was at the house, which entering, he said:--"god be gracious to us! who is within?" belcolore, who was up in the loft, made answer:--"welcome, sir; but what dost thou, gadding about in the heat?" "why, as i hope for god's blessing," quoth he, "i am just come to stay with thee a while, having met thy husband on his way to town." whereupon down came belcolore, took a seat, and began sifting cabbage-seed that her husband had lately threshed. by and by the priest began:--"so, belcolore, wilt thou keep me ever a dying thus?" whereat belcolore tittered, and said:--"why, what is't i do to you?" "truly, nothing at all," replied the priest: "but thou sufferest me not to do to thee that which i had lief, and which god commands." "now away with you!" returned belcolore, "do priests do that sort of thing?" "indeed we do," quoth the priest, "and to better purpose than others: why not? i tell you our grinding is far better; and wouldst thou know why? 'tis because 'tis intermittent. and in truth 'twill be well worth thy while to keep thine own counsel, and let me do it." "worth my while!" ejaculated belcolore. "how may that be? there is never a one of you but would overreach the very devil." "'tis not for me to say," returned the priest; "say but what thou wouldst have: shall it be a pair of dainty shoes? or wouldst thou prefer a fillet? or perchance a gay riband? what's thy will?" "marry, no lack have i," quoth belcolore, "of such things as these. but, if you wish me so well, why do me not a service? and i would then be at your command." "name but the service," returned the priest, "and gladly will i do it." quoth then belcolore:--"on saturday i have to go to florence to deliver some wool that i have spun, and to get my spinning-wheel put in order: lend me but five pounds--i know you have them--and i will redeem my perse petticoat from the pawnshop, and also the girdle that i wear on saints' days, and that i had when i was married--you see that without them i cannot go to church or anywhere else, and then i will do just as you wish thenceforth and forever." whereupon:--"so god give me a good year," quoth he, "as i have not the money with me: but never fear that i will see that thou hast it before saturday with all the pleasure in life." "ay, ay," rejoined belcolore, "you all make great promises, but then you never keep them. think you to serve me as you served biliuzza, whom you left in the lurch at last? god's faith, you do not so. to think that she turned woman of the world just for that! if you have not the money with you, why, go and get it." "prithee," returned the priest, "send me not home just now. for, seest thou, 'tis the very nick of time with me, and the coast is clear, and perchance it might not be so on my return, and in short i know not when it would be likely to go so well as now." whereto she did but rejoin:--"good; if you are minded to go, get you gone; if not, stay where you are." the priest, therefore, seeing that she was not disposed to give him what he wanted, as he was fain, to wit, on his own terms, but was bent upon having a quid pro quo, changed his tone; and:--"lo, now," quoth he, "thou doubtest i will not bring thee the money; so to set thy mind at rest, i will leave thee this cloak--thou seest 'tis good sky-blue silk--in pledge." so raising her head and glancing at the cloak:--"and what may the cloak be worth?" quoth belcolore. "worth!" ejaculated the priest: "i would have thee know that 'tis all douai, not to say trouai, make: nay, there are some of our folk here that say 'tis quadrouai; and 'tis not a fortnight since i bought it of lotto, the secondhand dealer, for seven good pounds, and then had it five good soldi under value, by what i hear from buglietto, who, thou knowest, is an excellent judge of these articles." "oh! say you so?" exclaimed belcolore. "so help me god, i should not have thought it; however, let me look at it." so master priest, being ready for action, doffed the cloak and handed it to her. and she, having put it in a safe place, said to him:--"now, sir, we will away to the hut; there is never a soul goes there;" and so they did. and there master priest, giving her many a mighty buss and straining her to his sacred person, solaced himself with her no little while. which done, he hied him away in his cassock, as if he were come from officiating at a wedding; but, when he was back in his holy quarters, he bethought him that not all the candles that he received by way of offering in the course of an entire year would amount to the half of five pounds, and saw that he had made a bad bargain, and repented him that he had left the cloak in pledge, and cast about how he might recover it without paying anything. and as he did not lack cunning, he hit upon an excellent expedient, by which he compassed his end. so on the morrow, being a saint's day, he sent a neighbour's lad to monna belcolore with a request that she would be so good as to lend him her stone mortar, for that binguccio dal poggio and nuto buglietti were to breakfast with him that morning, and he therefore wished to make a sauce. belcolore having sent the mortar, the priest, about breakfast time, reckoning that bentivegna del mazzo and belcolore would be at their meal, called his clerk, and said to him:--"take the mortar back to belcolore, and say:--'my master thanks you very kindly, and bids you return the cloak that the lad left with you in pledge.'" the clerk took the mortar to belcolore's house, where, finding her at table with bentivegna, he set the mortar down and delivered the priest's message. whereto belcolore would fain have demurred; but bentivegna gave her a threatening glance, saying:--"so, then, thou takest a pledge from master priest? by christ, i vow, i have half a mind to give thee a great clout o' the chin. go, give it back at once, a murrain on thee! and look to it that whatever he may have a mind to, were it our very ass, he be never denied." so, with a very bad grace, belcolore got up, and went to the wardrobe, and took out the cloak, and gave it to the clerk, saying:--"tell thy master from me:--would to god he may never ply pestle in my mortar again, such honour has he done me for this turn!" so the clerk returned with the cloak, and delivered the message to master priest; who, laughing, made answer:--"tell her, when thou next seest her, that, so she lend us not the mortar, i will not lend her the pestle: be it tit for tat." bentivegna made no account of his wife's words, deeming that 'twas but his chiding that had provoked them. but belcolore was not a little displeased with master priest, and had never a word to say to him till the vintage; after which, what with the salutary fear in which she stood of the mouth of lucifer the great, to which he threatened to consign her, and the must and roast chestnuts that he sent her, she made it up with him, and many a jolly time they had together. and though she got not the five pounds from him, he put a new skin on her tabret, and fitted it with a little bell, wherewith she was satisfied. ( ) for this folk-song see cantilene e ballate, strambotti e madrigali, ed. carducci ( ), p. . the fragment there printed maybe freely rendered as follows:-- the borage is full sappy, and clusters red we see, and my love would make me happy; so that maiden give to me. ill set i find this dance, and better might it be: so, comrade mine, advance, and, changing place with me, stand thou thy love beside. novel iii. -- calandrino, bruno and buffalmacco go in quest of the heliotrope beside the mugnone. thinking to have found it, calandrino gets him home laden with stones. his wife chides him: whereat he waxes wroth, beats her, and tells his comrades what they know better than he. -- ended pamfilo's story, which moved the ladies to inextinguishable laughter, the queen bade elisa follow suit: whereupon, laughing, she thus began:--i know not, debonair my ladies, whether with my little story, which is no less true than entertaining, i shall give you occasion to laugh as much as pamfilo has done with his, but i will do my best. in our city, where there has never been lack of odd humours and queer folk, there dwelt, no long time ago, a painter named calandrino, a simple soul, of uncouth manners, that spent most of his time with two other painters, the one bruno, the other buffalmacco, by name, pleasant fellows enough, but not without their full share of sound and shrewd sense, and who kept with calandrino for that they not seldom found his singular ways and his simplicity very diverting. there was also at the same time at florence one maso del saggio, a fellow marvellously entertaining by his cleverness, dexterity and unfailing resource; who having heard somewhat touching calandrino's simplicity, resolved to make fun of him by playing him a trick, and inducing him to believe some prodigy. and happening one day to come upon calandrino in the church of san giovanni, where he sate intently regarding the paintings and intaglios of the tabernacle above the altar, which had then but lately been set there, he deemed time and place convenient for the execution of his design; which he accordingly imparted to one of his comrades: whereupon the two men drew nigh the place where calandrino sate alone, and feigning not to see him fell a talking of the virtues of divers stones, of which maso spoke as aptly and pertinently as if he had been a great and learned lapidary. calandrino heard what passed between them, and witting that 'twas no secret, after a while got up, and joined them, to maso's no small delight. he therefore continued his discourse, and being asked by calandrino, where these stones of such rare virtues were to be found, made answer:--"chiefly in berlinzone, in the land of the basques. the district is called bengodi, and there they bind the vines with sausages, and a denier will buy a goose and a gosling into the bargain; and on a mountain, all of grated parmesan cheese, dwell folk that do nought else but make macaroni and raviuoli,( ) and boil them in capon's broth, and then throw them down to be scrambled for; and hard by flows a rivulet of vernaccia, the best that ever was drunk, and never a drop of water therein." "ah! 'tis a sweet country!" quoth calandrino; "but tell me, what becomes of the capons that they boil?" "they are all eaten by the basques," replied maso. then:--"wast thou ever there?" quoth calandrino. whereupon:--"was i ever there, sayst thou?" replied maso. "why, if i have been there once, i have been there a thousand times." "and how many miles is't from here?" quoth calandrino. "oh!" returned maso, "more than thou couldst number in a night without slumber." "farther off, then, than the abruzzi?" said calandrino. "why, yes, 'tis a bit farther," replied maso. now calandrino, like the simple soul that he was, marking the composed and grave countenance with which maso spoke, could not have believed him more thoroughly, if he had uttered the most patent truth, and thus taking his words for gospel:--"'tis a trifle too far for my purse," quoth he; "were it nigher, i warrant thee, i would go with thee thither one while, just to see the macaroni come tumbling down, and take my fill thereof. but tell me, so good luck befall thee, are none of these stones, that have these rare virtues, to be found in these regions?" "ay," replied maso, "two sorts of stone are found there, both of virtues extraordinary. the one sort are the sandstones of settignano and montisci, which being made into millstones, by virtue thereof flour is made; wherefore 'tis a common saying in those countries that blessings come from god and millstones from montisci: but, for that these sandstones are in great plenty, they are held cheap by us, just as by them are emeralds, whereof they have mountains, bigger than monte morello, that shine at midnight, a god's name! and know this, that whoso should make a goodly pair of millstones, and connect them with a ring before ever a hole was drilled in them, and take them to the soldan, should get all he would have thereby. the other sort of stone is the heliotrope, as we lapidaries call it, a stone of very great virtue, inasmuch as whoso carries it on his person is seen, so long as he keep it, by never another soul, where he is not." "these be virtues great indeed," quoth calandrino; "but where is this second stone to be found?" whereto maso made answer that there were usually some to be found in the mugnone. "and what are its size and colour?" quoth calandrino. "the size varies," replied maso, "for some are bigger and some smaller than others; but all are of the same colour, being nearly black." all these matters duly marked and fixed in his memory, calandrino made as if he had other things to attend to, and took his leave of maso with the intention of going in quest of the stone, but not until he had let his especial friends, bruno and buffalmacco, know of his project. so, that no time might be lost, but, postponing everything else, they might begin the quest at once, he set about looking for them, and spent the whole morning in the search. at length, when 'twas already past none, he called to mind that they would be at work in the faentine women's convent, and though 'twas excessively hot, he let nothing stand in his way, but at a pace that was more like a run than a walk, hied him thither; and so soon as he had made them ware of his presence, thus he spoke:--"comrades, so you are but minded to hearken to me, 'tis in our power to become the richest men in florence; for i am informed by one that may be trusted that there is a kind of stone in the mugnone which renders whoso carries it invisible to every other soul in the world. wherefore, methinks, we were wise to let none have the start of us, but go search for this stone without any delay. we shall find it without a doubt, for i know what 'tis like, and when we have found it, we have but to put it in the purse, and get us to the moneychangers, whose counters, as you know, are always laden with groats and florins, and help ourselves to as many as we have a mind to. no one will see us, and so, hey presto! we shall be rich folk in the twinkling of an eye, and have no more need to go besmearing the walls all day long like so many snails." whereat bruno and buffalmacco began only to laugh, and exchanging glances, made as if they marvelled exceedingly, and expressed approval of calandrino's project. then buffalmacco asked, what might be the name of the stone. calandrino, like the numskull that he was, had already forgotten the name: so he made answer:--"why need we concern ourselves with the name, since we know the stone's virtue? methinks, we were best to go look for it, and waste no more time." "well, well," said bruno, "but what are the size and shape of the stone?" "they are of all sizes and shapes," said calandrino, "but they are all pretty nearly black; wherefore, methinks, we were best to collect all the black stones that we see until we hit upon it: and so, let us be off, and lose no more time." "nay, but," said bruno, "wait a bit." and turning to buffalmacco:--"methinks," quoth he, "that calandrino says well: but i doubt this is not the time for such work, seeing that the sun is high, and his rays so flood the mugnone as to dry all the stones; insomuch that stones will now shew as white that in the morning, before the sun had dried them, would shew as black: besides which, to-day being a working-day, there will be for one cause or another folk not a few about the mugnone, who, seeing us, might guess what we were come for, and peradventure do the like themselves; whereby it might well be that they found the stone, and we might miss the trot by trying after the amble. wherefore, so you agree, methinks we were best to go about it in the morning, when we shall be better able to distinguish the black stones from the white, and on a holiday, when there will be none to see us." buffalmacco's advice being approved by bruno, calandrino chimed in; and so 'twas arranged that they should all three go in quest of the stone on the following sunday. so calandrino, having besought his companions above all things to let never a soul in the world hear aught of the matter, for that it had been imparted to him in strict confidence, and having told them what he had heard touching the land of bengodi, the truth of which he affirmed with oaths, took leave of them; and they concerted their plan, while calandrino impatiently expected the sunday morning. whereon, about dawn, he arose, and called them; and forth they issued by the porta a san gallo, and hied them to the mugnone, and following its course, began their quest of the stone, calandrino, as was natural, leading the way, and jumping lightly from rock to rock, and wherever he espied a black stone, stooping down, picking it up and putting it in the fold of his tunic, while his comrades followed, picking up a stone here and a stone there. thus it was that calandrino had not gone far, before, finding that there was no more room in his tunic, he lifted the skirts of his gown, which was not cut after the fashion of hainault, and gathering them under his leathern girdle and making them fast on every side, thus furnished himself with a fresh and capacious lap, which, however, taking no long time to fill, he made another lap out of his cloak, which in like manner he soon filled with stones. wherefore, bruno and buffalmacco seeing that calandrino was well laden, and that 'twas nigh upon breakfast-time, and the moment for action come:--"where is calandrino?" quoth bruno to buffalmacco. whereto buffalmacco, who had calandrino full in view, having first turned about and looked here, there and everywhere, made answer:--"that wot not i; but not so long ago he was just in front of us." "not so long ago, forsooth," returned bruno; "'tis my firm belief that at this very moment he is at breakfast at home, having left to us this wild-goose chase of black stones in the mugnone." "marry," quoth buffalmacco, "he did but serve us right so to trick us and leave, seeing that we were so silly as to believe him. why, who could have thought that any but we would have been so foolish as to believe that a stone of such rare virtue was to be found in the mugnone?" calandrino, hearing their colloquy, forthwith imagined that he had the stone in his hand, and by its virtue, though present, was invisible to them; and overjoyed by such good fortune, would not say a word to undeceive them, but determined to hie him home, and accordingly faced about, and put himself in motion. whereupon:--"ay!" quoth buffalmacco to bruno, "what are we about that we go not back too?" "go we then," said bruno; "but by god i swear that calandrino shall never play me another such trick; and as to this, were i nigh him, as i have been all the morning, i would teach him to remember it for a month or so, such a reminder would i give him in the heel with this stone." and even as he spoke he threw back his arm, and launched the stone against calandrino's heel. galled by the blow, calandrino gave a great hop and a slight gasp, but said nothing, and halted not. then, picking out one of the stones that he had collected:--"bruno," quoth buffalmacco, "see what a goodly stone i have here, would it might but catch calandrino in the back;" and forthwith he discharged it with main force upon the said back. and in short, suiting action to word, now in this way, now in that, they stoned him all the way up the mugnone as far as the porta a san gallo. there they threw away the stones they had picked up, and tarried a while with the customs' officers, who, being primed by them, had let calandrino pass unchallenged, while their laughter knew no bounds. so calandrino, halting nowhere, betook him to his house, which was hard by the corner of the macina. and so well did fortune prosper the trick, that all the way by the stream and across the city there was never a soul that said a word to calandrino, and indeed he encountered but few, for most folk were at breakfast. but no sooner was calandrino thus gotten home with his stones, than it so happened that his good lady, monna tessa, shewed her fair face at the stair's head, and catching sight of him, and being somewhat annoyed by his long delay, chid him, saying:--"what the devil brings thee here so late? must breakfast wait thee until all other folk have had it?" calandrino caught the words, and angered and mortified to find that he was not invisible, broke out with:--"alas! curst woman! so 'twas thou! thou hast undone me: but, god's faith, i will pay thee out." whereupon he was upstairs in a trice, and having discharged his great load of stones in a parlour, rushed with fell intent upon his wife, and laid hold of her by the hair, and threw her down at his feet, and beat and kicked her in every part of her person with all the force he had in his arms and legs, insomuch that he left never a hair of her head or bone of her body unscathed, and 'twas all in vain that she laid her palms together and crossed her fingers and cried for mercy. now buffalmacco and bruno, after making merry a while with the warders of the gate, had set off again at a leisurely pace, keeping some distance behind calandrino. arrived at his door, they heard the noise of the sound thrashing that he was giving his wife; and making as if they were but that very instant come upon the scene, they called him. calandrino, flushed, all of a sweat, and out of breath, shewed himself at the window, and bade them come up. they, putting on a somewhat angry air, did so; and espied calandrino sitting in the parlour, amid the stones which lay all about, untrussed, and puffing with the air of a man spent with exertion, while his lady lay in one of the corners, weeping bitterly, her hair all dishevelled, her clothes torn to shreds, and her face livid, bruised and battered. so after surveying the room a while:--"what means this, calandrino?" quoth they. "art thou minded to build thee a wall, that we see so many stones about?" and then, as they received no answer, they continued:--"and how's this? how comes monna tessa in this plight? 'twould seem thou hast given her a beating! what unheard-of doings are these?" what with the weight of the stones that he had carried, and the fury with which he had beaten his wife, and the mortification that he felt at the miscarriage of his enterprise, calandrino was too spent to utter a word by way of reply. wherefore in a menacing tone buffalmacco began again:--"however out of sorts thou mayst have been, calandrino, thou shouldst not have played us so scurvy a trick as thou hast. to take us with thee to the mugnone in quest of this stone of rare virtue, and then, without so much as saying either god-speed or devil-speed, to be off, and leave us there like a couple of gowks! we take it not a little unkindly: and rest assured that thou shalt never so fool us again." whereto with an effort calandrino replied:--"comrades, be not wroth with me: 'tis not as you think. i, luckless wight! found the stone: listen, and you will no longer doubt that i say sooth. when you began saying one to the other:--'where is calandrino?' i was within ten paces of you, and marking that you came by without seeing me, i went before, and so, keeping ever a little ahead of you, i came hither." and then he told them the whole story of what they had said and done from beginning to end, and shewed them his back and heel, how they had been mauled by the stones; after which:--"and i tell you," he went on, "that, laden though i was with all these stones, that you see here, never a word was said to me by the warders of the gate as i passed in, though you know how vexatious and grievous these warders are wont to make themselves in their determination to see everything: and moreover i met by the way several of my gossips and friends that are ever wont to greet me, and ask me to drink, and never a word said any of them to me, no, nor half a word either; but they passed me by as men that saw me not. but at last, being come home, i was met and seen by this devil of a woman, curses upon her, forasmuch as all things, as you know, lose their virtue in the presence of a woman; whereby i from being the most lucky am become the most luckless man in florence: and therefore i thrashed her as long as i could stir a hand, nor know i wherefore i forbear to sluice her veins for her, cursed be the hour that first i saw her, cursed be the hour that i brought her into the house!" and so, kindling with fresh wrath, he was about to start up and give her another thrashing; when buffalmacco and bruno, who had listened to his story with an air of great surprise, and affirmed its truth again and again, while they all but burst with suppressed laughter, seeing him now frantic to renew his assault upon his wife, got up and withstood and held him back, averring that the lady was in no wise to blame for what had happened, but only he, who, witting that things lost their virtue in the presence of women, had not bidden her keep aloof from him that day; which precaution god had not suffered him to take, either because the luck was not to be his, or because he was minded to cheat his comrades, to whom he should have shewn the stone as soon as he found it. and so, with many words they hardly prevailed upon him to forgive his injured wife, and leaving him to rue the ill-luck that had filled his house with stones, went their way. ( ) a sort of rissole. novel iv. -- the rector of fiesole loves a widow lady, by whom he is not loved, and thinking to lie with her, lies with her maid, with whom the lady's brothers cause him to be found by his bishop. -- elisa being come to the end of her story, which in the telling had yielded no small delight to all the company, the queen, turning to emilia, signified her will, that her story should ensue at once upon that of elisa. and thus with alacrity emilia began:--noble ladies, how we are teased and tormented by these priests and friars, and indeed by clergy of all sorts, i mind me to have been set forth in more than one of the stories that have been told; but as 'twere not possible to say so much thereof but that more would yet remain to say, i purpose to supplement them with the story of a rector, who, in defiance of all the world, was bent upon having the favour of a gentlewoman, whether she would or no. which gentlewoman, being discreet above a little, treated him as he deserved. fiesole, whose hill is here within sight, is, as each of you knows, a city of immense antiquity, and was aforetime great, though now 'tis fallen into complete decay; which notwithstanding, it always was, and still is the see of a bishop. now there was once a gentlewoman, monna piccarda by name, a widow, that had an estate at fiesole, hard by the cathedral, on which, for that she was not in the easiest circumstances, she lived most part of the year, and with her her two brothers, very worthy and courteous young men, both of them. and the lady being wont frequently to resort to the cathedral, and being still quite young and fair and debonair withal, it so befell that the rector grew in the last degree enamoured of her, and waxed at length so bold, that he himself avowed his passion to the lady, praying her to entertain his love, and requite it in like measure. the rector was advanced in years, but otherwise the veriest springald, being bold and of a high spirit, of a boundless conceit of himself, and of mien and manners most affected and in the worst taste, and withal so tiresome and insufferable that he was on bad terms with everybody, and, if with one person more than another, with this lady, who not only cared not a jot for him, but had liefer have had a headache than his company. wherefore the lady discreetly made answer:--"i may well prize your love, sir, and love you i should and will right gladly; but such love as yours and mine may never admit of aught that is not honourable. you are my spiritual father and a priest, and now verging towards old age, circumstances which should ensure your honour and chastity; and i, on my part, am no longer a girl, such as these love affairs might beseem, but a widow, and well you wot how it behoves widows to be chaste. wherefore i pray you to have me excused; for, after the sort you crave, you shall never have my love, nor would i in such sort be loved by you." with this answer the rector was for the nonce fain to be content; but he was not the man to be dismayed and routed by a first repulse; and with his wonted temerity and effrontery he plied her again and again with letters and ambassages, and also by word of mouth, when he espied her entering the church. wherefore the lady finding this persecution more grievous and harassing than she could well bear, cast about how she might be quit thereof in such fashion as he deserved, seeing that he left her no choice; howbeit she would do nought in the matter until she had conferred with her brothers. she therefore told them how the rector pursued her, and how she meant to foil him; and, with their full concurrence, some few days afterwards she went, as she was wont, to church. the rector no sooner saw her, than he approached and accosted her, as he was wont, in a tone of easy familiarity. the lady greeted him, as he came up, with a glance of gladsome recognition; and when he had treated her to not a little of his wonted eloquence, she drew him aside, and heaving a great sigh, said:--"i have oftentimes heard it said, sir, that there is no castle so strong, but that, if the siege be continued day by day, it will sooner or later be taken; which i now plainly perceive is my own case. for so fairly have you hemmed me in with this, that, and the other pretty speech or the like blandishments, that you have constrained me to make nought of my former resolve, and, seeing that i find such favour with you, to surrender myself unto you." whereto, overjoyed, the rector made answer:--"madam, i am greatly honoured; and, sooth to say, i marvelled not a little how you should hold out so long, seeing that i have never had the like experience with any other woman, insomuch that i have at times said:--'were women of silver, they would not be worth a denier, for there is none but would give under the hammer!' but no more of this: when and where may we come together?" "sweet my lord," replied the lady, "for the when, 'tis just as we may think best, for i have no husband to whom to render account of my nights, but the where passes my wit to conjecture." "how so?" quoth the rector. "why not in your own house?" "sir," replied the lady, "you know that i have two brothers, both young men, who day and night bring their comrades into the house, which is none too large: for which reason it might not be done there, unless we were minded to make ourselves, as it were, dumb and blind, uttering never a word, not so much as a monosyllable, and abiding in the dark: in such sort indeed it might be, because they do not intrude upon my chamber; but theirs is so near to mine that the very least whisper could not but be heard." "nay but, madam," returned the rector, "let not this stand in our way for a night or two, until i may bethink me where else we might be more at our ease." "be that as you will, sir," quoth the lady, "i do but entreat that the affair be kept close, so that never a word of it get wind." "have no fear on that score, madam," replied the priest; "and if so it may be, let us forgather to-night." "with pleasure," returned the lady; and having appointed him how and when to come, she left him and went home. now the lady had a maid, that was none too young, and had a countenance the ugliest and most misshapen that ever was seen; for indeed she was flat-nosed, wry-mouthed, and thick-lipped, with huge, ill-set teeth, eyes that squinted and were ever bleared, and a complexion betwixt green and yellow, that shewed as if she had spent the summer not at fiesole but at sinigaglia: besides which she was hip-shot and somewhat halting on the right side. her name was ciuta, but, for that she was such a scurvy bitch to look upon, she was called by all folk ciutazza.( ) and being thus misshapen of body, she was also not without her share of guile. so the lady called her and said:--"ciutazza, so thou wilt do me a service to-night, i will give thee a fine new shift." at the mention of the shift ciutazza made answer:--"so you give me a shift, madam, i will throw myself into the very fire." "good," said the lady; "then i would have thee lie to-night in my bed with a man, whom thou wilt caress; but look thou say never a word, that my brothers, who, as thou knowest, sleep in the next room, hear thee not; and afterwards i will give thee the shift." "sleep with a man!" quoth ciutazza: "why, if need be, i will sleep with six." so in the evening master rector came, as he had been bidden; and the two young men, as the lady had arranged, being in their room, and making themselves very audible, he stole noiselessly, and in the dark, into the lady's room, and got him on to the bed, which ciutazza, well advised by the lady how to behave, mounted from the other side. whereupon master rector, thinking to have the lady by his side, took ciutazza in his arms, and fell a kissing her, saying never a word the while, and ciutazza did the like; and so he enjoyed her, plucking the boon which he had so long desired. the rector and ciutazza thus closeted, the lady charged her brothers to execute the rest of her plan. they accordingly stole quietly out of their room, and hied them to the piazza, where fortune proved propitious beyond what they had craved of her; for, it being a very hot night, the bishop had been seeking them, purposing to go home with them, and solace himself with their society, and quench his thirst. with which desire he acquainted them, as soon as he espied them coming into the piazza; and so they escorted him to their house, and there in the cool of their little courtyard, which was bright with many a lamp, he took, to his no small comfort, a draught of their good wine. which done:--"sir," said the young men, "since of your great courtesy you have deigned to visit our poor house, to which we were but now about to invite you, we should be gratified if you would be pleased to give a look at somewhat, a mere trifle though it be, which we have here to shew you." the bishop replied that he would do so with pleasure. whereupon one of the young men took a lighted torch and led the way, the bishop and the rest following, to the chamber where master rector lay with ciutazza. now the rector, being in hot haste, had ridden hard, insomuch that he was already gotten above three miles on his way when they arrived; and so, being somewhat tired, he was resting, but, hot though the night was, he still held ciutazza in his arms. in which posture he was shewn to the bishop, when, preceded by the young man bearing the light, and followed by the others, he entered the chamber. and being roused, and observing the light and the folk that stood about him, master rector was mighty ashamed and affrighted, and popped his head under the clothes. but the bishop, reprimanding him severely, constrained him to thrust his head out again, and take a view of his bed-fellow. thus made aware of the trick which the lady had played him, the rector was now, both on that score and by reason of his signal disgrace, the saddest man that ever was; and his discomfiture was complete, when, having donned his clothes, he was committed by the bishop's command to close custody and sent to prison, there to expiate his offence by a rigorous penance. the bishop was then fain to know how it had come about that he had forgathered there with ciutazza. whereupon the young men related the whole story; which ended, the bishop commended both the lady and the young men not a little, for that they had taken condign vengeance upon him without imbruing their hands in the blood of a priest. the bishop caused him to bewail his transgression forty days; but what with his love, and the scornful requital which it had received, he bewailed it more than forty and nine days, not to mention that for a great while he could not shew himself in the street but the boys would point the finger at him and say:--"there goes he that lay with ciutazza." which was such an affliction to him that he was like to go mad. on this wise the worthy lady rid herself of the rector's vexatious importunity, and ciutazza had a jolly night and earned her shift. ( ) an augmentative form, with a suggestion of cagnazza, bitch-like. novel v. -- three young men pull down the breeches of a judge from the marches, while he is administering justice on the bench. -- so ended emilia her story; and when all had commended the widow lady:--"'tis now thy turn to speak," quoth the queen, fixing her gaze upon filostrato, who answered that he was ready, and forthwith thus began:--sweet my ladies, by what i remember of that young man, to wit, maso del saggio, whom elisa named a while ago, i am prompted to lay aside a story that i had meant to tell you, and to tell you another, touching him and some of his comrades, which, notwithstanding there are in it certain words (albeit 'tis not unseemly) which your modesty forbears to use, is yet so laughable that i shall relate it. as you all may well have heard, there come not seldom to our city magistrates from the marches, who for the most part are men of a mean spirit, and in circumstances so reduced and beggarly, that their whole life seems to be but a petty-foggery; and by reason of this their inbred sordidness and avarice they bring with them judges and notaries that have rather the air of men taken from the plough or the last than trained in the schools of law.( ) now one of these marchers, being come hither as podesta, brought with him judges not a few, and among them one that called himself messer niccola da san lepidio, and looked liker to a locksmith than aught else. however, this fellow was assigned with the rest of the judges to hear criminal causes. and as folk will often go to the court, though they have no concern whatever there, it so befell that maso del saggio went thither one morning in quest of one of his friends, and there chancing to set eyes on this messer niccola, where he sate, deemed him a fowl of no common feather, and surveyed him from head to foot, observing that the vair which he wore on his head was all begrimed, that he carried an ink-horn at his girdle, that his gown was longer than his robe, and many another detail quite foreign to the appearance of a man of birth and breeding, of which that which he deemed most notable was a pair of breeches, which, as he saw (for the judge's outer garments being none too ample were open in front, as he sate), reached half-way down his legs. by which sight his mind was presently diverted from the friend whom he came there to seek; and forth he hied him in quest of other two of his comrades, the one ribi, the other matteuzzo by name, fellows both of them not a whit less jolly than maso himself; and having found them, he said to them:--"an you love me, come with me to the court, and i will shew you the queerest scarecrow that ever you saw." so the two men hied them with him to the court; and there he pointed out to them the judge and his breeches. what they saw from a distance served to set them laughing: then drawing nearer to the dais on which master judge was seated, they observed that 'twas easy enough to get under the dais, and moreover that the plank, on which the judge's feet rested, was broken, so that there was plenty of room for the passage of a hand and arm. whereupon quoth maso to his comrades:--"'twere a very easy matter to pull these breeches right down: wherefore i propose that we do so." each of the men had marked how it might be done; and so, having concerted both what they should do and what they should say, they came to the court again next morning; and, the court being crowded, matteuzzo, observed by never a soul, slipped beneath the dais, and posted himself right under the spot where the judge's feet rested, while the other two men took their stand on either side of the judge, each laying hold of the hem of his robe. then:--"sir, sir, i pray you for god's sake," began maso, "that, before the pilfering rascal that is there beside you can make off, you constrain him to give me back a pair of jack boots that he has stolen from me, which theft he still denies, though 'tis not a month since i saw him getting them resoled." meanwhile ribi, at the top of his voice, shouted:--"believe him not, sir, the scurvy knave! 'tis but that he knows that i am come to demand restitution of a valise that he has stolen from me that he now for the first time trumps up this story about a pair of jack boots that i have had in my house down to the last day or two; and if you doubt what i say, i can bring as witness trecca, my neighbour, and grassa, the tripe-woman, and one that goes about gathering the sweepings of santa maria a verzaia, who saw him when he was on his way back from the farm." but shout as he might, maso was still even with him, nor for all that did ribi bate a jot of his clamour. and while the judge stood, bending now towards the one, now towards the other, the better to hear them, matteuzzo seized his opportunity, and thrusting his hand through the hole in the plank caught hold of the judge's breeches, and tugged at them amain. whereby down they came straightway, for the judge was a lean man, and shrunk in the buttocks. the judge, being aware of the accident, but knowing not how it had come about, would have gathered his outer garments together in front, so as to cover the defect, but maso on the one side, and ribi on the other, held him fast, shouting amain and in chorus:--"you do me a grievous wrong, sir, thus to deny me justice, nay, even a hearing, and to think of quitting the court: there needs no writ in this city for such a trifling matter as this." and thus they held him by the clothes and in parley, until all that were in the court perceived that he had lost his breeches. however, after a while, matteuzzo dropped the breeches, and slipped off, and out of the court, without being observed, and ribi, deeming that the joke had gone far enough, exclaimed:--"by god, i vow, i will appeal to the syndics;" while maso, on the other side, let go the robe, saying:--"nay, but for my part, i will come here again and again and again, until i find you less embarrassed than you seem to be to-day." and so the one this way, the other that way, they made off with all speed. whereupon master judge, disbreeched before all the world, was as one that awakens from sleep, albeit he was ware of his forlorn condition, and asked whither the parties in the case touching the jack boots and the valise were gone. however, as they were not to be found, he fell a swearing by the bowels of god, that 'twas meet and proper that he should know and wit, whether 'twas the custom at florence to disbreech judges sitting in the seat of justice. when the affair reached the ears of the podesta, he made no little stir about it; but, being informed by some of his friends, that 'twould not have happened, but that the florentines were minded to shew him, that, in place of the judges he should have brought with him, he had brought but gowks, to save expense, he deemed it best to say no more about it, and so for that while the matter went no further. ( ) it was owing to their internal dissensions that the florentines were from time to time fain to introduce these stranger podestas. novel vi. -- bruno and buffalmacco steal a pig from calandrino, and induce him to essay its recovery by means of pills of ginger and vernaccia. of the said pills they give him two, one after the other, made of dog-ginger compounded with aloes; and it then appearing as if he had had the pig himself, they constrain him to buy them off, if he would not have them tell his wife. -- filostrato's story, which elicited not a little laughter, was no sooner ended, than the queen bade filomena follow suit. wherefore thus filomena began:--as, gracious ladies, 'twas the name of maso del saggio that prompted filostrato to tell the story that you have but now heard, even so 'tis with me in regard of calandrino and his comrades, of whom i am minded to tell you another story, which you will, i think, find entertaining. who calandrino, bruno and buffalmacco were, i need not explain; you know them well enough from the former story; and therefore i will tarry no longer than to say that calandrino had a little estate not far from florence, which his wife had brought him by way of dowry, and which yielded them yearly, among other matters, a pig; and 'twas his custom every year in the month of december to resort to the farm with his wife, there to see to the killing and salting of the said pig. now, one of these years it so happened that his wife being unwell, calandrino went thither alone to kill the pig. and bruno and buffalmacco learning that he was gone to the farm, and that his wife was not with him, betook them to the house of a priest that was their especial friend and a neighbour of calandrino, there to tarry a while. upon their arrival calandrino, who had that very morning killed the pig, met them with the priest, and accosted them, saying:--"a hearty welcome to you. i should like you to see what an excellent manager i am;" and so he took them into his house, and shewed them the pig. they observed that 'twas a very fine pig; and learned from calandrino that he was minded to salt it for household consumption. "then thou art but a fool," quoth bruno. "sell it, man, and let us have a jolly time with the money; and tell thy wife that 'twas stolen." "not i," replied calandrino: "she would never believe me, and would drive me out of the house. urge me no further, for i will never do it." the others said a great deal more, but to no purpose; and calandrino bade them to supper, but so coldly that they declined, and left him. presently:--"should we not steal this pig from him to-night?" quoth bruno to buffalmacco. "could we so?" returned buffalmacco. "how?" "why, as to that," rejoined bruno, "i have already marked how it may be done, if he bestow not the pig elsewhere." "so be it, then," said buffalmacco: "we will steal it; and then, perchance, our good host, master priest, will join us in doing honour to such good cheer?" "that right gladly will i," quoth the priest. whereupon:--"some address, though," quoth bruno, "will be needful: thou knowest, buffalmacco, what a niggardly fellow calandrino is, and how greedily he drinks at other folk's expense. go we, therefore, and take him to the tavern, and there let the priest make as if, to do us honour, he would pay the whole score, and suffer calandrino to pay never a soldo, and he will grow tipsy, and then we shall speed excellent well, because he is alone in the house." as bruno proposed, so they did: and calandrino, finding that the priest would not suffer him to pay, drank amain, and took a great deal more aboard than he had need of; and the night being far spent when he left the tavern, he dispensed with supper, and went home, and thinking to have shut the door, got him to bed, leaving it open. buffalmacco and bruno went to sup with the priest; and after supper, taking with them certain implements with which to enter calandrino's house, where bruno thought it most feasible, they stealthily approached it; but finding the door open, they entered, and took down the pig, and carried it away to the priest's house, and having there bestowed it safely, went to bed. in the morning when calandrino, his head at length quit of the fumes of the wine, got up, and came downstairs and found that his pig was nowhere to be seen, and that the door was open, he asked this, that, and the other man, whether they wist who had taken the pig away, and getting no answer, he began to make a great outcry:--"alas, alas! luckless man that i am, that my pig should have been stolen from me!" meanwhile bruno and buffalmacco, being also risen, made up to him, to hear what he would say touching the pig. whom he no sooner saw, than well-nigh weeping he called them, saying:--"alas! my friends! my pig is stolen from me." bruno stepped up to him and said in a low tone:--"'tis passing strange if thou art in the right for once." "alas!" returned calandrino, "what i say is but too true." "why, then, out with it, man," quoth bruno, "cry aloud, that all folk may know that 'tis so." calandrino then raised his voice and said:--"by the body o' god i say of a truth that my pig has been stolen from me." "so!" quoth bruno, "but publish it, man, publish it; lift up thy voice, make thyself well heard, that all may believe thy report." "thou art enough to make me give my soul to the enemy," replied calandrino. "i say--dost not believe me?--that hang me by the neck if the pig is not stolen from me!" "nay, but," quoth bruno, "how can it be? i saw it here but yesterday. dost think to make me believe that it has taken to itself wings and flown away?" "all the same 'tis as i tell thee," returned calandrino. "is it possible?" quoth bruno. "ay indeed," replied calandrino; "'tis even so: and i am undone, and know not how to go home. never will my wife believe me; or if she do so, i shall know no peace this year." "upon my hope of salvation," quoth bruno, "'tis indeed a bad business, if so it really is. but thou knowest, calandrino, that 'twas but yesterday i counselled thee to make believe that 'twas so. i should be sorry to think thou didst befool thy wife and us at the same time." "ah!" vociferated calandrino, "wilt thou drive me to despair and provoke me to blaspheme god and the saints and all the company of heaven? i tell thee that the pig has been stolen from me in the night." whereupon:--"if so it be," quoth buffalmacco, "we must find a way, if we can, to recover it." "find a way?" said calandrino: "how can we compass that?" "why," replied buffalmacco, "'tis certain that no one has come from india to steal thy pig: it must have been one of thy neighbours, and if thou couldst bring them together, i warrant thee, i know how to make the assay with bread and cheese, and we will find out in a trice who has had the pig." "ay," struck in bruno, "make thy assay with bread and cheese in the presence of these gentry hereabout, one of whom i am sure has had the pig! why, the thing would be seen through: and they would not come." "what shall we do, then?" said buffalmacco. whereto bruno made answer:--"it must be done with good pills of ginger and good vernaccia; and they must be bidden come drink with us. they will suspect nothing, and will come; and pills of ginger can be blessed just as well as bread and cheese." "beyond a doubt, thou art right," quoth buffalmacco; "and thou calandrino, what sayst thou? shall we do as bruno says?" "nay, i entreat you for the love of god," quoth calandrino, "do even so: for if i knew but who had had the pig, i should feel myself half consoled for my loss." "go to, now," quoth bruno, "i am willing to do thy errand to florence for these commodities, if thou givest me the money." calandrino had some forty soldi upon him, which he gave to bruno, who thereupon hied him to florence to a friend of his that was an apothecary, and bought a pound of good pills of ginger, two of which, being of dog-ginger, he caused to be compounded with fresh hepatic aloes, and then to be coated with sugar like the others; and lest they should be lost, or any of the others mistaken for them, he had a slight mark set upon them by which he might readily recognize them. he also bought a flask of good vernaccia, and, thus laden, returned to the farm, and said to calandrino:--"to-morrow morning thou wilt bid those whom thou suspectest come hither to drink with thee: as 'twill be a saint's day, they will all come readily enough; and to-night i and buffalmacco will say the incantation over the pills, which in the morning i will bring to thee here, and for our friendship's sake will administer them myself, and do and say all that needs to be said and done." so calandrino did as bruno advised, and on the morrow a goodly company, as well of young men from florence, that happened to be in the village, as of husbandmen, being assembled in front of the church around the elm, bruno and buffalmacco came, bearing a box containing the ginger, and the flask of wine, and ranged the folk in a circle. whereupon: "gentlemen," said bruno, "'tis meet i tell you the reason why you are gathered here, that if aught unpleasant to you should befall, you may have no ground for complaint against me. calandrino here was the night before last robbed of a fine pig, and cannot discover who has had it; and, for that it must have been stolen by some one of us here, he would have each of you take and eat one of these pills and drink of this vernaccia. wherefore i forthwith do you to wit, that whoso has had the pig will not be able to swallow the pill, but will find it more bitter than poison, and will spit it out; and so, rather, than he should suffer this shame in presence of so many, 'twere perhaps best that he that has had the pig should confess the fact to the priest, and i will wash my hands of the affair." all professed themselves ready enough to eat the pills; and so, having set them in a row with calandrino among them, bruno, beginning at one end, proceeded to give each a pill, and when he came to calandrino he chose one of the pills of dog-ginger and put it in his hand. calandrino thrust it forthwith between his teeth and began to chew it; but no sooner was his tongue acquainted with the aloes, than, finding the bitterness intolerable, he spat it out. now, the eyes of all the company being fixed on one another to see who should spit out his pill, bruno, who, not having finished the distribution, feigned to be concerned with nought else, heard some one in his rear say:--"ha! calandrino, what means this?" and at once turning round, and marking that calandrino had spit out his pill:--"wait a while," quoth he, "perchance 'twas somewhat else that caused thee to spit: take another;" and thereupon whipping out the other pill of dog-ginger, he set it between calandrino's teeth, and finished the distribution. bitter as calandrino had found the former pill, he found this tenfold more so; but being ashamed to spit it out, he kept it a while in his mouth and chewed it, and, as he did so, tears stood in his eyes that shewed as large as filberts, and at length, being unable to bear it any longer, he spat it out, as he had its predecessor. which being observed by buffalmacco and bruno, who were then administering the wine, and by all the company, 'twas averred by common consent that calandrino had committed the theft himself; for which cause certain of them took him severely to task. however, the company being dispersed, and bruno and buffalmacco left alone with calandrino, buffalmacco began on this wise:--"i never doubted but that thou hadst had it thyself, and wast minded to make us believe that it had been stolen from thee, that we might not have of thee so much as a single drink out of the price which thou gottest for it." calandrino, with the bitterness of the aloes still on his tongue, fell a swearing that he had not had it. whereupon:--"nay, but, comrade," quoth buffalmacco, "upon thy honour, what did it fetch? six florins?" whereto, calandrino being now on the verge of desperation, bruno added:--"now be reasonable, calandrino; among the company that ate and drank with us there was one that told me that thou hadst up there a girl that thou didst keep for thy pleasure, giving her what by hook or by crook thou couldst get together, and that he held it for certain that thou hadst sent her this pig. and thou art grown expert in this sort of cozenage. thou tookest us one while adown the mugnone a gathering black stones, and having thus started us on a wild-goose chase, thou madest off; and then wouldst fain have us believe that thou hadst found the stone: and now, in like manner, thou thinkest by thine oaths to persuade us that this pig which thou hast given away or sold, has been stolen from thee. but we know thy tricks of old; never another couldst thou play us; and, to be round with thee, this spell has cost us some trouble: wherefore we mean that thou shalt give us two pair of capons, or we will let monna tessa know all." seeing that he was not believed, and deeming his mortification ample without the addition of his wife's resentment, calandrino gave them the two pair of capons, with which, when the pig was salted, they returned to florence, leaving calandrino with the loss and the laugh against him. novel vii. -- a scholar loves a widow lady, who, being enamoured of another, causes him to spend a winter's night awaiting her in the snow. he afterwards by a stratagem causes her to stand for a whole day in july, naked upon a tower, exposed to the flies, the gadflies, and the sun. -- over the woes of poor calandrino the ladies laughed not a little, and had laughed yet more, but that it irked them that those that had robbed him of the pig should also take from him the capons. however, the story being ended, the queen bade pampinea give them hers: and thus forthwith pampinea began:--dearest ladies, it happens oftentimes that the artful scorner meets his match; wherefore 'tis only little wits that delight to scorn. in a series of stories we have heard tell of tricks played without aught in the way of reprisals following: by mine i purpose in some degree to excite your compassion for a gentlewoman of our city (albeit the retribution that came upon her was but just) whose flout was returned in the like sort, and to such effect that she well-nigh died thereof. the which to hear will not be unprofitable to you, for thereby you will learn to be more careful how you flout others, and therein you will do very wisely. 'tis not many years since there dwelt at florence a lady young and fair, and of a high spirit, as also of right gentle lineage, and tolerably well endowed with temporal goods. now elena--such was the lady's name--being left a widow, was minded never to marry again, being enamoured of a handsome young gallant of her own choosing, with whom she, recking nought of any other lover, did, by the help of a maid in whom she placed much trust, not seldom speed the time gaily and with marvellous delight. meanwhile it so befell that a young nobleman of our city, rinieri by name, who had spent much time in study at paris, not that he might thereafter sell his knowledge by retail, but that he might learn the reasons and causes of things, which accomplishment shews to most excellent advantage in a gentleman, returned to florence, and there lived as a citizen in no small honour with his fellows, both by reason of his rank and of his learning. but as it is often the case that those who are most versed in deep matters are the soonest mastered by love, so was it with rinieri. for at a festal gathering, to which one day he went, there appeared before his eyes this elena, of whom we spoke, clad in black, as is the wont of our florentine widows, and shewing to his mind so much fairer and more debonair than any other woman that he had ever seen, that happy indeed he deemed the man might call himself, to whom god in his goodness should grant the right to hold her naked in his arms. so now and again he eyed her stealthily, and knowing that boons goodly and precious are not to be gotten without trouble, he made up his mind to study and labour with all assiduity how best to please her, that so he might win her love, and thereby the enjoyment of her. the young gentlewoman was not used to keep her eyes bent ever towards the infernal regions; but, rating herself at no less, if not more, than her deserts, she was dexterous to move them to and fro, and thus busily scanning her company, soon detected the men who regarded her with pleasure. by which means having discovered rinieri's passion, she inly laughed, and said:--'twill turn out that 'twas not for nothing that i came here to-day, for, if i mistake not, i have caught a gander by the bill. so she gave him an occasional sidelong glance, and sought as best she might to make him believe that she was not indifferent to him, deeming that the more men she might captivate by her charms, the higher those charms would be rated, and most especially by him whom she had made lord of them and her love. the erudite scholar bade adieu to philosophical meditation, for the lady entirely engrossed his mind; and, having discovered her house, he, thinking to please her, found divers pretexts for frequently passing by it. whereon the lady, her vanity flattered for the reason aforesaid, plumed herself not a little, and shewed herself pleased to see him. thus encouraged, the scholar found means to make friends with her maid, to whom he discovered his love, praying her to do her endeavour with her mistress, that he might have her favour. the maid was profuse of promises, and gave her mistress his message, which she no sooner heard, than she was convulsed with laughter, and replied:--"he brought sense enough hither from paris: knowest thou where he has since been to lose it? go to, now; let us give him that which he seeks. tell him, when he next speaks to you of the matter, that i love him vastly more than he loves me, but that i must have regard to my reputation, so that i may be able to hold my head up among other ladies; which, if he is really the wise man they say, will cause him to affect me much more." ah! poor woman! poor woman! she little knew, my ladies, how rash it is to try conclusions with scholars. the maid found the scholar, and did her mistress's errand. the scholar, overjoyed, proceeded to urge his suit with more ardour, to indite letters, and send presents. the lady received all that he sent her, but vouchsafed no answers save such as were couched in general terms: and on this wise she kept him dangling a long while. at last, having disclosed the whole affair to her lover, who evinced some resentment and jealousy, she, to convince him that his suspicions were groundless, and for that she was much importuned by the scholar, sent word to him by her maid, that never since he had assured her of his love, had occasion served her to do him pleasure, but that next christmastide she hoped to be with him; wherefore, if he were minded to await her in the courtyard of her house on the night of the day next following the feast, she would meet him there as soon as she could. elated as ne'er another, the scholar hied him at the appointed time to the lady's house, and being ushered into a courtyard by the maid, who forthwith turned the key upon him, addressed himself there to await the lady's coming. now the lady's lover, by her appointment, was with her that evening; and, when they had gaily supped, she told him what she had in hand that night, adding:--"and so thou wilt be able to gauge the love which i have borne and bear this scholar, whom thou hast foolishly regarded as a rival." the lover heard the lady's words with no small delight, and waited in eager expectancy to see her make them good. the scholar, hanging about there in the courtyard, began to find it somewhat chillier than he would have liked, for it had snowed hard all day long, so that the snow lay everywhere thick on the ground; however, he bore it patiently, expecting to be recompensed by and by. after a while the lady said to her lover:--"go we to the chamber and take a peep through a lattice at him of whom thou art turned jealous, and mark what he does, and how he will answer the maid, whom i have bidden go speak with him." so the pair hied them to a lattice, wherethrough they could see without being seen, and heard the maid call from another lattice to the scholar, saying:--"rinieri, my lady is distressed as never woman was, for that one of her brothers is come here to-night, and after talking a long while with her, must needs sup with her, and is not yet gone, but, i think, he will soon be off; and that is the reason why she has not been able to come to thee, but she will come soon now. she trusts it does not irk thee to wait so long." whereto the scholar, supposing that 'twas true, made answer:--"tell my lady to give herself no anxiety on my account, until she can conveniently come to me, but to do so as soon as she may." whereupon the maid withdrew from the window, and went to bed; while the lady said to her lover:--"now, what sayst thou? thinkst thou that, if i had that regard for him, which thou fearest, i would suffer him to tarry below there to get frozen?" which said, the lady and her now partly reassured lover got them to bed, where for a great while they disported them right gamesomely, laughing together and making merry over the luckless scholar. the scholar, meanwhile, paced up and down the courtyard to keep himself warm, nor indeed had he where to sit, or take shelter: in this plight he bestowed many a curse upon the lady's brother for his long tarrying, and never a sound did he hear but he thought that 'twas the lady opening the door. but vain indeed were his hopes: the lady, having solaced herself with her lover until hard upon midnight, then said to him:--"how ratest thou our scholar, my soul? whether is the greater his wit, or the love i bear him, thinkst thou? will the cold, that, of my ordaining, he now suffers, banish from thy breast the suspicion which my light words the other day implanted there?" "ay, indeed, heart of my body!" replied the lover, "well wot i now that even as thou art to me, my weal, my consolation, my bliss, so am i to thee." "so:" quoth the lady, "then i must have full a thousand kisses from thee, to prove that thou sayst sooth." the lover's answer was to strain her to his heart, and give her not merely a thousand but a hundred thousand kisses. in such converse they dallied a while longer, and then:--"get we up, now," quoth the lady, "that we may go see if 'tis quite spent, that fire, with which, as he wrote to me daily, this new lover of mine used to burn." so up they got and hied them to the lattice which they had used before, and peering out into the courtyard, saw the scholar dancing a hornpipe to the music that his own teeth made, a chattering for extremity of cold; nor had they ever seen it footed so nimbly and at such a pace. whereupon:--"how sayst thou, sweet my hope?" quoth the lady. "know i not how to make men dance without the aid of either trumpet or cornemuse?" "indeed thou dost my heart's delight," replied the lover. quoth then the lady:--"i have a mind that we go down to the door. thou wilt keep quiet, and i will speak to him, and we shall hear what he says, which, peradventure, we shall find no less diverting than the sight of him." so they stole softly out of the chamber and down to the door, which leaving fast closed, the lady set her lips to a little hole that was there, and with a low voice called the scholar, who, hearing her call him, praised god, making too sure that he was to be admitted, and being come to the door, said:--"here am i, madam; open for god's sake; let me in, for i die of cold." "oh! ay," replied the lady, "i know thou hast a chill, and of course, there being a little snow about, 'tis mighty cold; but well i wot the nights are colder far at paris. i cannot let thee in as yet, because my accursed brother, that came to sup here this evening, is still with me; but he will soon take himself off, and then i will let thee in without a moment's delay. i have but now with no small difficulty given him the slip, to come and give thee heart that the waiting irk thee not." "nay but, madam," replied the scholar, "for the love of god, i entreat you, let me in, that i may have a roof over my head, because for some time past there has been never so thick a fall of snow, and 'tis yet snowing; and then i will wait as long as you please." "alas! sweet my love," quoth the lady, "that i may not, for this door makes such a din, when one opens it, that my brother would be sure to hear, were i to let thee in; but i will go tell him to get him gone, and so come back and admit thee." "go at once, then," returned the scholar, "and prithee, see that a good fire be kindled, that, when i get in, i may warm myself, for i am now so chilled through and through that i have scarce any feeling left." "that can scarce be," rejoined the lady, "if it be true, what thou hast so protested in thy letters, that thou art all afire for love of me: 'tis plain to me now that thou didst but mock me. i now take my leave of thee: wait and be of good cheer." so the lady and her lover, who, to his immense delight, had heard all that passed, betook them to bed; however, little sleep had they that night, but spent the best part of it in disporting themselves and making merry over the unfortunate scholar, who, his teeth now chattering to such a tune that he seemed to have been metamorphosed into a stork, perceived that he had been befooled, and after making divers fruitless attempts to open the door and seeking means of egress to no better purpose, paced to and fro like a lion, cursing the villainous weather, the long night, his simplicity, and the perversity of the lady, against whom (the vehemence of his wrath suddenly converting the love he had so long borne her to bitter and remorseless enmity) he now plotted within himself divers and grand schemes of revenge, on which he was far more bent than ever he had been on forgathering with her. slowly the night wore away, and with the first streaks of dawn the maid, by her mistress's direction, came down, opened the door of the courtyard, and putting on a compassionate air, greeted rinieri with:--"foul fall him that came here yestereve; he has afflicted us with his presence all night long, and has kept thee a freezing out here: but harkye, take it not amiss; that which might not be to-night shall be another time: well wot i that nought could have befallen that my lady could so ill brook." for all his wrath, the scholar, witting, like the wise man he was, that menaces serve but to put the menaced on his guard, kept pent within his breast that which unbridled resentment would have uttered, and said quietly, and without betraying the least trace of anger:--"in truth 'twas the worst night i ever spent, but i understood quite well that the lady was in no wise to blame, for that she herself, being moved to pity of me, came down here to make her excuses, and to comfort me; and, as thou sayst, what has not been to-night will be another time: wherefore commend me to her, and so, adieu!" then, well-nigh paralysed for cold, he got him, as best he might, home, where, weary and fit to die for drowsiness, he threw himself on his bed, and fell into a deep sleep, from which he awoke to find that he had all but lost the use of his arms and legs. he therefore sent for some physicians, and having told them what a chill he had gotten, caused them have a care to his health. but, though they treated him with active and most drastic remedies, it cost them some time and no little trouble to restore to the cramped muscles their wonted pliancy, and, indeed, but for his youth and the milder weather that was at hand, 'twould have gone very hard with him. however, recover he did his health and lustihood, and nursing his enmity, feigned to be vastly more enamoured of his widow than ever before. and so it was that after a while fortune furnished him with an opportunity of satisfying his resentment, for the gallant of whom the widow was enamoured, utterly regardless of the love she bore him, grew enamoured of another lady, and was minded no more to pleasure the widow in aught either by word or by deed; wherefore she now pined in tears and bitterness of spirit. however, her maid, who commiserated her not a little, and knew not how to dispel the dumps that the loss of her lover had caused her, espying the scholar pass along the street, as he had been wont, conceived the silly idea that the lady's lover might be induced to return to his old love by some practice of a necromantic order, wherein she doubted not that the scholar must be a thorough adept; which idea she imparted to her mistress. the lady, being none too well furnished with sense, never thinking that, if the scholar had been an adept in necromancy, he would have made use of it in his own behoof, gave heed to what her maid said, and forthwith bade her learn of the scholar whether he would place his skill at her service, and assure him that, if he so did, she, in guerdon thereof, would do his pleasure. the maid did her mistress's errand well and faithfully. the scholar no sooner heard the message, than he said to himself:--praised be thy name, o god, that the time is now come, when with thy help i may be avenged upon this wicked woman of the wrong she did me in requital of the great love i bore her. then, turning to the maid, he said:--"tell my lady to set her mind at ease touching this matter; for that, were her lover in india, i would forthwith bring him hither to crave her pardon of that wherein he has offended her. as to the course she should take in the matter, i tarry but her pleasure to make it known to her, when and where she may think fit: tell her so, and bid her from me to be of good cheer." the maid carried his answer to her mistress, and arranged that they should meet in the church of santa lucia of prato. thither accordingly they came, the lady and the scholar, and conversed apart, and the lady, quite oblivious of the ill-usage by which she had well-nigh done him to death, opened all her mind to him, and besought him, if he had any regard to her welfare, to aid her to the attainment of her desire. "madam," replied the scholar, "true it is that among other lore that i acquired at paris was this of necromancy, whereof, indeed, i know all that may be known; but, as 'tis in the last degree displeasing to god, i had sworn never to practise it either for my own or for any other's behoof. 'tis also true that the love i bear you is such that i know not how to refuse you aught that you would have me do for you; and so, were this single essay enough to consign me to hell, i would adventure it to pleasure you. but i mind me that 'tis a matter scarce so easy of performance as, perchance, you suppose, most especially when a woman would fain recover the love of a man, or a man that of a woman, for then it must be done by the postulant in proper person, and at night, and in lonely places, and unattended, so that it needs a stout heart; nor know i whether you are disposed to comply with these conditions." the lady, too enamoured to be discreet, made answer:--"so shrewdly does love goad me, that there is nought i would not do to bring him back to me who wrongfully has deserted me; but tell me, prithee, wherein it is that i have need of this stout heart." "madam," returned the despiteful scholar, "'twill be my part to fashion in tin an image of him you would fain lure back to you: and when i have sent you the image, 'twill be for you, when the moon is well on the wane, to dip yourself, being stark naked, and the image, seven times in a flowing stream, and this you must do quite alone about the hour of first sleep, and afterwards, still naked, you must get you upon some tree or some deserted house, and facing the north, with the image in your hand, say certain words that i shall give you in writing seven times; which, when you have done, there will come to you two damsels, the fairest you ever saw, who will greet you graciously, and ask of you what you would fain have; to whom you will disclose frankly and fully all that you crave; and see to it that you make no mistake in the name; and when you have said all, they will depart, and you may then descend and return to the spot where you left your clothes, and resume them and go home. and rest assured, that before the ensuing midnight your lover will come to you in tears, and crave your pardon and mercy, and that thenceforth he will never again desert you for any other woman." the lady gave entire credence to the scholar's words, and deeming her lover as good as in her arms again, recovered half her wonted spirits: wherefore:--"make no doubt," quoth she, "that i shall do as thou biddest; and indeed i am most favoured by circumstance; for in upper val d'arno i have an estate adjoining the river, and 'tis now july, so that to bathe will be delightful. ay, and now i mind me that at no great distance from the river there is a little tower, which is deserted, save that now and again the shepherds will get them up by the chestnut-wood ladder to the roof, thence to look out for their strayed sheep; 'tis a place lonely indeed, and quite out of ken; and when i have clomb it, as climb it i will, i doubt not 'twill be the best place in all the world to give effect to your instructions." well pleased to be certified of the lady's intention, the scholar, to whom her estate and the tower were very well known, made answer:--"i was never in those parts, madam, and therefore know neither your estate nor the tower, but, if 'tis as you say, 'twill certainly be the best place in the world for your purpose. so, when time shall serve, i will send you the image and the orison. but i pray you, when you shall have your heart's desire, and know that i have done you good service, do not forget me, but keep your promise to me." "that will i without fail," quoth the lady; and so she bade him farewell, and went home. the scholar, gleefully anticipating the success of his enterprise, fashioned an image, and inscribed it with certain magical signs, and wrote some gibberish by way of orison, which in due time he sent to the lady, bidding her the very next night do as he had prescribed: and thereupon he hied him privily with one of his servants to the house of a friend hard by the tower, there to carry his purpose into effect. the lady, on her part, set out with her maid, and betook her to her estate, and, night being come, sent the maid to bed, as if she were minded to go to rest herself; and about the hour of first sleep stole out of the house and down to the tower, beside the arno; and when, having carefully looked about her, she was satisfied that never a soul was to be seen or heard, she took off her clothes and hid them under a bush; then, with the image in her hand, she dipped herself seven times in the river; which done, she hied her with the image to the tower. the scholar, having at nightfall couched himself with his servant among the willows and other trees that fringed the bank, marked all that she did, and how, as she passed by him, the whiteness of her flesh dispelled the shades of night, and scanning attentively her bosom and every other part of her body, and finding them very fair, felt, as he bethought him what would shortly befall them, some pity of her; while, on the other hand, he was suddenly assailed by the solicitations of the flesh which caused that to stand which had been inert, and prompted him to sally forth of his ambush and take her by force, and have his pleasure of her. and, what with his compassion and passion, he was like to be worsted; but then as he bethought him who he was, and what a grievous wrong had been done him, and for what cause, and by whom, his wrath, thus rekindled, got the better of the other affections, so that he swerved not from his resolve, but suffered her to go her way. the lady ascended the tower, and standing with her face to the north, began to recite the scholar's orison, while he, having stolen into the tower but a little behind her, cautiously shifted the ladder that led up to the roof on which the lady stood, and waited to observe what she would say and do. seven times the lady said the orison, and then awaited the appearance of the two damsels; and so long had she to wait--not to mention that the night was a good deal cooler than she would have liked--that she saw day break; whereupon, disconcerted that it had not fallen out as the scholar had promised, she said to herself:--i misdoubt me he was minded to give me such a night as i gave him; but if such was his intent, he is but maladroit in his revenge, for this night is not as long by a third as his was, besides which, the cold is of another quality. and that day might not overtake her there, she began to think of descending, but, finding that the ladder was removed, she felt as if the world had come to nought beneath her feet, her senses reeled, and she fell in a swoon upon the floor of the roof. when she came to herself, she burst into tears and piteous lamentations, and witting now very well that 'twas the doing of the scholar, she began to repent her that she had first offended him, and then trusted him unduly, having such good cause to reckon upon his enmity; in which frame she abode long time. then, searching if haply she might find some means of descent, and finding none, she fell a weeping again, and bitterly to herself she said:--alas for thee, wretched woman! what will thy brothers, thy kinsmen, thy neighbours, nay, what will all florence say of thee, when 'tis known that thou hast been found here naked? thy honour, hitherto unsuspect, will be known to have been but a shew, and shouldst thou seek thy defence in lying excuses, if any such may be fashioned, the accursed scholar, who knows all thy doings, will not suffer it. ah! poor wretch! that at one and the same time hast lost thy too dearly cherished gallant and thine own honour! and therewith she was taken with such a transport of grief, that she was like to cast herself from the tower to the ground. then, bethinking her that if she might espy some lad making towards the tower with his sheep, she might send him for her maid, for the sun was now risen, she approached one of the parapets of the tower, and looked out, and so it befell that the scholar, awakening from a slumber, in which he had lain a while at the foot of a bush, espied her, and she him. whereupon:--"good-day, madam," quoth he:--"are the damsels yet come?" the lady saw and heard him not without bursting afresh into a flood of tears, and besought him to come into the tower, that she might speak with him: a request which the scholar very courteously granted. the lady then threw herself prone on the floor of the roof; and, only her head being visible through the aperture, thus through her sobs she spoke:--"verily, rinieri, if i gave thee a bad night, thou art well avenged on me, for, though it be july, meseemed i was sore a cold last night, standing here with never a thread upon me, and, besides, i have so bitterly bewept both the trick i played thee and my own folly in trusting thee, that i marvel that i have still eyes in my head. wherefore i implore thee, not for love of me, whom thou hast no cause to love, but for the respect thou hast for thyself as a gentleman, that thou let that which thou hast already done suffice thee to avenge the wrong i did thee, and bring me my clothes, that i may be able to get me down from here, and spare to take from me that which, however thou mightst hereafter wish, thou couldst not restore to me, to wit, my honour; whereas, if i deprived thee of that one night with me, 'tis in my power to give thee many another night in recompense thereof, and thou hast but to choose thine own times. let this, then, suffice, and like a worthy gentleman be satisfied to have taken thy revenge, and to have let me know it: put not forth thy might against a woman: 'tis no glory to the eagle to have vanquished a dove; wherefore for god's and thine own honour's sake have mercy on me." the scholar, albeit his haughty spirit still brooded on her evil entreatment of him, yet saw her not weep and supplicate without a certain compunction mingling with his exultation; but vengeance he had desired above all things, to have wreaked it was indeed sweet, and albeit his humanity prompted him to have compassion on the hapless woman, yet it availed not to subdue the fierceness of his resentment; wherefore thus he made answer:--"madam elena, had my prayers (albeit art i had none to mingle with them tears and honeyed words as thou dost with thine) inclined thee that night, when i stood perishing with cold amid the snow that filled thy courtyard, to accord me the very least shelter, 'twere but a light matter for me to hearken now to thine; but, if thou art now so much more careful of thy honour than thou wast wont to be, and it irks thee to tarry there naked, address thy prayers to him in whose arms it irked thee not naked to pass that night thou mindest thee of, albeit thou wist that i with hasty foot was beating time upon the snow in thy courtyard to the accompaniment of chattering teeth: 'tis he that thou shouldst call to succour thee, to fetch thy clothes, to adjust the ladder for thy descent; 'tis he in whom thou shouldst labour to inspire this tenderness thou now shewest for thy honour, that honour which for his sake thou hast not scrupled to jeopardize both now and on a thousand other occasions. why, then, call'st thou not him to come to thy succour? to whom pertains it rather than to him? thou art his. and of whom will he have a care, whom will he succour, if not thee? thou askedst him that night, when thou wast wantoning with him, whether seemed to him the greater, my folly or the love thou didst bear him: call him now, foolish woman, and see if the love thou bearest him, and thy wit and his, may avail to deliver thee from my folly. 'tis now no longer in thy power to shew me courtesy of that which i no more desire, nor yet to refuse it, did i desire it. reserve thy nights for thy lover, if so be thou go hence alive. be they all thine and his. one of them was more than i cared for; 'tis enough for me to have been flouted once. ay, and by thy cunning of speech thou strivest might and main to conciliate my good-will, calling me worthy gentleman, by which insinuation thou wouldst fain induce me magnanimously to desist from further chastisement of thy baseness. but thy cajoleries shall not now cloud the eyes of my mind, as did once thy false promises. i know myself, and better now for thy one night's instruction than for all the time i spent at paris. but, granted that i were disposed to be magnanimous, thou art not of those to whom 'tis meet to shew magnanimity. a wild beast such as thou, having merited vengeance, can claim no relief from suffering save death, though in the case of a human being 'twould suffice to temper vengeance with mercy, as thou saidst. wherefore i, albeit no eagle, witting thee to be no dove, but a venomous serpent, mankind's most ancient enemy, am minded, bating no jot of malice or of might, to harry thee to the bitter end: natheless this which i do is not properly to be called vengeance but rather just retribution; seeing that vengeance should be in excess of the offence, and this my chastisement of thee will fall short of it; for, were i minded to be avenged on thee, considering what account thou madest of my heart and soul, 'twould not suffice me to take thy life, no, nor the lives of a hundred others such as thee; for i should but slay a vile and base and wicked woman. and what the devil art thou more than any other pitiful baggage, that i should spare thy little store of beauty, which a few years will ruin, covering thy face with wrinkles? and yet 'twas not for want of will that thou didst fail to do to death a worthy gentleman, as thou but now didst call me, of whom in a single day of his life the world may well have more profit than of a hundred thousand like thee while the world shall last. wherefore by this rude discipline i will teach thee what it is to flout men of spirit, and more especially what it is to flout scholars, that if thou escape with thy life thou mayst have good cause ever hereafter to shun such folly. but if thou art so fain to make the descent, why cast not thyself down, whereby, god helping, thou wouldst at once break thy neck, be quit of the torment thou endurest, and make me the happiest man alive? i have no more to say to thee. 'twas my art and craft thus caused thee climb; be it thine to find the way down: thou hadst cunning enough, when thou wast minded to flout me." while the scholar thus spoke, the hapless lady wept incessantly, and before he had done, to aggravate her misery, the sun was high in the heaven. however, when he was silent, thus she made answer:--"ah! ruthless man, if that accursed night has so rankled with thee, and thou deemest my fault so grave that neither my youth and beauty, nor my bitter tears, nor yet my humble supplications may move thee to pity, let this at least move thee, and abate somewhat of thy remorseless severity, that 'twas my act alone, in that of late i trusted thee, and discovered to thee all my secret, that did open the way to compass thy end, and make me cognizant of my guilt, seeing that, had i not confided in thee, on no wise mightst thou have been avenged on me; which thou wouldst seem so ardently to have desired. turn thee, then, turn thee, i pray thee, from thy wrath, and pardon me. so thou wilt pardon me, and get me down hence, right gladly will i give up for ever my faithless gallant, and thou shalt be my sole lover and lord, albeit thou sayst hard things of my beauty, slight and shortlived as thou wouldst have it to be, which, however it may compare with others, is, i wot, to be prized, if for no other reason, yet for this, that 'tis the admiration and solace and delight of young men, and thou art not yet old. and albeit i have been harshly treated by thee, yet believe i cannot that thou wouldst have me do myself so shamefully to death as to cast me down, like some abandoned wretch, before thine eyes, in which, unless thou wast then, as thou hast since shewn thyself, a liar, i found such favour. ah! have pity on me for god's and mercy's sake! the sun waxes exceeding hot, and having suffered not a little by the cold of last night, i now begin to be sorely afflicted by the heat." "madam," rejoined the scholar, who held her in parley with no small delight, "'twas not for any love that thou didst bear me that thou trustedst me, but that thou mightst recover that which thou hadst lost, for which cause thou meritest but the greater punishment; and foolish indeed art thou if thou supposest that such was the sole means available for my revenge. i had a thousand others, and, while i feigned to love thee, i had laid a thousand gins for thy feet, into one or other of which in no long time, though this had not occurred, thou must needs have fallen, and that too to thy more grievous suffering and shame; nor was it to spare thee, but that i might be the sooner rejoiced by thy discomfiture that i took my present course. and though all other means had failed me, i had still the pen, with which i would have written of thee such matters and in such a sort, that when thou wist them, as thou shouldst have done, thou wouldst have regretted a thousand times that thou hadst ever been born. the might of the pen is greater far than they suppose, who have not proved it by experience. by god i swear, so may he, who has prospered me thus far in this my revenge, prosper me to the end! that i would have written of thee things that would have so shamed thee in thine own--not to speak of others'--sight that thou hadst put out thine eyes that thou mightst no more see thyself; wherefore chide not the sea, for that it has sent forth a tiny rivulet. for thy love, or whether thou be mine or no, nought care i. be thou still his, whose thou hast been, if thou canst. hate him as i once did, i now love him, by reason of his present entreatment of thee. ye go getting you enamoured, ye women, and nought will satisfy you but young gallants, because ye mark that their flesh is ruddier, and their beards are blacker, than other folk's, and that they carry themselves well, and foot it featly in the dance, and joust; but those that are now more mature were even as they, and possess a knowledge which they have yet to acquire. and therewithal ye deem that they ride better, and cover more miles in a day, than men of riper age. now that they dust the pelisse with more vigour i certainly allow, but their seniors, being more experienced, know better the places where the fleas lurk; and spare and dainty diet is preferable to abundance without savour: moreover hard trotting will gall and jade even the youngest, whereas an easy pace, though it bring one somewhat later to the inn, at any rate brings one thither fresh. ye discern not, witless creatures that ye are, how much of evil this little shew of bravery serves to hide. your young gallant is never content with one woman, but lusts after as many as he sets eyes on; nor is there any but he deems himself worthy of her: wherefore 'tis not possible that their love should be lasting, as thou hast but now proved and mayst only too truly witness. moreover to be worshipped, to be caressed by their ladies they deem but their due; nor is there aught whereon they plume and boast them so proudly as their conquests: which impertinence has caused not a few women to surrender to the friars, who keep their own counsel. peradventure thou wilt say that never a soul save thy maid, and i wist aught of thy loves; but, if so, thou hast been misinformed, and if thou so believest, thou dost misbelieve. scarce aught else is talked of either in his quarter or in thine; but most often 'tis those most concerned whose ears such matters reach last. moreover, they rob you, these young gallants, whereas the others make you presents. so, then, having made a bad choice, be thou still his to whom thou hast given thyself, and leave me, whom thou didst flout, to another, for i have found a lady of much greater charms than thine, and that has understood me better than thou didst. and that thou mayst get thee to the other world better certified of the desire of my eyes than thou wouldst seem to be here by my words, delay no more, but cast thyself down, whereby thy soul, taken forthwith, as i doubt not she will be, into the embrace of the devil, may see whether thy headlong fall afflicts mine eyes, or no. but, for that i doubt thou meanest not thus to gladden me, i bid thee, if thou findest the sun begin to scorch thee, remember the cold thou didst cause me to endure, wherewith, by admixture, thou mayst readily temper the sun's heat." the hapless lady, seeing that the scholar's words were ever to the same ruthless effect, burst afresh into tears, and said:--"lo, now, since nought that pertains to me may move thee, be thou at least moved by the love thou bearest this lady of whom thou speakest, who, thou sayst, is wiser than i, and loves thee, and for love of her pardon me, and fetch me my clothes, that i may resume them, and get me down hence." whereat the scholar fell a laughing, and seeing that 'twas not a little past tierce, made answer:--"lo, now, i know not how to deny thee, adjuring me as thou dost by such a lady: tell me, then, where thy clothes are, and i will go fetch them, and bring thee down." the lady, believing him, was somewhat comforted, and told him where she had laid her clothes. the scholar then quitted the tower, bidding his servant on no account to stir from his post, but to keep close by, and, as best he might, bar the tower against all comers until his return: which said, he betook him to the house of his friend, where he breakfasted much at his ease, and thereafter went to sleep. left alone upon the tower, the lady, somewhat cheered by her fond hope, but still exceeding sorrowful, drew nigh to a part of the wall where there was a little shade, and there sate down to wait. and now lost in most melancholy brooding, now dissolved in tears, now plunged in despair of ever seeing the scholar return with her clothes, but never more than a brief while in any one mood, spent with grief and the night's vigil, she by and by fell asleep. the sun was now in the zenith, and smote with extreme fervour full and unmitigated upon her tender and delicate frame, and upon her bare head, insomuch that his rays did not only scorch but bit by bit excoriate every part of her flesh that was exposed to them, and so shrewdly burn her that, albeit she was in a deep sleep, the pain awoke her. and as by reason thereof she writhed a little, she felt the scorched skin part in sunder and shed itself, as will happen when one tugs at a parchment that has been singed by the fire, while her head ached so sore that it seemed like to split, and no wonder. nor might she find place either to lie or to stand on the floor of the roof, but ever went to and fro, weeping. besides which there stirred not the least breath of wind, and flies and gadflies did swarm in prodigious quantity, which, settling upon her excoriate flesh, stung her so shrewdly that 'twas as if she received so many stabs with a javelin, and she was ever restlessly feeling her sores with her hands, and cursing herself, her life, her lover, and the scholar. thus by the exorbitant heat of the sun, by the flies and gadflies, harassed, goaded, and lacerated, tormented also by hunger, and yet more by thirst, and, thereto by a thousand distressful thoughts, she panted herself erect on her feet, and looked about her, if haply she might see or hear any one, with intent, come what might, to call to him and crave his succour. but even this hostile fortune had disallowed her. the husbandmen were all gone from the fields by reason of the heat, and indeed there had come none to work that day in the neighbourhood of the tower, for that all were employed in threshing their corn beside their cottages: wherefore she heard but the cicalas, while arno, tantalizing her with the sight of his waters, increased rather than diminished her thirst. ay, and in like manner, wherever she espied a copse, or a patch of shade, or a house, 'twas a torment to her, for the longing she had for it. what more is to be said of this hapless woman? only this: that what with the heat of the sun above and the floor beneath her, and the scarification of her flesh in every part by the flies and gadflies, that flesh, which in the night had dispelled the gloom by its whiteness, was now become red as madder, and so besprent with clots of blood, that whoso had seen her would have deemed her the most hideous object in the world. thus resourceless and hopeless, she passed the long hours, expecting death rather than aught else, until half none was come and gone; when, his siesta ended, the scholar bethought him of his lady, and being minded to see how she fared, hied him back to the tower, and sent his servant away to break his fast. as soon as the lady espied him, she came, spent and crushed by her sore affliction, to the aperture, and thus addressed him:--"rinieri, the cup of thy vengeance is full to overflowing: for if i gave thee a night of freezing in my courtyard, thou hast given me upon this tower a day of scorching, nay, of burning, and therewithal of perishing of hunger and thirst: wherefore by god i entreat thee to come up hither, and as my heart fails me to take my life, take it thou, for 'tis death i desire of all things, such and so grievous is my suffering. but if this grace thou wilt not grant, at least bring me a cup of water wherewith to lave my mouth, for which my tears do not suffice, so parched and torrid is it within." well wist the scholar by her voice how spent she was; he also saw a part of her body burned through and through by the sun; whereby, and by reason of the lowliness of her entreaties, he felt some little pity for her; but all the same he made answer:--"nay, wicked woman, 'tis not by my hands thou shalt die; thou canst die by thine own whenever thou art so minded; and to temper thy heat thou shalt have just as much water from me as i had fire from thee to mitigate my cold. i only regret that for the cure of my chill the physicians were fain to use foul-smelling muck, whereas thy burns can be treated with fragrant rose-water; and that, whereas i was like to lose my muscles and the use of my limbs, thou, for all thy excoriation by the heat, wilt yet be fair again, like a snake that has sloughed off the old skin." "alas! woe's me!" replied the lady, "for charms acquired at such a cost, god grant them to those that hate me. but thou, most fell of all wild beasts, how hast thou borne thus to torture me? what more had i to expect of thee or any other, had i done all thy kith and kin to death with direst torments? verily, i know not what more cruel suffering thou couldst have inflicted on a traitor that had put a whole city to the slaughter than this which thou hast allotted to me, to be thus roasted, and devoured of the flies, and therewithal to refuse me even a cup of water, though the very murderers condemned to death by the law, as they go to execution, not seldom are allowed wine to drink, so they but ask it. lo now, i see that thou art inexorable in thy ruthlessness, and on no wise to be moved by my suffering: wherefore with resignation i will compose me to await death, that god may have mercy on my soul. and may this that thou doest escape not the searching glance of his just eyes." which said, she dragged herself, sore suffering, toward the middle of the floor, despairing of ever escaping from her fiery torment, besides which, not once only, but a thousand times she thought to choke for thirst, and ever she wept bitterly and bewailed her evil fate. but at length the day wore to vespers, and the scholar, being sated with his revenge, caused his servant to take her clothes and wrap them in his cloak, and hied him with the servant to the hapless lady's house, where, finding her maid sitting disconsolate and woebegone and resourceless at the door:--"good woman," quoth he, "what has befallen thy mistress?" whereto:--"sir, i know not," replied the maid. "i looked to find her this morning abed, for methought she went to bed last night, but neither there nor anywhere else could i find her, nor know i what is become of her; wherefore exceeding great is my distress; but have you, sir, nought to say of the matter?" "only this," returned the scholar, "that i would i had had thee with her there where i have had her, that i might have requited thee of thy offence, even as i have requited her of hers. but be assured that thou shalt not escape my hands, until thou hast from me such wage of thy labour that thou shalt never flout man more, but thou shalt mind thee of me." then, turning to his servant, he said:--"give her these clothes, and tell her that she may go bring her mistress away, if she will." the servant did his bidding; and the maid, what with the message and her recognition of the clothes, was mightily afraid, lest they had slain the lady, and scarce suppressing a shriek, took the clothes, and, bursting into tears, set off, as soon as the scholar was gone, at a run for the tower. now one of the lady's husbandmen had had the misfortune to lose two of his hogs that day, and, seeking them, came to the tower not long after the scholar had gone thence, and peering about in all quarters, if haply he might have sight of his hogs, heard the woeful lamentation that the hapless lady made, and got him up into the tower, and called out as loud as he might:--"who wails up there?" the lady recognized her husbandman's voice, and called him by name, saying:--"prithee, go fetch my maid, and cause her come up hither to me." the husbandman, knowing her by her voice, replied:--"alas! madam, who set you there? your maid has been seeking you all day long: but who would ever have supposed that you were there?" whereupon he took the props of the ladder, and set them in position, and proceeded to secure the rounds to them with withies. thus engaged he was found by the maid, who, as she entered the tower, beat her face and breast, and unable longer to keep silence, cried out:--"alas, sweet my lady, where are you?" whereto the lady made answer as loud as she might:--"o my sister, here above am i, weep not, but fetch me my clothes forthwith." well-nigh restored to heart, to hear her mistress's voice, the maid, assisted by the husbandman, ascended the ladder, which he had now all but set in order, and gaining the roof, and seeing her lady lie there naked, spent and fordone, and liker to a half-burned stump than to a human being, she planted her nails in her face and fell a weeping over her, as if she were a corpse. however, the lady bade her for god's sake be silent, and help her to dress, and having learned from her that none knew where she had been, save those that had brought her her clothes and the husbandman that was there present, was somewhat consoled, and besought her for god's sake to say nought of the matter to any. thus long time they conversed, and then the husbandman took the lady on his shoulders, for walk she could not, and bore her safely out of the tower. the unfortunate maid, following after with somewhat less caution, slipped, and falling from the ladder to the ground, broke her thigh, and roared for pain like any lion. so the husbandman set the lady down upon a grassy mead, while he went to see what had befallen the maid, whom, finding her thigh broken, he brought, and laid beside the lady: who, seeing her woes completed by this last misfortune, and that she of whom, most of all, she had expected succour, was lamed of a thigh, was distressed beyond measure, and wept again so piteously that not only was the husbandman powerless to comfort her, but was himself fain to weep. however, as the sun was now low, that they might not be there surprised by night, he, with the disconsolate lady's approval, hied him home, and called to his aid two of his brothers and his wife, who returned with him, bearing a plank, whereon they laid the maid, and so they carried her to the lady's house. there, by dint of cold water and words of cheer, they restored some heart to the lady, whom the husbandman then took upon his shoulders, and bore to her chamber. the husbandman's wife fed her with sops of bread, and then undressed her, and put her to bed. they also provided the means to carry her and the maid to florence; and so 'twas done. there the lady, who was very fertile in artifices, invented an entirely fictitious story of what had happened as well in regard of her maid as of herself, whereby she persuaded both her brothers and her sisters and every one else, that 'twas all due to the enchantments of evil spirits. the physicians lost no time, and, albeit the lady's suffering and mortification were extreme, for she left more than one skin sticking to the sheets, they cured her of a high fever, and certain attendant maladies; as also the maid of her fractured thigh. the end of all which was that the lady forgot her lover, and having learned discretion, was thenceforth careful neither to love nor to flout; and the scholar, learning that the maid had broken her thigh, deemed his vengeance complete, and was satisfied to say never a word more of the affair. such then were the consequences of her flouts to this foolish young woman, who deemed that she might trifle with a scholar with the like impunity as with others, not duly understanding that they--i say not all, but the more part--know where the devil keeps his tail.( ) wherefore, my ladies, have a care how you flout men, and more especially scholars. ( ) i.e. are a match for the devil himself in cunning. novel viii. -- two men keep with one another: the one lies with the other's wife: the other, being ware thereof, manages with the aid of his wife to have the one locked in a chest, upon which he then lies with the wife of him that is locked therein. -- grievous and distressful was it to the ladies to hear how it fared with elena; but as they accounted the retribution in a measure righteous, they were satisfied to expend upon her but a moderate degree of compassion, albeit they censured the scholar as severe, intemperately relentless, and indeed ruthless, in his vengeance. however, pampinea having brought the story to a close, the queen bade fiammetta follow suit; and prompt to obey, fiammetta thus spoke:--debonair my ladies, as, methinks, your feelings must have been somewhat harrowed by the severity of the resentful scholar, i deem it meet to soothe your vexed spirits with something of a more cheerful order. wherefore i am minded to tell you a little story of a young man who bore an affront in a milder temper, and avenged himself with more moderation. whereby you may understand that one should be satisfied if the ass and the wall are quits, nor by indulging a vindictive spirit to excess turn the requital of a wrong into an occasion of wrong-doing. you are to know, then, that at siena, as i have heard tell, there dwelt two young men of good substance, and, for plebeians, of good family, the one spinelloccio tanena, the other zeppa di mino, by name; who, their houses being contiguous in the camollia,( ) kept ever together, and, by what appeared, loved each other as brothers, or even more so, and had each a very fine woman to wife. now it so befell that spinelloccio, being much in zeppa's house, as well when zeppa was not, as when he was there, grew so familiar with zeppa's wife, that he sometimes lay with her; and on this wise they continued to forgather a great while before any one was ware of it. however, one of these days zeppa being at home, though the lady wist it not, spinelloccio came in quest of him; and, the lady sending word that he was not at home, he forthwith went upstairs and found the lady in the saloon, and seeing none else there, kissed her, as did she him. zeppa saw all that passed, but said nothing and kept close, being minded to see how the game would end, and soon saw his wife and spinelloccio, still in one another's arms, hie them to her chamber and lock themselves in: whereat he was mightily incensed. but, witting that to make a noise, or do aught else overt, would not lessen but rather increase his dishonour, he cast about how he might be avenged on such wise that, without the affair getting wind, he might content his soul; and having, after long pondering, hit, as he thought, upon the expedient, he budged not from his retreat, until spinelloccio had parted from the lady. whereupon he hied him into the chamber, and there finding the lady with her head-gear, which spinelloccio in toying with her had disarranged, scarce yet readjusted:--"madam, what dost thou?" quoth he. whereto:--"why, dost not see?" returned the lady. "troth do i," rejoined he, "and somewhat else have i seen that i would i had not." and so he questioned her of what had passed, and she, being mightily afraid, did after long parley confess that which she might not plausibly deny, to wit, her intimacy with spinelloccio, and fell a beseeching him with tears to pardon her. "lo, now, wife," quoth zeppa, "thou hast done wrong, and, so thou wouldst have me pardon thee, have a care to do exactly as i shall bid thee; to wit, on this wise: thou must tell spinelloccio, to find some occasion to part from me to-morrow morning about tierce, and come hither to thee; and while he is here i will come back, and when thou hearest me coming, thou wilt get him into this chest, and lock him in there; which when thou hast done, i will tell thee what else thou hast to do, which thou mayst do without the least misgiving, for i promise thee i will do him no harm." the lady, to content him, promised to do as he bade, and she kept her word. the morrow came, and zeppa and spinelloccio being together about tierce, spinelloccio, having promised the lady to come to see her at that hour, said to zeppa:--"i must go breakfast with a friend, whom i had lief not keep in waiting; therefore, adieu!" "nay, but," quoth zeppa, "'tis not yet breakfast-time." "no matter," returned spinelloccio, "i have business on which i must speak with him; so i must be in good time." whereupon spinelloccio took his leave of zeppa, and having reached zeppa's house by a slightly circuitous route, and finding his wife there, was taken by her into the chamber, where they had not been long together when zeppa returned. hearing him come, the lady, feigning no small alarm, bundled spinelloccio into the chest, as her husband had bidden her, and having locked him in, left him there. as zeppa came upstairs:--"wife," quoth he, "is it breakfast time?" "ay, husband, 'tis so," replied the lady. whereupon:--"spinelloccio is gone to breakfast with a friend to-day," quoth zeppa, "leaving his wife at home: get thee to the window, and call her, and bid her come and breakfast with us." the lady, whose fear for herself made her mighty obedient, did as her husband bade her; and after much pressing spinelloccio's wife came to breakfast with them, though she was given to understand that her husband would not be of the company. so, she being come, zeppa received her most affectionately, and taking her familiarly by the hand, bade his wife, in an undertone, get her to the kitchen; he then led spinelloccio's wife into the chamber, and locked the door. hearing the key turn in the lock:--"alas!" quoth the lady, "what means this, zeppa? is't for this you have brought me here? is this the love you bear spinelloccio? is this your loyalty to him as your friend and comrade?" by the time she had done speaking, zeppa, still keeping fast hold of her, was beside the chest, in which her husband was locked. wherefore:--"madam," quoth he, "spare me thy reproaches, until thou hast heard what i have to say to thee. i have loved, i yet love, spinelloccio as a brother; and yesterday, though he knew it not, i discovered that the trust i reposed in him has for its guerdon that he lies with my wife, as with thee. now, for that i love him, i purpose not to be avenged upon him save in the sort in which he offended. he has had my wife, and i intend to have thee. so thou wilt not grant me what i crave of thee, be sure i shall not fail to take it; and having no mind to let this affront pass unavenged, will make such play with him that neither thou nor he shall ever be happy again." the lady hearkening, and by dint of his repeated asseverations coming at length to believe him:--"zeppa mine," quoth she, "as this thy vengeance is to light upon me, well content am i; so only thou let not this which we are to do embroil me with thy wife, with whom, notwithstanding the evil turn she has done me, i am minded to remain at peace." "have no fear on that score," replied zeppa; "nay, i will give thee into the bargain a jewel so rare and fair that thou hast not the like." which said, he took her in his arms and fell a kissing her, and having laid her on the chest, in which her husband was safe under lock and key, did there disport himself with her to his heart's content, as she with him. spinelloccio in the chest heard all that zeppa had said, and how he was answered by the lady, and the trevisan dance that afterwards went on over his head; whereat his mortification was such that for a great while he scarce hoped to live through it; and, but for the fear he had of zeppa, he would have given his wife a sound rating, close prisoner though he was. but, as he bethought him that 'twas he that had given the first affront, and that zeppa had good cause for acting as he did, and that he had dealt with him considerately and as a good fellow should, he resolved that if it were agreeable to zeppa, they should be faster friends than ever before. however, zeppa, having had his pleasure with the lady, got down from the chest, and being reminded by the lady of his promise of the jewel, opened the door of the chamber and brought his wife in. quoth she with a laugh:--"madam, you have given me tit for tat," and never a word more. whereupon:--"open the chest," quoth zeppa; and she obeying, he shewed the lady her spinelloccio lying therein. 'twould be hard to say whether of the twain was the more shame-stricken, spinelloccio to be confronted with zeppa, knowing that zeppa wist what he had done, or the lady to meet her husband's eyes, knowing that he had heard what went on above his head. "lo, here is the jewel i give thee," quoth zeppa to her, pointing to spinelloccio, who, as he came forth of the chest, blurted out:--"zeppa, we are quits, and so 'twere best, as thou saidst a while ago to my wife, that we still be friends as we were wont, and as we had nought separate, save our wives, that henceforth we have them also in common." "content," quoth zeppa; and so in perfect peace and accord they all four breakfasted together. and thenceforth each of the ladies had two husbands, and each of the husbands two wives; nor was there ever the least dispute or contention between them on that score. ( ) a suburb of siena. novel ix. -- bruno and buffalmacco prevail upon master simone, a physician, to betake him by night to a certain place, there to be enrolled in a company that go the course. buffalmacco throws him into a foul ditch, and there they leave him. -- when the ladies had made merry a while over the partnership in wives established by the two sienese, the queen, who now, unless she were minded to infringe dioneo's privilege, alone remained to tell, began on this wise:--fairly earned indeed, loving ladies, was the flout that spinelloccio got from zeppa. wherefore my judgment jumps with that which pampinea expressed a while ago, to wit, that he is not severely to be censured who bestows a flout on one that provokes it or deserves it; and as spinelloccio deserved it, so 'tis my purpose to tell you of one that provoked it, for i deem that those from whom he received it, were rather to be commended than condemned. the man that got it was a physician, who, albeit he was but a blockhead, returned from bologna to florence in mantle and hood of vair. 'tis matter of daily experience that our citizens come back to us from bologna, this man a judge, that a physician, and the other a notary, flaunting it in ample flowing robes, and adorned with the scarlet and the vair and other array most goodly to see; and how far their doings correspond with this fair seeming, is also matter of daily experience. among whom 'tis not long since master simone da villa, one whose patrimony was more ample than his knowledge, came back wearing the scarlet and a broad stripe( ) on the shoulder, and a doctor, as he called himself, and took a house in the street that we now call via del cocomero. now this master simone, being thus, as we said, come back, had this among other singular habits, that he could never see a soul pass along the street, but he must needs ask any that was by, who that man was; and he was as observant of all the doings of men, and as sedulous to store his memory with such matters, as if they were to serve him to compound the drugs that he was to give his patients. now, of all that he saw, those that he eyed most observantly were two painters, of whom here to-day mention has twice been made, bruno, to wit, and buffalmacco, who were ever together, and were his neighbours. and as it struck him that they daffed the world aside and lived more lightheartedly than any others that he knew, as indeed they did, he enquired of not a few folk as to their rank. and learning on all hands that they were poor men and painters, he could not conceive it possible that they should live thus contentedly in poverty, but made his mind up that, being, as he was informed, clever fellows, they must have some secret source from which they drew immense gains; for which reason he grew all agog to get on friendly terms with them, or any rate with one of them, and did succeed in making friends with bruno. bruno, who had not needed to be much with him in order to discover that this physician was but a dolt, had never such a jolly time in palming off his strange stories upon him, while the physician, on his part, was marvellously delighted with bruno; to whom, having bidden him to breakfast, and thinking that for that reason he might talk familiarly with him, he expressed the amazement with which he regarded both him and buffalmacco, for that, being but poor men, they lived so lightheartedly, and asked him to tell him how they managed. at which fresh proof of the doctor's simplicity and fatuity bruno was inclined to laugh; but, bethinking him that 'twere best to answer him according to his folly, he said:--"master, there are not many persons to whom i would disclose our manner of life, but, as you are my friend, and i know you will not let it go further, i do not mind telling you. the fact is that my comrade and i live not only as lightheartedly and jovially as you see, but much more so; and yet neither our art, nor any property that we possess, yields us enough to keep us in water: not that i would have you suppose that we go a thieving: no, 'tis that we go the course, and thereby without the least harm done to a soul we get all that we need, nay, all that we desire; and thus it is that we live so lightheartedly as you see." which explanation the doctor believing none the less readily that he knew not what it meant, was lost in wonder, and forthwith burned with a most vehement desire to know what going the course might be, and was instant with bruno to expound it, assuring him that he would never tell a soul. "alas! master," said bruno, "what is this you ask of me? 'tis a mighty great secret you would 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,( ) 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 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 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 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,( ) 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 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 artargutically( ) 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 bagattines( ) 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 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, 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 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;( ) 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 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,( ) 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.( ) 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, as tamagnino della porta,( ) don meta,( ) manico di scopa,( ) squacchera,( ) 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 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 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 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-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 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. ( ) the distinguishing mark of a doctor in those days. fanfani, vocab. della lingua italiana, , "batolo." ( ) perhaps an allusion to some frightful picture. ( ) about four miles from florence. ( ) in the italian "artagoticamente," a word of boccaccio's own minting. ( ) a venetian coin of extremely low value, being reckoned as / of the florentine quattrino. ( ) i.e. without salt, that florentine symbol of wit, not being so readily procurable on a holiday as on working-days. ( ) a public sink at florence. ( ) in the contado of arezzo: the equivoque is tolerably obvious. ( ) slang for an ill-kept jakes. ( ) also slang: signifying a pyramidal pile of ordure. ( ) broom-handle. ( ) the meaning of this term may perhaps be divined from the sound. 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, 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 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 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 nanfa( ) 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 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,( ) 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. 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, 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. 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 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 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 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 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 true. thus, left with the loss and the laugh against her, she discovered that there were others as knowing as she. ( ) 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. ( ) i.e. with a sort of musical boxes in the shape of birds. 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; 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 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 already changed the eighth heaven( ) from azure to the lighter blue,( ) 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:-- ( ) i.e. in the ptolemaic system, the region of the fixed stars. ( ) 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. 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 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. 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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;( ) 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, 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 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 with suppressed laughter, and master scimmione( ) 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 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. ( ) i.e. bolts of clay for the cross-bow. ( ) i.e. great ape: with a play on simone. 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 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 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. 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:--"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. -- 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 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 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 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. 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 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 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. 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. 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 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, 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 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 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. 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 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 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 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 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 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. 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 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 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 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:--"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 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 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; 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 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 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 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 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 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. 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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." 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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," 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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, 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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? 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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, 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 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 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 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, 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 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 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. 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 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, 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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, 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. 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:--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." 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 '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 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 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 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 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 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 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 according to the quality of the hearer. who knows not that wine is, as cinciglione and scolaio( ) 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. 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 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 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. ( ) noted topers of the day. -- endeth here the tenth and last day of the book called decameron, otherwise prince galeotto. -- the end. none what a man wills, by mrs george de horne vaizey. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ what a man wills, by mrs george de horne vaizey. chapter one. at the dying of the year. the new year festivities were over; in the hall of the old country manor the guests had danced and sung, had stood hand in hand in a widening circle, listening to the clanging of bells in the church-tower near by. now, with much hooting and snorting of motors, the visitors from afar had departed to their homes, and the members of the house-party had settled themselves by the log fire for the enjoyment of a last chat. there were eleven people left around the fire, counting the host and hostess, four men, and five girls, all young, as youth is counted in these days, the women averaging about twenty-four or five, the men a few years older, and in the mellow light of the fire, and of the massed candles in the old brass sconces on the walls, they looked a goodly company. they belonged, it was easy to see, to the cultured classes; whatever might be their means or present position, these people had been born of gentlefolks, had been educated according to the traditions of their kind, and were equipped with the weapons of courtesy and self-control, which had descended to them as a heritage from those passed and gone. mentally, they might be guilty of anger and impatience; mentally, they might rage and storm--that was their own business, and concerned no one but themselves; in the presence of their fellow-creatures they could be trusted to present a smiling front. there are occasions, however, when the most reserved natures are tempted to unclose, and of these the opening of the new year is surely the most seductive. when the guests have departed, and the laughter is stilled, when for a last half-hour men and women sit quietly over the fire, there arises in the mind a consciousness of severance with the past, a sense of newness, which is not untouched with awe. a new year has opened--what will it bring? what gifts, what losses, lie awaiting in its lap? when its last hour trembles away on the striking of a deep twelfth chime, what will happen to me? where shall i be? in the language, the consciousness of earth--_shall i be at all_? the tall dark girl, who had borne herself so proudly during the dance, shivered and bent forward to warm her hands at the fire. "whew! it's eerie!" she cried. "how i hate new years, and birthdays, and anniversaries that make one think! what's the use of them, anyway? one ambles along quite contentedly in the daily rut--it's only when one's eyes are opened to see that it is a rut..." "and that there are a solid three hundred and sixty-five days of it ahead!" chimed in the man with the firm chin and the tired eyes. "exactly! then one pants to get out." "and bowl triumphantly along the road in a c-spring carriage, or the very latest divinity in motor-cars!" laughed the beauty who sat in the corner of the oak settle, agreeably conscious that the background was all that could be desired as a foil to her red-gold hair, and that the dim light shed a kindly illusion over a well-worn frock. "i object to ruts of every kind and persuasion. they disagree with me, and make me cross, and i'm so nice when i'm pleased! the parsons say that prosperity makes people hard and selfish, but it is just the other way about with me. when there's not enough to go round--well, naturally, i keep it all for myself; but so long as i have everything i want, i _like_ other people to be happy. i really do! i'd give them everything that was over." she looked around with a challenging smile, and the others obediently laughed and applauded. it was fashionable to have a new role, and it was claudia's role to be honest, and quite blatantly selfish. she was pretty enough to carry it off, and clever enough to realise that her plain speaking served as a blind. no one believed for a moment that she was speaking the truth, whereas, if she had not distracted attention by waving this red flag, they must certainly have discovered the truth for themselves. claudia's god was self; she would have seen her best friend cut up into mincemeat, to provide herself with a needed _hors d'oeuvre_. the tall man with the large head and the sharp, hawklike features, sprang to his feet, and stood in the centre of the circle, aflush with excitement. "ruts!" he repeated loudly. "what's the matter with us all is we're _content_ with ruts! the thing which depresses me most at the beginning of a year is to look back and realise the futility, the weakness, the lack of progress. great heavens! how much longer are we to be content with ruts? our youth is passing; in a short time it will have gone. what have we done with our years? if we had been worthy the name, we should have been done with ruts by now, they would have been paved over with a smooth white path--the path to fortune! we should have walked along it--our own road, a private road, forbidden to trespassers!" a girl seated on an oak stool, in the shadow of the settle, raised her quiet eyes, and watched him while he spoke. she was a slim, frail thing, with hair parted in the centre and coiled flatly round her head. she had taken the lowest seat, and had drawn it into the shadow, but now she leaned forward, and the firelight searched her face. she was not beautiful, she was not even pretty, she was small and insignificant, she had made no effort to join in the conversation, and now, as john malham finished speaking, she shrank back into her corner, and became once more a frail, shadowy shape; nevertheless, a beholder who had been vouchsafed that one glimpse would have found himself turning once and again to that shaded corner. he would have wanted to see that girl again; he would have been conscious of a strange attraction towards her; he would have asked himself curiously was it liking, or--hate? the girl said nothing, but a man by her side punctuated the pause by a laugh. he was a handsome fellow, with a bright, quizzical face and a pair of audacious blue eyes. "oh, be hanged to fortune!" he cried loudly. "be hanged to flagged paths! they're the deepest ruts of all, if you could but see it. what's wrong with us all is lethargy, slackness, the inability to move of our own accord. what we get matters nothing, it's the _getting_ that counts! why, when i think of the whole wide world lying open, waiting, beckoning, and of fellows like myself pacing every day of our lives in a square mile cage in the city, i--i--" (he snapped his fingers in a frenzy of impatience) "i wonder how long i can carry my chains! they'll snap some day, and i'll be off, and it will be a long good-bye to the civilised world." the girl in the blue dress looked at him with wistful eyes, but she laughed more gaily than ever, and cried: "wait, please, till after the dance on the tenth, and when you _do_ go, send home things to us, won't you? shawls and cashmeres, and embroideries. and pearls! i've always longed to know a real live pearl-fisher. he ought to remember us, oughtn't he, everybody--because we've been so kind and patient with his vagaries? we all deserve something, but bags me the pearls!" "oh, you shall have your pearls right enough," said the handsome man, but there was a careless tone in his voice which made the promise seem worthless as sand, and he never glanced in the direction of the girl in the blue dress. pretty, wistful little norah boyce looked up quickly as if she were about to speak; thought better of it, and turned back to stare into the fire. the girl seated on the oak stool leaned forward once again, and looked straight into the face of the handsome man. one white hand rested against her throat, a slim column of a throat, bare of ornament. her fingers moved as though in imagination they were fingering a rope of pearls. buried in the depth of a great arm-chair lay the form of a giant of a man who had listened to the conversation with a sleepy smile. at this point a yawn overcame him; he struggled with it, only to find himself entangled in a second. "i say," he drawled lazily, "what about bed? doesn't that strike you as about the most sensible proposition for the moment? i know this dissatisfied feeling. no new year's gathering is complete without it. best thing to get to sleep as soon as possible, and start afresh next day. things look better after coffee and bacon. what's the use of grizzling? if we can't have what we want, let us like what we can get. eh? it's pretty certain we'll never get what we want." "are you so sure of that?" asked a quiet voice. the hostess sat erect in her seat, her graceful head with its silvering hair silhouetted against the wall. she looked round the circle of her guests, and smiled, a fine, delicate smile. "when you make that statement, frank, you are contradicting flatly all the premises of modern thought. the time has passed for sitting still and lamenting the impossible. the time is past for calling anything impossible. the thing that a man strives for--deeply, strongly, persistently--_that thing he can hovel_ that is the theory held by many great thinkers of to-day. and it is _true_." there was silence for a moment, while everyone looked questioningly at the figure of the speaker. the man with the tired eyes asked a question: "i suppose that applies to women as well as to men! have _you_ proved it, mrs ingram?" "i have proved it," answered the quiet voice. the host leaned forward, and knocked the ash of his cigarette into the grate. his face was hidden from view. mrs ingram looked round with a sudden, challenging smile. "_why don't you all prove it_?" she cried. "why don't you all start forth on this year with an aim in view? i don't say you will gain it in one year, or in two, or possibly in a dozen; but if you care enough to go on trying, it _will_ be gained! it's a question of one big aim instead of a dozen. the lesser things must go; you must become a man, a woman, of one idea. there are other things which are good and pleasant and alluring, but they must be set aside as weights which would hamper the chase. you cannot have the one big thing--and everything else! therefore it is well to ask oneself seriously at the beginning--_is it worth while_?" once more the guests were silent, staring into the heart of the fire. that last question, uttered in a deep, grave tone, had called to the bar those inner voices which had so long breathed envy and discontent. each listener examined his own motives, and knew a chill of doubt, but the chill passed, and the conviction remained. each one felt convinced that life held no good outside the coveted goal. the silence gave assent, as mrs ingram realised without need of further words. "suppose," she said gently, "you make me your father confessor to-night, and confess your various aims and ambitions? it is the sort of confession appropriate to a new year's dawn, and perhaps the very putting into words will vitalise your dreams and take them the first step towards becoming realities. you must _all_ confess, remember! there must be no holding back; if one begins the rest must follow, and after the confessions have been made, we must pledge ourselves to help each other towards our separate goals, if not by material aids, by reinforcing his will with our own!" the girl in blue laughed lightly, and cried: "oh, let's! let's all confess, and then, years afterwards, when we are old, and wear transformations, we'll meet again, at the dying of the year, and sit round the yule log, and tell the stories of our lives. and if we have failed, we will weep salt tears of disappointment; and if we have succeeded, we'll weep more, because it's all hollow and stuffed with bran, and we'll make pious reflections, and sigh: `oh, me! oh, my!' and preach sermons to the youngsters, and they won't believe a word. and so it will all begin over again. juliet, you set the ball rolling, by speaking of ruts. you ought to be the first to confess. what is the secret longing of your heart?" the dark girl showed no sign of embarrassment at being chosen to lead the way. there was no sign of shrinking or hesitation upon her face; on the contrary, at the sound of that penetrating question, the careless smile died away, and her features seemed suddenly to glow with life. "_adventure_!" she cried quickly. "give me that, and, for good or ill, i shall be satisfied. fate made me with a vagrant's heart shut up in a woman's body, and for twenty-four years it's been fed on monotony in a country parish. since i left the schoolroom i've never had a real experience of my own. i've had trivial pleasures, never one real big joy; never"--she looked slowly, thoughtfully, from face to face--"_never a grief_! there's something here"--she laid her hand on her heart--"fighting to get out! the ordinary, quiet, comfortable life would not content it. it wants more. it wants happenings, changes, excitement--it wants the big world, and i am a prisoner in the castle of convention. mrs ingram, how does your prophecy apply to me? how am i to get out?" "no prison is so strong that it cannot be pulled down, juliet. the walls of jericho fell at the sound of the trumpet. but you must discover your own trumpet, and the walls won't fall at the first flourish," said mrs ingram, and then suddenly and incontinently she added: "poor child!" "just so! miss juliet will certainly be one of those who will sigh: `woe's me!' at our future merry meeting," cried the tall man with the hawklike features, "and it's rough on her, too, for she's so touchingly modest in her desire. doesn't care a pin apparently whether she comes out better or worse! now, for my own part, that's all i do care for. success! success! that's my mania: forging ahead, gaining on my opponents, winning the lead. adventure doesn't count. i'd sit at an office desk for fourteen hours out of the twenty-four, for fourteen years at a stretch, if it ensured success at the end--a big success, a success which left me head and shoulders above the ruck. i'd walk the world barefooted from one end to the other to gain a secret that was worth while. success is my god. to gain it i would sacrifice everything else." "then, of a certainty, it can be yours," said mrs ingram quietly, and she looked at him with such a gentle glance that he asked her a laughing question: "are you going to call me `poor child!' too?" "not yet," she said quietly. then she turned to the big man, and laid a hand on his arm. "you next, frank?" "oh, well!" he laughed good-humouredly yet with a tinge of embarrassment. "i didn't bargain for this confession business, but since it's the rule, i must follow suit, i suppose. i'm a commonplace beggar! i'm pretty well content with things as they come. i'm not keen on any adventures that i know of; if i can have enough to be comfortable, that's all i want. i'd like a nice wife, and a house with a bit of garden; and a youngster or two, and a runabout car, don't you know, and the usual accessories! that's about all i fancy. `man wants but little here below.'" "frank plumps for comfort," said mrs ingram, smiling. "his programme sounds distinctly restful, for a change. take care of your figure, frank! i should suggest mowing the garden as a helpful recreation. next, please! claudia!" "oh, money, please!" cried claudia eagerly. "_lots_ of money, and a safe full of jewels. do you know, i dress on forty pounds a year all told, and a rich cousin sends me cast-offs! i take them hungrily, but i hate her for it, and when i'm a millionaire i'll cut her dead. a german jew stock-broker, dear, or a maharajah of `something-core,' or a soap-boiler without h's--anyone will do if he has enough money! i'd rather not, of course, but it's the only way! dear people, will you _all_ come to my wedding?" "claudia, you are impossible! you ought to be ashamed!" "yes, i should, but i'm not! isn't it horrid of me? if i blow _very_ loudly, do you think i shall go off this season?" "claudia speaks in her usual highly coloured fashion, but there's no doubt about her aim. she wants money, and, incidentally, all that it can buy.--adventure. success. comfort. money. we are getting plenty of variety! rupert, what are you going to give us?" the man with the tired eyes and the firm chin leaned forward in his seat, with his elbows resting on his knees and his chin supported in the hollow of his hands. the firelight showed the delicate network of lines round eyes and mouth, the modelling of the long curved lips. "i--want--love!" he said quietly, and a stir of amazement passed round the circle of listeners. he looked round and smiled, a slow, amused smile. "surprised, aren't you? didn't expect that from me; but it isn't as simple as it sounds. i'm not thinking of frank's `nice' wife, and a house in the suburbs, the usual midsummer madness followed by settling down to live--stodgily!--ever after. i'm speaking of something big, primal, overwhelming; something that _lasts_. love comes to most men in the course of their lives, a modicum of love. the dullest dog has his day, a day uplifted, glorified, when he walks like a god. afterwards he looks back upon it from his padded arm-chair, and smiles-- a smug smile. it was a moment of madness; now he is sane, that's _his_ point of view; but mine happens to be precisely the opposite! to me those moments are life, the only life worth living. the rest is a sleep. if i could have what i wish, i'd choose to love, to _be_ loved, like the great masters in the art, the lovers _par excellence_ of the ages. i'd be willing, if needs be, to sacrifice everything else, and count the world well lost. it would be a love not only of the senses, but of the mind, of the soul, and so it would live on, undimmed by the passing of youth. that is my dream, you understand! as regards expectation, i don't share mrs ingram's optimism. it's not only myself who is involved, you see. it is another person, and my desires are so absurdly in excess of my deserts. who am i that i should expect the extraordinary?" he ceased, and again the silence fell. the girl in blue bit hard on her under lip and shrank back into the shadow; the girl who had wished for adventure drew a quick gasp of excitement; the woman who had lived, and gained her desire, drew a quivering sigh. silent, immovable, in the shadow of the settle, sat the girl in white. "oh, dear!" cried claudia suddenly. "if he _only_ had money! i'd adore beyond all things to be worshipped on a pedestal! rupert, if an old aunt dies, and leaves you her millions,--would i do?" that was the best of claudia, her prattle bridged so many awkward gaps! in an instant the tension had eased, and a general laugh broke the silence. rupert laughed with the rest, no whit embarrassed by the question. "not at all, beauty," he said calmly. "i need a great passion in return, and you are incapable of it. most women are! i doubt if in the whole course of my life i have met one who could rise to it," and he cast a quick glance round the group until his eyes met those of his hostess. "very few men would understand what you are talking about, or, if they did, would desire so demanding a romance," mrs ingram told him. "the man who _does_ will find his mate, but--he must pay the price! so we have come to love at last! i thought it would have taken an earlier place." "mrs ingram," cried claudia boldly, "was _that_ what you wished for yourself? you told us you had proved your own theories. did _you_ wish for love?" "no!" said the hostess quietly. "it was not love." she glanced across the hearth as she spoke, and her eyes and her husband's met, and exchanged a message. the man with the magnetic eyes burst hastily into the conversation, as if anxious to divert attention to himself. "i suppose i come next? i've been questioning myself while you've all been talking. it's difficult to condense one's ambitions into just one word, but i've got it at last--or the one which most nearly expresses what i mean. _danger_! that's it. that's what i want. i'm fed up with monotony, and convention, and civilisation, but i go a step farther than miss juliet, for i demand, so to speak, the superlative of adventure. risk, uncertainty, the thrill, the fear! i want to take my life in my hands, to get out into the open of life, and come face to face with the unknown. put me down as `danger,' mrs ingram, and when you think over all the wishes, mine really seems the easiest of fulfilment. there's plenty of trouble knocking around, and a man need not have far to search. i think, on the whole, i'll absolve my friends from that promise to help! it might land them in disagreeable consequences!" "but are we expected to wish you good luck? it really _is_ an invidious position!" cried the girl in blue. she sighed, and twisted her fingers together in her lap. "it's coming to my turn," she continued, "and i'm so horribly embarrassed, for my confession sounds the most selfish of all: i want just to be happy! that's all! but it means so much, and it's such a difficult thing to accomplish. don't anyone _dare_ to tell me that it's in my own power, and must be manufactured inside, because i've heard it so often, and it's not true! i need _outside_ things, and i can't be happy till i get them. but i only want them so that i can be happy, and i'd give them up in a minute if _other_ things would have the same effect. don't i express myself lucidly and well? i'm a sweet, tender-hearted little girl, dear friends, and i ask for so little! kind contributions gratefully received. mrs ingram dear, you won't preach, will you?" "not for the world," cried mrs ingram laughing. "why shouldn't you be happy, meriel dear? i am sure we all wish you a short quest, and a rich harvest! and what does norah want?" mrs ingram's voice was a trifle apologetic as she looked towards where norah boyce sat, turning her head from side to side to listen to the pronouncements of her fellow guests, sometimes serious, sometimes smiling, but always with that little wistful pucker of the brows which of late had become a settled expression. it seemed at the moment as if it would be more sensible to inquire what norah did _not_ want, for a very harvest of last straws had combined to break her back within the last two years. she was an orphan, but having been possessed of a moderate, but comfortable income (five hundred a year to wit), had contrived to lead a sufficiently full and agreeable life during the half-dozen years which had elapsed since she had left school. she paid visits, she travelled abroad with congenial friends, she had a room at a ladies' club, and stayed frequently as paying guest with such of her friends as were not overburdened with this world's wealth. everyone was pleased to entertain a pretty, particularly sweet-tempered girl, and to receive five pounds a week for the privilege, for there was no meanness about norah, she looked upon money simply as a means to an end, spent lavishly, and was as ignorant as a doll as to the investments from which her income arose. she knew by reference to her bank-book that a cheque for about a hundred pounds was due in december, and was convenient for christmas gifts, and that another--about fifty--arrived in time for the july sales. she knew that her receipts varied, but that, of course, was the result of a liberal government, and would come right with its fall from power! on one occasion a cheque never came at all, and it appeared that something had gone wrong in america, and that it never would come any more. norah felt very indignant with her trustee, and was convinced that the loss was entirely his fault. she asked pathetically what was the _use_ of having a trustee, and felt very christian and forbearing, because she was quite civil to him when they next met,--from all which it will be gathered that norah boyce was a survival of the old-fashioned, unworldly, more or less helpless young women of a past generation. she had not been trained either to work, or to think for herself; her education had not specialised on any one subject; her value in the wage-earning market was exactly nil, and before the end of her twenty-fifth year her income had fallen to nearly the same point. it had been a year of calamity. everything went wrong. a european war sent down the prices of stocks and shares. a railway strike at home swallowed up dividends; a bank failed; water leaked into an oil well, and dried up on a rubber plantation. norah had no time to recover from one disaster before another burst upon her; while she was still sorrowfully digesting the fact that a summer remittance was not to hand, intelligence arrived that as regarded autumn payments, the trustee regretfully pronounced no dividends. in short, fortune, having smiled upon the young woman for twenty-five years, had now turned her back with a vengeance, until eventually she was face to face with the fact that in future her work must be to earn, rather than to spend. mrs ingram had played her usual part of confidante and consoler during the year of upheaval, and the invitation had been given with the intention of allowing "the poor little dear time to think." it would not be tactful to exclude her from the general questioning that had sprung out of new year confidences, but in her heart the hostess shrank from putting the question. "and what do _you_ want, norah? i think it's your turn!" contrary to expectation norah did not look at all perturbed. she shrugged her shoulders, and cried instantly, "oh, work, of course! plenty of work. at once. with a handsome remuneration, paid quarterly in advance! it sounds very moral and praiseworthy, but it isn't a bit. i'm not fond of work; i'd a great deal sooner go on amusing myself in my own way. i've never had one scrap of longing to be a bachelor girl, and live on my own, and cook sketchy meals on a greasy stove. i detest food in the raw, and should never be able to eat it, after contending with it in its earliest stages. i'd live on tea and nuts. but it's a got-to! i _must_ earn money, so i must work. the trouble is to discover what i can do... i can think of thousands of things that i _can't_... i can-- with care--make five shillings go about as far as an ordinary person's half-crown, so i'm not exactly suited to be a housekeeper. i couldn't trim a hat to save my life, but i can alter one quite well. i'm clever at it. it's generally accomplished by first sitting on it, and then putting it on in the dark. you wouldn't believe how smart it can look! do you think there'd be any chance of selling the patent? or could i advertise in a fashion paper--`lady remodels hats to latest mode. send orders for two and six to n.b.'? ... i can't write a book, or paint a picture, or teach a child over three, or nurse, or massage, or type, or keep a beauty parlour--or--or--or anything that working women _do_ do! i might offer myself to the educational society, as a horrible example of how a girl ought _not_ to be brought up, and be exhibited on the platform at lectures. the work would be light, and i could wear pretty clothes, but i don't think it would be respectful to my parents. i think i must be a `nice old-fashioned girl,' but there's no demand for old-fashioned girls to-day. nobody wants them!" "i don't agree with you there, norah. i think there's a big demand," mrs ingram said quickly, and from the men present came a deep murmur of agreement. no one present was in love with norah boyce herself, but all were in love with her type. she would make a charming wife, a delightful mother. to the end of her life she would probably have difficulties with cheques, and remain hopelessly mixed on political questions, but she would be a genius in the making of a home! "you'll find your right niche, dear, i've no doubt of that. you mustn't allow yourself to despair before you begin your search." mrs ingram continued smiling. "your ambition, at any rate, is a thing in which we can all help. please everybody remember norah, and let her know at once if you hear of a suitable post! i think we must make a strong point of her disposition. such a very sweet temper ought to be priced above rubies." "i'll sell it cheap at three pounds a week!" said norah ruefully, and there was a merry outburst of laughter. it died quickly, however, and a general expectation made itself felt, the echo of which sounded in mrs ingram's voice. "only one more confession, and we have gone through our list. lilith is hiding, as usual, but she shall not escape. come out of your corner, you silent sprite, and tell us what gift you would ask of the fates to-night!" "a white moss rose!" drawled claudia mockingly, but the ripple of laughter which usually followed her words was this time feeble and unreal. every eye was turned towards that darkened corner; the very fire, as though following the general example, threw up a long blue flame which flickered strangely over lilith's face. she moved forward with a noiseless deliberation; first, two tiny, white-shod feet gleamed upon the oak floor, then two small hands clasped on folds of satin; last of all, the small head with the tightly swathed hair, the small, straight features, and the curious light-rimmed eyes. for a long, silent moment she sat gazing before her. her voice when she spoke had an unexpected depth and richness. "i want," said lilith slowly--"power!" mrs ingram disapproved of anachronisms, and set her face sternly against electric lighting in her ancestral home. to-night, as every night, the retiring guests helped themselves to one of a row of silver candlesticks on a table near the staircase, and lit it with a match before beginning the ascent. lilith was the last of the ladies to receive her candle; the last to receive the salutations of the four men. she raised her face to each in turn, and gazed deep in his eyes, while their hands met and parted, and to three men out of the four came, at that moment, a vision and a dream. the man who had wished for love, thrilled at the thought of a woman's eyes looking out of an unknown face, which yet would share some magical quality with those now looking into his own. john malham saw in a vision an icy peak, sharp and white, and beautiful with a deadly beauty. the touch of her hand in his was cold and light as a snowflake. val lessing looked at the white column of her throat, and beheld round it ropes of pearls--lustrous, shimmering pearls for which a man might venture his life; but francis, the giant, had no illusions--he was sleepy, and he thought of bed. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ alone in the great hall, husband and wife stood over the dying logs. "well, wonderful woman!" he said, "you have given us a wonderful evening, and now we must stand by, and watch those nine strugglers in the maelstrom. it will be interesting; it will be awful. how many of them do you suppose will win through to their goal?" mrs ingram did not answer his question; she asked another of her own accord: "did you notice," she said softly, "that no one, not one of them--" "wished your wish?" he finished for her. "yes! i noticed!" he laid his hands on her shoulders, and they stood together, gazing deeply into each other's eyes. "but," she sighed softly, "it is the best!" chapter two. the girl who wished for money. claudia berrington prided herself that if she had many faults, she had at least one supreme virtue--she was honest! she condescended to no subterfuges, no half-truths, no beatings about the bush. the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth fell from her coral lips with a nakedness which astonished her hearers, and this despite the fact that few people had less consideration for honesty for honesty's sake. there was no "i can, because i ought" in claudia berrington's composition; her outspokenness was simply a means to an end. very early in life her sharp wits had mastered the fact that honesty was the best policy, and that to speak the truth was at once to disarm criticism and to avoid the danger of pitfalls. to claudia's supreme delight, she discovered that her adopted virtue was quite an asset in society. it was so uncommon, so arresting to meet a girl who _really_ said what she meant, that it made quite a sensation, when found. people said to one another: "have you heard claudia's latest?" and hung upon her lips in delighted anticipation of shocks. and claudia duly shocked them, and enjoyed the process. openly, at the new year's party, claudia had confessed that the one overwhelming ambition of her heart was to be rich, and as there seemed only one way in which a helpless young woman could obtain a limitless command of money, had declared herself ready to marry the highest bidder in the market. "a german jew stock-broker, or a maharajah of `something-core,' or a soap-boiler bereft of h's. anyone will do!" she had cried, "if he can only give me enough." and in a _tete-a-tete_ with a girl friend over her bedroom fire the same night, she had repeated and defended the same statement. "ashamed?" she cried, "why should i be ashamed? i'm not a bit! how can i help my own nature? most girls put love before everything else. well, so do i; but it's love for _myself_. i love myself better than any stupid young man, and i mean to make myself happy. i couldn't be happy without money, therefore money i must have, and if i find a man who is ready and willing to give it to me, why on earth should i refuse?" the friend looked at the fair, delicately cut face with a pang of envy. "you are so lovely, claudia; you'll find him fast enough, and he'll worship you, and think you a paragon of virtue. it _is_ unfair! a plain-looking girl who would have loved him back, and been amiable and devoted, would have no chance, whereas you will carry all before you. it _is_ unfair!" "oh, i'll be quite sweet to him. i'll have to be, to keep him in a good temper. i'll be wickedly extravagant, you see, like all _nouveaux riches_, and i detest rows! don't you worry about the man, dear. he'll be happy enough. so long as i get all i want, i'm quite easy to live with!" "no one gets all one wants in life, claudia," said the friend tritely. "all the money in the world can't protect you from the troubles which enter every life!" "perhaps not; but it can gild them! if i'm bound to have troubles, let me have them _de luxe_. a million or two can make anything picturesque. all the difference between sables and bombazine. shouldn't i look sweet, meriel, as a widow, with a marie stuart bonnet and a cloak of priceless sables? he might die, you know! you never can tell!" then meriel had arisen and swept scornfully from the room, and claudia had laughed, and yawned, and gone to bed. several men proposed to claudia during the next two years, only to be rejected with a finality which left no ground for appeal, and then, soon after the celebration of her twenty-fifth birthday, john biggs appeared upon the scene. he was neither a maharajah nor a german jew, and he knew nothing whatever about soap-boiling. probably in early years he had hardly been better acquainted with soap itself! he was an australian by birth; a man of the people, who by a series of lucky chances had first discovered a gold reef, and then secured it for his own. a born fighter, he had experienced a delight in every step on the road to success, which was strangely lacking when the summit was reached. he was a multi-millionaire; he owned more money than he could spend. the battle had been fought and won, and henceforth life stretched before him barren of interest. he made his way to london, as millionaires have a habit of doing, was eagerly welcomed by a certain section of society, and in the course of a few weeks met miss berrington at a musical "at home." "who's the ogre?" asked claudia of her companion as she watched the entrance of the big, lumbering man, who still carried his dress clothes with an air of discomfort. she shuddered daintily. "he looks like, `the better to eat you, my dear.' such teeth oughtn't to be _allowed_! _has_ he any eyes? they are so buried in fat that one can't see. it's very inconsiderate of lady rollo to give us such shocks! if he comes over here, i shall scream!" "that's biggs, the australian millionaire, the third richest man in the world, so they say. he _is_ an ugly beggar, and as glum as he's ugly. doesn't appear to get much fun out of his pile! there's no need to be introduced to him, miss berrington, if you'd rather not. shall we go and hide in the conservatory?" the speaker was a recent acquaintance, sufficiently under the spell of claudia's dimples to believe her everything that was disinterested and simple. her reply gave him a shock. "a millionaire, is he? that covers a multitude of--teeth! i shan't scream, after all. no; i don't want to hide. i've a penchant for millionaires! i'll sit here and look pretty! how long do you give him, mr bruce, before he asks for an introduction?" mr bruce gave him ten minutes, but, as a matter of fact, it was only seven and a half by the clock before the ogre was bowing before the beauty's sofa, and being smilingly welcomed to a seat by her side. he was portentously ugly! claudia, regarding him with her long green eyes, thought she had never before beheld so unattractive a man. "flabby dabby" was her not inappropriate mental definition, but the small grey eyes looking out of the vast mass of flesh were disconcertingly keen and alert. claudia realised that her description did not apply to the man's _mind_, however aptly it might fit his body. as for john biggs, no words could describe his admiration of this wonderful new specimen of womanhood. never in all his life had he beheld anyone so fair, so exquisite, so ethereal. her hair was like threads of gold. the exquisite fineness and beauty of her complexion was like that of a child. it seemed a miracle in the eyes of the big, rough man that a grown-up woman should preserve such delicacy of charm. yet as they exchanged the first commonplaces of conversation there was something in the expression of those sunken eyes which was not wholly approving. they seemed to claudia like small steel gimlets, piercing into her soul! as he bade her good-bye that evening, john biggs announced coolly: "i shall see you again on thursday, as arranged!" and when claudia exclaimed, he waved aside her protests with a sarcastic laugh. "you have been at pains to tell me exactly what you are to be doing every day of this week! didn't you _intend_ me to meet you?" claudia shrugged her shoulders, and took refuge in her usual honesty. "well--i _did_! but you might have pretended that i didn't. it's rather unkind to show that you see through my poor little machinations with such ease." "i never pretend," said john biggs. his eyes rested on the string of imitation pearls encircling the slender neck, and he spoke again, roughly, insolently: "why do you deck yourself with sham beads?" "because i have nothing better, of course. what a stupid question to ask!" "you ought to wear emeralds," he said. "they are the stones for you, with your complexion and eyes. you ought to wear emeralds. ropes of emeralds." "i intend to!" answered claudia calmly. their eyes met, and they stared at one another; a cold and challenging stare. during the next fortnight society watched with interest the progress of the affair between "beauty and the beast," and speculation was rife as to its outcome. would he propose; and, if so, would she--_could_ she accept? it seemed impossible to her friends that even claudia, the mercenary, could sell herself to this ogre-like man. but claudia herself had no hesitation. on the fifteenth day after their introduction, the couple sat together under a tree at one of the outdoor functions of the year, and john biggs asked a sudden question: "what did you think of me," he asked, "when you first saw me that evening at the rollos'?" claudia smiled at him with the sweetness of an angel. "i thought," she said, "you were the ugliest man i had ever seen!" "and yet," he said sneering, "you made eyes at me across the room. you willed me to come and be introduced!" "yes, i did. but that," said claudia serenely, "was because you were rich." the gimlet-like eyes stared long and straight at the lovely face, beneath the rose-crowned hat. "i think," john biggs said deliberately, "you are the most soulless human creature on earth! that lovely body of yours is a shell--a beautiful shell with nothing inside. you have no soul!" "i don't want one, thank you. they're such a bother. why are you so cross with me all of a sudden?" cried claudia, making a delightful little _moue_ of childlike injury and distress. "i've been so nice to you all this time, and it's mean to ask questions, and then get cross when i tell you the truth." "you are false!" he replied coldly. "your honesty is a blind to hide the falseness beneath. there is nothing true, nor straight, nor honest about you." and then bending nearer, so that his huge brown face almost touched her own, he hissed a question into her ear: "claudia--will you marry me?" claudia gave a trill of birdlike laughter. "yes, please!" she cried gaily. "but what a funny proposal! you don't `lead up' a bit well. they are generally so flattering and nice, and you were horrible. why do you want to marry me, if you disapprove of me so much?" "why do you want to marry _me_?" he asked in return. there was no lover-like ardour in his voice; the sunken eyes gleamed with a mocking light; every tooth in his head seemed to show as he bent over her. "is it because you love me, claudia?" "n-ot exactly," said claudia, with a gulp. his nearness gave her a momentary feeling of suffocation, but she braced herself to bear it without shrinking. "n-ot exactly; but i love the things you can give me! it's a fair exchange, isn't it? you want a hostess; i want a home. you don't pretend to love me, either!" then suddenly his eyes blazed upon her. "not you, perhaps, but your beauty! i worship your beauty," he cried. "your beauty has driven me mad! make no mistake, my girl, you don't deceive me--you are not worth loving, not even worth buying, though you are so ready to sell your dainty pink and white self, but i am going to buy you all the same. i've worked hard for my money, and i can afford to indulge myself in worthless trifles if it suits my fancy. it is, as you say, a fair exchange. you want my money, i want your beauty. i have worked among grim sights; now, for a change, i shall look upon-- you!" he stretched out his great hand, and laid it beside hers. "hide and satin! who would believe that we belonged to the same species! you're a dainty morsel, my dear. we shall make a pretty pair." claudia looked at him, and felt a shrinking of heart. "you'll be good to me?" she asked him. "you'll promise not to quarrel, or be stingy? you won't make me marry you, and then put me on an allowance, or fuss about bills? you'll promise faithfully!" "you shall have as much money as you can spend. you're an object _de luxe_, my dear, and shall be shielded carefully in your glass case. i'm not a fool to buy a curio, and not look after its preservation. take care of your beauty! deck it up! it's mine! i've bought it--_see that i get my price_!" he lifted his hand and stroked the exquisite cheek. seen close at hand, the fineness and smoothness of the skin was even more wonderful than from afar. he gripped the chin between finger and thumb, and turned her face to his, staring greedily at each curve and line. in appearance, as in manner, claudia went in for honesty. there was no artificiality about her beauty, not even a brush of powder upon the skin. the man who had just settled his terms regarded his purchase with kindling eyes. "i'll buy you your emeralds, my beauty, the finest emeralds i can find," he cried. "everyone shall talk of you; everyone shall envy you. the queen of beauty, mrs john biggs!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ claudia biggs had been married for two years, and had flourished like the proverbial bay-tree. her wedding had been one of the smartest functions of the season, her honeymoon had been spent in a lordly castle "lent for the occasion" by its titled owner. as mrs john biggs, she had made her presentation curtsey to her sovereign in a gown whose magnificence was the talk of the town; every house that was worth visiting threw open its doors to the millionaire and his wife, and society flocked to the entertainments given by them in their turn. there had been those who had prophesied disaster from the marriage, who had felt convinced that claudia would not be able to endure so close a companionship with her ogre, but as time passed on they were obliged to confess their mistake, for claudia bloomed into an amazing, an almost incredible, beauty. she had always been lovely, but the loveliness of claudia the maid was as nothing compared with that of claudia the wife. what had been, as it were, a flower of the wayside, had become the most rare and costly of exotics, tended with every extravagance of care. the most exquisite garments, the most costly gems, were showered upon her by a husband who took no account of money spent on the adornment of the beauty for which he had paid so high a price; but if he were generous in the fulfilment of his promise, he insisted that claudia should do her own share. she must be sparing in food and drink, she must take regular exercise; she must keep early hours, and retire to the country for specified periods of rest. john commanded, and, after one memorable attempt at rebellion, claudia had silently obeyed. she never voluntarily recalled that occasion, but from time to time it visited her in dreams, and then she awoke screaming, as from a nightmare. at the end of two years, the girl friend who had lectured claudia on the night of her confession that she wanted money came to pay a visit to the mayfair mansion, afire with eagerness to see with her own eyes this strangely matched pair. claudia was lazy about correspondence, and on the rare occasions when she did exert herself to write, her letters were stiff and artificial. she was aware of her own lack of epistolary skill, and was in the habit of referring her friends to the society papers for news of her doings. "they'll tell you all about my dresses," she would say serenely, and following her advice her friends read accounts of wonderful brocades embroidered with real jewels, of trains composed of cloth of gold, and cobweb creations of lace, whose value ran high in four figures, and they laughed to themselves as they read, recalling the old days and the rich cousin's "cast-offs." certainly claudia could now claim to be one of the most gorgeously dressed women in society, but--was she happy? meriel, who was of a romantic and sensitive temperament, recalled the appearance of john biggs as he had appeared at the wedding ceremony: the gross bulk of the man, the projecting teeth, the small eyes glowing like points of light, the large coarse face; remembering, she shuddered at the remembrance, and for the hundredth time repeated the question--was it possible that claudia could know happiness with such a mate? meriel arrived at the mayfair mansion late one march afternoon, and was escorted up a magnificent staircase into an equally magnificent drawing-room on the first floor. everything on which the eyes rested was costly and beautiful, but, looking around with dazzled eyes, meriel realised that this was but a show-room, an enlarged curio case, in which were exhibited isolated objects of value. there was no harmony about the whole, no skilful blending of effect; the loving touch which turns a house into a home was missing here. the perfect specimens stood stiffly in their places, there was no sign of occupation, not so much as a book lying upon a chair. the first impression was undoubtedly disappointing, but presently the door opened, and claudia herself appeared on the threshold, and ran forward, impulsive, loving, and unaffected as in the days of her obscurity. "meriel! oh, meriel! it _is_ ripping to see you again, you dear, nice old thing! i'm ever so pleased you could come. i don't often have visitors. i'm bored with visitors, but i wanted you. and you look just the same; not a bit older. i always did say you had the sweetest eyes in the world--_and_ the ugliest hats! meriel darling, i shall take you at once to my milliner's." "no good, my dear, i've no money to spend. besides, what's the use of worrying about clothes while i'm with you? i'm bound to look the veriest frump in comparison, so why worry any more? we are not all the wives of millionaires." "no! isn't it a pity? i do wish you were. sit down, dear, and we'll have tea." claudia touched the electric bell and seated herself on a sofa a little to the left of her friend's chair, looking towards her with a smile in which complacency was tinged with a touch of anxiety. "how do i look?" meriel looked, laughed, and waved her hands in the air with a gesture meant to convey the inadequacy of words. "a vision! a dream. snow white. rose red. a fairy princess. a diamond queen. quite unnecessarily and selfishly beautiful, my dear, and as sleek as a well-stroked cat! really, claudia, you've eclipsed yourself!" "oh, have i? you think so really? honestly, you think so? meriel, you _are_ a dear; i do love you!" cried claudia, and meriel noticed with amazement that there was unfeigned relief in her voice. it was a new development for claudia to show any uncertainty concerning her own charms! throughout the meal which followed meriel was absorbed in admiration of the beautiful creature who sat beside her; her unaccustomed eyes dwelt with something like awe upon the costly intricacies of her attire, the limpid purity of the gems which glittered on the white hands. claudia's clothing expressed the last word in smartness, but she had not been infected by the modern craze for powder and rouge. the beauty of her face and hair were due to nature alone, but, despite the warmth, of her friend's admiration, she herself seemed to feel some uncertainty as to their effect. from time to time she craned her head to study herself in a mirror which hung upon the wall, and at each glance her forehead wrinkled. meriel pushed her chair slightly to the left so that she also might see that reflection, and discovered with amusement that the cause of this perturbation was a slight pink flush which rose above the lace collar, and touched the base of the cheek; she bit her lips to restrain a smile, realising with increased amusement that ever since she had entered the room claudia had skilfully manoeuvred to hide this trifling disfigurement from observation. what a bore to be a society belle who was obliged to worry seriously about a trifle which would probably disappear in the course of a few hours! the two friends were talking merrily together when the door opened, and john biggs entered the room. he was slightly thinner, a thought more presentable than of yore, but the small eyes had lost none of their sunken gleam. meriel had to keep a strong control over herself to hide her shuddering dislike as his hand touched hers, but she acknowledged that he was a gracious host, and that she had no cause to find fault with the manner in which he gave her welcome. the greetings over, she discovered that claudia had taken advantage of the breathing space to move her chair to the opposite side of the small tea-table, so that her husband from his arm-chair should see her to the best advantage, and the disfigurement of that slight rash should be inflicted upon the guest rather than upon himself. it struck meriel as a pretty, almost a touching action, and she watched eagerly to discover if it were possible that the miracle of love had united this husband and wife. first for the husband--his conversation was addressed as in duty bound mainly to his guest, but ever and anon his eyes returned to his wife, and dwelt upon her, fascinated, absorbed, as though of all the treasures which the room contained she was in his sight the most priceless of all. then for the wife--a slight but very perceptible change had come over claudia's manner since the moment of his entrance. her affectation of candour disappeared, an air of caution and reserve enveloped her like a mist. she gave the altogether new impression of considering her words, of shaping them continually to please the ears of her audience. yet she had shown her old outspokenness during the first few minutes of the interview, had for instance had no hesitation in condemning the ugliness of mend's hat. obviously then it was her husband whom she was considering, not her guest. once more meriel commended the attitude; once more hope raised her head. she addressed herself to her host in quite a cordial and friendly manner. "i have been telling claudia that she has eclipsed all her former records! she is looking younger, and more brilliant than i have ever seen her." john biggs looked at his wife, and his eyes gleamed. what did that gleam mean? did it mean love, the love which a man might naturally be supposed to cherish for a wife so young and lovely? it was meriel's nature to believe in her fellow creatures, and she told herself that of course it meant love. what else could it be? it was imagination only which had read into that glance something cold and cruel, a triumph of possession more malignant than tender. when claudia rose to escort her friend to her room, there came the first note of discord, for her husband rose too, and as she would have passed by stretched out one great hand to detain her, while with the other he held her chin, turning her face so that the pink rash was deliberately exposed to his gaze. a moment before it had been hardly noticeable, but at that touch the pink flush faded from claudia's cheek, leaving her so pallid that the disfigurement was increased by contrast. "still there, i notice!" he said shortly, and then with a certain brutality of emphasis: "get rid of that!" he cried deeply. "get rid of it. _and quickly_. do you hear?" "yes, john," claudia said, and there was a breathless catch in her voice, as though his words filled her with fear. meriel marvelled still more! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ later on that evening, meriel repaired to her friend's room to indulge in one of those hair-brushing _tete-a-tetes_ dear to the feminine soul. "well, claudia," she began, a touch of something approaching envy sounding in her voice, "you at least have gained what you wished for! you plumped for money, and you have more than you can spend. do you find the experience as satisfactory as you expected?" claudia smiled, and leaned back luxuriously against her cushions. "oh, _quite_!" she cried emphatically. "after two years' experience, i am still of the opinion that it is the only thing that matters. it's wonderful what money can do, meriel; it's magical! good people talk of greater gifts that you may get if you are good and self-denying, and have a dull time, but they are all in the clouds, and money is so delightfully, so tangibly real!" she glanced round the beautiful room, then down to the little ringed hand stretched out to the fire; she moved her fingers to and fro, so that the flames might wake the sparkle of gems, and heaved a sigh of luxurious content. "i used to long for things that i could not have; now i never need to long, for they are mine as soon as i think of them! how can one help being happy, when one has everything one wants?" "there are some things that money cannot buy." once more meriel could not resist echoing the truism of centuries, but claudia shook her head with laughing contradiction. "rubbish! don't you believe it! anyway, money can buy such good imitations that you can't tell them from real! it can do more than that. it--" she paused, with a sudden intake of breath, and her voice sank to a deeper note: "_it can cover things up_!" meriel's eyes shot a curious glance. through the evening she had studied the husband and wife with a puzzled scrutiny, and now, at the end of it, she felt as far as ever from solving the mystery which she sensed as lying beneath the surface. claudia's manner to her husband was gay and charming, but in the midst of her lightest badinage the friend of her youth had discerned an effort, a strain, an almost painful endeavour to win his approval. and he? nothing could be more marked than the man's care for his beautiful wife. why was it that through all his elaborate attentions there lurked a cold, a sinister effect? "but what can you have that you wish to cover, claudia?" meriel inquired. "by your own confession, you have only to wish and it is yours, and you have a devoted husband who looks after you as if you were the most fragile of hothouse flowers. it's absurd, you know, for you were always as strong as a horse! that transparent look of yours is a delusion; but how upset he seemed, poor man, because your cheek was just a little inflamed to-night." claudia straightened herself; an involuntary shiver shook her slight form. her voice had a nervous ring: "it's nothing--it's nothing!" she cried. "just spring, and these horrid east winds. but it won't go! i've tried a dozen things; and he hates it--he hates any fuss or illness! i must never be ill, or have anything that spoils. there's this ball coming on next week, and i am to be the ice queen. i _must_ get my face better before then! i've got the most wonderful dress. he planned it for me. he is determined there shall be nothing to touch it in the room. goodness knows the amount he has spent upon it! i simply daren't look anything but my best!" "my dear claudia!" meriel's voice was full of protest. "what nonsense you talk! you are very beautiful, my dear, but you can't expect an eternal perfection! you must have your ups and downs like other people, and grow old in your turn, and lose your hair and complexion, and grow withered and toothless!" claudia leaped to her feet with a gesture which was almost fierce in its intensity. "be quiet!" she cried. "be quiet! don't dare to speak of it. i'm young still; not twenty-seven. i've ages and ages ahead before i need think of growing old. and women don't lose their beauty nowadays. they know how to keep it. they _have_ to keep it! and i--i more than anyone!" she crossed the room to her dressing-table, and, switching on an extra electric light, bent low to examine her face in the glass. "it's only a slight rash, meriel; _but it won't go_! i--i don't know what to do about it. i'm worried to death. do help me. do advise. do tell me what to do." it was the first time that claudia's friend had ever heard her appeal for help, and there was a thrill in her voice which could not be denied. "my dear girl," she said quickly, "i'm no good at cosmetics. my complexion has to take its chance, and nobody cares whether it's good or bad. but if you are specially anxious to look your best at this ball, why waste time in experiments? a few guineas more or less is nothing to you. go to-morrow to consult the first skin specialist in london." claudia looked at her, a long, thoughtful look. she began to speak and checked herself, subduing as it were a bidden fear. then she nodded slowly, once and again. "i will!" she said firmly. "i will. it's folly putting it off. i'll telephone at once, and make an appointment." the examination was over. a longer and more exhaustive examination than seemed necessary for so slight a cause. the specialist stood hesitating, his face puckered in thought. claudia smiled at him with her most dazzling smile. "you think you can make me quite better for the ball?" he looked at her swiftly, and as swiftly looked away. "that is a very short time. i am afraid i can hardly promise that." "how soon can you make me better?" "these skin troubles are sometimes lengthy affairs. it will be necessary for you to have a course of treatment. i should like to see mr--er--your husband, and talk the matter over with him." but at that claudia swept forward with a commanding air. "it is impossible! i forbid it! he does not know that i am here to-day. he must not know! if there is anything to be done, i must do it without his knowledge! i cannot tell him. i dare not tell him: what is it that is wrong with my face? it is only a little rash. _why do you look at me like that_? for god's sake say that it won't take long, that it won't get worse; that i shall be able to--_to hide_ it from him; to keep my beauty! _what is the matter_? why don't you speak? you must tell me. if you know! whatever it is i _must_ bear it alone! i daren't tell him--he must never know!" the great doctor turned away his face. his lips moved, once and again, before at last the dread word echoed through the room: "_lupus_!" chapter three. the girl who wished for adventure. the girl who had wished for adventure journeyed back to her native village two days after the new year's party, and spent the following eighteen months in tramping monotonously along a well-worn rut. the only difference made by that oft-remembered conference was in her point of view. before that date she had sighed for the unattainable; after it, the unattainable became the possible. some day, if she but waited, opportunity would come; some day the end of a thread would float downward towards her hand, and grasping it, she would be led into a new world! to the best of her power, she cultivated this attitude, and each monotonous month, as it dragged past, added strength to her determination to snatch the first opportunity that came her way. at the end of eighteen months the girl packed up her trunk, and left home to pay a dull visit to a great-aunt. "don't expect me to write letters," she said to her family at parting, and the family groaned in chorus, and cried: "please, don't! it's quite enough for one of us to be victimised. spare us the echoes of aunt eliza! just send a postcard when you're coming back." great-aunt eliza was a daunting old lady who prided herself upon speaking the truth. "goodness! how you have gone off," was the first remark which she hurled at her great-niece's head, after the conventional greetings had been exchanged. she poured out a cup of strong, stewed tea, and offered a slice of leathery muffin. "and you used to be quite nice looking!" juliet smiled with the laboured brightness of a wallflower in a ballroom, and said, but did not for a moment mean: "i'm growing old, aunt eliza." "you are, my dear," agreed aunt eliza. "twenty-eight, is it, or twenty-nine? and three other girls at home. pity you haven't married! your father will have precious little to leave." juliet, who was twenty-six, and had never had a real definite proposal, smiled more laboriously than before, but the muffin tasted bitter as gall. on the third day of the visit, aunt eliza read a letter at the breakfast-table, and said suavely: "i shall have to curtail your visit, my dear! cousin maria phillips writes that she is in the neighbourhood, and wishes to come over to see me. i can't refuse to receive maria, but two guests would upset the servants. you must come again later on. perhaps there are some other friends you would like to visit?" juliet replied haughtily that there were many other friends. when would aunt eliza wish-- "oh, there's no hurry. perhaps to-morrow," said the old lady calmly. "this afternoon, my dear, i want you to go to the hospital for me. i distribute flowers in the mary wright ward every thursday, but i have a slight cold to-day, and daren't venture out. be ready by three, and the brougham will take you there. you can walk home." at half-past three o'clock, therefore, juliet entered the long bare stretch of the mary wright ward, dedicated to female surgical cases, and passed from bed to bed, distributing little bunches of drooping flowers affixed to little white cards inscribed with texts. the patients accorded but a lukewarm welcome to these offerings, but were unaffectedly pleased to welcome the handsome girl whose coming made a break in the monotonous day. some of the patients were sitting upright against their pillows, progressed so far towards convalescence as to be able to enjoy a chat; others could only give a wan smile of acknowledgment; at the extreme end of the ward the sight of a screened-off bed told its own sad tale. the woman in the nearest occupied bed related the story in a stage aside. "accident case, brought in this morning. dying, they think! run over by a motor in the street. and only a bit of a girl like yourself! mumbles a bit at times, delirious-like--nothing you can understand. there! she's beginning again!" the sound of the thin, strained voice sent a shiver down juliet's spine, for there was in it a note which even her unaccustomed ears recognised. she turned to depart, with the natural shrinking of the young and healthy, but her haste made her careless, and the remaining bunches of flowers tilted out of her basket and rolled along the polished floor. those that had fallen the farthest were almost touching the screen, and as juliet bent to pick them up the mumbled voice seemed suddenly to grow into distinctness. it was a number that the voice was mumbling; number whispered over and over. "eighty-one! ... eighty-one! ... grosvenor. are you there? ... eighty-one, are--you--there?" the mumbling died away, rose again, was lost in groans. despite the weakness and the haste, the listener realised a quality in the voice which differentiated it from those of the other occupants of the ward. it was the voice of a woman of education and refinement, a woman belonging to her own class. juliet shivered, and, clutching her flowers, walked quickly down the ward. half-way down its length she met the sister, and put a tentative question, to which was vouchsafed a cool, professional reply: "yes. very sad! internal injuries. sinking rapidly. evidently a girl in good circumstances." "do you know her name--anything about her?" the sister shrugged slightly. "her clothes are marked `alice white,' and she had some american addresses and steamship tickets in her purse. the _lusitania_ landed her passengers this morning. she has said nothing coherent, and, of course, cannot be questioned. the matron is making inquiries--" at that moment the quiet of the ward was broken by a sound of a cry of terrible import. juliet quailed before it, and the sister, darting forward, disappeared behind the screen. alas for alice white, who but a few hours ago had been young and strong, and heedless of disaster! juliet descended the staircase of the hospital thrilling with horror at the remembrance of that cry, her mind seething with agitated questions. who was alice, and who--a thrill of excitement ran through her veins--who was eighty-one, grosvenor, with whom the dying girl's thoughts had sought communion? grosvenor? that meant london. alice white, then, had friends in london. would it not be better to communicate with them, rather than with mere officials in an office? at the door of the great building, juliet hesitated and turned from the street as if to retrace her steps. should she go back to the mary wright ward, tell the sister what she had overheard, and suggest telephoning forthwith? for a moment the suggestion found favour, then, with her foot outstretched to remount the first step, she drew back and walked rapidly away. in the flash of a moment it had darted into her brain as a crystallised resolution to give her information into no second hand, but to go herself to the nearest call office and ring up eighty-one grosvenor. the woman in the nearest bed had spoken of mutterings. the sister had caught no coherent words. if death had immediately followed her own interview, it seemed probable that no one but herself had overheard the number. juliet's eyes brightened, and a flush of colour showed in her cheeks. the information received might be of the driest; the sequel of reporting it to the hospital authorities promised but small excitement; nevertheless, in her uneventful life, small things counted as great, and the touch of uncertainty fired her blood. she seated herself in the little boxed-off room, and at the end of ten minutes' wait received an affirmative answer to the oft-repeated question. "yes. this is eighty-one, grosvenor. who is speaking?" though she had waited so long, juliet was still pondering how to word her inquiries. it seemed useless to mention an unknown name, so on the impulse of the moment she decided to give a simple account of the accident. "alice white--" she was about to add--"has been mortally injured," or some such statement, when, cutting swiftly across her words, came a cry of relief from the other end of the wire: "alice white! _at last_! we've been expecting to hear from you all day. it's urgent. why didn't you wire?" "i--i--" juliet stammered in confusion, and the voice, a woman's voice, interrupted again, in a sharp, businesslike accent: "never mind now. you can explain later. are you alone?" "yes." "that's right! then listen to me, and give your answers in monosyllables. i will spell any names you miss, if you ask me to repeat. don't attempt to pronounce them yourself, but write them down in a note-book. there must be no mistake. are you ready?" "one moment." juliet had no note-book, but a search in her bag found a pencil and the blank page of a letter. "ready!" "you are ready to write instructions? i have been keeping over a case until your arrival, as it seemed in your line. it is urgent. nice people. comfortable surroundings. you would stay in the house as a guest. can you go on first thing to-morrow?" for one second, barely a second, juliet hesitated; then the answer came, short and sharp: "i can!" "that's good! go to the station to-day, and look up your route. there will be several changes. have you your pencil? write down `maplestone--antony maplestone.' have you got it? `the low house.' l-o-w. `nunkton.' n-u-n-k-t-o-n. `great morley.' `maplestone, the low house, nunkton, great morley.' have you got that? go on to-morrow by the first train. i will wire to mr maplestone to expect you. he will explain the case. are you all right for money? take your best clothes, as for a country visit. report to me in the course of a week. do your best. good chance for you. (yes, i've nearly finished. i've not had my three minutes.) you understand, miss white? you quite understand?" "i quite understand," said juliet, and sat down heavily on the chair beside the receiver. how had it happened? how much was she to blame? from the moment of that first interruption it seemed as if she had had no chance to explain. without any preconceived intention of taking the injured girl's place, she had done so, as it were, without volition of her own. the spirit of adventure, so long nourished, had grasped at the opportunity, before the slower brain had had time to decide on its action. juliet drew a deep breath, and stared with dilated eyes at the opposite wall. "how _could_ i?" she asked herself, breathlessly. "how _dared_ i? how _can_ i?" and then, with a bursting laugh, "_but i will_!" she cried, and leaped nimbly to her feet. "urgent! nice people! good chance! a guest in the house!" her lips moved in repetition of the different phrases as she walked rapidly back in the direction of the hospital. she knitted her brows in the effort to understand, to reconcile contradictions. what was this alice white, and on what mission had she crossed the ocean? and who was eighty-one, grosvenor, who issued orders as to a subordinate, and gave instructions as to reports? only one thing seemed certain, and that was that it would be many a long day, if ever, before poor alice white was fit to take up any work, however interesting. remembering that last choking cry, it seemed probable that even now--juliet resolutely stifled further questionings until once more she stood within the portals of the hospital, and made her inquiries of the porter. he retired, and returned, after a few minutes' absence, with a face appropriately lengthened. "gone, miss! directly you left. went off in a moment." juliet nodded, and turned back to the street. what exactly had she intended to do had alice white still been alive? honestly, she did not know! it seemed as though she would never be able to answer that question. she waved it impatiently aside. why trouble about might-have-beens? the girl was dead! the only question of importance which now remained was, _what was she herself going to do_? juliet thought of the long years of boredom and waiting which had made up her life; she thought of her dull, comfortable home; of her dull, comfortable visits, and longingly, daringly, she thought of the interesting "case" which was "urgent," and a "good chance." she recalled with a tingling of excitement her aunt's morning announcement, which necessitated her own departure on the morrow. "i could go over to nunkton, and see what it meant. if there was anything i didn't like i could move on at once to the blakes. no one need know; no one need guess. even if i stayed for a few days, it could be arranged!" she stopped short in the middle of the pavement, and drew a deep breath of excitement. "it's my chance!" she cried to herself. "the chance i've been waiting for! whatever happens, whatever comes of it--_i shall go_!" the next day juliet set forth on her voyage of adventure, with the mingling of elation and nervousness inevitable under the circumstances. remindful of telephone instructions, she attired herself with especial care, and was agreeably conscious that she looked her best. a travelling costume as smart as it was simple, a trig little hat, with just one dash of colour at the side to give the needed _cachet_ and emphasise the tints of the face beneath. "really quite a creditable face!" she told herself, smiling back at a reflection of grey eyes thickly fringed with black lashes, curling, humorous lips, and the prettiest flush of pink--genuine, washable pink--upon the cheeks. "if i were happy, if i were interested, i might be almost--beautiful," she told herself with a sigh. "every woman grows plain when she is superfluous and alone." seated in the train, drawing near to her destination, juliet found herself repeating the words over and over, like a child rehearsing a lesson. "alice white," cried the mental voice, "alice white," and again, "alice white. it's my name! i must answer to it. i must give it when asked. i am alice white, professional _something_--i don't know what. i am obeying a telephone summons meant for someone else, and, if i don't want to be discovered within five minutes of my arrival, i must keep my wits about me, and think seventeen times at least before i utter a word. i'm to be met at the station and treated as one of the family, and to remember that appearance is a strong point, and wear my best clothes..." she knitted her brows, and for the hundredth time endeavoured to reach a solution of the mystery. "i can't be a sick-nurse; the clothes settle that. if it had been that, i should have had to confess at once. but in other capacities i'm intelligent, i'm experienced, i'm willing. i'm _more_ than willing--i'm _eager_! there's no reason why i should not do as well as the real alice. after all, it's quite a usual thing to take up work under a professional name. writers do it, artists, actors; there can be no harm in using the poor girl's name, if i do my best with her work." the train drew up at the station, a small, flowery country station, and, opening the door, juliet stepped lightly to the ground. her carriage had been at the end of the train, and the length of platform stretched before her. a glance showed a solitary porter approaching the luggage van; one commanding figure of an unusually big man, in a tweed knickerbocker suit; and, farther off still, by the door of the booking-office, two ladies in navy-blue costumes, apparently awaiting the arrival of friends. at the extreme end of the train another door opened, and an elderly man carrying a bag made a heavy descent to the platform. the ladies stood motionless; the man in tweeds hurried towards where juliet stood. she looked at him anxiously, met the glance of a pair of level brown eyes, and was instantly conscious of two things concerning his state of mind. he was embarrassed; he was also agreeably relieved. the next moment he was facing her, and was holding out his hand. "miss white?" "yes." "i am antony maplestone." "oh!" juliet was conscious that her own sensations exactly duplicated those of her companion. she was embarrassed; she was also agreeably relieved, for if adventure were to be her portion, no girl could have wished for a more attractive stage manager to initiate her into her part. she stood blushing and smiling, wondering what to say next, subconsciously aware the while that, by placing his tall form between her and the end of the platform, maplestone was designedly screening her from the scrutiny of the blue-robed dames. "i have a dog-cart waiting," he said hastily. "i'm going to drive you home, and explain things _en route_; my man will look after your boxes. er--there's just one thing--" the air of embarrassment grew more marked; a flush showed in his cheeks. "it's a nuisance; there are two women over there--neighbours; i'm afraid i'll be obliged to introduce you. do you think, for a few minutes, until we can escape, you could manage to look a little--_intimate_?" his voice, his look, were so full of apology at the suggestion, that juliet's surprise gave way to amusement. she laughed, a bright girlish laugh, and said, "certainly!" in crisp, matter-of-fact tones which were evidently a vast relief to her companion. he stepped quickly to one side, as if anxious that her smiling face should be seen by others besides himself, and led the way down the platform, inclining his head towards her with an air of deepest solicitude. "you have had a comfortable journey?" "oh, yes," juliet nodded gaily, responding readily to his cue. he wished her to talk, he wished the watching women to believe that this was no first meeting, but a reunion of friends. for some unknown reason it was necessary to his interests that they should receive this impression. very well, then, it should be done. "alice white" was not going to fail in the first call upon her. "oh, yes, quite comfy. i had a tea basket. _china_ tea. did you know you could get _china_ tea in baskets? and a ducky little pot of jam, all to myself. isn't this station pretty? such sweet flowers!" they were close to the ticket office by this time. the man's eyes flashed a look of gratitude and appreciation. he laid a light touch on her arm, and brought her to a stand before the waiting women. "here she is! i'm not disappointed, you see. i want to introduce you to each other while i have a chance. miss clare lawson, lady lorrima, miss bridges." juliet bowed and smiled, her senses momentarily stunned by the responsibility of yet another cognomen. now she would have to begin all over again and train herself to be "clare." the eyes of the two women were keenly critical; their words were cordial, if somewhat mysterious. "_so_ pleased to meet you! quite an honour to be the first to welcome you. the squire _will_ be delighted!" "i shall be delighted to see him," juliet declared smiling. she disliked the attitude of these women as much as she was attracted by that of the man by her side. despite their assurances, she had a conviction that they were _not_ pleased at her arrival; that it was a disappointment to them to find her appearance beyond criticism. the big man stood silent by her side; she divined also that he was nervous and troubled, momentarily dreading a slip on her part. she was determined to make no slip. already she had ranked herself on his side, and felt the stirring of the true actor's joy in making the best of his part. the younger of the two women gave a difficult, unmirthful laugh. she was a thin, elegant-looking creature, rather over thirty, whose good looks were marred by an expression of discontent. "really, you know," she cried in affected tones, "we were beginning to think that your name was harris, and that antony had invented you for his own convenience. it seemed so strange that he had never spoken of you before." juliet's little laugh of response was quite sweet and unruffled. "oh, i'm very real, i assure you. a most substantial person. i'm so glad he didn't bore you with descriptions; they lead to so much disappointment." she held out her hand with a charming assurance. "good-bye! perhaps we may meet again." the next moment they were passing through the office, out of view of the curious eyes, and a low-toned "bravo!" acclaimed the success of her effort. juliet laughed in involuntary self-congratulation, and maplestone laughed in sympathy. the two women, catching a sight of the dog-cart as it wheeled down the lane, saw the two laughing faces turned towards each other in mutual enjoyment, and the sight was not good in their eyes. "it's true, then; an absolute fact. and quite presentable, too. well, honoria, i'm sorry!" meanwhile juliet was putting her first question to her companion. "please--why am i clare lawson?" his face fell. amusement gave place to embarrassment. "do you object? i'm sorry to have sprung it upon you so suddenly, but--well, you had to have some name, hadn't you? i suppose one is as good as another." "perhaps so, but it's just a trifle confusing, because--" juliet drew herself up on the verge of an incriminating confession. "as you say, it doesn't really matter, but i am naturally interested. who _is_ clare lawson?" "er--as a matter of fact, there is no such person. i invented a fictitious girl, then, suddenly, was called upon for her name, so had to christen her on the spur of the moment. clare happened to be the name of the heroine in a novel i'd just finished reading, and lawson was the first surname which came to my mind. it's not such a _bad_ name, is it?" juliet made an expressive little grimace. "considered as an artistic effort, i can't say much for it. you might have done so much better. clare! i'm not a bit like a clare. and who is clare _supposed_ to be?" he looked at her with a keen, comprehensive glance. juliet had an impression that what he saw increased his embarrassment, from the very reason of his admiration. what he had to say would evidently have been easier if she had been less attractive, had not so obviously belonged to his own class. the flush mounted once more to his cheeks. "miss lawson, i should like to begin with a word of self-defence. i have the reputation of being straight in my dealings and i think i may say that it is deserved, yet at this moment, owing to an--impulse, to-- er--the folly of a moment, i find myself stranded, implicated--how shall i express it? i'm in the dickens of a hole, anyway, and for the moment can't imagine how i am ever to get out." "and if you only knew it, _so am i_!" was juliet's mental reflection. aloud, she said sententiously, "such things _do_ happen. i've heard of them. please tell me about it. perhaps i can help." "that's ripping of you! you see, obviously, there _had_ to be a girl, and, obviously also, i couldn't ask a friend. there was nothing for it but to get someone from outside. i searched the newspapers and spotted your office. they said they employed ladies, and being trained to detec--to inquiry work, i thought it would come easy to act a part." in after years juliet never quite understood how she retained her balance at that moment, and did not topple sideways, fall out of the high cart, and find a solution of her troubles. the sudden realisation that she was masquerading as nothing more or less than a lady detective, was so stunning in its unexpectedness and chagrin, that even the tactful softening of the term to that of inquiry agent failed to restore her equanimity. now, indeed, there was nothing before her but confession, for her whole nature revolted from the position of a "spy" in the household. it required a strong effort to speak in a natural voice. "wouldn't it be better if you began at the beginning and told me the whole story?" "that's what i am trying to do, but it's so difficult... the squire, mr maplestone, is my uncle. he and his wife have been like parents to me. i am in the army--indian regiment--home on a year's leave. they have no children, and i am their heir. naturally, under the circumstances, they are anxious that i should--er--" "marry!" "quite so. well!" in a tone of aggrieved self-vindication, "i _mean_ to marry. every fellow does when he gets past thirty. i came home this time with the determination to get engaged at the first opportunity, but--er--the time has passed by, and--it hasn't come off. i've met lots of girls, charming girls. i can't honestly say that i haven't had the _opportunity_, but when it came to the point"--he shrugged again--"i simply didn't want them, and that was the end of the matter. the dickens of it is, my leave is up in two months from now, and the old man is at the end of his patience. last week he had an attack of gout, a bad one too, and that brought matters to a crisis. he declared he'd cut me off there and then if i did not get engaged at once. i was sorry for the old fellow; he was in horrible pain; the doctor said he must be soothed at all costs, so--er--er--on the spur of the moment i invented clare. i said i was engaged to clare, but that clare was afraid of the indian climate, and refused to marry me till the regiment returned home, two years from now. i hardly realised what i was saying. i was between the devil and the deep sea. but he swallowed it whole, went off to sleep, and woke up as bright as a button. i was inclined to congratulate myself on having done a clever thing, for as i told you, i _intend_ to marry. i am only waiting for the right girl to turn up. i may very likely meet her on the voyage out. many men do. but, retribution fell upon me. he demanded to see clare. i prevaricated. he grew suspicious. there was another scene, another relapse; it was a case of confessing all, at goodness knows what risk, or of finding clare, and producing her for inspection. so--you see--" juliet sat silent; petrified, aflame. while he had been speaking, maplestone had kept his eyes rigorously averted from her face; he continued to do so now, and they drove along the quiet lane in a silence which could be _felt_--a throbbing, palpitating, scorching silence, which grew momentarily more unendurable. juliet told herself fiercely that she was a fool to feel embarrassed. alice white would not have been embarrassed. alice white would have accepted the position as a pure matter of business. as alice white's substitute, she must pull herself together and discuss the matter in a cool, rational fashion. if only her cheeks were not quite so hot! "it's--er--rather an unusual proposition, isn't it? it is, as you say, somewhat difficult to discuss. suppose," she cried desperately, "we treat it with a sense of humour! _don't_ let us be serious. let us laugh over it, and then it will become quite easy." "oh, thank you, yes. how ripping of you!" his eyes flashed relief. "i can promise you that it won't be nearly as trying as it sounds. the old people will be all that is kind, and--er--you understand that he is an invalid, and his wife is his nurse. they are engrossed with their own affairs, and won't worry you with questions. it is only in your supposed connection with me that you will--er--enter into their lives. as to myself, i have the reputation of being reserved to a fault. they won't expect me to--er--er--" juliet forced a determined smile. "precisely so! we'll be a model of all that an engaged couple--ought to be. but i had better not make myself too agreeable, in case the subsequent breaking off should prejudice the old people against you. i conclude i am to break it off?" "yes, please, if you don't mind--when i meet the real girl. but please do me credit _pro tem_. the great thing is to demonstrate to the old man that i seriously think of marriage, and those two years give plenty of time. you understand that you have an insuperable objection to the indian climate?" "certainly; that's easy. i've always longed to go, so i shall just turn my arguments upside down. and--er--where did we meet?" "oh, yes, of course, we must have some mutual coaching. there's not much time now, but after tea they'll expect us to have a _tete-a-tete_; we'll go over it then. i was introduced to you at henley. you're the sister of phil lawson, an old school friend. it--er--it was a case at first sight. we got engaged on the third day." "most unwise!" said juliet primly, and they laughed together with the heartiness born of relief from a painful situation. really, this sense-of-humour attitude was an admirable solution. antony slackened the reins and, fumbling in a pocket, drew out a small box. "may i--just for the next few days--beg your acceptance of this bauble?" "oh, thank you." juliet drew off her gloves and held up a well-shaped hand, on the third finger of which sparkled a row of diamonds. "it's not necessary. i can put this one on my left hand. it has quite an engagementy look about it, and i'd rather--" "i'm sorry, but i'm afraid it won't do. this is a family heirloom. the old man would consider it a slight if it were not used. just for one week." he opened the box, and showed a great square-cut emerald set in a border of diamonds--an antique jewel, evidently of considerable value--lifted it between finger and thumb, and held it out with calm expectancy. quite calmly also, juliet extended her left hand; but at the mutual touch, it was impossible to resist a thrill of embarrassment, a lightning realisation of what the moment might have meant had the action been real instead of masquerade. juliet hastily drew on her gloves; antony became engrossed in driving. they drove in silence up a long drive, and saw before them an old stone mansion, covered with clustering ivy. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the butler stared, the footman stared. raising her eyes as she passed under the great well of the staircase, juliet caught the flash of a white cap hurriedly withdrawn. a baize door, obviously leading into the servants' quarters, creaked eloquently upon its hinges. the back of antony's neck grew ever redder and redder as he led the way onwards; finally the drawing-room door was flung open, and across a space of chintz, and tapestry, and massed-up roses, juliet beheld two figures rise hurriedly in welcome. the aunt's thin locks were parted in the middle, and surmounted by a lace cap with a lavender bow. she wore a douce black silk dress, with a douce lace collar. she looked victorian, and downtrodden, and meek, and juliet dismissed her in half a dozen words. "she'll swallow anything!" the squire had a short neck, a red face, steel blue eyes, and a white waistcoat. he stood about five feet four in his boots and bore himself with the air of a giant. "he'll swallow _nothing_!" was juliet's second diagnosis, and she braced herself for the fray. the introduction was simple in the extreme. "this is clare!" said antony, whereupon mrs maplestone said hurriedly: "how d'you do. so pleased! you must have tea!" and the squire said nothing at all, but cleared his throat, and pulled forward a chair. then they all sat down, and mrs maplestone busied herself over the tea-tray, while her husband took his turn to stare. he began at juliet's feet, and considered them judiciously. large, but well shaped, wore a good boot. next he studied her hands, cocking a jealous eye at the emerald ring. large again, but white; good fingers; manicured nails. thirdly he considered her figure, and was pleased to approve. pine girl, some flesh on her bones, none of your modern skeletons. last of all he looked at her face. "humph! not so bad. points; distinctly points! antony was not such a fool as he looked!" in five minutes' time the squire could have passed an examination on the subject of juliet's appearance, and she realised as much, and felt correspondingly elated when the hard eyes softened, and an offer of hot scones was prefaced by, "my dear." my dear had been examined and found correct. my dear was approved. by the time that cups were filled for the second time, the squire had thawed to the point of jocularity. "well, miss clare, and what tales has this fine fellow been telling you about me? wicked uncle, eh? cruel ogre. gouty old tartar, who insists upon having his own way, and bullies his unfortunate nephew till he is obliged to give in for the sake of peace? that's it, eh? that's what he told you." juliet looked across at antony, discovered him flushed, frowning, supremely uncomfortable, and tilted her head with a charming audacity. "does that mean that he was bullied into having me? it wouldn't be exactly `peaceful' for him, if i believed that! he certainly would not dare to tell me anything so unflattering." the squire hastened to eat his words. the girl was a nice girl; frank, friendly, with a touch of the devil which was entirely to his taste. not for the world would he prejudice her against the boy. "no, no; not at all, not at all. precious little notice he took of my wishes, until it suited himself to follow my advice. obstinate fellow, you know; obstinate as a mule. wouldn't think it to see him sitting there, looking as if he couldn't say boo to a goose; but it's a fact. you'll find it out another day!" "i like a man to have a strong will," juliet said with the air of a meek, gentle, little fiancee, and the squire laughed loudly, and made a characteristic change of front. "glad to hear it! glad you don't go in for any of this fashionable nonsense about independence and equality. you obey your husband, my dear, and stay quietly in your home, and content yourself with your house duties, as your mother did before you. what has _she_ got to say about this precious engagement?" "mother thinks of me. she is glad of anything that makes me happy," juliet said, and flattered herself that she had rounded the corner rather neatly. antony looked at her quickly, and as quickly looked away. little mrs maplestone gave a soft murmur of approval. "she must be, dear! i am sure she must be and i'm sure she'll like antony when she knows him better. i hope we shall soon meet your parents. it was through your brother that you met, was it not? an old school friend. at henley?" "yes, henley. yes, phil! please don't ask me about it! the whole thing was such a rush. only three days! it seems like a dream. i--i forget everything but the one great fact!" cried juliet, taking refuge in truth, and thereby winning smiles of approval from her old-fashioned hearers, who considered such confusion suitable and becoming. they beamed upon her, and juliet began to feel the dawnings of pride in her own diplomacy. she was getting on well; surprisingly well! she allowed herself to believe that alice white could have done no better. "three days, eh?" repeated the squire complacently. "bowled him over in three days, did you, after being bullet-proof all these years! how in the world did you manage to do it?" "i can't think!" declared juliet, truthfully again, but she smiled as she spoke, and showed a dimple, and dropped her eyelids, so that the dark lashes rested on the pink of her cheeks, whereat the young man looked more embarrassed than ever, and the old one laughed till he choked, and offered her more cake, and called her "my dear" twice over in a single sentence, and delivered himself of the opinion that antony was a lucky dog. "doesn't deserve it, after all his slackness and procrastination! let's hope he'll appreciate his good luck. but what's this nonsense about waiting two years? what's this nonsense about not going back with him at once?" juliet looked as she felt, flustered, and taken aback. "it's so--sudden!" she pleaded, and blushed as she said the word. "i--i don't approve of marrying in a rush. only two months before he sails. suppose he regretted it? s-suppose he changed his mind?" "it's for him to answer that question! speak up, antony! are you likely to change your mind? do you feel any inclination to give up miss clare now that you have got her to promise to take you for better for worse?" "i'm not given to changing my mind, sir," antony said, discreetly answering the last question but one. he rose hastily as he spoke, evidently afraid lest his turn of cross-questioning was about to begin, and said hurriedly: "clare is tired, uncle. she'll answer all your questions later on. i'm going to take her into the garden for a little fresh air, and then send her upstairs to rest." so for the next half-hour antony maplestone and juliet, alias alice, clare, sat in a rose-shaded arbour, and discussed the plan of attack. there was so much to be settled. it was like making up a play, and coaching each other in the leading parts. juliet was inclined to give herself airs on the success of her first scene, and discovered with surprise that her companion vouchsafed only a mitigated admiration. "you must be very _used_ to it!" he said grudgingly whereupon juliet bridled, and declared: "i'm not! it's the very first case i've had, when--all my experiences so far, have been strictly business-like. i think you might give me _some_ encouragement. i thought i was so clever!" "you were, you were! uncommonly clever, and i felt all sorts of a fool. i'm not used to playing a part, and it comes harder than i expected. it's a comfort to escape and feel that we can talk openly together!" he stretched his arms, and drew a big sigh of relief. juliet sighed too, but not for the same reason. "i think it might be a wise precaution," she said presently, "if i sent my parents abroad to travel for several months! mrs maplestone spoke of wishing to see them, and it would be awkward to produce a suitable pair at a moment's notice. and dangerous! think of the pitfalls that would yawn before us over reminiscences of childhood? perhaps they'd better go for health! that would explain their leaving home just at this time. we must send them to a foreign spa for a six-weeks' course. where shall they go?" "marienbad," antony said promptly, whereon juliet drew herself up haughtily, and put on an air of offence. "no aspersions, if you please. _my_ parents are thin! it shall be rheumatism, i think. that's quite ordinary and eminently respectable. they might _both_ have it, if it comes to that." but antony objected. "no. not both! that's too drastic. my uncle would certainly object that you would inherit a tendency. only your father! a recent attack..." "just so; and they are anxious to take it in time. mother goes with him, as they are a devoted couple and couldn't endure to be parted for six weeks. mud baths, i think. there's such a sound of verisimilitude about mud baths! i think we must really decide on mud baths." "poor beggar, yes! i'm afraid there's no help for him. where are they, by the way? i've no idea. have you?" "oh, yes. they are in germany somewhere. or is it italy? somewhere about that part of the world," juliet said vaguely, whereupon antony took out his pocket-book and wrote down a memorandum. "a dutiful daughter ought to have her parents' address! i'll find that out before dinner. as a matter of fact, i don't think my uncle will trouble his head about your relations. there would have been the dickens to pay if he had not approved of you, but he was quite unusually amiable, took to you at first sight, and the aunt too. it went off far better than i expected." "just let me be quite clear on one point," juliet demanded. "am i nice, and amiable, and meek, or am i dashing and sportive?" "neither one nor the other, a useful blend. don't worry about that. you are perfectly all right as you are." "and--just as a guide for moments of expansion--_might_ it be `tony'?" "tony it must be. most decidedly tony." his voice was brisk with decision. the brown eyes brightened in anticipation. "perhaps even occasionally, `dear.'" "oh, no!" juliet shook her head obstinately. "no `dears'! i've been strictly brought up. i'm shy. _no_ demonstrations in public. i've no brothers, you see, and have led a secluded life." "yes, yes, there's phil; you must remember phil. it was your brother phil who introduced us at henley. you were staying with friends." "i _have_ friends near henley. their name is jones. can you remember jones? mr jones, solicitor; mrs jones; miss jones; miss florence jones; mr reginald jones, son, junior partner." "just so. reginald, of course, is philip's friend. phil is, like myself, home on leave. that simplifies things for you. by the by, he is in china, in the customs." "poor dear philip; with all these horrid riots. i _do_ feel anxious about him!" sighed naughty juliet in response; then, suddenly, "i wonder," she had cried soberly, "if i _ought_! i hate to deceive people, even for their own good. i wonder if i ought to go on." "but surely"--he stared at her in amazement--"it's your _profession_! it would be impossible to do inquiry work if people knew from the beginning what you were about. why did you--excuse me--choose such a profession if your conscience is so tender?" "i--i didn't realise. it was arranged in a hurry. i don't think i shall take any more cases." "no, don't!" antony cried eagerly. "it's all right this time, for you have fallen among people who will treat you properly, but it might be so different. haven't you a home where you can live safely and comfortably?" "very comfortably indeed, but i happen to be one of the horde of superfluous women who need something more than comfort." antony looked at her curiously at that, but he had asked no questions. juliet was thankful for his silence; for the absence of obvious compliments. the situation would be intolerable with a man of another type. with maplestone one had a comfortable feeling of security--a very comfortable feeling. juliet fell asleep that night with a smile on her lips. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ for three days all went well, the squire approving, his wife motherly, antony chivalrous and attentive. whatever the real experience might be, juliet was satisfied that pretending to be engaged was an agreeable sensation. morning and afternoon antony drove her abroad, sat with her in the rose garden, or escorted her on long walks over the countryside, and soon, wonderfully soon, there was no further need of coaching between them, for the lives of each, and the experiences thereof, the hopes, aspirations, and rebuffs, had been spread as in an opened book before the eyes of the other, with just one reservation on juliet's side, the disclosure of her own identity! "i have had an adventurous life. the one thing i have not had to complain of is monotony," said antony. "and i have had nothing else. until recently i have gone on, year after year, existing, not living, in the same little rut." "no wonder you broke loose. a girl like you was never made for stagnation. you ought to travel: to see the world. i never met a woman with so keen an appreciation of beauty. gad! how you would enjoy india, and the scenery we have over there. last year we were stationed in the north, above darjeeling. i'd like to blindfold you, and take you to a spot i know, and then take off the bandage, and show you--the snows! that would be a moment worth living for." "ah, yes. unfortunately, however, the climate of india is prejudicial to my health," juliet reminded him primly. "oh, hang the climate of india!" cried antony maplestone. the squire also was inclined to "hang" the indian climate in its bearing upon the health of his guest. he cross-questioned his prospective niece upon the subject with increasing irritability. "what's the matter with your health? you look strong enough. can't have a liver with that complexion. can't have a heart, rushing about all day long. given it away, eh, what? antony, what's wrong with her heart?" "nothing, sir. it's a tip-top heart; in first-class working condition." "what's wrong, then--what's wrong? nothing but nerves and nonsense. if i were a young man and my fiancee didn't care enough about me to face a bit of discomfort, i'd--i'd comfort myself with the first nice girl that _would_! if you let him go off to india alone, young lady, you'll have yourself to thank if you are left in the lurch." juliet took out her handkerchief and pretended to cry. it was a comfort to be able to hide one's face, and besides, just between herself and the handkerchief there _was_ a tear. she _would_ be left in the lurch, and, oh, my goodness, how dull it would be! from the end of the room sounded three separate gasps of consternation. "leave heroine, uncle! it's my affair. clare, _don't_ cry!" "he doesn't mean it, dear; he doesn't mean it. antony never would." "kiss her, you stupid fellow, kiss her! what's the use of glowering there?" then, in the midst of a thrilling silence, juliet felt strong arms enfold her, felt the sweep of a moustache against her cheek. it was the first, the very first time in the course of her twenty-six years that any man but a blood relation had offered her a caress, and--she liked the sensation! she felt a horrible, horrible inclination to abandon herself to that strong support; to lift her own lips to meet his. the rebound from the temptation gave energy to the gesture with which she pushed him away and leaped, flaming, to her feet. "it's my own heart, and i know best what it can stand! and--and--there are snakes--and rats--and insects, crawly-creepy things dropping from the ceilings! he can have anyone he likes... i don't care... i don't want him. i'll stay at home!" she dashed wildly from the room. antony and his aunt stared blankly at each other. the squire chuckled complacently and rubbed his hands. "_that's_ all right," he cried cheerily. "that's done it. she'll go with you, my boy. she'll go all right. book a second passage to-morrow, and i'll stand the risk." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ at dinner that night there was an air of festival. the feast was sumptuous, the table was decorated with exquisite hothouse flowers, purely, spotlessly white--a bridal white, unmistakable in its significance. juliet blushed as she beheld that table, and blushed again looking down on her own white robe. upstairs in her own room she had cried, and stormed, and blushed, and trembled, and vowed fiercely to leave the house by the first train on the following morning, and sobbed again at the thought of departure. also, she had vowed with fervour to be cold as ice to antony maplestone, and to prove to him by the haughtiness of her demeanour that his caress was unpardonable, without excuse. and then, being a woman, and a particularly feminine one at that, she had naturally selected her very best dress, and had arrayed herself therein for his delectation. now what bad luck that the dress happened to be white! the squire over-ate himself recklessly. "hang it all, my dear," he informed his protesting wife, "a man can't always be thinking of diet. there _are_ occasions--" he nodded meaningly towards his guest, and quaffed a bumper of champagne. after dinner, when the pseudo-lovers were left alone for the nightly _tete-a-tete_, the subject of the squire's indiscretion was eagerly seized upon as a subject for conversation, to lessen the embarrassment from which both were suffering. said antony, "it's madness. he has not yet recovered from the last attack. one would think that a man who has suffered such agonies would have learned wisdom!" said juliet gloomily, "who does? nobody does! it certainly doesn't become _us_ to--er--" "oh, well," he interrupted quickly, "let's hope he escapes this time. it's hard on a man to be everlastingly prudent. i'm not at all sure that the greatest wisdom does not exist in occasionally breaking loose!" juliet faced him, erect and dignified. she had scented a personal application in his words, and was determined to stand no nonsense. "mr maplestone, i have been here four days; it seems to me inadvisable to stay any longer. to-morrow morning i propose to receive a telegram summoning me home. i should be obliged if you could make it convenient to be out after eleven o'clock. it would make it easier for me to get away." there was consternation in his glance; more than consternation--dismay. "go! why on earth should you go? is it the office! do they want you back at the office? let _me_ write. surely if i write and say--" "as a matter of fact there is _no_ office. it's a mistake. i--i am not what i seem!" cried juliet, with a touch of melodrama, born of desperation. not another moment could she stand the deception; not another moment could she masquerade under another woman's name. "i am _not_ an inquiry agent. never was. never will be. it was just-- just--" "sit down. sit down. take your own time. tell me all about it." antony pushed a deep-cushioned chair towards her, seated himself near at hand, leaned forward, gazing into her eyes. there was no consternation on his face this time; no dismay; nothing but happiest relief. "if you only knew how _thankful_ i am! i hated the thought of such work for you. now--tell me!" and juliet told him. told him how, among a party of friends, she had avowed her yearning for adventure, and had been bidden to hold fast to the thought, and await an opportunity. all things, she was told, come in good time to those who wait. and she had waited; through long, monotonous, uneventful months she had waited, and waited in vain. and then, suddenly, a chance, an opening--a possibility which must be taken, or left, while a moment ticked away its course! she told of the dead girl whose place she had taken, honestly determining to do her best, and allow no one to suffer through the exchange. "if it had been work of which i was incapable i should have left at once. you believe it, don't you? you _do_ believe it?" antony seemed to ignore the question as beneath his notice. something infinitely more important was occupying his mind. "then, what is your real name?" "juliet! all that i have told you of my people is true. everything is true, but the name and the work. perhaps, in time to come, you might explain to your uncle that clare lawson was just a professional name which i adopted when i tried to take up work. it is quite usual. many women do it." "_juliet_!" he repeated softly. from his manner he appeared to have heard only her name. "_juliet_! it's perfect. a name that suits you above all others. of course you are juliet. i was a fool not to know that before. juliet, i am so glad you are not clare!" "i'm not clare, and i'm not alice. it's a--a joke in two moves, but it is time it should come to an end. to-morrow i must go." "you must not go. it's madness! is it because of--of what happened to-day? it need never happen again. i was dreadfully sorry. i would not for the world--" "of course, of course. i _quite_ understand. you were driven to it. it was as disagreeable to you as to me," juliet said sourly. _she felt_ sour; more ruffled by the explanation than she had been by the offence itself. what would have happened next there is no saying, but at that moment the door opened, and mrs maplestone appeared on the threshold. uncle godfrey was in pain. he wished to go to bed. would tony come and give him an arm? retribution sure and swift fell upon the squire. all night long he tossed in pain, and in the early morn the doctor was summoned, who delivered himself of a gloomy verdict: serious. one bad attack following hard on the top of another. the patient had been warned, and the patient had transgressed. the patient's heart was not in a condition to stand these repeated strains. the patient must have a nurse. must be kept quiet. the patient must be safeguarded against irritation and strain. excitement at this juncture might have serious effects. then the doctor drove away, and the patient, who was to be kept quiet, proceeded to work himself into a condition of fuss and antagonism against every separate member of the household, and in especial against antony, his heir. it was antony's fault that he was laid low; the contrariety of antony which had ruined his health; and now he lay at death's door (he was at death's door; he _chose_ to lie at death's door! it was his own business, he supposed, at whose door he should lie?); now, even at this last moment, antony delayed, prevaricated, shilly-shallied, talked calmly of waiting a couple of years! it was not the girl's fault. the girl was willing enough. she was making a pretence of unwillingness. all girls made a pretence. let antony stand up to her like a man, and she would give in; be glad to give in. summon antony! summon the girl! let them be brought before him. let this matter be settled once for all! trembling, mrs maplestone obeyed his orders. trembling, juliet obeyed, and stood beside the patient's bed. antony was not trembling, but his cheek was pale. crimson cheeked, bright of eye, the patient made his pronouncement: he had waited long enough; he could wait no longer; within the next few days he intended to die--probably to-morrow, or the day after; but before he died he wished to see his heir married to the woman of his choice. send instantly for a priest! "my dear uncle," antony protested, "the thing's impossible. even if-- even if--there are preliminaries. banns. licences. it is a case of weeks; of _several_ weeks--" but the squire knew better. there were such things as special licences. when money was no object, when life and death hung in the balance, mountains had been, mountains could again be, removed. with a shaking hand he beckoned juliet to his side, and levied a shocking question: "girl, do you wish to kill me?" "you don't understand, you don't understand!" wailed the unhappy girl. "dear mr maplestone, try to be quiet; try not to worry about us. only get better, and then--then--" "i shall never get better," reiterated the squire. his small bright eyes glittered with a sudden suspicion. "is he playing with you? playing fast and loose, to suit his own convenience? has he been unkind to you, cold, disappointing? are you tired already of the fellow?" "oh, no, oh, no, you _don't_ understand! dear mr maplestone, do leave it until you are stronger." the crimson of the squire's cheeks turned to a deeper hue, a spasm of pain contorted his lips, his eyes rolled, closed, opened again, and turned with a dreadful intensity upon his nephew. "i'm dying!" he cried. "you are killing me between you. _antony_!" then antony stepped forward and took juliet by the hands. white to the lips was he, but there was no flinching in his eyes, no tremor in the tone of his strong voice. "_my darling_," said antony, "_will you marry me this week_? as god is my witness, it is my dearest wish. as god is my witness, i will make you happy." at the opposite side of the bed mrs maplestone subsided helplessly into tears. writhing, gasping in pain, the squire muttered to himself, "what a fuss to make! what a fuss about nothing!" to juliet, as to antony, they might have been at the other side of the world. they had ceased to exist. he stood, drawn up to his full height, gazing down into her face. she looked up, looked deep, deep into the steady brown eyes, and read therein what she most longed to see. "yes, tony, i will. the sooner the better," answered juliet. and, so saying, started trustfully upon life's greatest adventure. chapter four. the man who waited for love. behind his tired eyes and general affectation of indifference rupert dempster hid an overwhelming ambition. he longed for love--not for the ordinary springtide passion experienced by ninety-nine men out of a hundred; nor for the ordinary "living-prosaically-ever-after" which is the ultimate sequel to such affairs. the desire of his heart was for the experience of the hundredth man,--an experience as far distinguished from the amours of the ninety-nine, as is the romance of the suburban algernon and angelina, from the historic passion of a dante and beatrice. rupert searched not so much for a wife as for a mate, a woman who should be so completely the complement of himself that to meet would be to recognise, and after recognition life apart would become an impossibility and a farce. in his own mind the conviction remained unshaken that the day _would_ dawn when he should meet this dearer self, and enter into a completeness of joy which would end but with life itself. yet the years passed by, and his thirty-fifth birthday came and went, and found him no nearer his goal. once and again as the years passed by, rupert awoke, breathless and panting, from a dream, the same dream, wherein he had met his love, and they had spoken together. the details of the dream seemed instantly to fade from his mind, leaving behind an impression of mingled joy and pain. she had been beautiful and sweet; he had been proud and glad, yet there had been a shadow. it had not been all joy that he had felt as he had welcomed the well-beloved; his emotion on awaking had been tinged with something strangely resembling fear. but the dream-face had been fair. his longing to meet it was but whetted by the consciousness of mystery. he met her at last at a garden-party and gained an introduction by accident. "do find lady belcher, and bring her to have some tea," his hostess bade him, and supplemented her request with a brief description: "a tall, dark woman, dressed in yellow. she was on that bench a few minutes ago. anyone will tell you..." rupert crossed the lawn in the direction indicated; he was in the mood of resigned boredom which possesses most men at a garden-party, and for the moment the dream woman had no place in his thoughts. lady belcher was plainly a guest of importance, for whose refreshment the hostess felt herself responsible. she was probably elderly, and, as such, uninteresting from a young man's standpoint. he looked for the gleam of a yellow dress, caught it defined sharply among the surrounding blues and pinks, and drew up in front of the seat. "lady belcher, i think? mrs melhuish has sent me to ask you if you will have some tea?" lady belcher was talking volubly to an acquaintance on the subject of the shortcomings of her friends, and was much bored by the interruption. she lifted a face like an elderly rocking-horse, and made short work of the invitation. "thanks! couldn't possibly. i abhor tea," she said curtly, and immediately resumed the interrupted conversation. dempster turned, faintly smiling. he was accustomed to the rudeness of the modern society woman, and it had no power to hurt him. on the contrary, he congratulated himself on having escaped an unwelcome task. he turned aside with a sigh of relief, and even as he turned, the ordered beating of his heart seemed for a moment to cease, and leave his being suspended in space. cut sharply in twain, as by the sweep of a scythe, the old life fell from him and the new life began, for there, but a couple of yards away, stood the dream woman, her eyes gazing steadily into his! she was a tall, slim woman, no longer in her first youth, but her face had a strange, arresting beauty. hair and eyes were dark, and there was something curiously un-english in the modelling of the features, something subtly suggestive of a fiercer, more primal race. so might a woman have looked whose far-off ancestor had been an indian brave, bequeathing to future generations some spark of his own wild vigour. the lips were scarlet, a thin, curved line in the pallor of her face; her eyes were fringed with black, straight lashes. she wore a gown of cloudy black, and there came to rupert, with a cramping of the heart, the swift conviction that she was unhappy. she was looking at him, half frowning, half smiling, having, it would appear, overheard his invitation and its rebuff; but as his face came more clearly into view a look of bewilderment overspread her features. she started, and involuntarily bent her head in salutation. the next moment rupert was by her side, and her hand lay in his. he had extended his own, and hers had come to meet it without hesitation. for a long moment they looked at one another in silence, then he spoke in commonplace greeting: "good afternoon. can i get _you_ some tea?" she shook her head, but at the same time took a slow step forward, which had the effect of turning the refusal into an invitation. "i'm so tired; i don't want anything, but a seat; away from that band!" "come this way. there's a summer-house at the end of the shrubbery that is probably empty. no one knows of it but the intimates. you can rest there quietly." he spoke eagerly, walking beside her, eager to lead her away from the crowd, and have her to himself. the group of visitors among whom she had been standing stared after them curiously, and one elderly, stout woman took a tentative step forward, as if about to follow, thought better of it, and stood aside. dempster had a fleeting suspicion of sharp eyes scanning his face; then he forgot everything but his companion. he was conscious of every movement, of every curve of the slim, graceful figure, but no word was spoken until they seated themselves within the shelter of the arbour, and faced each other across its narrow span. was it the shadow of the trailing branches which made her face so white? she narrowed her eyes, as if searching in the store-room of memory, and a faint smile curved her lips. once again the pain cramped rupert's heart as he realised that smiles came but hardly to her lips. a note of interrogation quickened her voice: "i know you so well... we have met before?" he leaned forward, elbows on knees, chin cupped between finger and thumb, tired eyes aglow with life. "yes!" "when? where?" "always!" he told her. "in our dreams." she shrank at that, edging back into her corner, holding out a quick, protesting hand. "no! please! don't make fun... we have met on more substantial ground. i know your face. i knew it the moment you turned. we have met years ago, and have forgotten--" rupert sat motionless, his eyes riveted upon her face. "think!" he urged softly. "think! ask your own heart, and let it answer. it spoke clearly enough a minute ago. you have _always_ known me! you have been waiting, as i have been waiting. it has been long, and we are both tired, but now it is over, and we can forget. our summer has begun!" he stretched out his hand towards her. "i've been keeping myself for you. from this moment i am yours, and all that i have. the world would call me crazy to make such a vow to a woman i have known in the flesh for only a few minutes, but _you_ understand! _you_ know that it is the simple, absolute truth. give me your hand!" like a homing-bird the small hand fluttered and fell, nestling softly against his own. he pressed his lips to it in a long, sacramental kiss, then raised himself to look into her eyes. "what is your name?" "eve. and yours?" "rupert. i am glad that you are eve. the first woman; the only woman. no other name could have fitted you so well. eve! look in my eyes, and answer what i ask. do you trust me, eve? do you believe that i am speaking the truth?" white as a dead woman, she faced him across the shadow; the scarlet of her lips was like a stain of blood, but as she gazed her face quivered into an inexpressible tenderness, for on rupert dempster's features nature had printed the hall-mark of truth, and no one had yet looked into his eyes and doubted his word. the dream woman accepted it so simply that she did not trouble to answer his question. "i am not worth it," she said instead; "i am too old; too sad. it ought to have been a lovely, radiant girl who could have given you her youth." "i have thought of her like that," he answered simply, "but i see now that it could not have been. i needed more. she could not have satisfied me, if she had not suffered. i should have missed the greatest joy of all, if she had not needed my comfort." "i wish i were beautiful!" she sighed again. "she should have been beautiful to be worthy of you. i wish i were beautiful!" "are you not beautiful?" he asked her. "it is strange; i had thought so much of how you would look, but when our eyes met i forgot all that. we belong; that is everything. the beginning and the end. you are eve." "ah, you are good!" she sighed. "you are good! i did not know there were such men in the world... it is true, rupert. you must have been with me in my dreams, for there is nothing new about you, nothing strange. i know your face as i know my own, and it is rest to be with you--rest and peace. it must have been meant that we should meet to-day, for it is the first time for--oh, so long, that i have been to any public place!" she cast a quick glance at her black dress, and an involuntary shudder shook her frame. "but to-day i felt better, and it was so bright, and they persuaded me. i have dreaded meeting people, but to-day i didn't mind. i think i _wanted_ to come. and then i saw you, and your face was so familiar that i thought i had met you long ago and had forgotten." "you had not forgotten. you had never remembered anything so well. in that first moment you _knew_ that i was different from the rest. it was written on your face, dear; there was no need for words! there is something else written there which hurts me to see. i think you have needed me, eve!" she drew her hand from his and pressed it to her head with a gesture more eloquent than words. rupert's presentiment of trouble had been true; it now remained to discover the nature of her grief. he was conscious of steadying himself mentally and morally, before he possessed himself of the disengaged left hand, which lay on her lap. deftly, tenderly, his fingers felt hers, moving tentatively upwards over the joints, feeling with trembling anxiety for the presence of rings, of _the_ ring! the shock at finding the tell-tale third finger bare was almost as largely compounded of surprise as of joy, so strong had been the presentiment of a husband in the background. the eyes which he raised to hers were radiant with joy, but there was no answering gleam in the depths into which he gazed. their sombre gloom chilled him in the midst of his ecstasy. "eve," he cried softly, "smile at me! i was wrong to conjure up dead ghosts to-day when we ought to think of nothing but the happiness of meeting. eve! i have been preparing for you all these years; now i am free to do as you will. it is for you to order, and i shall obey. we will go where you will, live where you choose--" "you will take me away?" she bent forward, her eyes peering into his, so that he saw more closely than he had done before the beautiful, ravaged face, with its slumbering passion, its deep, overmastering gloom. there shrilled through her voice an almost incredible joy. "_you_--_will_--_take_--_me away_?" dempster laughed happily. ay, indeed, he would take her away. she was free, there was no barrier between them; openly, honourably, before all the world he could claim her as his own--could make her his wife with all the stately ritual of the church. "of course i will take you away! do you imagine, after all these years, i will wait a day longer than i can help? now that i have found you, i shan't easily let you go." and, with his whole being thrilling in answer to her appeal, "you _want_ to come to me, eve?" he asked her. "yes," she sighed softly, "yes!" her lips parted in a long-drawn sigh of content. "you are so good. your goodness rests me. that's what i need more than anything else--rest!" with the same tragic gesture she pressed her fingers against her brow, then, with a sudden impulse, sweet, and girlish, and unexpected, clasped his hand in hers, and repeated the gesture, bending her head to meet the healing touch. there was no need of words to explain the meaning of the action, the message flashed from eye to eye with silent eloquence. for the moment the shadow lifted, and dempster gazed into a face illumined by love and tenderness. only for a moment; then suddenly came the sound of unwelcome footsteps, and peering through the trailing branches rupert beheld a middle-aged couple pacing slowly by, glancing curiously to right and left, yet remaining happily unconscious of the arbour behind the trees. he recognised the woman as the one who had been standing by eve's side in the garden, and wondered with a passing amusement if curiosity had sent her to see what had become of her companion. how far she was from guessing the high happenings of those short moments! in the midst of his amusement he felt eve grasp his arm, and draw him back into the shadow. it was joy to feel that her dread of interruption was as keen as his own, and he turned to her a look of glad understanding, but the tragic misery on her face chilled him once more. it was inconceivable that the annoyance of a temporary interruption could call forth such intensity of feeling, and dempster, regarding her, felt his own nerves thrill with a kindred fear. for one glad moment he had believed that his happiness was assured; now he realised that he had rejoiced too soon. there _were_ barriers to be overcome--mysterious barriers which loomed before him, dark and lowering. he caught the slight form in his arms, cradling it with pitiful tenderness. "my darling! my darling! you are afraid. of _what_ are you afraid? i am here--no one can harm you. give me your dear hands! lean against me! the whole world cannot separate us, eve, if we choose to be together. why are you afraid?" he felt the shudder that ran through her limbs. close against his ear her lips trembled over the words: "i am afraid of losing you; of being left alone! they will try to separate us. if they knew what we had been planning, they would plot together so that we might not meet. you are strong, but they are stronger, and i am in their power... take me away, rupert, take me now, or it will be too late!" he took her hand, and raised it solemnly to his lips. "i swear to you," he said, "that i will take you. i swear that i will be the truest and most faithful of husbands so long as god gives me life!" "i swear to you," she cried in response, "that i will be a true wife. whatever has happened, whatever may come, i swear that you shall never regret it. i will love you; i will be your slave. nothing, nothing can be too much!" they clung together in silence. the nearness, the stillness, the deep welling of joy in the sweet human contact, were all-engrossing. rupert would fain have banished all difficulties into the future, and given himself up to untrammelled enjoyment of the hour, but the urgency of eve's appeal forbade postponement. he raised himself, supporting her in his arms. "eve! from this moment you and i are one. what belongs to one, belongs to the other; we can have no secrets, no concealments. if there are difficulties in our way, i must be prepared to meet them. who is this woman? what right has she or anyone else to dictate what you should or should not do?" her eyes gazed back into his with a deep, unseeing gaze, the delicate eyebrows creased as if in an effort of thought; then once again she lifted her hand and pressed it against her brow. poignantly beautiful, poignantly sad, she sat and gave him her answer. "i live with them," she said quietly. "they take care of me. i think-- i think i am mad!" rupert dempster lost no time in questioning his hostess as to the history of the dream woman who had come to fill such a real place in his life. as soon as the guests had departed he put in a plea for a private conversation, whereupon mrs melhuish seated herself on a chair at the farther side of the lawn, and drew a long breath of mingled fatigue, and relief. "that's over, thank goodness! this annual garden-party to the neighbourhood looms over me like a nightmare. i feel ten years younger when the last carriage has driven away from the door. now! what can i do for you? but i know, of course. you've fallen a victim to eve bisdee and her _beaux yeux_. they _are_ beautiful! it's about once in a lifetime that one meets an englishwoman with such eyes as hers. it seems superfluous to have a tongue, when all that one feels can be expressed so eloquently in a glance. even now her eyes are wonderful; but if you'd seen her as a girl, before--" "before what? that's what i am waiting to hear. what happened to her? some tragedy, of course. tell me about it." mrs melhuish gave him a searching glance. "you realised that--that she is not--like other people?" rupert's smile was half sad, half triumphant. "not in the least like other people. but we can discuss that later on. i am waiting for your story." mrs melhuish leaned her head on her hand and her face fell into thoughtful lines. "i've known eve since she was a girl of eighteen--the loveliest thing!-- and as gay and sweet as she was lovely. she was an only child, and her parents adored her, and--what is by no means so usual!--she adored them in return. they were not rich--quite poor, in fact; but the family was exceptional, and everyone visited them. when eve came out, mrs bisdee used to give charming little evenings, so simple and unpretentious, but so well done. eve was so different, too, from the ordinary fair, placid english girl that she made quite a sensation in the county. we expected her to make a great match. then one day they were all travelling together to burnham to attend a hunt ball, and the train they were in--" mrs melhuish shuddered, as at a terrible remembrance. "you will remember it--the tunford accident--a terrible affair! over sixty passengers killed in the most appalling circumstances. eve escaped. she was travelling with a friend in the rear part of the train. they were pulled out and carried up the bank, and there that poor child stood and looked on, helpless, maddened, while her parents and the other poor wretches in the wrecked carriages lay pinned down, devoured by the names. oh, my dear man, we read of such things, we agonise over them, or we _think_ we agonise, but imagine the real thing! seeing, hearing, within a few yards, yet as powerless to help as though one were at the other side of the world... well! eve went through that torture, and it wrecked her life. she had brain fever, and when that passed, her mind remained--what shall i say?--_clouded_. yes, that's the right word. it expresses exactly the truth. there is a cloud hanging over her, shutting out the sun. her memory is impaired, so that she does not remember any actual event; but there is an impression of horror and dread. it is ten years since the accident, and the cloud has not lifted. she lives with our doctor and his wife; they are good, honest people, and do their best; but i wish sometimes she could have a change. at the best of times they are not her type, and after ten years together--" "you say that the cloud has not lifted. is she _no_ better than at the beginning of the time?" "oh, yes! when one looks back over the years one can see that there is improvement. her health is better, and she has lost her dread of society. at times, as you saw her to-day, one would hardly realise that she was not normal. but the cloud falls. she is always sweet, always gentle, but terrible, terribly sad." "but she _is_ better," rupert insisted. "she is going to get quite well. i am going to make her well... mrs melhuish"--he leaned forward, his hand on the arm of her chair--"you are my very kind friend. it is only right that i should tell you at once.--i am going to marry eve bisdee!" "my _dear_ rupert!" cried mrs melhuish deeply. her face flushed, her mild eye showed a flash of anger. she was shocked--more than shocked, outraged. her voice took an edge of coldness. "really, this is too much. eve is a most appealing creature, and it is natural that a man should feel chivalrous and protective when he hears her history. but marriage! that's unthinkable! it offends me. please think of what you are saying!" rupert lifted his hand and laid it gently on hers. they were old friends, these two, and for years back had been able to speak together frankly without fear of offence. "wait!" he said. "listen to what i have to say before you give your verdict. what i propose to do may be unusual, but it is eminently sane. i propose to change places with that doctor, and to see what i can do towards removing that cloud. there is only one way in which i can gain the right, and that is by going through a form of marriage. therefore a form of marriage it must be. don't look at me in that commiserating manner, dear lady! this is not philanthropy, it's not pity. i am going to undertake this thing because i want to do it more than anything on earth! now do you understand? you know my ideas about love. we have talked of them together, and you know for what i have been waiting. it came to me this afternoon, at the moment when eve's eyes looked into mine. from that moment there was no going back." "my dear rupert!" cried mrs melhuish again. the anger had faded from her face, but she looked infinitely distressed. with all her heart she wished that this meeting had never taken place. "my dear rupert, to have waited so long, and then to rush into folly like this! i do know your ideas, and very beautiful they are; all the more reason why you should make no mistake. there is always the reverse side of the picture, and as you can love more keenly than other men, so of a certainty can you suffer more. you may feel powerfully attracted to poor eve, but you have no idea of the strain and weariness of battling with a mind diseased. it's hard enough when such a task comes to one as an obvious duty, but to _choose_ it!" "i did not choose it," rupert said quietly. "there is no question of choice. it has to be. don't make it harder for me by misunderstanding. for a moment i thought my kingdom had come, but that was a mistake. i have met my queen, but i shall have to serve for her before she is really mine. seven years i may have to serve--perhaps for twice seven years. do you think a man would deliberately _choose_ such a fate? it's something stronger than choice between eve and me. the simple truth is that i have no object in life but to help her to get back to the light. i'll tell you something else, too--_i'm the only man who can do ill_. i possess a power over her which no doctor or nurse could obtain. good heavens! haven't they had ten years for their experiments? how much longer would you have me content to stand by and wait? if she has any relations, they must be thankful to give her a chance of being cared for, for love instead of money. i'll find her a nurse, the best nurse that can be had. we'll take her abroad to live in the sun, away from all her old associations. she is afraid of those people--did you know that? she is not afraid of me. she _wants_ to come. my dear lady, this thing is going to _be_! the question is--am i to have your help?" mrs melhuish was not easily convinced, but she was conquered in the end, as were, in turns, the few relatives whom eve possessed. all had been conscious that the time had come to make a change, and no more promising change could be imagined than the one proposed. from eve's own point of view, that was to say! for dempster it was a different matter. the relations felt it their duty to argue with him, to point out that he was recklessly shattering his life. but dempster smiled, and persisted. very well, then! let him have his way. so rupert and eve were married, and immediately after set sail for egypt. one midsummer afternoon two years later, rupert dempster walked along an exquisite stretch of road in north wales which divides the rocky course of the river dee from a sleepy canal with fern-covered banks, and an overhanging arch of green. after the blazing eastern lands in which the past years had been spent, the dewy loveliness of the scene was a delight to the senses. on every side rose the crests of green, smiling hills; the river broke into ripples of foam round the scattered rocks which strewed its bed. along the still stream to the left floated a miniature barge, carrying a gay awning overhead. this was the omnibus of the neighbourhood, plying up and down the stream several times a day, and even as rupert watched, its slow course was stayed, and one of the passengers alighted and walked slowly towards him. she was a slightly-made girl with a noticeable daintiness of movement. under her wide-brimmed hat her face showed small and pale, and her hair was of a light flaxen hue. rupert knitted his brow, and his pace quickened instinctively. the girl walked with her eyes on the ground, oblivious of his approach. another moment and they were side by side, and rupert gave a cry of recognition. "lilith! it is lilith! what an extraordinary chance, to meet you here! my dear lilith, i am so pleased to see you." and indeed there was unmistakable pleasure in his voice; the somewhat worn face lightened with animation. he gripped the girl's hand with eager fingers, and she smiled back at him, a calm, unperturbed smile, as though she had parted from him but an hour before. "how do you do, rupert? are you staying down here? is mrs dempster with you?" "yes. we have taken the house just behind those trees. do you know it? you cross the next bridge, and follow the lane to the left." "yes, i know it. i'm staying at the inn." lilith walked by his side, her eyes quietly searching his face, but having vouchsafed these bare words of information, she added nothing more. the silence lasted for several minutes, nevertheless it was with an overwhelming impression of answering a question, that rupert spoke again, saying slowly: "she is better, but she is not cured. the attacks of depression come on less frequently, but they still come. we are tring to ward off another at this moment. she grew tired of the east. for a time she delighted in it, and the novelty took her out of herself; but it became wearisome--the eternal glare, the absence of green, the medley of tongues. she wanted to come home. we've been wandering about for the last four months, and landed here last week. it's a charming spot, and _peaceful_. it ought to do her good!" there was an appeal in his voice which a woman's ear should have been quick to read, but lilith made no response. she turned her strange, expressionless eyes first on the silent, shaded canal, then on the river, sparkling in the sun, its waters beating against the jagged rocks. until that moment rupert had regarded the two streams from an artistic standpoint only, now of a sudden they seemed charged with a spiritual meaning. peace and storm, stagnation and action, life and death,--he saw them all in the contrast between those two streams, and for the first time a doubt crept into his mind whether he had done well for eve in shielding her from the great current of life, and lapping her round with eternal calm. he turned abruptly to the girl and put another question: "will you come with me now and see her? i think perhaps you might do her good." "yes, i will come," lilith answered, with a courteous indifference at which rupert smiled with grim amusement. for two long years he had guarded his treasure with never-ceasing vigilance, finding for her the most secluded retreats, where no alien eye should disturb her repose; avoiding the society of his fellow-creatures as if it had been the plague. and now at last he had invited an outsider to disturb that calm, and she had received the honour with the indifference accorded to the most ordinary of invitations! but, after all, what had he expected? who had ever yet seen lilith moved out of her colossal calm! rupert led the way towards his temporary home, opened the gate, and escorted lilith through a brilliant tangle of garden to the front of the house, where several long chairs were ranged along a shaded veranda. on one of these lay eve, in a reverie so deep that the new-comers had time to take in the details of her appearance before she was aware of their approach. she wore a white dress, the skirt of which was scattered with the petals of crimson roses, which her restless hands had pulled asunder. her head was tilted back on the cushion, showing the beautiful line of the throat; her face was ivory white, and the curved bow of her lips showed vividly, startlingly red. even that first glance brought an impression of strain and unrest; and as her ear at last caught the sound of the approaching footsteps, she leaped upward with a gesture of alarm. her eyes fell upon lilith's figure and distended in wild distress, but the next moment she beheld rupert, and in a flash the fear disappeared and was replaced by the most melting tenderness. she came forward with the shy grace of a child, slipped her hand into his, and stood passively waiting for what it should please him to do next. anyone who doubted if rupert dempster's love had stood the strain of those two long years of waiting would have found his answer in one glimpse at the man's face as he stood holding that little hand in his. "eve! this is an old friend. i met her walking by the river, and asked her to come and see you. her name is lilith wastneys. you remember it, don't you? i have spoken to you about her." "yes, i remember," eve said. she took her hand from her husband's, and held it out towards lilith with a graceful gesture of greeting. her eyes dwelt on the small, composed face with an expression of incredulous surprise. "you wished for power! that seemed strange to me when i heard it, and now that i have seen you it seems stranger still. you look so small and gentle. i wonder what made you wish for power!" lilith's smile was as inscrutable as her eyes. she answered simply by making another statement: "and rupert wished for love." "he has got it!" said eve deeply. she gave one glance at her husband--a wonderful, liquid glance, then turned back to her guest. "won't you sit down? i sit in the veranda to be out of the sun. i am so tired of the sun. in the east it is cruel, blazing down day after day, mocking at the shadows. but the shadows are there--it cannot chase them away." she leaned back on her cushions. "here all is so cool and calm, and the rain falls. that feels like nature weeping with us. i like to watch the rain. have _you_ a pretty garden to sit in?" "i am staying at the inn. i don't want a garden. i can have that at home. when i want to rest i walk over the stepping-stones into the middle of the river. there is a big rock there which forms a kind of natural arm-chair. i can sit on it, looking down the stream, and no one can see me from the bank, for the rock rises up like a wall nearly all the way round. to sit there is like a peep into another life; a mermaid's life, all grey rock, and splashing foam, and soft, ceaseless roar. when you listen to that roar from the bank it sounds harsh and monotonous. you are on another element, you see, so it is alien to you, and has no meaning, but on the rock you are part of the river itself. it tells you its secrets. you can understand!" as she finished speaking, lilith's heavy lids lifted, and her eyes flashed with a sudden light. there was a moment's silence; then eve bent forward on her seat, while a wave of colour flamed into her pale cheeks. "_will you take me with you_?" she cried breathlessly. "will you take me _now_? there is something i am always trying to hear--a secret which i am always trying to find out, and no one can help me. perhaps the river will tell me my secret... take me with you, and let me try!" eve was fascinated with the rocky seat, and spent hours of each day ensconced thereon. the river was so low that it was easy to step from one rock to another, and rupert would see her comfortably settled, and then leave her to take the brisk walk over the hills which was his usual exercise. eve preferred to be alone for part of the day, and he had no fear of leaving her. there had never been any suicidal tendency in her derangement; rather did she cling to life, and shrink from the thought of death. and the river soothed her, she said; the murmuring voice seemed to whisper of happiness and peace, but as yet it was only a murmur. in vain she strained her ears; the message eluded her, and floated vaguely into space. "louder!" she would cry. "louder!" but the river floated sleepily on its course, and refused to be aroused. a week passed by, and rupert grew restless and uneasy. eve was still obsessed with love of her river seat, but the strain of listening for the message which never came added to her depression, and it irked him to feel that she was deliberately courting a disappointment which he was powerless to relieve. "it can do no good," he told lilith impatiently, "and it may do great harm. i have been so careful to screen her from every kind of excitement or strain, so that the brain should have time to rest." "or stagnate?" suggested lilith coldly. "she has had--how many years is it--ten or twelve?--of this wrapping in cotton wool, and she has progressed--how far should you call it--one inch, or two? how much longer shall you be content with inches? if she were in my charge--" rupert stopped and faced her in the narrow path. there was a hint of roughness in his manner. when a man is strung to the finest point of tension it is not always easy to preserve the conventions. "it is easy to boast when one has had no experience! _what_ would you do if she were in your charge?" "neglect her, ignore her, leave her to fend for herself! you and that drudge of a nurse imagine that you are helping by waiting on her hand and foot. what if instead you are sapping her vitality, and stealing her chance of life? what do you leave for her to do, except to breathe? if you could breathe for her, you would relieve her of that also! you make her into a doll, and expect the doll to live! she is asleep, and you feed her with drugs. better a thousand times to waken her out of her sleep, even if it be to suffer. it was a shock which deadened the brain; it may be that only a shock can rouse it to life again!" "ah!" cried rupert bitterly. "i have heard that theory before. it's a devilish theory! my poor eve! she has been tortured enough; she shall be tortured no more. it was the horror of what she saw and heard which caused the mischief in the beginning. the one thing i am thankful for in this loss of memory is that that honour has faded." lilith looked at him with her steady eyes. "have you ever been delirious?" she asked him. "not for an odd hour here and there, but for days together, stretching out into weeks? i _have_; and i know. nothing real can approach the horror of the unknown. there is no beginning to it, and no end. it's a great cloud darkening the sky; it presses lower, lower, strangling the breath. there is no hope in it, no appeal. your wife saw her parents killed before her eyes. i tell you the memory of the truth would be peaceful, compared with this struggle in the darkness. she would realise that it was over, that they were at rest; that it would pain them if she went mourning all her life. i tell you, rupert, the only chance of eve's recovery is to shock her into remembrance!" "and if it were, if it were?"--he turned upon her fiercely as though battling against an inner conviction. "a shock strong enough to revolutionise the brain lies in the hands of providence, to give or to retain. what man dare meddle with such a cure? i love my wife; she is my world. am i to risk her life for a possible relief? to deliberately court danger that she--she--" he threw out his arms with a gesture of intolerable impatience. "oh, it is unthinkable! you don't know what you are talking about. it is easy for you to talk. you have no heart. you cannot feel--" he strode away up the road leading to the hills, and lilith stood and watched him go, and picked a leaf of sorrel from the bank by her side and rubbed it daintily between her small teeth, enjoying the sharp, pungent taste. rupert's anger had no power to ruffle her calm. by and by she also started on her morning promenade, passing by the gate of dempster's house, and catching a glimpse of eve upon the veranda. there had been thunder-storms in the neighbourhood during the last few days, and though the actual storms had not yet reached their little retreat, the atmosphere was heavy and breathless. that morning eve had complained of a headache, and had seemed content to remain in the garden. as she passed by, lilith saw the nurse come out of the gate, basket in hand, and turn in the direction of the canal bank. evidently she was bound for the barge-omnibus, which should convey her to the nearest township. lilith repaired to her own room in the inn, and set about the task of answering a pile of letters. two hours passed quickly. then gradually into her preoccupation stole the sense of something unusual and disturbing. she raised her head, and sat quietly considering its cause. the little room seemed filled with a rushing noise; it was not a new noise, but rather an exaggeration of the one to which she had been accustomed for weeks past--the swirling of the river. lilith rose, and crossed the room to the latticed window. the inn stood on the bisecting road between canal and river, within but a few yards' distance of each; but this morning a strange transformation had passed over the accustomed scene. the waters of the river were no longer crystal clear, but of a thick muddy brown; their course was no longer smiling and leisurely, but rapid and threatening. upon the surface floated broken branches and boughs of trees. lilith turned instantly and descended the stairs. a sense of happenings was upon her; there was no time to waste. at the door of the inn stood the landlord, his broad face lit by a smile of satisfaction. life was sleepy in this quiet vale; he welcomed a passing excitement. "the river is in flood, miss!" he cried genially. "yes, indeed, we shall have a big flood! there were bad thunder-storms this last week up in the hills in merioneth, where the river rises, and all the streams will be swollen, and pouring down into the lake. it was the same in the spring five years ago, when my willie was born. yes, indeed, the roar of it woke us in the middle of the night. look at the colour of it now, miss, and the speed! soon there will not be a rock to be seen. yes, indeed, it will be a fine sight, the river, when it will be in flood!" he was beaming with innocent enjoyment. his face fell like that of a thwarted child when the visitor turned, without as much as a word, and walked down the path; he stared after her blankly, then shrugged his shoulders, and ambled heavily back inside the inn. lilith walked with rapid footsteps; her lips were set, but her eyes roamed. they turned upward towards the house among the trees where she had left eve seated on the veranda. assuredly eve was there still; she had a headache, and had announced her decision to remain at home. this morning, for once, the river seat had lost its allure. of a certainty eve was still on her veranda. nevertheless lilith's footsteps grew quicker; straight as a die she made for the point on the bank opposite to the chain of stepping-stones. no trace of an occupant was to be seen on the central islet, but a stronger sense than that of sight was at work in lilith's brain. all the arguments in the world were powerless to deceive her. eve was on the rock! she knew it. it was the truth. on the edge of the road stood the stump of an old tree, the nearest fork of which stood four or five feet from the ground. lilith grasped it with both hands, and with an agile movement drew her knees up to the level. the rest was easy; she took another grasp of the trunk, drew up her feet and stood, supporting herself on either side, gazing over the stream. yes! the inner certitude had been correct. against the dull grey of the rock lay the folds of a white dress, the gleam of scarlet from a folded parasol, a dark head lay tilted backward towards the sky. eve was there, asleep, or wrapped in one of her trance-like reveries in which she was unconscious of passing events. she would see nothing, hear nothing, until the mood passed and she became conscious of a desire for movement. for half an hour to come, perhaps for an hour, she would remain oblivious, and, meanwhile, with every moment the stream was rising and gaining more deadly swiftness. lilith crooked one arm round the bough of the tree and raised bent hands to her mouth. the stepping-stones were still well above water. she would send her piercing "coo-ee" across the stream and continue to send it, until the unusual character of the sound attracted eve's attention, then she would go to meet her, and help her to the bank. there would be no danger, only a spice of excitement; a thrilling realisation of what might have been. no more. lilith pursed her lips to give the signal, but the signal did not come. poised in the very attitude of preparation, a sudden change of expression showed in her still eyes, or rather an arrestment of expression; the features remained fixed and immovable, while the brain worked. for one long minute she stood motionless, then, slowly, her hands fell to her sides; she bent downwards until once more her knees rested on the fork of the tree, from hence she let herself gently to the ground. no one had seen her. the innkeeper was busy; the road stretched ahead bare and empty. no one would interfere. lilith walked to the nearest bridge, crossed it and seated herself on a sloping bank. the ground was raised above the level of the canal, and by raising her head she could see the chain of stepping-stones leading to the rocky islet. she folded her hands in her lap and watched. the sun shone out from behind a leaden bank of clouds, and beat on her face. what was the expression of lilith's face? there was strength on it, an immense, all-conquering strength; there was the mark of strain, in deepened line and close-set lip; but there was something else--something dominating, overriding. it shone in the eyes; the pose of the head showed it, the beating pulse in the throat. it was joy--primitive, triumphant joy! the stepping-stones grew small and smaller; above the dark swirl of the river their grey surfaces caught the sun and gleamed into silver. once and anon branches of a tree borne down by the flood were caught by one of these islets and for a moment held bound, then the swirl and the rush overcame, and they were swept relentlessly onward. lilith's lips tightened as she watched them pass. ten minutes passed; twenty minutes; the silver gleams made but tiny spaces above the flood. lilith rose to her feet and stood poised for flight. another five minutes and the waters lapped over the surface of the smallest stone. like an arrow from the bow, lilith flew across the bridge, down the path to the little inn. "help! help! the ropes! ... a lady is on one of the rocks. the lady from plas glynn. the ropes! quick! quick!" the ropes hung coiled in the entrance of the inn. it was not the river which was the danger, but the shaded, sleeping canal. many a pedestrian had taken a false step off that fern-bordered bank, and had had a sore struggle for his life. the innkeeper's own son had had this struggle. the ropes were ready, noosed at the end--long, stout ropes, for use, not play. the innkeeper seized them from their pegs and followed lilith down the path. afterwards he recalled that it was she who issued orders, and he who obeyed. he lashed the end of the ropes round the stump of the old tree. one noose was put round his own waist, the other he carried in his hand. the young lady stood by to let out their length, but before he could start, a cry sounded from behind, a terrible cry from the depths of a tortured heart, and rupert dempster fell upon him, and wrenched the ropes from his hand. they lifted their voices, the two men and the girl, and sent forth a ringing cry of alarm; once, twice, they sent it forth, while rupert felt his way to the first wave-lashed stone, and at the third cry eve's white figure appeared in the aperture between the rocks. the sight on which she looked was enough to turn the strongest head--the waste of waters where there had been a bubbling stream, the swirling current covering the way of retreat; yet to the onlookers there appeared no sign of distress in eve's attitude. the lurid sun still shown down, shaftlike through the clouds, and showed her white figure in vivid distinctness. she was bending forward, gazing, not at the shore, but upward across the flood. her ear was bent low, as though listening to its voice... rupert turned back from the first stone, threw off his shoes, and started afresh. once and again his foot slipped, and he swayed perilously to right and left, but always he recovered himself, and pressed on steadfastly towards the rock where stood his wife, motionless, bending forward towards the stream. he was by her side, standing on the same foothold, before she was conscious of his presence; then he spoke her name, and she turned her eyes upon him. oh, god in heaven, they were _sane_ eyes! clear, straight-glancing eyes. _sane_ eyes, full of thankfulness and peace! "i remember!" she cried loudly. "i remember! the river has told me. oh, rupert i am free--" "come!" he said simply, and took her hand. there was no time to waste, for the flood was rushing on its way, and the perilous passage had still to be made; but there was no fear in either heart. nothing on earth or sea could mar the rapture of that moment. after long waiting and heart-sickness the cloud had lifted, and the shadows had taken wing. he read the change in her eyes, the very touch of her hand within his told the same tale. it was no longer weak and helpless; her fingers clasped his with a strong, resolute grasp, giving help as well as receiving. the dream woman had come to life! from the bank the stepping-stones had disappeared from sight, and to the dazzled eyes of the onlookers it seemed as though two disembodied spirits came walking towards them across the waters, their faces lit with an unearthly radiance. when the bank was reached, they turned, and made their way towards the house, unconscious of the existence of the watchers. hand in hand they crossed the bridge and mounted the sloping path... the innkeeper hitched his shoulders and drew a trembling breath. "it was a near thing, look you! as near a shave as ever i seen... that was a good thing, missy, that you caught sight of her just at the right moment!" lilith's heavy eyelids drooped over her eyes. "yes," she said sleepily, "the very right moment!" chapter five. the girl who wished for power. two men proposed to lilith wastneys at the same ball and in the same palm-shaded retreat. she was not surprised, because she had willed that they should speak, and people had a habit of doing as lilith willed. very early in her life she had discovered that if she said nothing, and thought hard, that thought had a power to mould others to her will. it was not often that she put forth her power, for her attitude towards her fellows was one of lofty detachment. they were commonplace creatures--weak, vacillating creatures, swayed to and fro by the emotions of the hour. lilith had never in her life been swayed; never for the fraction of a second had she been uncertain of her own mind; all the temptations in the world could not lure her a step from a premeditated path, but because nature had cast her in a fragile mould, and given her flaxen hair and a baby skin, and minute morsels of hands and feet, the world adopted protective airs towards her and spoke of her approvingly as "sweet and gentle." francis manning, the first of the two men to make a declaration of love, was a big giant of a man with a handsome face, an amiable disposition, and a supreme concern for his own well-being. he had reached the age and position when it seemed desirable to marry, and, that being the case, there was no doubt upon whom his choice would fall. for years past lilith wastneys had stood to francis as a type of all that was sweet and desirable in women. in his eyes she was beautiful, though in reality she had no claim to the title. the love-light in his eyes transformed her pale locks into gold, her colourless eyes into deepest blue; her height was to him "just as high as my heart"; her low voice, her drooping lids, her noiseless movements--each and all appeared to him the perfection of their kind. francis was whole-heartedly in love, but it was not in his nature to be otherwise than leisurely. while a more impetuous lover would have hastened to put his fate to the test, he was content to continue the even tenor of his way, indulge in confident dreams of the future, and leave it to fate to decide the moment of avowal. nothing on earth was farther from his suspicions than the fact that it was lilith herself, who, in the ultimate moment, played the part of fate. she wore a white dress. lilith invariably wore white in the evening,-- simple, little white satin frocks devoid of ornament, save for a soft swathing of tulle, from which her shoulders arose, fair and rounded. whatever might be the fashion of the day, that soft swathe of tulle was in its place; however puffed and waved might be the coiffure of the other women in the room, lilith's flaxen locks were always smooth and demure. there was a distinction in such simplicity. people looked at her and questioned. they watched her with puzzled eyes. was she pretty? certainly not pretty. did they admire her? they were not at all sure that they did. _but there was something about her_! it was lilith who led the way into the palm-shaded retreat, and chose the most secluded corner. she and francis were engaged to dance the next number together, but she pleaded fatigue, and they sat alone in the dimness. "who was that dissipated-looking fellow who took you in to supper? i wanted to take you myself, but he was too quick for me. rather a striking-looking head, if he were not such a terrible waster!" "his name is lowther." francis straightened himself, startled into vivid attention. "_lowther_! hereward lowther--_that's_ how i knew his face! i've seen it in caricatures. the idea of meeting lowther here! i should not have thought dances were in his line." "he does not dance." "then why on earth does he trouble to come?" lilith did not answer. she knew; but had no intention of sharing her knowledge, and francis was too much engrossed in his own reflections to pursue the question. "so that is lowther! good heavens, how excited i should have been two or three years ago at the idea of meeting him in the same room! sad how that man has fizzled out! he promised such big things, bigger things than any other man of his day. i've heard him singled out a score of times as the man who was going to save england, and now"--he shrugged, and flicked his large fingers--"it's all over; nothing left but the wreck of a man. drugs, they say. something of the sort evidently; he carries it in his face. not the sort of man for you to have anything to do with, little girl!" francis's voice dropped to a tender note as he spoke the last words, and lilith lifted her heavy lids and smiled at him with gentle sweetness. it was seldom that he had obtained more than a glimpse of those downcast eyes, but now they met his and held them in a lingering look which sent the blood racing through his veins. suddenly, imperatively, the patience of years was broken, and hot words flowed from his lips. he loved her; she was the sweetest, the dearest of women. for years he had loved her; he would love her all his life; would live only to serve her. it was his own feelings on which he enlarged; his own feelings, which were obviously of the first importance. in his ardour there was no hint of anxiety. he was in love, but confidently in love. he had but to speak, and she would come fluttering to his arms. but he wooed her well, denying her no tittle of her woman's kingdom. he held her hands in his, and his big voice softened tenderly as he made his vows. "i will take care of you,--such care as was never taken of a woman before! you are not fit to stand alone; you are too gentle and fragile. you want a big fellow like me to stand between you and the world. it shall be my work in life to shield you, and keep you sheltered and safe. only trust yourself to me, and you will see. you _will_ trust yourself, won't you, darling? i'm not rich, but we should be comfortable enough. you are not the sort of girl to be ambitious, and, you _do_ love me, lilith!" lilith smiled, but she left her hand in his, and a tinge of colour showed in the pale cheeks. "i think i _do_ love you, francis!" she said slowly. francis pressed her hand in acknowledgment. unbroken confidence had deprived him of the great thrill which comes to most men at the knowledge that they are beloved; but one cannot have everything in this world, and if the choice had been his, he would unhesitatingly have plumped for the greater ease. he pressed her hand, and bent over her tenderly. "my darling girl! you make me very happy. you shall never regret it, i'll promise you that... look at your little mite of a hand lying in mine!--i could crush it to pieces with one clutch from my big paw. they are a type of the difference between us--those two hands--i so big, and strong, and you such a little slip of a weak, helpless thing." lilith bent her head on one side, and looked down with a smile. she lifted her tiny fingers and softly stroked the giant hand. "why do you love me, francis?" "because i can't help it!" returned francis promptly. "good heavens, lilith, if you knew how thankful a fellow is to meet a good old-fashioned girl! i'm fed up with these modern specimens, who set themselves up to be equal with men, and push and drive to force themselves to the front, instead of being content with the place which nature has given them. i couldn't stick a modern woman. i want a wife who will let me judge for her, and be thankful to have my protection-- like you, you little darling! you are everything that a woman ought to be... and why do you love me?" "because you are so big, and so handsome, and so"--lilith laughed, a tinkling, girlish laugh, which took the sting from the word--"_stupid_!" she bent nearer to him, with a caressing gesture, and francis slipped his arm round her waist, and laughed in sympathy. the dear, wee mite! what nonsense she did talk! "i don't care what is your reason, so long as you _do_ love me. and how soon will you be ready to marry your stupid man?" "do people always marry the people they love?" lilith asked innocently; and francis said they did; of course they did. what else was there for them to do? he remembered afterwards that though the conversation which followed was entirely agreeable to his feelings, lilith had persistently avoided a definite promise. the next morning a letter was handed in at the door of his chambers. it was in lilith's writing, and ran as follows: "dear francis-- "i want you to know that i am engaged to be married to hereward lowther. he asked me last night, just after you, and i said `yes.' thank you so much for all your kindness. it would have been very nice, but i feel sure that we should not have suited. "yours affectionately, "lilith wastneys." the engagement of hereward lowther caused some excitement in the political world, across which he had made so meteoric a flight. of no one of the younger men in the house had so much been hoped. his first speech was still quoted as the most brilliant effort of the kind within the memory of the present generation, while his tact and his charm had seemed little inferior to his ability. poor, brilliant, unhappy lowther, his was but another name added to the list of the men of genius who have been their own worst enemies! so rapid had been his downfall, so flagrant his avoidance of duty, that his friends were convinced that his constituency would not return him a second time. and now, with the shock of the unexpected, came the news of his matrimonial engagement. the chorus of disapproval was loud, but the chief frowned thoughtfully, and reserved his opinion. "if she is the right woman, it may be the saving of him yet. who is she? does anyone know?" "her name is wastneys; daughter of a country squire down in cornwall. good enough family, so far as that goes." "and the girl herself?" "oh, a doll! insignificant creature, with washed-out colouring. not even good looking. heavy and dull; not a word to say." the chief sighed. "that," he said slowly, "is the end of lowther! the man is doomed." during the weeks of the honeymoon hereward lowther's thoughts were exercised with a problem which, it is to be hoped, presents no difficulty to the average bridegroom. "_why had he married his wife_?" during the few months which had elapsed since his introduction to lilith wastneys, lowther had been conscious of a reluctant admiration, which was strangely akin to antipathy. there had been occasions when he had definitely decided that he disliked the girl, yet the decision had no mitigating effect on his desire to see her again at the earliest possible moment. but he was certain, looking back over the time from the first meeting on the golf links, to that last evening in the palm-shaded retreat at the ball, he was definitely, absolutely, certain that the idea of marriage had never entered his head. how, then, had he become engaged? how had it happened that he left that ball pledged to live side by side with this strange, silent girl, till death did them part? honestly, hereward did not know. there had been a flirtation, of course, if such a demure, well-conducted affair could be called a flirtation. the girl had looked unusually feminine and attractive in the dim light, and, this was the crux!--_she had seemed to expect it_. some power of expectancy had driven him on until he had spoken the fateful words, for in these days of languor and depression, lowther had lost the power of resistance, and the easiest course seemed invariably the best. he was conscious of his own demoralisation, but the misery of the consciousness had no vivifying effect; it rather drove him back to his drugs. so in this instance he had drifted on, and in a moment's weakness had sacrificed his freedom. yes! that was what it came to; that was the disgraceful fact. he had married this girl because she had desired it, and he was too lazy to resist. lowther acknowledged the fact with a shrug, but immediately afterwards arose a second problem, hardly less incomprehensible than the first. _why had lilith married him_? she did not love him. the man had soon recognised that fact, and it had brought an unexpected stab of pain. if she had loved him, as some women can love, she might have--helped! but she was cold as ice. even his own lukewarm endearments had proved unacceptable; there was evidently no personal attraction to explain the mystery of her marriage with a man who was an historic failure. they had been married a week, and were sitting in the garden of a foreign hotel, discussing a possible excursion, when lilith startled her husband by a sudden question. her voice, as she spoke, was low and unperturbed; her face showed a gentle smile, nevertheless that question smote upon lowther's ears like the crack of a whip. "at what time," asked lilith calmly, "do you next take your morphia?" he turned upon her, furious, ashamed, stammering the inevitable pitiful denial. "wh-at do you mean? morphia--i! who says i take morphia?" "everybody says it. everybody knows. don't distress yourself, hereward. i only wished to know your hours. it is better, isn't it, that we should plan our expeditions for the times when you are most-- most--" "_most what_?" "normal! the morphia naturally is soothing, but while it is working would it not be better if you were--alone?" "you are talking nonsense. you don't know what you are talking about. if you understood anything about the working of morphia, you would realise that after a dose one feels stimulated, refreshed. i am never so well as immediately after--" "i'm sorry. i am ignorant, as you say. then we had better start our excursion immediately after an injection. that is, if we can manage to do it in the time. how long is it before the--er--other stage comes on?" "_what_ other stage?" "the--drunken stage!" lilith answered. he hated her at that moment. a fury of anger rushed through his veins. he leaped from his seat and paced the path with impetuous steps. with the cane in his hand he smote fiercely at the encircling shrubs. all the lethargy of the past months disappeared; he was alive again, smartingly alive, face to face with his shame. "who dares to say that i am drunk? it is a lie! when have you seen me drunk?" "should i have said `drugged'? i'm sorry. i'm so ignorant, you see. i didn't know. of course, if you say so, there _is_ a difference." he swung away from her, and entering the hotel mounted the stairs to his own room. in his present condition of mind he dared not--literally dared not--trust himself within sight of his fellows. up and down the quiet room he paced, like a wild animal in its cage, his mind seething with rage and indignation against his wife, against the world, against himself. it was as though a bandage had fallen, and his sleep-ridden eyes were suddenly galvanised into life. he looked back along the sloping path and perceived how far he had fallen... it was nearing the time for his next injection. automatically he took the tabloids from the bottle, and carried them across the room to dissolve them in a glass of water. as he did so, he passed the window and caught sight of his wife's figure seated in the same position as that in which he had left her ten minutes before. how young she looked! almost a child in her simple white frock. the sun shone down on her flaxen locks, on one tiny hand extended on the seat by her side. something gripped at the man's heart at the sight of that hand; it looked so small, so helpless, so appealing. the poor girl! _on her honeymoon_! what a bitter disillusionment must be hers! with a sudden sweeping movement his hand flew outward, and the tabloids hurled through the air and buried themselves in the grass below. the next moment lowther himself descended to the garden, and seated himself by his wife's side. "lilith," he said humbly, "i'm sorry! i was a beast to speak to you as i did, but you know a man doesn't like interference. forgive me, like a good girl, and--i'll tell you something in return! it _was_ time for my morphia, but i've not taken it. i'm going out with you instead... shall we start?" she lifted her eyes and looked at him. it seemed to him that he looked upon a new woman. her eyes were no longer light, but dark and shining. they were bent upon him with an expression which sent the blood rushing through his veins. there was triumph in that look, and an immense, unutterable relief, but there was tenderness also, the tenderness of a mother towards a struggling child. the remembrance of that look remained with lowther and helped him through the inevitable discomforts of the next hours. lilith spoke but little; he was thankful to her for her silence, but once and again when his restlessness grew acute, she slipped her hand through his arm and pushed it forward, so that her fingers clasped his wrist. the little hand was warm to the touch. it was as though some vital force passed from her veins to his, calming, invigorating. only once did lilith touch on the subject of politics. she asked her husband what was likely to be the predominant question of the next session. he told her that it would be the land bill, long deferred, but inevitable: a bill on which the house was sharply divided, which would call forth a heat of argument. he answered curtly, with an evident distaste, and she never renewed the subject. lowther thanked providence for a wife with tact. they roamed about, from one country to another--belgium, holland, france, germany, italy, the tyrol, taking by preference untrodden paths, putting up at quiet country inns, enjoying the study of peasant life. lilith declared that she was tired of cities, had seen enough show places to last her life; now she needed a rest. how badly lowther himself had needed a rest was proved by his altered appearance after a few weeks of a leisurely life passed in fresh, pure air. never again had the subject of morphia been mentioned between himself and his wife, but the doses were steadily diminishing. there had been one whole day when he had taken no injection at all! he wondered at the coincidence which had made lilith so tender on that day! if it had not been for her tenderness, for the clasp of that small, warm hand, he doubted if he could have lasted out. he was no longer so sure that he did not love his wife. he was grateful to her for her tact and forbearance. he was beginning to look forward to her rare tenderness; as a reward for which it were worth while to endure. both lowther and his wife were clever linguists, and he was amused to discover that, quiet as was her nature, she possessed the rare gift of making friends with the humble folk of the different countries through which they passed, and of drawing forth their confidence. many an evening was spent in conversation with "mine host" as he enjoyed his leisurely smoke at the end of the day's work, and "mine host" was an interesting talker, with his tales of the country side, from the lordly baron in his rock-bound castle, to the humblest tenant upon his land. many talks were held also during the day-time, with the labourers in the fields, with the farmers who supplied milk and bread, and who beamed in appreciation of the largesse bestowed by the english milord and his wife. there were charming stories to be told--stories of affection and kindliness between the tenants and the lord of the soil, of a simple, feudal loyalty which sounded like a page from a fairytale of old, but there were tragedies also--stories of injustice and tyranny, of suffering and want. they were simple people, and they told their tales simply and well, delivering themselves in conclusion, of a pathetic apology. "it was a pity... things were not as bad as they had been. in england, of course, it was different. the peasants in england had no such trials to endure!" lilith sat listening while her husband explained that england had her own land troubles. her sleepy eyes expressed but little interest; but now and again she would put a searching question which cut to the very heart of the matter, and set him talking afresh. wherever they went the same subject recurred, and fresh differences were discussed; but these conversations were but incidents in the day's doings. from private conversation politics were banished. at the end of the honeymoon mr and mrs hereward lowther returned to town and took up their abode in a small flat in westminster. the choice was made by lilith, as indeed was every choice in those days of lowther's weakness. she confessed to an affection for westminster, for the quaint, old-fashioned nooks and corners which still remain, tucked behind the busy thoroughfares; for the picturesque precincts of the abbey. westminster was at once central, convenient, and old-world. she was eloquent on the subject of its advantages as a dwelling-place, but she never alluded to the vicinity of saint stephen's. after his return to town lowther passed through a somewhat severe relapse. pace to face with the old conditions he grew nervous and despondent, and had more frequent recourse to his drug, but there was this great difference between his present condition and the past, that whereas he had been indifferent, now he was penitent, remorseful, utterly ashamed. lilith never reproached him for his lapses, she nursed him assiduously through the subsequent weakness; she checked him when he would have made faltering apologies. "we won't talk about it. it is not worth while. it will pass!" she said quietly, and as she spoke, her strange, expressionless eyes gazed into his, and he found himself murmuring in agreement. "yes, it will pass!" never once, so far as he could discover, did any doubt concerning the future enter his wife's head. she must certainly have heard that when a man takes to drugs it is almost a miracle if he is enabled to break the habit, yet her confidence remained unshaken. throughout the darkest day, throughout the bitterest disappointment, she remained serenely unmoved. always, in speaking of the future, she envisaged lowther as strong, confident, successful, until by degrees the image printed itself on his own brain, and the old distrust began to disappear. the house opened, a week passed by, and lowther made no sign of taking his seat. lilith remained silent; it seemed the result of accident that engagements lessened more and more, so that he found himself unoccupied, sitting in the little flat, listening to the chimes of big ben, following in imagination the doings within the second chamber, while hour by hour, day by day, a mysterious power seemed forcing him onward, urging him to arouse himself from his stupor, and go forth once more into the arena. one evening husband and wife sat alone together in the little drawing-room of the flat. lowther was smoking, and making a pretence of reading a review, lilith sat by the open window, her hands folded on her lap. she had none of the nervous, fidgety movements to which most women are subject in moments of idleness, but could remain motionless as a statue for half an hour on end, her lids drooped over her quiet eyes. it was no interruption on his wife's part which caused lowther's increasing restlessness; even when the book was thrown down, and he took to pacing hurriedly up and down, she remained passive and immovable. suddenly lowther drew up by her side, laid a hand on her shoulder. "lilith! i'm going... to the house. would you come? i think it would help me if you would come too." it was the first time that he had acknowledged in words the mysterious truth that in his wife's presence he felt stronger, freer from temptation. his hand lingered on her shoulder with a caressing touch, and lilith turned her head so that for a fleeting moment her cheek rested against his fingers. her assent was a matter of course; she wasted no breath on that, but, as she rose to her feet, she spoke a few words, which to lowther's bruised spirit, were as water to a fainting man: "i am so _proud_ of you, hereward!" the session had begun, and the land bill was occupying the attention of the house. the two leaders had delivered themselves of strong opposing speeches, and the bill was open for discussion. one member after another rose from the crowded benches. a few of the number spoke well and to the point, and were acclaimed with applause; but the greater number repeated old arguments, and failed to throw fresh light on the vexed problem. the house listened with resigned impatience. in a corner of the ladies' gallery sat a small figure with an aureole of flaxen hair. she leaned forward on her seat, her hands clasped together, her eyes fixed in a deep, unblinking gaze at a man on the opposite benches. he was a striking-looking man, still young, yet with an air of delicacy and strain. an onlooker observing him at this moment would have noticed that from time to time he stirred uneasily, and cast a glance upwards at the grille of the ladies' gallery. as each speaker in succession finished his speech and sat down, this man stirred more forcibly, as though combating an impulse which increased in violence, and eventually he was on his feet; had caught the speaker's eyes. there was a momentary silence throughout the house. _lowther_! how long was it, how many years since lowther had essayed a speech? what had happened to spur him to such an effort? this was his first appearance since the beginning of the session, and though he was obviously improved in health he had avoided private conversation, and kept shrinkingly to himself. and now--a speech! with characteristic loyalty to a man who has done good work in past days, the house prayed that lowther knew what he was about, and was not going to make an exhibition of himself. but now he was speaking, and the old charm was at work. the members listened with surprise to the old well-turned sentences, the old masterly style; felt again the charm of the old ingenuous manner. and he was speaking to the point, with an expert's width of knowledge which held the house. "on this point of tenure might it not be well to take a hint from italy?--in italy, etc., etc." "in holland there was a special exemption which was worthy of note..." "in the province of lombardy the tenants retained the right..." the land problems of europe seemed at his finger-ends; he handled them not as a politician informed by dry, written statements, but as living things, seen through living eyes. he had apt illustrations to present with the readiness of first-hand knowledge; he had, as a sum total, one illuminating suggestion, and the house cheered him with a ringing cheer. that cheer sounded in lowther's ears like the opening of a great gate, a gate which his own hands had closed. through its portals he beheld once more the castles of his dreams, and took heart to walk forward. lilith greeted him with a smile of congratulation, but the drive home was accomplished in silence. it was late when they arrived at their modest flat. the servants had retired to bed, leaving a table of refreshments drawn up before the drawing-room fire. lilith took off her cloak and sat down, but lowther went straight to his own room. a few minutes later he returned, and, closing the door behind him, stood silently behind her chair. she could hear the quick intake of his breath, but she waited motionless until he should speak. at last it came. "lilith! i have something i want to give you. something for you--to keep! put out your hand." still silent, still with eyes averted, she held out her hand towards him. something cold clicked against the palm, something long and thin. she opened her fingers, and beheld a morphia syringe. "i--i shan't need it any more," stammered the voice. a hand, lowther's hand, came over her shoulder, mutely making appeal. lilith dropped the syringe, and caught the hand to her breast. the next minute he was kneeling at her feet, and the two were gazing deep into each other's eyes. "lilith," cried lowther brokenly, "it--it will be hard... i shall have a hard fight. do you think you could _love_ me a little, lilith?" "i must love you," answered lilith deeply, "a great deal, or it will be no use!" it was five years later when the opposition came into power, and it surprised nobody when hereward lowther was given a seat in the cabinet. during those five years husband and wife had lived quietly in their little flat, going but little into society, affecting few of the amusements of the day. when parliament was sitting, lilith was a constant visitor to the ladies' gallery, and it was noted that her husband never spoke when she was absent. in holiday time her chief interest lay in the study of the problems of modern life; but, as on that first tour abroad, she studied first-hand, and not through the medium of books. lowther felt it an extraordinary coincidence that her inquiries so often proved of value to himself, and always, under every circumstance, lilith's immovable serenity was as a rock, against which his weaker, more excitable nature found support. lowther questioned himself sometimes as to the explanation of his wife's unshaken calm, and came to the conclusion that it sprang from a certain obtuseness or stupidity of brain, but he smiled as he mentally voiced the thought, and his smile was tender. he loved his wife; she was a dear girl, tactful, unassuming. he was thankful that she was not clever. five years spread a kindly veil over the public memory, and there were few people who troubled to recall lowther's temporary lapse. that was an affair of the past. what mattered now was that he was one of the most brilliant and valuable men in the house, and that the country needed his services. as a politician he was able and statesmanlike, but he was a politician second and a patriot first. the glory of office counted for nothing with him in comparison with the glory of his native land, and the country recognised his honesty and loved him for it. he was a member of the cabinet now, but as certainly as he lived he would be prime minister another day. as he walked through the streets the people pointed him out to each other. "that's lowther. our best man. he'll be prime minister before he's done. the sooner the better. a straight, fair man. the man we want. what a position for a man to gain by sheer personal force--the virtual ruler over a fifth part of the world! what power, my dear fellow--what power!" "you may say so, indeed; extraordinary power!" chapter six. the man who wished for comfort. it seemed hard to francis manning that he, who had asked of fate nothing more exorbitant than an easy, comfortable existence, should have been called on to endure one of the most uncomfortable of experiences--that of being jilted by the girl to whom he had believed himself engaged to be married! for years past he had intended to marry lilith wastneys, and when he told his love she had been everything that was sweet and complaisant, had said, in so many words, that she loved him in return. he had gone home feeling the happiest man in the world, had lain awake for a solid hour by the clock, rejoicing in his happiness, and the very next morning, behold a letter to tell him that she was engaged to another man! francis could not endure to recall the shock, the misery, the discomfort, of that hour. if the news had come from another source he would have refused to believe it; but it was lilith herself who wrote, so there was no loophole of escape. during the following days he felt stunned and wretched. his heart was wounded, but he was not sentimental by nature, and it seemed to him that he could have schooled his heart into subjection if it had not been for--for the other things! there did not seem a single interest in life which this wretched disillusionment had left untouched. to begin with, there was his work. he had worked for a home in which lilith should live as his wife. work seemed suddenly dull and purposeless now that the proposed home had crumbled into ruins. then, as regards amusement-- he had grown into the habit of arranging his engagements to fit in with lilith's own. a dinner meant the chance of lilith for a partner; a ball, a dance or two with lilith, and a _tete-a-tete_ in a conservatory; a reception, the chance of edging his way towards a little white figure and keeping beside it for the rest of the evening. amusement lost its savour, now that lilith no more entered into the scheme. life was dull, stale, and unprofitable. the days dragged past on leaden feet; he fell asleep with a sigh, and woke to a pang of remembrance. for a whole month francis was a prey to grief, and then, as he himself would have expressed it, he "bucked up." there came an historic saturday evening, when, in the company of a particularly fine cigar he came to the conclusion that "it was not good enough," and that he could not "stick" it any more. he had had a whole month of being miserable, and it was the dullest time he had ever known! in self-defence he must pull himself together and face the music. it was astonishing how many saws francis quoted over that cigar; but he was as good as his vow, and from that hour he wasted no more regrets on lilith wastneys. so serene and cheerful became his demeanour that his one confidante congratulated him on having set a pattern to suffering mankind. "i have heard many tragic stories. people always do confide in me," she told him; "but have i met a man who has borne his trouble as you have borne yours. i feel a better woman from the experience. it has been a triumph of bravery and endurance!" "think so?" said francis. he was gratified to know that he had made such a good impression, and reminded himself insistently that lookers-on saw most of the game. he did this to quieten a tiresome inner voice which insisted that his cheerful mien was the result of cowardice rather than of bravery, the cowardice which refused to endure! "still, you know," he declared lugubriously, "a fellow feels lonely--" the confidante sighed, and flicked her light eyelashes. "i know the feeling," she said. when a man has made up his mind that it is time to marry, it is foolish to abandon the plan because one woman out of the teeming millions in the land refuses to become his wife. this, at least, was francis manning's seasoned decision, and it was emphasised by the announcement of lilith wastneys' wedding, which appeared in the newspapers exactly three months after her refusal of himself. whatever sentimental hankerings he might have cherished for lilith the maid, it was clearly out of place to cast another thought towards the wife of hereward lowther. francis had a deep respect for the conventions, and death itself could not have removed his former love to a more impassable distance. he heaved a sigh to her memory, and buried it underground. within a week from that day he was engaged to the confidante. it seemed the obvious thing to do, for he knew her more intimately than any other girl of his acquaintance, and owed her a debt of gratitude for her sympathy in his former affair. she was quite a nice girl, too; not pretty, but amiable and healthy, with a small income of her own which would come in usefully towards running the house. he wished her eyelashes had not been quite so white; but one could not have everything. she was a nice, affectionate girl. the confidante accepted francis because she was tired of living at home with a managing mamma, and wanted to start life on her own account. she liked francis, was proud of his fine appearance, knew him to be good-tempered and honourable, and was complacently assured that they would "get on." far better, she said, to begin with a sensible, open-eyed liking, than a headlong passion which would wear itself out before the honeymoon was over. it was, in short, a sensible marriage between eminently sensible contracting parties. the little god of love had no part in the ceremony, but it is only fair to mention that nobody missed him. mr and mrs manning went to scotland for their honeymoon, and francis played golf every day, what time his wife read novels in the veranda of the hotel. she sped him on his way with a smile, and welcomed him back with a smile to match, and if the young girls in the hotel confided in each other that _they_ would break their hearts if _their_ bridegrooms neglected them in such a fashion, such a thought never entered her head. she would have been bored if francis had stayed beside her all day long. what on earth could they have found to say? at the end of a fortnight mr and mrs manning returned to a semi-detached villa in a southern suburb, and settled down to a comfortable married life. mr and mrs francis manning spent the next ten years in peace and comfort, and humdrum happiness. they had good health, easy means, a large number of acquaintances, and three little daughters. the daughters were plain, but sturdy, and gave a minimum of trouble in the household. francis, indeed, insisted on this point. early in the lifetime of maud, the eldest daughter, he had become aware of the amazing fact that nurses occasionally wished to "go out"; that, in addition, they wished to go out on the sabbath day. this seemed to him unreasonable, and he said as much to his wife. "but why in the name of all that's ridiculous, _sunday_? i'm at home on sunday. sunday's the day when we need nurse most of all. it's my holiday." mrs manning represented that sunday was also a holiday for nurse and her friends, and francis said, very well, then, they must have _two_ nurses. if necessary they must have three. the one thing certain was that he could not be disturbed on his day of rest, so a capable assistant was engaged forthwith, and comfort was re-established. the mannings took no part in the intellectual life of the neighbourhood. there, were several book clubs, lecture courses, and the like, which they were urged to join, but without success. francis declared that he worked all day, and came home to rest, and his wife said, thank you, no; she had no wish to go back to school at her age. they went out to dinner now and then, and made a point of giving two or three dinners themselves every winter. they provided lavishly on such occasions, and were agreeably conscious that their guests were impressed. both husband and wife enjoyed rich foods, and saw no reason for denying themselves the gratification. as far as religion was concerned, the mannings made a point of going to church with the children every sunday morning when it was fine, or they were not late for breakfast, or francis did not feel inclined for a walk. sometimes he went off golfing for the day, and then mrs manning dressed maud in her best clothes and they went to church together. she had been brought up to go to church, and thought the habit "nice." besides it was pleasant to see friends coming out, and walk home with mrs lane, her favourite neighbour. they would meet on the path outside the graveyard, and turn uphill together, and mrs lane would say: "_what_ a sermon! my dear, _did_ you see the woman in the pew before ours? she came in late, just before the psalms. she took off her coat, _and_, my dear, her blouse--" she would proceed to describe the blouse in detail, and mrs manning would sigh and say: "it _is_ nice to have something interesting to look at in the next pew! we have those awful miss newtes." the neighbours on both sides envied the francis mannings, and quoted their doings with admiration. in the matter of holidays, for instance, how sane and sensible were their arrangements! the children were sent with their nurses to the sea, the father enjoyed himself on scottish golf links; the mother toured abroad with a woman friend. each autumn the neighbours agreed to profit by the example of the francis mannings, and to do likewise the next summer; but somehow it never came off. when spring came round the wife would conscientiously remind her husband of the resolve, and urge him to keep it, while gracefully withdrawing herself. "margot has had several of those bad chest colds," she would explain. "i should be so anxious in case she caught a chill. it really is my duty to go with the children but _you_, dear, you could quite well--" "well! i don't know," the husband would reply. "what would become of you in the evenings? and i promised to teach jack to swim. i think, on the whole, we'd better stick to the old arrangement this summer." so once more they would depart _en famille_ to the seaside, and stay in lodgings, and be happy in the old domesticated fashion. but also, quite frequently, bored! on the rare occasions when he gave himself over to thought, francis realised that there was only one respect in which life had disappointed him, only one desire which had been withheld. he wanted a son. each time that a child had been expected he had built his hopes upon a son; each time disappointment had been more acute. he had built up a good business by his own exertions; he wanted a son of his own name to carry it on. there were times, moreover, when the purely feminine nature of his household fretted his nerves, and he thought, with longing, of a man child; a little chappie in trousers, instead of the eternal flounces; a knickerbockered elf sitting in his dressing-room watching him shave; a tall hobbledehoy beginning to play golf, listening with interest to accounts of his father's prowess. later on, a man, a partner, a prop for declining years. francis pushed the thought from him, but it recurred. deep at his heart lay the longing for a son. and the son came. this time he had not hoped; he had told himself steadily that it would be a girl. better if it were a girl. no use having a boy at the end of a family of girls. he would grow up half a girl himself, and be a disappointment. he was placidly resigned to girl, and after all, behold, it was a boy! the blood raced through his veins as he heard the good news; something astonishingly like tears pricked at his eyes. "is he--is he _all right_?" he asked breathlessly, and the doctor laughed. "go upstairs and look at him, my dear fellow! pine little chap as you could wish to see." in truth he was a healthy nine-pounder of a son, guaranteed by nurse and mother to be the finest baby ever born, and seated by his wife's bedside, francis gave vent to his jubilation. "now," he said triumphantly, "i have everything i want. i really am a lucky fellow. jolly little beggar, eh? seems to me--i don't know if i'm right--but i do think he looks different from the rest!" the wife smiled, but francis was right; everybody said he was right. the longed-for boy was in truth an extraordinarily comely infant, and each week of his life he blossomed into fuller charm. his well-shaped head was covered with golden curls and when he lay asleep (and he obligingly slept most of his time) it was a pleasure to observe the delicate promise of his features. he had obviously elected to resemble his handsome father, and the father was complacently grateful for the fact.-- mrs manning observed with amazement that francis nursed this baby, positively nursed him in his arms, and was quite disappointed when, on returning from the city, he failed to find him awake. "are his eyes changing colour yet?" he would ask. "i want them to be blue. blue eyes would look so well with his yellow hair." but the baby's eyes remained a dull, clouded grey. "not blue yet!" francis would repeat. "how long is it before they begin to change? fine big eyes, aren't they? i want to make the little beggar look at me, but he won't. why does he stare at the ceiling?" "it's the electric light," said his wife; but the next morning, when the lights were turned off, the baby still stared blankly upward. "why the dickens does he stare at the ceiling?" francis asked again. gradually, imperceptibly, a growing anxiety began to mingle with his joy, and the anxiety was connected with those staring eyes. he would not put his thoughts into words; but he watched his wife's face, and saw in it no reflection of his own fears. then for a time he would banish the dread; and anon it would recur. _were_ the boy's eyes all right? was it really natural that he should be always staring up? ridiculous nonsense! of _course_ it was all right. things had come to a pretty pass when he took to worrying himself, while his wife, who knew a thousand times more about babies, remained untroubled and serene. bother the child's eyes! ... he would think about them no more. all his life francis had been a sworn opponent of worry. when anything disagreeable threatened, his mode of procedure was to shrug his shoulders, and immediately divert his thoughts. "leave the thing alone; don't bother about it; it will probably come all right in the end!" such was his theory, and experience had proved that as often as not it was correct. he endeavoured to cultivate the same attitude towards his boy, but in vain. the anxiety recurred. he told himself that he would have the eyes tested, and satisfy himself once for all; but once and again his courage failed, and the days passed on, and nothing was done. then there came an evening when suddenly fear engulfed him, and made anything seem easier than a continuation of suspense. he was holding the child in his arms, and he rose and carried it across the room, to where a powerful light hung from the wall. he pushed aside the shade, and held the tiny face closely approaching the glass. the eyes stared on, unblinking and still. a great cry burst from francis' throat: "my god!" he cried. "the boy is blind!" the boy was blind, and there was no hope that he would ever possess his sight. mrs manning wept herself ill, but even in the depths of her distress she realised that her husband's sufferings were keener than her own. it gave an added touch of misery to those black days, to feel a strange new distance between her husband and herself. she could not comfort him; she could not understand him; after ten years of married life it appeared as if the man she had known had disappeared, and a stranger had taken his place. yet there was nothing unmanly in his grief; he was quiet and self-restrained as she had never seen him before, gentler, and more considerate of others. the poor woman noticed the change with awe, and wondered if francis were going to die. "i have never seen you feel anything as you are feeling this," she said to him one night. they were sitting by the dying fire, and francis raised his head and stared at her with sombre eyes. "but i have felt nothing," he said flatly. "i am finding that out. i did not know what it meant to feel!" from the moment of his discovery of the blindness of his son, francis manning became a man possessed of but one aim--to lighten and alleviate, so far as was humanly possible, the child's sad lot. he taught himself braille, so that in time to come he might teach it to the boy, and be able to translate for his benefit appropriate pieces of literature. he visited every famous institute for the blind at home and abroad, and made an exhaustive study of their systems. he searched for a girl of intelligence and charm, and sent her to be trained in readiness to undertake the boy's education; he schooled himself to be a playmate and companion; he denied himself every luxury, so that the boy's future might be assured. as francis the man, he ceased to exist; he lived on only as francis the father. during the first three years of his life the young francis remained blissfully unconscious of his infirmity. a strong, healthy child surrounded by the tenderest of care, the sun of his happiness never set. his little feet raced up and down; his sweet, shrill voice chanted merry strains; his small, strong hands seemed gifted with sight as well as touch, so surely did they guide him to and fro. nature, having withheld the greatest gift, had remorsefully essayed compensation in the shape of a finer touch, a finer hearing. the blind child was the sunshine of the home; but the father knew that the hour must dawn when that sunshine would be clouded. he held himself in readiness for that hour, training himself as an athlete trains for a race. he would need courage: therefore it behoved him to be brave now, to harden himself against the ills of life, and cultivate a resolute composure. all the influences which had tended to keep him soft must be thrown aside as weights which would hinder the race. he must be wise, therefore it behoved him to think, and to train his mind. a light reason, a light excuse, would no longer be sufficient; he must learn to judge and to reflect. he must be tender; and to be tender it was necessary to bury self, and to put other interests before his own. more weights had to be thrown aside. and he must be patient! hitherto he had considered patience a feeble, almost unmanly, virtue; but he perceived that it would be needed, and must be cultivated with the rest. mrs manning confided in her neighbours that francis had never been the same since the discovery of baby's blindness. he never complained, she said. oh, no; and he was most kind--gave no trouble in the house, _but_--then she sighed, and the neighbours sympathised, and prophesied that he would "come round." in truth the good, commonplace woman was ill at ease in the rarefied atmosphere of the home, and sincerely regretted the comfortable, easy-going husband of yore. for three whole years frank lived untroubled, and then the questions began to come. "am i blind, father? why am i blind? is it naughty to be blind?" the baby child was easily appeased. later on the questions would become more insistent. francis prepared himself for that hour. at four years fleeting shadows began to pass over the boy's radiance. alone with his father, his face would pucker in thought. "shall i always be blind, father? i don't like to be blind. was you blind when you was a little boy?" the knife turned in the father's heart at the sound of the innocent words; but always the cloud loomed darker ahead. he trained himself more zealously, in preparation for the hour when the boy would rebel! but there were happy hours between, hours when the natural joy of childhood filled the house with laughter, and father and son were supremely happy in each other's society. no companion of his own age was half as dear to the boy; no living creature stood for so much in the father's heart. they read and studied together; they held long, intimate conversation. they played games from which blind people are usually debarred. standing behind a hoop on the croquet lawn the father would cry in a brisk, staccato voice, "prank!" and on the instant the boy's mallet would hit the ball, and send it in the direction indicated, and proud and glad was frankie to know that his aim was surer than that of his sighted sisters. and every hour of contentment, every added interest and occupation bestowed upon the boy, was as a salve to the sore father heart. but at six years the inevitable rebellion began. "is he blind?" the boy would ask of a new acquaintance. "can _he_ see, too? _everyone_ can see but me! ... _i_ want to run about like the other fellows, and play cricket, and have some fun. it's dull all alone in the dark. can't you have me made better, father?" at times he would cry; piteous, pitiful tears, but the sensitive ear was quick to catch the distress in his father's voice, and he would offer consolation in the midst of his grief. "don't be sorry, father. i don't want you to be sorry. it doesn't matter; really it doesn't. i have a ripping time!" never for a moment did the boy hold his parents responsible for his infirmity; but there came a day when he blamed his god. "if god can do everything he likes, he could have made me quite right, and well. why didn't he, father?" "i don't know, my son." "_you_ would make me better if you could! you said yourself you'd pay the doctor all your money. you are kinder than him. i don't think god _is_ kind to me, father. it would have been so easy for him--" the wisdom for which francis had prayed and struggled seemed a poor thing at that moment. he was dumb, and yet he dared not be dumb. "frankie," he said, "i'll tell you a secret--a secret between you and me... god sent me a great many blessings when i was young, and they did me no good. i was selfish, and careless, and blind, too, frankie, though my eyes could see, and then after he had tried me with happiness and it had failed, he sent me"--the man's voice trembled ominously--"_a great grief_! ... frankie, old man, when i come to die, i believe i am going to thank god for that grief, more than for all the blessings which went before." the child sat silent, struggling for comprehension. "what did the great grief _do_ to you, father?" francis paused for a moment, struggling for composure. then he spoke: "_it stabbed my dead heart wide awake_!" he stooped and kissed the child's blind eyes. chapter seven. the girl who asked for happiness. fate is a sorry trickster, and a study of life leads one to the conclusion that the less that is asked of her the less does she bestow. meriel, on her part, had made few demands--riches and power had for her no allure; her highest ambition was to attain that quiet domestic happiness enjoyed by thousands of her sister women. she wanted to be loved and to love in return; to transform some trivial villa into a home, and reign therein over her little kingdom; and on her twenty-eighth birthday fate had so wrought the tangled skein that she found herself in the position of unpaid attendant to an old school friend, while her heart was racked by a hopeless passion for the same friend's husband. the way of it was this. meriel and flora had been school friends, between whom existed the affection which often develops between a strong and a weak character when they are thrown into intimate companionship. flora was pretty and gay, qualities which in a young girl blind the eyes of beholders to many drawbacks. meriel was quite resigned to be blinded herself, but some two or three years after the two girls had left school she heard with amazement that flora was engaged to be married to geoffrey sterne, one of the most prominent _litterateurs_ of the day. geoffrey sterne and--flora! how was it that the cleverest of men so often chose weak, clinging women as companions for life? it seemed to meriel inconceivable that this giant among men should have given his love to an animated doll; but flora wrote gushing accounts of her fiance's devotion, and declared that she was as happy as the day was long. it seemed to meriel that she must indeed be the happiest of women! circumstances prevented mend's presence at the wedding, and for the next five years she did not see her friend. a child was born and died; rumour reported that sterne was working incessantly at a work which was to be the _magnum opus_ of his life; it was said also that his wife was in delicate health, and had abandoned the dissipations of town. then at the end of the five years came an invitation in flora's handwriting. meriel was not to be vexed with her for being silent for so long; she had always _intended_ to write, simply dreadful how many things were left undone! really and truly, she had never forgotten the dear old days. would meriel come down and pay her a nice long visit? geoffrey liked to have friends staying in the house; he thought flora was too much alone; but some visitors were such a nuisance--always poking about. meriel was not like that--she was always a dear old thing. would thursday suit? the : . the car should be waiting at the station. flora sent heaps of love... meriel accepted the invitation without hesitation; she was without near relations, living on narrow means, and her life was so bare that she was thankful of the mere change of scene. she liked the sound of "the car"; most of all she longed to meet geoffrey sterne, and see him in the intimacy of his home. flora was waiting at the station when her friend arrived; and at the sight of her face came meriel's first disillusionment. this was not the companion of old; this was a strange woman with whom she had no acquaintance. the once delicate face had lost its contour, the features were blurred and coarsened: out of the blue eyes peered a furtive soul. meriel felt a presage of trouble at the sight of that ravaged face. a week's stay at the house revealed two eloquent facts. flora was afraid of her husband, but she loved him still, and craved for his approval. out of his presence she was nervous, and irritable, possessed by a demon of restlessness which made it impossible for her to attend to the same thing for two minutes together; but let sterne enter the room, and all the poor forces of her nature were rallied to appear calm and at ease. meriel saw through these efforts with a woman's intuition; later on with a woman's sympathy, for she knew that geoffrey sterne no longer loved his wife. he was kindly, chivalrous, attentive; with the utmost of his powers he fulfilled his duty, but there was no spark of that divine flame which would have turned duty into joy. to have gained the love of such a man, and then--to have lost it! meriel found herself reversing her former decision. she had believed flora sterne to be the happiest of women. she now knew her to be the most unfortunate. there was trouble in the air--a trouble nebulous and vague, yet real enough to chill the blood. the cloud of coming disaster settled down more and more heavily over the household. there came a night when the storm broke. sterne had been away all day, and in his absence his wife's restlessness took an acute turn. she wandered about the house rejecting irritably all offers of help, and finally shut herself up in her own rooms, leaving meriel a prey to anxiety. what was the reason of flora's strange behaviour? was it a pure matter of nerves, or was there in truth some hidden sorrow preying upon her mind, and driving her hither and thither in search of oblivion? what sorrow could flora have? grief over the death of her child had long since faded into a placid conclusion that all was for the best. it had been a dear little thing, but children were a tie... she was glad there had been no other... for the rest, life had brought her the most luxurious of homes, the most attentive of husbands, and if that attention was not induced by the highest motive, meriel doubted if the dulled mind grasped the lack. what sorrow, then, could flora have? the afternoon wore slowly away, until the hour approached when sterne would return, when a feeling of responsibility drove meriel to follow flora to her boudoir. she did not wish geoffrey to return to find his wife suffering and alone. the room was darkened, so that it was impossible to see distinctly, but the sound of a low moan reached her ears, and prone on the sofa lay flora, her face sunk deep in the piled-up cushions. meriel spoke, but there was no reply; she knelt down and pressed the cushion from the hidden face, but the eyes remained closed, the jaw fixed and fallen. poor flora! her sufferings had been real enough, since in the end they had culminated in this heavy swoon. meriel threw open windows, found water and smelling salts, and unloosed the clothing round the neck. in the midst of her efforts sterne entered, and with quick glance took in the situation. he brought a flask of brandy from his room, and from time to time inserted a few drops within the parted lips. but flora did not revive. she moaned and stirred, but her eyes remained closed. she showed no consciousness of their presence. in hot haste a doctor was summoned; he came, and stood gazing grimly down at the still figure. "we did everything we could think of before sending for you," sterne explained. "fanned her, sponged her head, gave her brandy--" the doctor looked at him--a terrible look. "_brandy_!" he repeated deeply. "man, have you no eyes? what have you been about to allow her to come to this pass? she is not faint. she is drunk!" flora's remorse was a pitiful thing. for years she had been playing with fire, but the knowledge of the depths to which she had fallen filled her with shame and fear. for days together she refused to see her husband, but from the first moment of consciousness she clung with a childish desperation to the friend of her youth. "don't leave me! don't go away! i can't face it alone. oh, meriel, stay and help me to bear it. i'm afraid to be left alone with geoffrey. he will say nothing--he'll go on being kind, but it will be in his mind.--i shall see it in his eyes... i've disgraced him, and i'm afraid--i'm afraid of the future! ... oh, meriel, stay and help me!" that night, walking in the darkening garden, meriel told sterne of his wife's desire, and added a few simple words. "if you wish it, too, i will stay," she said. "i have no home ties, and can extend my visit as long as it suits you. but i must have your approval. if you would prefer a regular attendant--" his face twitched with emotion. "i should--_abhor_ it!" he said tensely. "if you could stay, it would be a godsend, but it seems too great a sacrifice... we have no right to ask it. why should you give up so much?" "i have so little to give up," meriel said. she looked into sterne's face with a pathetic attempt at a smile. "i am a superfluous woman. nobody needs me, and all my life i have longed to be needed. if i can be of use here, i'd rather stay than go anywhere on earth." "god bless you!" he said, and gripped her hand. that was the signing of the agreement which resulted in four years of ceaseless service. at the beginning meriel had contemplated a stay of a few months; but with every week that passed she seemed more firmly riveted in her post. after each breakdown, flora's dread of being alone with her husband increased in violence, while he shrank more sensitively from the services of a hireling. they needed her, and she stayed on and on, at first provisionally; later, as a matter of course. from the beginning sterne had little hope of his wife's reformation, for he realised that her weakness was of several years' growth, and that the inherent instability of her character unfitted her for the prolonged struggle which lay ahead. as a matter of fact, after the first passion of remorse had worn itself out, the whole of flora's energies were expended in the attempt to deceive her companions, and to discover secret methods of indulging her craving. the history of those four years was one of recurrent disappointment. the last remnant of beauty died out of flora's face; sterne's dark hair was streaked with grey, mend's features were fined to a delicate sharpness; her eyes had the pathetic wistfulness of a dumb animal. from the first moment of meeting her heart had gone out to geoffrey sterne; before she had been three months under his roof she loved him with an absorbing passion, and for four long years she had stood by, watching his torture, holding her love in check. surely no man and woman were ever thrown together in more intimate relationship. night after night they wrestled together against the demon which destroyed their peace; week after week, month after month, they planned and consulted, toiled and failed, hoped and sorrowed,--together, always together; virtually alone, yet always with that pitiful presence holding them apart. sterne was as chivalrous to his friend as to his wife. never by look or deed did he pass the borders of friendship. with one part of her nature meriel was thankful for the fact. it would have marred her admiration of the man's character if he had made love to the woman who was ministering to his wife. with another part of her nature she longed fiercely, hungrily, to feel the touch of his lips, the grasp of his arms. there were times when she was shaken with envy of the poor creature who still claimed his tenderness and his care, but she never deluded herself that sterne returned her love. it seemed to her that her own near association with the tragedy of his life must in itself prevent such a possibility. in years to come, when poor flora had found her rest, sterne might meet some sweet woman who lived in the sunshine, and find happiness with her. "he will forget, and be comforted. he will love her the more for all he has suffered." meriel felt an anguish of envy for that other woman who would enjoy the happiness denied to herself, a bitter rebellion against her own fate. "i have given my youth, my strength, my soul--and what have i gained in return? emptiness and suffering!" she cried fiercely. then added, with a sombre triumph, "but she can never help him as i have helped! he can never need her as he has needed me!" the end of the four years found the three embarked for india to try the effect of "suggestion" under a famous professor of the east. it was a forlorn chance, as it was doubtful if flora retained enough brain power to respond to the treatment; but something was hoped from the change of scene and the healthful effects of the voyage. meriel welcomed the change with relief. flora's increasing disability had of late thrown her husband and friend into what was practically a prolonged _tete-a-tete_, and the strain of constant self-repression had grown beyond endurance. in the turmoil of travelling such close intimacy would be impossible, and her own tired nerves would be refreshed. for the first fortnight all went well. the bay was smooth, the mediterranean blue and smiling; even flora herself was roused to a feeble admiration. she was so quiet and amenable that meriel was able to leave her for hours together in the charge of her maid, while she herself lay on a deck chair, luxuriating in the peace and beauty of the scene. sometimes sterne would sit by her side, and they would talk together,--brief, disconnected fragments of talk, interrupted by intervals of silence. they spoke of happier days; of their youth, their dreams and ambitions, the glowing optimism of early hopes. sterne had started his career with the finest ambition which a writer can know: a passing popularity would not satisfy him, money was regarded merely as a means to live; his aim was to write words which should endure after he himself was laid to rest, and to that aim he had held fast, despite all the trials and discouragements of his life. to him, as to every writer, came the realisation that his power to help and uplift was measured by his own suffering. his readers were enriched by his poverty. there were times when the knowledge soothed, times again when the natural man rose in revolt, and demanded bread for his own soul. "you tell me that i have succeeded," he said bitterly to meriel; "but i have never tasted the savour of success. i have no child to inherit my name, and my wife does not care--even in the early days she cared nothing for my work. never in her life has she read an article of mine from beginning to end. when i told her of a fresh commission she asked always--`how much will it be?' after the first year i never mentioned my work. the poorest clerk hurrying home to tell his wife of a ten-pound rise, feeling sure of her sympathy and understanding, is richer than i. he _has_ his reward!" meriel found courage to ask a question which had long hovered on her lips. "you were so very different. at school flora never pretended to be intellectual. why did you ever--" "marry her?" his face softened, he drew a retrospective sigh. "i loved her, meriel! that was the reason. she was young, and sweet, and trustful, and when a pretty girl steals into a man's heart he does not stop to inquire into her brain powers. i have reproached myself because the glamour so soon faded, but i am thankful to remember that it was an honest marriage; i loved her truly, and she loved me. my poor flora! i believe she does still. it's very pitiful." meriel turned her head so that he should not see her face. the tenderness of his tone was painful to her, the thought of those early days of married love tortured her heart. the world seemed to her a cruel place, where men and women were tried beyond their strength. "at least you have had something!" she told him wistfully. "your golden time passed quickly, but you had the experience. you are a man, and to men work comes first. you can lose yourself in it, forget your disappointments, and escape to a new world. and you have made a great reputation. men praise you, admire you, are helped by you. doesn't _that_ help?" "i wonder," he said vaguely. "i wonder!" they sat in silence gazing at the waste of waters sparkling in the noonday sun. when after some moments he spoke again, it was apparently to introduce a new topic. "what do you feel about colour, meriel? does it speak to you? look at those great waves today! ... the blue of them, the deepest, truest blue that it is possible to conceive, and the shafts of green, cutting across the blue, and the purple shadows, and above all, the foamy torrent of white! things that one has done oneself are so poor, so unsatisfying; but the big things last. the sea comforts me, meriel; the bigness of it, the beauty of it. why should we fret, and be troubled? it will pass! everything passes. we have only to be faithful; to stick to our posts, and look ahead!" but meriel was a woman, with a woman's heart that refused to find comfort in philosophy. she looked at the changeful sea, but the very beauty of it brought a heavier weight, for she was one of the tender souls who are dependent on companionship for her joys. if sterne had loved her, and had been free to love, she would have entered into his joy in nature with ready understanding, but she was suffering from an intolerable loneliness of spirit, to which the glory of the scene around added the last touch of bitterness. "it doesn't comfort me," she said. "i need something nearer; more personal; something of my own. you have suffered, but you have also enjoyed. it is easier to be resigned when you have possessed, even if the possessions have had to go. if you haven't had _all_ that you asked of life, at least you have had a great deal. some of us have nothing!" he looked at her as she gazed wistfully into space, a woman aged before her time, with a sweet sad face, worn with the burden of his own sorrows. "what did you ask?" he inquired softly. "i asked for happiness," meriel said, and turned her eyes on him with a pitiful smile. there was a long silence before he answered, but when he spoke his voice was tremulous with feeling. "ah, meriel!" he cried; "and we have given you duty! ... it's a cold thing to fill a woman's heart... i've reproached myself a thousand times.--i should not have allowed you to sacrifice yourself.--it must not go on!" a spasm of fear ran through her veins. "it's the nearest approach to happiness i've ever known." "nevertheless," he said firmly, "it shall not go on. we have no right to murder your joy. help me through the next few months, and then, whatever happens, we start afresh!" "but if i want to stay?" he shook his head with a finality from which she knew there was no appeal. what geoffrey sterne said he meant, to the last letter of the word, and there was no turning him from a decision. meriel felt the terror of one who, playing among flowers, sees a sudden vision of a serpent's head. a moment before their lives had seemed indefinitely linked, now, in a few months, must come separation, as complete as though they were at opposite ends of the world, for sterne now lived entirely in his country home, and shunned the society of his fellows. she searched his face for some sign of grief, even of regret, but the stern features were set in a mask-like composure. the terrible suspicion stabbed her that he might be _glad_; that he was wearied of the burden of gratitude! for the next few days meriel and sterne mutually avoided being left alone, which was the more easily accomplished, as flora was showing signs of renewed restlessness and irritability. the novelty of the voyage had worn off, the heat of the canal had tried her endurance, and dreaded symptoms called for renewed vigilance on the part of her attendants. now they were out on the indian ocean; but for once the change brought little relief and the nerves of the travellers were tried still further by a slight accident to the engines, which involved a slackening of speed. they were within three days' sail of colombo when the glass fell sharply after a period of intense heat--a danger signal, which to the understanding was rendered more alarming by the sound of hammerings from below, denoting fresh mischief in the machinery. a cyclonic storm was upon them, and the boat altered her course to avoid its centre--a perilous business in face of the long chain of reefs stretching southward from the laccadives. at nightfall there came up a grey swell accompanied by almost unbearable heat, the wind rapidly increased, and in an hour the gale burst upon them in all its fury. that night was a nightmare of horror, for although the boat was headed for the open sea, the crippled engines were unable to support the strain, and she was therefore driven back into the danger zone. the waters were lashed into a churning fury, the wind yelled with a deafening menace. flora cowered in bed in a panic of terror, but to meriel the tumult of the elements brought relief rather than dread. they voiced the tumult of her own mind; the shriek of the wind was as the shriek of her own tortured heart. the dawn was breaking when the crash came, a thunderous crash of rock and steel as the great vessel struck the reef, shook herself free, and struck again, her stern grinding deep into the rock. in that moment every soul on board looked death in the face, and it seemed, indeed, as though death were inevitable. the heroic efforts of the crew succeeded in launching the boats, but several of the number were swamped before the eyes of the beholders, and for the rest the chance of survival on such a sea seemed small indeed. even so, there was a fight for a place, for to remain on the ship meant a certainty of death, and the wildest chance is precious in such a plight, but among the men and women who fought and struggled was no member of geoffrey sterne's party. flora's panic of terror had been so violent that it had been necessary to drug her with a strong sleeping draught, and the faithful maid refused to leave her side. sterne had, indeed, made an attempt to persuade meriel to try for a place, but she had flamed into bitter anger, and he had not persisted. he saw her seated with the other waiting ones in the stern of the vessel, already tilted high above the bow, and turned in silence to make his way to his wife. that moment for meriel was the bitterest of all. the act of death itself had for her no terror; it was the parting from geoffrey sterne which wrung her heart. so inextricably had her life become woven with his that she had no wish to live in a world from which he was absent, and if she lived on, separation was bound to come. only one unutterable regret filled her soul--she was going out into eternity a maimed, stunted thing, from whom had been withheld the meaning of life, the deepest part of whose nature had been persistently starved. "if for even one minute i could have said, `_i am happy_!' i could have died content. but i have never known happiness, and now death is coming, and i am waiting for it alone." in that last word lay the sting. she was alone; the solitary unit among the crowd who had no one to comfort her, and to comfort in return; to whose hand no one clung as to the one sure support. she was alone! at that moment she saw him coming, edging his way along the sloping deck, with the sure foot, the calm, deliberate movements, which were so emblematic of his strength. cautiously, slowly, as he came, there was never a moment of wavering in his course. his mind had registered her position among the crowd of waiting figures; quietly, steadily, he was making his way to her side. meriel looked around. surrounded as she was, she was yet in a solitude as vast as space. to right and left the mummied figures crouched in hypnotised calm, oblivious of everything but themselves and their own peril. she was alone on the great deck,--alone, but for that other figure, climbing step by step to her side. the early light shone on him as he came, lighting up his figure with an unearthly distinctness. she saw the grey streaks in the dark hair, the furrows which sorrow had carved upon his brow, yet despite them all there was about the whole figure an air of youth, an alertness and confidence of bearing, which she had never before beheld. he bore himself like a freed man, from whose limbs the fetters have fallen. another moment and he was beside her, crouched on the deck with his face close to her own. the freed look was in his eyes. "she is still sleeping," he said; "she will not wake. it is better so. i can do no more for her. and so--at last!--i can come to you." "yes," assented meriel breathlessly. there was more to come, she read it in his face, in the thrilling tone of his voice. she waited, her being strung with an agony of longing. "there are only a few minutes left, and we have waited so long! we must not waste them now that they are here... come to me, meriel!" he held out his arms and she swayed into them; his lips were on hers; they clung together with the stored-up passion of years. for a minute the communion of touch brought a fullness of joy, then the craving arose to hear the wonder put into words. "you love me? it is true? oh, geoffrey--how long?" "since the moment we met. how could i help it? it was inevitable. we belong!" he held her face between his hands, bending so close that she could feel his breath on her cheek. "you have been my star and my sun; sunshine of noon; light in the darkness. you have been comfort and rest; deliverance from despair. you have been my love, and my queen, and my inspiration; the one beautiful strong thing that stood fast among the ruins. everything that a woman could be to a man you have been to me for four long years!" "thank god!" she sobbed. "oh, thank god! it is worth it all to hear you say that. but, oh, geoffrey, there were times--so many times! when i would have given my life a hundred times over to have lain like this, to have felt your arms. it was hard to struggle on, fighting one's heart, and now at last when we have come together, to be obliged to part! oh, geoffrey, to say good-bye so soon!" "no," he said deeply. "not that. we'll say no good-bye. we have stuck to our posts, but where we are going there can be no tie but the one which binds your heart to mine. we belong! nothing can part us. shut your eyes, beloved! rest against me. it's the night that is coming,--a short night, and a nightmare dream, and then, for you and me"--his voice swelled to a note of triumphant expectation--"_the morning_!" "oh, i'm so happy!" cried meriel, trembling. "oh, i'm so happy!" the deck shivered and reeled. from every side rose a shrilling of voices. the great ship reared herself on end, and plunged headlong into the deep. so the barrier fell! chapter eight. the man who wished for danger. val lessing's thirtieth birthday found him strong, handsome, prosperous, and--discontented. this is unfortunately a common combination, but val acknowledged to himself that if other men in like position had small cause to grumble, he himself had less, for while they ungraciously demanded of fate still more than they had received, his one annoyance was that he had enjoyed so much. he had never desired to find himself at thirty a director of a prosperous city firm; the thing had come about through a succession of unforeseen events. the death of his father had made it necessary that he should take up business immediately after leaving oxford; that was blow number one, for he had been promised a tour round the world before settling down to work, and in its place found himself obliged to look forward to yearly fortnights lengthening, as a reward of merit, to a possible three weeks. val hated the work, but he set himself to it with characteristic dash and energy. he possessed a bull-dog inability to let go of any scheme once undertaken, which marked him out sharply from the ordinary more or less mechanical employees, and endeared him to the principals of the firm. the "chief" singled him out for special service. his salary rose steadily year by year, and on the date on which this history begins, he had been formally presented with a proportion of shares, and advanced to the dignity of a director in the company. "and now," said the chief in congratulation, "your foot is safely planted on the ladder of fortune. you can count on at least fifteen hundred a year." walking towards his home that night val grudgingly considered those words. as a sane, sensible man, he must of course rejoice that his work had brought him so good a reward, yet there was something in the wording of that sentence which chafed an old sore. _safe_! that was the sting. a man of thirty years, and--_safe_! secured from anxiety, lapped round with comforts--nothing to do now but keep steadily along the beaten rut. eight-fifty tube in the morning; six o'clock tube at night; two-thirty tube on saturday afternoons, always the same black-coated, tall-hatted figure growing, with the passage of years, a thought heavier, a thought wider, but always sleek, always composed--always _safe_! val lessing reviewed the prospect, and once again, more wildly than ever, his vagrant heart cried out in protest. oh! it had been a different life to which he had looked forward in the days that were gone--the mad, glad, foolhardy days when all he had asked of fate was a passage through that highway of adventure, where a thrill lay behind every bush, and a danger at every turn. danger--danger--the very word brought exhilaration; the ring of it, the thrill of it, the wild, sweet savour which it bore! oh, to be out on the highway, away from the treadmill of city life; oh, to wake in the morning, to pull aside a flapping canvas, inhale the clean air blowing over great plains, and across frowning ridges of mountains, to step forth on the day's quest, sure of nothing, nothing in all the world, but of danger to overcome! val lessing's home was represented by a bachelor flat, presided over by a respectable middle-aged couple. the mother for whose sake he had resigned himself to a business career had died some years before, but he was still responsible for a young brother and sister, and obliged to make a home for them during holiday seasons. the noisy incursion was not always welcome, all the same the flat became a very dreary place when the lively pair had taken themselves schoolwards once more, and a solitary dinner was a thing to be avoided. lessing, as a bachelor, had grown into the habit of taking the evening meal in town, and had discovered a certain very bohemian restaurant where most excellent cooking was supplied to as odd a looking company as ever assembled within four walls. he found a never-ending interest in watching his fellow diners and pondering over the secrets of their existence. it was at least safe to conclude that they did not share his own ground for complaint! dinner over, lessing frequently succumbed to an impulse which drew him towards a large corner house in a square adjoining his flat, wherein a particularly happy family party lived, and loved, and laughed, and extended the most cordial of welcomes to uninvited guests. mr gordon was a business man, who, having accumulated a modest "pile," had promptly retired from the city, and now devoted himself to the performance of good works for the benefit of others, and the collection of old china for the satisfaction of himself. mrs gordon was a matron of the plump and complacent order, an excellent manager, who did not know the meaning of fuss, and whose servants invariably stayed with her for years, and then departed, laden with spoils, to espouse a local baker or grocer, and live happily ever afterwards. delia, the daughter, was a minx. she was slim and tall, and had crinkly dark eyebrows, and an oval face, and misty grey eyes with a dreamy, faraway expression, and fringed with a double row of preposterously long eyelashes. she looked particularly dreamy and inaccessible when young men came in to call, and they mentally abased themselves before her, gazing with dazzled eyes at the pinnacle on which she stood, in maiden meditation,--exquisitely, wondrously, crystally unconscious of their own rough existence. and all the time there was not a line of their features, not a kink in their neckties, that that minx delia did not see with the minuteness of a microscope! terence, the son, was walking the hospitals, kept a collection of bones in his coat pocket, and looked upon life as a huge jest organised for his special benefit; loyally returning the compliment by playing jests himself on every available opportunity. in holiday time, he was most useful as a companion to the two scholars with whom he was a prime favourite, but in term time lessing regarded him with mitigated favour. as a conversationalist he preferred the father; as a confidante, the mother; where delia was concerned he preferred a _tete-a-tete_. terence was a very good sort, but he was apt to be decidedly _de trop_. on the evening of the day on which he had been made a director of his company, lessing took his way to the corner house, and found the amiable quartette disporting themselves after their separate ways in the comfortable sitting-room which was their favourite evening resort. mr gordon was reading the latest treatise on oriental china. mrs gordon was knitting mufflers for deep-sea fishermen, and lending an appreciative ear to delia, who, seated at the grand piano, was singing ballads in a very small but penetratingly sweet voice. it was part of delia's minxiness that she elected to sing songs intended for masculine lovers, wherein were set forth panegyrics which might most aptly be applied to herself. on this occasion she was declaiming that "my love is like a red, red rose that's newly blown in june. oh, my love's like a mel-o-dy that's sweetly played in tune"; and so sweet was the air, so sweet the rose-like bloom of her own youth, that her father's eyes strayed continuously from his pages, and rested on her with an admiration reverent in its intensity. "she is too beautiful, too pure for this world"; his eyes seemed to say. "can it be possible that she is really my own daughter?" the mother's eyes strayed also, but there was no reverence in her gaze. she had been a minx herself. terence was reading the latest popular thriller, and from time to time diversifying the entertainment by kicking one of his patent leather pumps into the air, and adroitly fitting his toes into it on its return journey, an accomplishment on which he had wasted golden hours. they all looked up and smiled a welcome as val lessing entered and went round the room greeting each member of the family in turn. "good evening, mrs gordon. good evening, sir. delia, please! don't let me interrupt." delia smiled absently, and crossed the room to a deep chair which was supplied with an admirable foil for white shoulders in the shape of a black satin cushion. she had the air of being only partially aware of lessing's presence, but in reality she was acutely conscious of everything concerning him, even to a certain air of impatience which was due to the importance of the news which he had to communicate. delia was in love with val lessing, and was uncomfortably aware of the fact. val was in love with delia, but remained as yet in comfortable ignorance. delia had always planned that it should be the other way about. she had pictured herself being wooed with assiduous devotion by a lover who refused to be daunted by a dozen noes. it was ignominious to realise that she was now waiting impatiently for the chance to cry, "yes, please!" val seated himself, nodding carelessly at terence, who greeted him by a brilliant example of slipper catching, and cried genially: "well, old tomkins, what's the matter with you? you look as if something was sitting pretty heavy on your chest!" "it is!" said val, and delia's heart went a little excursion on its own accord. _was_ he going to say that he was _engaged_? "good news, i hope, eh, lessing?" cried mr gordon, and for the fraction of a second val hesitated. "er--yes. i suppose--that is, of course, it is very good indeed. i've been made a director." everybody exclaimed, everybody enthused, everybody congratulated, with the exception of delia, who asked lazily: "what is a director?" and yawned when she was told. mr gordon showed the sympathy of understanding, but after putting many questions, and listening to halfhearted replies, he frowned, and delivered himself of an honest criticism. "you're not half as pleased as you ought to be, lessing! a man of your age ought to be thankful to be in such a position. a start of fifteen hundred a year--in such a firm too. good, safe, solid people. no fear of them going in for speculation and landing you in the bankruptcy court. humanly speaking you're safe from anxiety for the rest of your life." "er--yes. that's just it." lessing said vaguely, but his friends understood. it was not the first time that he had rebelled in their hearing; not the first time by many that he had sighed for the vagrant's lot. "he doesn't want to be safe, bless you! that's just what gets him on the raw!" terence said grinning. "he wants to be a fire-and-thunder swashbuckler, out on the pathless wilds." "what is a swashbuckler?" asked delia, and val laughed, and said: "the very opposite to a director in a black coat and tall hat, delia. think it out for yourself! i only wish i had the chance." delia looked thoughtful. she was apportioning fifteen hundred pounds on the upkeep of her future home. she decided on a small flat and a runabout car, and rather thought that the drawing-room should be pink. mrs gordon said seriously: "dear val, you must get the better of these foolish ideas! they are spoiling your life. you have so much that other men want, that it seems really wicked to be discontented because you have not--trouble! oh, my dear boy, it will come soon enough! you ought to be thankful!" "but it's not trouble, mrs gordon! i want trouble no more than any other man. it's danger that fascinates me--adventure--the thrill of the unknown. it was born in me, i suppose. my ancestors were a race of explorers. if i had been able to have a fling in my youth, i might have been able to settle down, but i went straight from oxford to the city, and a longing that is bottled up doesn't diminish, it goes on growing all the time. when mr baron told me the news to-day, i felt--you'll be horrified at my ingratitude!--as if a halter had been slipped round my neck." mr gordon shook his head. "it's a thousand pities that you could not take that trip! if you'd been my son i'd have packed you off with five pounds in your pocket, to work your own way round the world. you'd have had enough excitement to last you for the rest of your life--and danger into the bargain. you'd be thankful _then_ to settle down to your present life." "oh, i'm thankful enough now. it's quite a good life as things go, but just a bit boring." terence kicked his slipper once more. "well--what price the hospital ball next week? _that_ won't be boring, i give you my word. we're having a party to dinner here, and going on together. if you like to chip in--" "terence! don't be cruel. we really must not add to his boredom!" cried delia, smiling, but there was an edge in her smile. terence grimaced expressively at lessing, a grimace which said, "now you've done it! she's got her knife into you for that remark!" kindly mrs gordon sensed the strain in the atmosphere, and said quickly: "do sing something more to us, delia darling. you had only begun. a few more of those dear old ballads!" delia was like her mother, she never made a fuss, so she rose with a slow, graceful gesture, seated herself in her old place, and sang one strain after another with the utmost good humour. the last of all was that delightful ballad entitled "phillida flouts me," and this she delivered with much energy and verve, throwing aside her languid airs to adopt the very attitude of the damsel of the song. lessing loved to hear delia sing, and to-night he laughed with the rest, at the pretty by-play of tossing head and curling lips, but he was not altogether happy in his mind. he remembered the chill of the girl's voice a few minutes before, as she said: "we mustn't bore him still more!" and he felt uncomfortable as if it were he himself who was being flouted. as he walked down the quiet streets on his way home, the words repeated themselves in his brain: "oh, what a plague is love! i cannot bear it. alack and well a-day. phillida flouts me!" it was the night after the hospital ball, and lessing was dining at his favourite restaurant, hoping thereby to counteract a fit of unusual depression. he had not enjoyed that ball; it was borne in upon him that delia had not intended him to enjoy it. she had deliberately filled her programme before the night, and vouchsafed him only one extra, and during the dancing thereof had stopped three times over to inquire if he were _quite_ sure he was not bored! delia was angry with him. delia most pronouncedly was disposed to "flout." there was an ache at lessing's heart which seemed ludicrously out of proportion with the cause. for the first half of his meal he sat alone at his table, then the seat opposite him was taken by one of the swarthy bearded foreigners with which the place abounded. he was a man of early middle age, with a mop of black hair slightly tinged with grey, overhanging eyebrows, and a general air of poverty and bohemianism. he ate hungrily, as though such good food did not often come his way, and as he ate his eyes roamed stealthily round the room. lessing decided that he was in search of a confederate--the man's appearance suggested the word--and that he was puzzled and alarmed by the absence of what he sought. he decided to dally with his own meal so as to see this thing out. many a time he had longed for an opportunity of adventure. now it might be at hand. if the two men met, he would leave the restaurant in their wake and track them through the narrow streets! he recalled written scenes concerning open doorways, fights on staircases, and the like, and thrilled with anticipation. throughout his meal the bearded one continued his scrutiny, and lessing noticed that his glance lingered tentatively on one or two men present as though uncertain of their identity. it was not entirely by appearance, then, that he could distinguish his confederate! there was evidently a sign which would expose one to the other, and then suddenly, with his eyes fixed on a diner at an adjacent table, the bearded one raised his knife, and with a clean, incisive movement swept the salt from his plate on to the table. the other diner ate on undisturbed, but an electric shock of excitement tingled through lessing's veins. more than once before he had observed this deliberate spilling of the salt on the round-topped tables of that restaurant, so often, indeed, that he had made sure in his own mind that it was in the nature of a signal from one member of a fraternity to another. the spilling of the salt--symbol from all ages of disaster, a meet signal indeed for these dark and dangerous men! with an impulse which crystallised the longings of years, lessing attracted his companion's attention by a hasty movement, and then, lifting high his knife, swept his own salt on to the cloth so that the white dust scattered and mingled with the dust already spread. the effect was instantaneous. the swarthy face bent forward to meet his own, the eyes gleamed, the guttural voice breathed a deep, low word: "_brother_!" "_brother_!" whispered lessing in return. his pulses were racing, but he held himself resolutely in hand. a false move might spoil all. he must be silent, and let the other man do the talking. he sat in an attitude of attention while the bearded one crouched over the table, speaking in baited tones. his accent was rather jewish than foreign, a thick, ugly voice, thickened as though by some physical obstruction. "i have been waiting. the time is short. i must be hurrying on. there are many places where i must carry the news!" his voice sank to an almost unhearable depth. "_it is for to-night_!" "to-night!" gasped lessing in return. his real dismay at the nearness of the unknown happening supplied a genuine note to his exclamation, and it appeared that surprise was expected. "to-night! to-night! the chief has given the order. it is his way to make all ready, and at the last to give but a few hours' notice. it is safer so. he has a wise head. all is arranged, and to-morrow, by this time to-morrow--" his lips rolled back, the large prominent teeth gleamed in a smile of diabolic delight. "london, the city of the oppressors--what will be left of the great london then? nothing but a wilderness of fire and ruin!" lessing's blood ran cold. an adventurer at heart, he yet had the true englishman's love of the metropolis. at the thought of danger to london he winced as at a personal wound; in his heart dawned the surprising conviction that he would risk his own life, not once, but a dozen times over, to avert the destruction of that grey old pile. the destruction of london--mad words! mad fancy! was this man a maniac that he spoke of such an impossible feat? agitated, almost gasping for breath, lessing heard himself stammer detached words of inquiry: "when? where? where--how do they start--?" the answer came back in a low hissing whisper: "the oil tanks on the thames! ah-ha, it is a great scheme, a fine scheme. the fuel is lying there, ready to our hands. three brothers have volunteered for the bomb throwing. they will die for a great cause. their names will be remembered as martyrs among us. the burning oil will flare out to the thames. think of it! think of it! a river of flaming oil, joined by other rivers; all the tanks exploded, one by one; the stream of fire flowing along, leaving behind burning shipping, burning banks, spreading ruin to right and left. think of it, brother, think of it! think of the dark stairways and passages, where a man may creep, a man with a torch helping the work, sending the sparks to a fresh home. who can guard miles of river bank? who can distinguish one worker from another? ah, it will be a brave night, a brave night. we have waited, brother, we have appeared to submit, but now--now--" his voice grew hoarse with excitement. lessing pressed his knee gently beneath the table. "careful. be careful. we are observed. give me my orders!" the bearded one drew himself up, and made a pretence of continuing his meal. his voice sank to its old, guttural tones. "to stay here, and pass round the word. all the brothers to be on duty, except those watched by the police. red fist and wharbuton to leave by the nine o'clock train from charing cross, and cross to paris. their departure is to be as public as possible. it would be well if they were given a send-off. if they are out of the way the watch will be relaxed. at all costs they must be found. i go on to other places, you stay here, meet other brothers, give them all this message. red fist and wharbuton to be found and sent off. all others on duty to-night. not a moment to waste." "right," said lessing quickly, and the bearded one rose from his seat. then followed a moment of tension, for suddenly, as if in default of a parting signal, the beetling brows frowned upon him, and a glance of indecision swept across the face. lessing sensed the danger, and leaped to avert it. touching the salt with his fingers, he said meaningly: "we are watched, brother. we are watched!" and bent his head over his plate. there was a breathless silence, then the thick voice bade him good night, and he knew that the danger was past. the next moment the swing doors of the restaurant opened and shut. the bearded one had disappeared. for an endless five minutes lessing forced himself to sit still, then he paid his account, put on his hat, and opening the door, stood on the outer step of the restaurant looking anxiously to right and to left. he had purposely left behind his coat, since in the event of finding the bearded one still hanging about, he could then be able to assert that he was impatiently waiting for the arrival of more brothers. the night was chill and there were but few pedestrians in the narrow street. running his eye to right and left he could count a dozen in all, no one of whom bore any resemblance in figure or clothing to his late companion. a better moment for escape could not be desired, and as if sent by providence a taxi suddenly came into sight, and the chauffeur held up an inquiring hand. in another second lessing was seated inside, and had given an address in mayfair. he did not risk returning for his coat, a telephone message to the manager would possibly secure it from theft, if not the coat must go. this was not a moment for considering coats. lessing sat motionless on his seat until the taxi had covered a couple of miles westwards, when he touched the communicating cord and startled the chauffeur by an imperative order: "scotland yard. and as quick as you can go!" throughout the years that followed lessing remembered his interview with the scotland yard officials with a smarting indignation. to his excited senses the calmness, the stolidity, the insistent incredulity which greeted his story, were exasperating to the last degree. he discovered to his dismay that the first impression left on his hearers was that he himself was drunk, but the realisation forced him to a composure which won an eventual grudging attention. the officials reiterated that the scheme propounded was impracticable, but a minute description of the bearded one, together with the signal of the spilling of salt, made an undoubted effect. it was known to the police that such a signal did indeed exist among certain societies, and its usage on the present occasion was of evident weight. lessing was assured that immediate steps should be taken to ensure the safety of the oil tanks. he had the satisfaction of hearing telephonic messages dispatched to various police centres, giving instructions for largely increased guard. there was nothing more to be done. he had given the alarm; had held to his point until he had succeeded in securing immediate help. sleep was impossible for him that night, but he would return to his rooms, pass the time with a book and a pipe, until the fateful hour had passed. he passed out into the street, and looked round for the taxi which he had instructed to wait. to his annoyance it was not to be seen, but after a momentary hesitation it occurred to him that there might be some rule forbidding vehicles to remain before the entrance, as in the crowded thoroughfares of the west, and that he might find the man waiting round one of the nearest turnings. he strode on therefore, but without success, till finally he decided to take the nearest cut which should lead him to a tube station. the cut was represented by a narrow lane, lined on either side with small shops. lessing walked sharply, looking neither to right nor left. the interview had left him nervously exhausted, and he shivered in the chill night air; he was irritated with the recalcitrant chauffeur, irritated with himself for failing to do the one sensible thing under the circumstances--turn back into the office, and telephone for another car. to walk through the streets in the vicinity of scotland yard, a noticeable figure without outer coat or wrapping, was the last thing in the world which he should have done on such an occasion. but it was too late to turn back. a few more minutes would take him to the tube station, or better still to a thoroughfare where he could pick up another car. by this time lessing had reached the end of the cross-road, at which was situated an eating-house of a rough and unsavoury appearance. as he approached the door it opened, and a group of men streamed into the street, talking together in some eager unintelligible patois, at the sound of which a shiver of impending danger shot through lessing's veins. instinctively he averted his head, and quickened his pace, but instinct was a true prophet, it projected the coming event upon his brain, so that he knew what was before him, before the dark, bearded face glared into his, and the thick voice hissed the eloquent word into his ear: "_traitor_!" lessing did not stop to think. he was one to six, and escape was the necessity of the moment. he took to his heels, ran at full speed until the narrow lane was left behind, and the lights of trafalgar square shone around him, when following his first impulse he leaped into a taxi, and told the man to drive to oxford circus. he had behaved like a fool, and like a fool he had been trapped, but the game was not yet up. his identity was unknown, and by avoiding the neighbourhood of the restaurant he could with ease cut himself off from all likelihood of encountering the brethren. lessing's blood tingled in his veins, his whole being was flooded with exhilaration. here was life, here was excitement, here, at long last, within the confines of the grey city itself, was the thrill of pursuit! for they would be after him, following him no doubt in one of the numerous cars blocking the roads, with intent to track him to his lair, but lessing laughed at the thought with glad youthful confidence. he was not to be caught twice over. he would give them a run--such a run as they had not known for many a long day, but he would slip them in the end! it was two hours later when lessing let himself into his rooms, but he entered with the smiling face of the man who wins; and in good truth he had reason to be proud. he had dodged, he had evaded, he had doubled back on his own tracks with an almost incredible celerity. he had left crowded tube carriages, lost himself in the crowd on the platform, and jumped back into the same carriage, the last passenger to enter before the door was closed. he had changed from taxi to train, from train to taxi, and once, finding himself in a stationary block, had deposited half a crown on the seat of his own car, stepped deftly on to an adjacent "island," and opening the door of an empty growler, hunched himself up on the floor, and remained concealed until it suited his convenience to descend. oh! he had been swift, he had been cunning; always he had acted on the assumption that the pursuer was at hand; never for one moment had he relaxed guard, or allowed himself to slow down. now he was tired, dog tired, but with a glorious fatigue. not for the world would he have foregone one incident of that most thrilling dash! lessing slept, and woke to a fine spring morning. he rang for his newspaper, and turned rapidly over the pages. nothing had happened. the warning had been delivered in time; the grey old city was undisturbed. but that night when lessing returned to his chambers he found a letter awaiting him, addressed in an unknown handwriting. he tore it open, and read the few words which it contained: "traitor,--the doom which you have delayed, will now fall on your own head. do not think to escape. the world itself would not be wide enough to hide you. at the moment when you least expect it, your call will come--" lessing stood, staring at the written words, and the little room seemed suddenly cold as a cave. he had wished, and his wish had been granted to him. henceforth, till he died, danger must be his bride! a man may be brave to the superlative of bravery, yet almost inevitably he will weaken at the consciousness of hidden danger, pursuing him stealthily day after day, week after week, playing with him with ruthless deliberation, as a cat plays with a mouse, setting him free, only to realise that his torture has been in vain, and the day of reckoning is still to come. for the first few days after his receipt of the fateful letter, lessing went about his work with a grim, but not altogether unpleasant, excitement. he realised once for all that it was hopeless to try to hide himself from the brethren, but he determined to sell his life dearly. he carried a policeman's whistle, and a walking-stick with a large and roughly-cut head, which on occasion could be a formidable weapon. the question of a revolver had been dismissed after the shortest hesitation, seeing that lessing's inexperience with firearms made such a possession rather an extra danger than a protection. he put his affairs in order, and, like every other man under sentence of death, woke to a smarting consciousness of the sweetness of life. life and-- delia! delia of the rose bloom and the misty eyes. delia, who on occasion could be so maddeningly, tantalisingly alive! lessing did not realise his own changed looks, and it seemed to him the cruellest contrariety of fate that delia should show herself at her sweetest and most womanly at this moment when he knew himself separated from her by the most impenetrable of barriers. a fortnight of incessant, imminent anxiety passed slowly by; then came a night when, taking his way to the corner house after dinner, lessing experienced his first tangible alarm. the square was empty of pedestrians; he was walking on the farther side, close to the tall shuttered houses, when through the shrubs behind the railing of the centre enclosure, the lamplight showed a glimpse of a white face peering towards him. the next second it had disappeared, but even as he walked he had a conviction that a crouching figure kept pace behind that leafy screen. he hurried his steps, the figure kept pace; he could hear the rustle of the boughs as it passed, leaping across the intervening spaces with swift, ape-like bounds. presently, when it reached that thick clump of trees, it would leap ahead, crouch, and take aim. lessing acted on the impulse of the moment. a doctor's plate shone bright on a doorway--he pealed the electric bell, and a moment later stood safe within the entrance hall. the doctor found his patient wanting in nervous force, prescribed a tonic, and rose to intimate that the interview was over; then, as the patient failed to take the hint, explained that he himself was obliged to go out at once. his opinion of the gravity of the case was increased when the patient first expressed a wish to accompany him on his walk, and then bade him good night at the first corner! and that night delia was kinder than ever and the savour of life more alluringly sweet! during the days that followed lessing developed a horror of solitude. the old evenings with a pipe and a book became abhorrent, and on the nights when he did not go to the corner house, he either dined in town or invited a friend to share his home repast. it was therefore with real relief that one saturday morning he received a telegraphic invitation from a leisured friend who diversified a roving existence by flying visits to his country home. the telegram showed the expansiveness of the man of means, and ran as follows: "returning to moat this afternoon. try to join me for a week-end. car will meet four-thirty on chance.-- "blakeney." it was impossible to reply, since blakeney had dispatched his wire from crewe, and was presumably already travelling southwards. the form of the message showed that no answer was expected, but lessing had not the shadow of a doubt as to his own acceptance. he was thankful for the chance of leaving london behind, and spending the next two days in blakeney's cheerful society. he sent a boy home to get his bag, and carry it to the station, and when the hour for departure approached, followed by a long and devious route, coming on the platform just in time to jump into a moving carriage. by this time he retained little hope of avoiding the espionage of the brethren, but as his life grew more precious so did his precautions increase, and his determination to fight to the last. the smoking carriage contained the usual contingent of comfortable middle-aged citizens, and the hour's journey passed without incident. it was a stopping train, and the passengers descended in great numbers at the nearer suburbs, and in scattered units once the hour's limit had passed. lessing counted six men besides himself who descended at evershaw, one old, three middle-aged, a young man in seedy brown overcoat, and a workman carrying a bag of tools. they looked one and all reassuringly english and commonplace, and lessing heaved a sigh of relief. for once he had really escaped the scent! he hurried through the booking office, to find himself confronted by the collection of somewhat broken-down looking gigs and pony carts to be seen at most country stations. there was no sign of lessing's luxurious car, only a powerful-looking mud-bespattered taxi, beside which stood a man in leather gaiters and a driving-coat. he touched his cap as lessing approached, saying in an interrogative tone: "beg pardon, sir--mr lessing?" "yes." "i have instructions to meet you, sir. from the moat." "right," said lessing, and handed over his bag. he realised at once that blakeney had probably wired for his own car to meet him some distance down the line; and he seated himself in the capacious tonneau of the taxi with an agreeable rising of spirits. the little station was gay with spring flowers, and the scent of wallflowers floated refreshingly on the cool clean breeze. lessing stretched his tired limbs, and drew a deep, grateful breath. he was just in the mood for a spin through country lanes, and for once was tempted to wish that the moat was situated at a greater distance from the station. then in a moment his mood changed, and a cloud of anxiety descended. already the car had made its first movement forward, when the man with the brown coat sprang to the front, and leaped to the seat beside the chauffeur. scrambling, clutching, he righted himself, steadied his hat on his head, and pressed a tentative touch on a side pocket, and all the time the driver vouchsafed not one glance, but devoted himself to his wheel, as quietly as if it were an everyday occurrence to be boarded at the last moment by an uninvited "fare." there was something in that stolidity which chilled the blood in lessing's veins, for it seemed to infer that the incident was _expected_; that the man in the brown coat had travelled down from town for no other purpose than to occupy that special seat. for the next few minutes lessing alternated between fear and composure. in the latter condition he told himself that it was a usual occurrence for a country driver to give a "lift" to a friend, and that such an action was tacitly sanctioned by his patrons. probably the man in the brown coat was so accustomed to avail himself of his friend's hospitality, that to both the action had become automatic. the more lessing dwelt on this explanation, the more satisfactory did it appear; it supported him to the end of the straggling village, and only lost its power when the car failed to turn up the lane leading to the moat. he leaned forward, tapped at the dividing glass, and called through the tube, but neither man moved the fraction of an inch. he called again, more loudly than before, and as if answering a signal, the car leaped forward, leaped again, and with ever-mounting speed dashed down the empty lane. then the truth could no longer be disguised. these men were in league against him; they had laid a trap, and he had walked into it with credulous ease. the telegram had been a fraud, sent with no other purpose than to lure him from town, into the solitude of these lonely lanes. the brethren's knowledge of blakeney and his ways seemed at first an incredible feat, but a moment's consideration went far to remove the mystery. blakeney had passed through town only a week before, and had dined with lessing at his club. nothing more easy than to discover his name from the porter, and to follow up the scent. at that moment lessing would have given much for the feel of a revolver in his coat pocket. given such a weapon he might have "held up" the two men on the front seat, and forced them to obey his orders; as it was, he was powerless as a child. for another ten minutes the car pursued its headlong rush; the two men sitting silent, immovable, looking neither to right nor left; the man inside crouched forward in an attitude of defence. and once again lessing was conscious of that tingling in his veins which was rather exhilaration than dread. pace to face with danger he had no lack of courage, rather did every faculty of his being rouse itself to an added fullness of life. the tangible had no terror, it was the passive waiting which played havoc with his nerves. the car was still racing forward, plunging deeper and deeper into the heart of the country. lessing studied the road on either side, searching for landmarks which might be registered for future use. he had by now concluded that he was being conveyed to some stronghold of the brethren where he would meet the fate allotted to him for his betrayal, and he reflected that it would be days if not weeks before his disappearance would attract serious attention. by way of precaution he had burnt blakeney's telegram as soon as read; while the boy who carried his bag to the station had departed immediately after his own arrival and could give no clue as to his destination. to-night might see the close of his own life, but his friends would pursue the even tenor of their way without a fear for his welfare. even delia... with the thought of delia came a knife-like pang; a determination to strain every nerve and faculty to outwit his enemies. another five minutes, and he became aware that the car was slacking speed, that the men on the front seat were looking ahead, as though on the watch for an expected signal. presumably it came, for with skilful turns of the wheel the chauffeur steered the car down a narrow lane, and, with a second lurching curve, into a gateway which stood half-way down its length. so far the manipulation of the car had borne testimony to the skill of the chauffeur, but two sharp turnings so quickly succeeding each other were a severe test, and terminated in a momentary skid over a grassy bank, during which the car tilted violently to the side. the swing was severe enough to throw lessing sideways on the seat, and before he had time to right himself, the two men had leaped off the box, the one to the right and the other to the left, and had appeared simultaneously at either door. there was nothing precisely threatening in their demeanour, but they had the air of men who knew their duty, and were prepared to do it. the chauffeur had an appearance of bull-dog strength, but little sign of intelligence. the man in the brown coat had a narrow, hatchet-like face, with keen, alert eyes. the hand which lay on the door of the car was white and well shaped. one glance at him showed that he was the real master of the situation. lessing looked from one to the other with an air of haughty displeasure. "may i inquire the explanation of this extraordinary behaviour! i gave instructions to be driven to the moat." "our instructions were to bring you here. you are expected. i must ask you to get out, and come up to the house." it was the man in the brown coat who spoke. he came a step nearer as he spoke, blocking the doorway; the chauffeur held open the farther door, his great bulk outlined against the green of the trees. it seemed to lessing that for the moment his best policy was to obey, since, if it came to a fight, he preferred the open to his present cramped position. he alighted then without demur, and, stood on the path stretching himself, and looking around with an air of assurement which he was far from feeling. he saw a garden which even in its spring freshness looked desolate and neglected, and, some forty yards from the gate, a low house of grey stone, thickly covered with creepers, the branches of which had been allowed to drape the windows so heavily that in many cases the glass was almost entirely concealed. lessing looked at it and felt a creeping of the blood. there was only one word which could fitly describe the appearance of that house, and it was a word of which he did not care to think. it was a dead house. lessing had been under the impression that while he had been studying his surroundings he had been standing still, but it now appeared that unconsciously to himself, and impelled by the movements of the men on either side, he had been slowly approaching nearer and nearer the open door of the windowless house. instantly he halted and put a sharp inquiry: "what is this house? who is it that is `expecting' me, as you say?" "you will recognise him when you meet," said the man in brown, and pursing his lips gave a soft, prolonged whistle, repeated three times over, with a perceptible pause between each. he looked towards the house meantime, and in imagination lessing filled the blank space of the doorway with a dreaded figure, the figure of a man with black hair turning to grey, a shaggy beard, and large prominent teeth. he had need of all his courage at that moment, but he made no resistance as the men by his side steadily guided him forward; for just as a short time before he had preferred to fight in the open, now he was possessed with a desire to find himself in a room where he might take his stand against the wall, and so force his enemies to a frontal attack. the three men entered a narrow, absolutely bare hallway, from which an uncarpeted staircase rose sharply to the left. from the first glance around, and even more from the dank and mouldy atmosphere, lessing divined that the house had long been unoccupied, and that a deed of violence committed therein might remain undiscovered for an indefinite period. the conclusion did not help to raise his spirits as he entered a long narrow room facing the back of the house, his companions meantime pressing hard on his wake. the room was as empty as the hall; the man in the brown coat walked quickly to the nearer of the two windows, gave a searching glance around, then turned to the chauffeur with a significant shake of the head. there followed a moment's pause, as though both men were puzzled by the absence of someone confidently expected. then the man with the brown coat turned once more to lessing. "i must ask you to wait for us here for a few minutes," he said courteously. "we will not keep you longer than is necessary. i am sorry that i cannot offer you a chair. this house is, as you see, unfurnished." lessing did not condescend to reply. he hailed the departure of the two men as giving him an opportunity to examine his surroundings and find a possible way of escape. the room was on the ground floor, the windows were unbarred, surely then it would be easy. the next moment the blood rushed to his face, as his ears caught the turn of a rusty key, followed by the drawing of a bolt, and hurrying across the floor he found that the door leading into the passage had been doubly secured. the two men were determined to keep him a prisoner while they waited for the appearance of one who was evidently their chief; he could hear their footsteps ascending the stairs, tramping over the bare floors above; once and again the sound of the long thrice-repeated whistle came to his ears, but to his relief there came no answer to the signal. lessing stood with his ears to the chink of the door listening intently. presently he heard the two men descend to the hall, linger for a minute as if undecided, then pass out of the front door. another minute and a new sound broke the stillness; he listened acutely, and had little difficulty in divining its meaning; the men were endeavouring to move the car out of the rut, so that at any moment it might be ready to bear them away. instantly lessing darted to the nearer of the two windows, and looking out experienced an unwelcome surprise. the house was evidently built on shelving ground, for though the room in which he stood was level with the entrance, it was yet raised by a good twenty feet from the ground at the back. now twenty feet is not a great depth, but it is too far for a man to drop without risk of at least spraining an ankle, and thereby leaving himself helpless in the hands of his enemies, especially when, as was the case in this instance, the ground is paved with rough, uneven flags. lessing drew back in disgust, and darted to the window on the farther end of the room. here, if anything, the drop was greater, but the position was improved, inasmuch as a tangle of grass took the place of the jagged flags. the window was of the old-fashioned casement description, and to prise open the rusty latch was no light task even for strong fingers, but it was done at last, and lessing hung forward, listening breathlessly to the sounds from the front of the house. the car was evidently still refusing to budge; he could hear the voice of the chauffeur instructing the man in the brown coat as to his share in the work, and the thud of the engine as once and again it strained to the task. now was his time, while the two men were engaged; while as yet the third man had not appeared! lessing hung out of the window, his eyes sweeping the wall to right and left. he had a strong head, and given so much as a drain pipe would have no hesitation in essaying the descent, but the mass of ivy hid everything from view. lessing hoisted himself on the window-sill, and creeping first to one side and then the other, groped among the leaves. he found no pipe, but a moment's searching discovered what was quite as useful for his purpose, a central branch of the ivy itself, thick as a man's fist, strong enough to support a dozen climbers. lessing gave himself no time to think, but lowered himself from the sill, grasped the branch in both hands, and began his descent. it was not as easy as he had expected, for the branch scalloped along the walls, in a somewhat disconcerting manner, but given a steady head, and a body in reasonable training, there were no serious difficulties to encounter, and a point was soon reached when he could relax his hold, and drop softly to the ground. so far all had gone with almost incredible ease, but lessing was aware that he was not yet out of the wood. at any moment his escape might be discovered, and his pursuers would have a double advantage in their possession of the car and their knowledge of the country itself. it was the work of a few minutes to dart down the overgrown path, scale the wall at the end of the garden, and drop upon the grass below, but the next step was more difficult to decide. looking around him he perceived a white roadway curling like a ribbon round a sweep of meadow land, and realised how easily his escape might be cut off. it flashed into his mind that his best chance was to lie low until his pursuers had started on their chase, and even as the thought passed through his brain, his eye fell on a straggling growth of barberry against the outer side of the wall he had just scaled. the bushes were small and by no means thick, so that at first sight they offered no promise of shelter, but on further examination lessing discovered that the ground between them and the wall was hollowed to the depth of a foot or more, and covered with a mass of tall grasses. here, then, was an ideal hiding-place, where he could lie low and know all that was happening around. without a moment's hesitation lessing laid himself down in the hollow, pressing back the grasses that he might creep close to the shelter of the wall, then allowing them to spring back to their original position. his tweed suit was of a nondescript tint, the shade least likely to catch the eye, but for greater safety he picked handfuls of leaves and grass, and scattered them over his clothes, then lying flat with face hidden on his folded arms, he awaited the discovery of his escape. he had time to grow cramped and chill before the sound of loud raised voices and the heavy tramp of feet over wooden floors warned him that the search had begun. almost immediately afterwards someone came racing down the garden path, circled round once and again, and finally clambered to the top of the wall, to obtain a view over the outlying country. lessing knew by the distinctness of the sound that the ascent had been made at but a short distance from where he lay, and the knowledge sent a chill through his blood. it had not occurred to him that his hiding-place could be viewed from above, and he waited in the keenest suspense, prepared to take to his feet and make a dash for it, at the first hint of discovery. but the man on the wall made no such sign. he breathed in short, gasping breaths, as a man would breathe under stress of agitation, and between his breaths once and again he sent out the old whistling summons, then scrambling, clutching, he fell back into the garden, and again raced to and fro among the curving paths. for the next ten minutes the sounds of the search continued to reach lessing's ears, then came the welcome thudding of the engine, as the car swept out of the gate, showing that the men had abandoned the search of the premises. another ten minutes, and the thudding sounded again, but from another direction, and peering cautiously between the branches, lessing could watch the car approach down the long curve of the road encircling the meadows. it was running slowly now, its occupants no doubt engaged in searching the flat stretch of land, making sure of one direction after another in which their prisoner could not have escaped. presently it turned and slowly traversed the same space, before it finally returned to the high road and disappeared from sight. the dusk had fallen before lessing crept out of his hiding-place, and dragged his stiffened limbs across the meadows. he had determined to avoid the highways, and so wandered on without any idea of the direction in which he was going, but after half an hour's walking, to his joy and relief he struck a railway line, and following it soon arrived at a country station. at ten o'clock that night lessing let himself into his rooms, dusty, dirty, incredibly fatigued, the poorer by the loss of a bag containing two quite admirable suits of clothes, but full of thankfulness and relief. for once at least he had beaten the brethren on their own ground! "it's no good pretending. it's no good trying to deceive me. you _are_ changed!" delia declared, nodding her pretty head with solemn emphasis. "you are changing more and more every single day. and it doesn't suit you. hollows in the cheeks! what business has a man of thirty with hollows in his cheeks? and a different expression in your eyes. worried, absent, scared. valentine lessing,--what have you been and gone and done?" lessing was seated once more in the delightfully homely room at the corner house, enjoying the rare treat of a _tete-a-tete_ with delia. the men of the family were out, and two minutes before the maid had announced "mrs wright from the district," and "could the mistress possibly see her?" whereupon mrs gordon had sighed, and said: "he is out of work again, and she _is_ such a talker! delia, dear, will you go? give her half-a-crown, and say i'm tired." but delia, as a rule the most helpful of daughters, resolutely refused. "no, mother; it's your duty. the vicar says you give far too much. it's pandering, and makes it hard for the other visitors. besides, i'd _never_ get rid of her! be a good, brave lady, and do your duty." so mrs gordon had departed, when delia immediately turned to lessing, and announced triumphantly: "she won't be back for a good half-hour! i've been longing for a chance of talking to you alone," and proceeded to cross-question as before stated. "yes, you _are_ scared." delia repeated. "when anyone enters the room suddenly you jump and look round as if you expected to see a policeman and a pair of handcuffs. it makes me quite nervous even to watch you. and," her voice sank to a deeper note, "you look ill, val! _what is it_?" lessing bent forward in his chair, his hands clasped loosely together between his knees; there was a look in his eyes which brought the colour surging into delia's cheeks. "i can tell you honestly, delia, that i have done nothing to make me fear a policeman or handcuffs, but--i _am_ worried!" for a passing moment he struggled with the temptation to confess the truth, but this point had been mentally argued time and again, always with the same conclusion. to confide his story would be to include his confidante in his own danger, since it was hardly possible that he would not feel called upon to take active steps against the brethren. "i can't tell you the why and wherefore, i wish i could, but i can assure you that i have no cause to be ashamed." "oh, bother ashamed!" cried delia hotly. "_why_ are you scared? has anyone been--er--nasty to you, val? a man in the office--jealous of you because you have got on so well. forged a cheque and pretended it was you, or put money in your drawer like they do in books, you know, when they have a grudge? is it something like that, and you are afraid in case they suspect you and send you away?" the words were so deliciously naive and girlish that lessing was obliged to laugh; they were also so transparently eloquent of the speaker's interest and concern for himself that a great pang rent his heart at the vision of life as it might be. life with delia--with delia's children, a happy, breezy, family life, repeating the atmosphere of the corner house in some flowery suburban cottage. oh, how good it seemed, how full and satisfying! what a joy to a tired man to have that haven to which to return at the close of his day's work. time had been when he had scoffed at the smug security of suburban life; had pitied the lot of the man who spent his evenings playing with his children and mowing a miniature lawn, but in the light of the last month's experience, he asked nothing better of fate than to find himself in a precisely similar position. "no, delia, no!" he cried ardently, "there is no business trouble. it's--er--something outside. don't speak of it, please. i want to tell you, and i ought not. it's dear and sweet of you to care. i can't tell you how much it has meant to me the last few weeks, just to be able--" delia interrupted hurriedly, after the manner of young women who ardently long to hear a declaration of love, yet take fright at the first symptom of its approach. "anyway," she said decisively, "you have _got_ to come to the cottage over whitsuntide. i insist upon it, so it's no use trying to escape. three whole days in the country will steady your nerves. it's not at all _comme il faut_ for a director to have jumpy nerves. if i were a shareholder i'd sell out at once. you will travel down with us on friday afternoon, and stay as long as you can the next week. understand?" lessing thankfully accepted the invitation, which was duly confirmed by mrs gordon upon her return to the sitting-room, and a week later he arrived at the week-end cottage, after a safe and comfortable journey in the company of his cheerful friends. during that week only one disquieting incident had happened, but that was ominous enough. a typed envelope lying among other letters on the breakfast-table was left carelessly until the others had been read and digested, and then torn open with the scant courtesy shown to notes of the circular type; but the folded slip bore no printed words, and as lessing jerked it apart there floated downward on to the carpet a thin powdery stream, at sight of which the blood mounted in his face. moistening one finger, he bent and applied the tip to the scattered grains, then lifted it to his lips. salt! there was no mistaking the sharp clean savour, and on a corner of the paper he beheld the rough amateur drawing of a knife. the brethren had sent him a reminder that they were still waiting for their revenge! that year whitsuntide fell in a spell of warm and settled weather, and a more charming retreat than the gordons' week-end cottage it would be difficult to find. the house was a type of simple comfort, the garden a delicious riot of colour and fragrance. none of the gordons knew anything about the science of gardening, but they considered it "fun" to attend to their own garden, sent wholesale orders to advertising seedsmen, and begged shamelessly from gardening friends. the friends responded with sacks of mysterious-looking roots which the gordons proceeded to plump indiscriminately into the first vacant space which came handy. everything flourished, for the soil was new and rich, and the sun blazed upon it from morning till night; and the result was as delightful as it was unorthodox. after a day spent in the cottage, lessing began to feel that the happenings of the last weeks must surely be the creation of his own brain. the mental atmosphere by which he was surrounded was so kindly and wholesome, so pre-eminently _sane_, that, in contrast, the wild deeds of the brethren seemed more the vagaries of a dream than cold actual fact. most thankfully he accepted the peaceful breathing space, and for the first time since the incident of the spilling of the salt went about his way free from apprehension. it seemed to him in the last degree unlikely that the brethren would choose a time when he was in close contact with friends for the execution of their revenge. lessing had made a compact with himself that under no circumstances would he speak of love to delia gordon. he knew now that he had loved her for years, he realised that under his present circumstances it would be a despicable act to seek to bind her in any way, but, with the extraordinary logic practised by men in affairs of the heart, he believed that so long as he refrained from an actual declaration he was acting as an honourable man. it did not occur to him that in the event of his own sudden death a woman who loved him would find her best comfort in the knowledge that her love had been returned! but the days passed pleasantly. mr and mrs gordon were the kindest of hosts, terence showed himself at his best, and delia, in her light dresses and flower-wreathed hats, was the most tantalisingly pretty creature in the world. lessing found it very difficult to keep his resolve as he sat by her side in a summer-house situated at a discreet distance from the house, and screened by the thick belt of trees which formed the end of the shrubbery; and, if the truth is to be told, delia intended him to find it difficult, and made special play with her eyelashes to that effect. val was looking infinitely better, but when he returned to town that tiresome "worry" would begin again, and she wanted, as any nice, right-minded girl would have wanted, to have the right to comfort and support. "so sorry you can't stay over to-morrow! it's so stupid to rush back to town just when you are beginning to get good. why can't you make a week of it while you are here? only three more days." "i'm afraid i can't. it's been awfully jolly. i've enjoyed every minute of the time, but--er--i don't think i ought. business, you know!" delia was annoyed, and showed it. "awfully boring it must be, to be a city man," said she with her nose in the air. "always having to keep your nose to the grind. that's why i like army men. you can depend upon them. i shall telegraph to captain rawle, and ask him to take your place. he'll jump at it." "conceited ass!" muttered lessing under his breath. he looked at delia and saw beneath her pretence of indifference a mistiness of eye, a tremor at the corner of the lips, the meaning of which was plain even to his obtuse masculine senses, and at the sight his prudence fled to the winds. "delia!" he cried rapturously. "delia! oh, my darling, do you mean to say that you _care_? delia, does it matter to you whether i go or stay? do you really, really mean to say--" "i--i didn't say anything--i--i--_of course_, i care! oh, val, you _are_ stupid!" cried delia, putting up two white hands to hide an exceedingly red face. val knew a rapturous moment as he bent to take those hands in his, but, even as he moved, a warning rustle sounded from the bushes ahead, and he straightened himself in expectation of the advent of an intruder. and then, at that moment, with a spasm of fear freezing his hot blood, he saw once more the face of his enemy. while one might have counted six, it glared at him from between the branches--the swarthy, bearded face, with the tufted eyebrows, and the strong, protuberant teeth. for six long seconds the eyes gazed mockingly into his own. poor palpitating delia, peeping between her fingers, beheld her lover of a moment transformed into a stricken, grey-faced man, who sat huddled up on his seat, staring before him with a gaze of helpless despair. there was no more blushing and trembling after that--delia simply wrapped her arms round his neck, and crooned over him with tender, loving words. "val, my own val. what is it? i'm here. delia's here. nobody shall hurt you, dearest; no one shall harm you. delia's here. look at me, val--my own, own val!" the words pierced. through all the horror and the fear, their sweetness reached to the brain, and turned the current of his thoughts. one look he gave her, a look of passionate gratitude and love, then to her utter bewilderment he lifted her to her feet and drew her to the entrance of the summer-house. "go, darling--go! go quickly! you can help me best that way. go quickly!" delia stared at him, and a sudden explanation leaped into her brain. heart disease! val had discovered that his heart was affected, that was the reason of his changed looks. at the moment he was threatened with a spasm of pain, and man-like preferred to be alone. obediently delia walked away, her heart torn with sympathy. but when they were married she would take such good care of him, such incessant, all-encompassing care, that he must, he should get well! lessing watched her go, and then deliberately moved a chair to the centre of the entrance to the summer-house, seated himself astride, and bent his head on the rail. he had no longer the wish to fight for his life. better a thousand times that the end should come now, rather than later on. he was ready. he was waiting. he prayed that there would not be long to wait. at the hour when he least expected it his call had come! "now then, old fellow, now then! sit up, will you? what's the matter with you? that's right--that's right. keep your hair on, old man. you're not half as bad as you think you are!" terence gordon's breezy voice boomed in lessing's ear. terence's big hands laid hold of him, turned him round on his chair, and pressed him back against its rails. his good-humoured face puckered with concern as he met the blank stare in the man's eyes, and he continued to pour forth a stream of slangy reassurements, the while lessing slowly regained his composure. he could not have told whether it was ten seconds or ten hours during which he had sat waiting for death, but so utterly had he lost touch with the things of earth that it was only by degrees that he could realise that he was still alive and unharmed, and that this singularly earthly young man was seated by his side, ragging him for his mysterious exhibition of funk. "got 'em again--eh, what?" said terence severely. "tell you what, you gave me a touch myself, when you leaped upon me like that. steady, old man. steady! what's it all about?" "terence," said lessing thickly, "go back to the house. look after your sister. i--i am going away. i can't stay. i'm bringing danger upon her, upon you all--i can't explain. i--i've been warned--" "strikes me," said terence slowly. "strikes me, if there's any taking care of delia to be done, it's your business to do it. hardly playing the game is it, to run away just at this point?" "for heaven's sake, don't torture me," cried lessing wildly. "how can you judge? you don't understand. you don't understand--" "strikes me very forcibly, my dear fella," said terence once more, "that it's _you_ that don't understand!" he thrust his arm round the corner of the summer-house, and produced the small black bag, which he was wont to carry on his expeditions to hospital. he placed the bag on the table, and seated himself before it with an air of intense enjoyment. "just keep your eye on your uncle, my lad, and we'll see if he can help you to understand!" and then, calmly, complacently, in the full light of day, that medical student produced from that bag--first, a wig of black hair powdered with grey; secondly, a beard; thirdly, a pair of tufted eyebrows; fourthly a curious arrangement of wire clips connecting four large teeth; and fifthly, a bottle containing a brown fluid or dye. calmly, composedly, in the full light of day, did that medical student don one after the other: the wig, beard, eyebrows, and teeth, and dab an illustrative patch of brown on either cheek. then folding his arms after the manner of the villain in british melodrama, he hissed forth the words which had rung ceaselessly in lessing's ears for the last six weeks: "tr-r-r-aitor! the doom which you have postponed shall fall upon your own head. at the hour when you least--" lessing seized his arm in a grip of steel. "silence! terence, what does this mean? do you dare to tell me that it was _you_ who has made my life a torture all these--" but terence was not to be daunted. he twitched his arm away, and defended himself with his usual energy. "what's that--_torture_? what do _you_ mean by talking of torture? weren't you forever grousing about the dullness of life, and bemoaning yourself because you couldn't have a taste of excitement? weren't you forever gassing about the thrill of danger, and boasting of your adventurer's blood? ought to be jolly thankful to me for giving you a taste of the real gen-u-ine article! i dare you to say i didn't do it uncommonly well, too. very friendly action, i call it. you needed someone to bring you to your senses. mooning along, spoiling your own life, and er--er--hang it all--she _is_ my sister!" concluded terence with a touch of righteous indignation. lessing sat staring, a picture of stupefaction. the words were understandable enough; he heard them with his ears, but his brain refused to take in the meaning. "_you_! it was you? _you_ came into that restaurant, sat at my table--spilled that salt?" "i did. i'd had one or two shots before that, but they didn't come off, but the salt was a fair catch. you'd spun us that yarn more than once--forgot that, didn't you? so i tried it, and you caught on like an eel. the rest was as easy as falling off a log. where else should you go but scotland yard? i went on in advance, watched you out, and trotted along in the rear, waiting for a suitable moment to give you another thrill. then i went home to bed! got home a little quicker than you did that night, sonny, i fancy! what?" the rush of anger and humiliation which came at the remembrance of that two hours of laborious dodging and turning did more to revive lessing than any amount of reassurement. he set his teeth, and continued the cross-examination. "and that night in the square." "hang it, yes! that was me, all right. i'd wasted four evenings hanging about, so i felt pretty murderous that night. pretty good sport, though, to see you bolt into that doctor's place. how i _did_ laugh! by the way, did you take the physic he ordered?" lessing gave him a steely glance. "and the message, the telegram from blakeney? you sent that, of course, and arranged with that car." "just so. ye-es. that was, as you might say, my _tour de force_!" said terence, smirking. "cost me a lot of fag, that did, to say nothing about coin of the realm. thought you were fairly caught that time, didn't you? what about `the thrill' when you heard the sound of the key in the lock? eh, what?" lessing gave him a murderous glance. "how would you have felt if i had injured myself for life, climbing down from that window?" "oh, shucks!" terence shrugged with easy assurance. "any juggins could have got down over that ivy, easy as walking downstairs. and you have done a bit of climbing in your day. did you get very much stung by the nettles lying down by that wall?" lessing's jaw fell; the blood buzzed in his ears. an intolerable humiliation encompassed him. had he been _seen_? terence burst into a great roar of laughter. "oh, bless you, yes! he saw you right enough. it was jeffries, you know. g.p. jeffries, sharpest fellow we have at hospital. he said he had the time of his life, sitting upon that wall, watching you quaking among those nettles. by the way, the bag's all right. i've got it locked away in my cupboard. i suppose you wouldn't be willing, as a slight acknowledgment of my trouble, and in gratitude for an uncommonly useful lesson, to regard the outlay on that day's expedition as a--er, fee?" lessing stared, glared, opened his lips to pour out heated words, stopped short, and expanded his chest in a long, deep breath. suddenly, overpoweringly, the consciousness of safety rushed through his being, and swept before it all petty considerations for his own dignity and self-esteem. he was free, he was safe; his life was unthreatened, he was free to plan ahead, to take upon himself new claims, new responsibilities. he felt again the touch of delia's arms, and knew an irresistible impatience to continue the interrupted scene. he rose from his seat, and addressed a few dignified words to the lad by his side. "another time, terence, we'll thrash this matter out. you meant well, no doubt, but--" "just so. i was sorry to interrupt, but it was all done for the best. she's in the rose garden. she's crying!" volunteered terence, grinning. "is it your heart? _is_ it your heart?" cried delia clinging to his arm. "oh, val, is your heart really affected?" lessing clasped her to him, laughing a big, glad laugh, full of the joy and wonder of life. "it is, darling!" he cried. "it is! _you_ have affected it. oh, delia, delia, let's be married, let's be married at once, and--keep a chicken farm!" chapter nine. the man who wished for success. success was the passion of john malham's life, mediocrity was his bane. the ordinary commonplace life which brings happiness and content to millions of his fellow men filled him with a passion of disgust. as he left the tube station morning and night, and filed out into the street among the crowd of black-coated, middle-class workers, an insignificant unit in an insignificant whole, a feeling of physical nausea overcame him. there were grey-haired men by the hundred among the throng, men not only elderly, but old, working ceaselessly day by day at the same dull grind, returning at night to small houses in the suburbs. from youth to age they had toiled and expended their strength, and this was their reward! in a few years' time they would die, and be buried, and the great machine would grind on, oblivious of their loss. slaves, puppets, automata who were content to masquerade in the guise of men! john malham squared his great shoulders and drew a deep breath of contempt. not for him this dull path of monotony. by one means or another, he had vowed to his own heart to rise to the top of the tree, and make for himself a place among men. malham was a barrister by profession; a barrister, without influence, and with a private income of a hundred a year. his impressive personality, and unmistakable gift of argument had brought him a moderate success, but while others congratulated him, his own feeling was an ever-mounting discontent. he was waiting for the grand opportunity, and the grand opportunity did not come. like an actor who finds no scope for his talent in the puny parts committed to his charge, but feels ever burning within him the capacity to shine as a star, so did malham fret and chafe; intolerantly waiting for his chance. as an outlet for his energies malham had plunged into politics, and here success had been more rapid. as an apt and powerful speaker he was much in request, and his circle of influential acquaintances grew apace. he was asked to dinner, on visits to country houses where he was entertained with cordiality, as a _quid pro quo_ for a speech at the county hall. politicians began to say to him with a smile: "we must have you in the house, malham." "i shall be speaking for _you_ another day, malham!" "a man like you, malham, ought to be in the cabinet." steadily, slowly, the conviction had generated that in politics lay his best hope of success. but he must have money. even in the days of paid members a man without private means was handicapped in the race. once again he could not be content to be a unit in a crowd. he wished to be known; to make himself felt. to do this it would be necessary to entertain, to have a home of which he could be proud. a home, and--a wife. at this point malham's hard face would soften into the tender, humorous smile which was reserved for but one person on earth--for celia bevan, a high school mistress to whom he had been engaged for five long years. pew of his friends, and none of his acquaintances, had heard of his engagement, for malham was a secretive man, and celia was not in his own set. he had met her on a fishing holiday when they happened to be staying in the same small inn, and for the first and only time in his life had been carried away on a wave of impulse. five years ago, and--this was the extraordinary thing!--his heart had never regretted the madness. celia was poor, unknown, getting perilously near thirty, but there was an ageless charm about celia, an ever-new, ever-changing, ever-lovable charm, which held him captive, despite the cold remonstrances of his brain. nowadays he met dozens of wealthy and distinguished women, but no duchess in her purple had for him the charm of celia in her shabby blouses, seated in her shabby lodging, wrestling with the everlasting pile of exercise books. she loved him--heavens! how she loved him. there was nothing tepid about celia. even eight years' teaching at a high school had been powerless to beat down her individuality, or damp the ardour of her spirit. she loved him with a passion which was her very being, and he loved her in return as devotedly as it was in his nature to love. she was his mate, the one woman in the world who could understand, and sympathise, and console. but--there was lady anne! lady anne was the unmarried daughter of his most influential political patron, and of late it had been impossible for malham to disguise from himself the fact that lady anne had fallen a victim to his powerful personality and clever, versatile tongue. she was a pitiful creature, this scion of a noble house, a thin, wizened woman of thirty-seven, plain with a dull, sexless plainness which had in it no redeeming point, so diffident as to be almost uncouth in manner, overwhelmed with the consciousness of her own social failure. wealthy and influential as was her family, no one had ever wished to marry "poor anne," yet hidden within the unattractive exterior lived a loving, sensitive heart, which had gone hungry from the hour of her birth. now as it happened lady anne's brother was nursing a certain constituency in the neighbourhood of his father's place, and being neither clever nor fluent he was thankful to avail himself of the services of an eloquent young barrister, who was ever ready to run down from town for a few days' visit, and deliver a rousing address in furtherance of his cause. so it came about that during the summer and autumn john malham was a frequent visitor at home castle, and at each visit the secret of lady anne became more and more apparent to the eyes of onlookers. lady anne wished to marry malham. her father recognised as much, and decided resignedly that for "poor anne" no better match could be expected. malham was a gentleman, came of a good stock, and--given a start--was the type of man who was bound to come to the front. "we could find him a seat," the earl said to his son, "and anne's jointure would keep them going till he found his feet. if he proposes for her, there'll be no trouble from me. at this time of day we must be thankful for what we can get." cautiously, guardedly, in after-dinner confidences the young man was allowed to infer that the coast was clear. at first he had thrust aside the suggestion with a laugh, as something preposterous and impossible, but the poison worked. he began to dally with the thought, to project himself into an imaginary future when the circumstances of life should make in his favour, instead of acting as a handicap. slowly and surely the poison worked. one evening he took his way to grosvenor square in a frame of mind bordering on desperation. for months past he had been building on the possibility of securing a brief in a case which promised to afford one of the sensations of the year. he had a chance, a promising chance it had appeared, but that afternoon he had received the news that the brief had gone past him in favour of another man, no whit more capable than himself. there were reasons for the choice of which he was ignorant, but in his morbid depression, the only explanation lay in his own insignificance, in the higher social standing of his rival. he had known many such disappointments, and had smarted beneath them, but this was the final straw which broke down his remaining strength, and as it chanced he was left alone with lady anne after dinner, and she ventured a timid question as to the cause of his depression. of what happened next he had no clear recollection; he answered, and she sympathised, faltered out a wish that she might help; he thanked her, and--what did he say next? he could not remember, but he knew that he had accepted the offered help, and with it the hand of the donor. there were tears in lady anne's eyes as she plighted her troth. it was the one desire of her heart to share his life. he was the most wonderful, the most gifted of men. to be able to smooth his way would be the proudest privilege which the world could afford. she held out her thin hand as she spoke, and malham pressed it in his own, and bent over it in elaborate acknowledgment. the chill of those fingers struck to his heart; he left the house and, walking along the streets, the question clamoured insistently at his heart: _would she expect him to kiss her_? he had made an early retreat, and now went straight to celia's lodgings. it was part of the strength of his character that he never deferred a difficult duty, and to-night he knew himself faced with the most painful ordeal of his life. celia was sitting as usual before a pile of exercise books in her shabby little parlour. her white blouse was mended in several places, but it was daintily fresh, and her auburn hair flamed into gold beneath the hanging lamp. she did not rise as he entered, but tilted herself back on her chair, and stretched her tired arms with a sigh of welcome. "oh, dearest and best, is that you? oh, how lovely it is when you don't expect, and the good things come! i was never more happy to see you... kiss me several times!" but he stood stiff and straight on the shabby hearth-rug, and delivered himself of his message: "i am going to many lady anne mulliner." celia rose from the chair, and seated herself on the side of the table. she had grey eyes fringed with dark lashes, and a large, well-shaped mouth with lips which tilted agreeably at the corners what time she was amused. they tilted now, and the grey eyes danced. malham was jesting in the good old way in which he used to jest before he grew so silent and preoccupied. it had pleased them then to make believe, and act little plays for the other's benefit. how good it was to jest again! celia hunched her shoulders to her ears, and pointed at him with a dramatic finger. her voice rang in loud, stagey accents: "false caitiff, wouldst thou indeed betray my innocent trust? pull many a year have i waited in love and fealty, and wouldst thou spurn the poor maiden's heart?" she pulled her handkerchief out of her belt, flourished it to her eyes, then suddenly subsided into laughter, and an easy: "the poor old scarecrow! jack! it's not kind... what about that kiss?" "i am going to marry lady anne mulliner," repeated malham once more. celia put her head on one side, and looked at him with her winsome look, the look he most loved to see. "all right, ducky doo! why shouldn't you? she'll be _most_ pleased. but for to-night, you see, you belong to me, and--er--i haven't seen you for three whole days!" "celia, you must believe me. i mean it. i proposed to lady anne an hour ago, and she accepted me. we are engaged. i came straight here to tell you." the smile faded from celia's face. she looked startled and grave, but there was no serious alarm on her face. "jack--why?" he threw out his arms with a gesture of despair. "because i can't endure this life. i've missed that case; it has gone past me as usual, to a fellow with influence. there is no hope for a man who has no position, no one behind. it would drive me mad to go on year after year with this hopeless struggle. it is driving me mad now. to-night i felt desperate. i would have given anything in the world to buy my chance, and the opportunity came. i took it. i had not the power to refuse." "poor jack!" she said softly. "poor jack!" he had expected reproaches, tears, wild protestations. celia was impetuous by nature, and the peace between them had not been unbroken by storms. he was prepared for violence, but this gentleness played havoc with his composure. his face twitched, he turned towards her with passionate entreaty. "celia, i'm a brute, a coward. nothing that you can say of me is bad enough. you've been an angel, and i know, i knew all the time that i hurt you by delaying our marriage. you would have been satisfied with a small beginning; it was i who was not content. i've kept you waiting year after year, and now at the end i have sold myself to another woman." "you can't sell what is not your own. you can't _give_ what is not your own. you belong to me. i'm not going to give you up!" she rose, and going up to him clasped both hands round his arm. her face was white, but she smiled still; on her pale cheek a dimple dipped and waned. "you were tired and depressed. you saw the chance, and for a moment it seemed the easiest way, but you can't do it, jack; you can't do it! there's something else that you had forgotten. there's _me_! you love me, jack." she raised her face to his with a wooing smile, and a groan burst from his lips. this was torture. his heart was torn, but his resolution remained unchanged. "heaven knows i do. you are the only woman i can ever love. i love you more dearly than anything on earth. except one!" "and that?" "myself. success. the career that lady anne can give--" "poor jack!" sighed celia again. she leaned her head on his shoulder with her old movement of confiding love. for five long years those broad shoulders had been her resting-place, a bulwark between herself and the outer world. she drew him with her to the sofa, and rested there now. it was impossible to thrust her away. "if you loved another woman, darling, if you had grown tired of me, i'd let you go without a word. i'd _want_ you to go, but i'm not going to let you spoil your life. i haven't loved you all these years without knowing your faults as well as your virtues. the outside world sees your cleverness and charm, but the best in you, the very best jack--that belongs to me! if you lost me, it would die. there'd be nothing left but the husk of john malham. the cold, hard husk with nothing inside." "you may be right, celia. i expect you are right, but i have made my choice. you can't understand, no woman could understand how men can put ambition before love, but they do it. it is done every day. i don't say i shall not suffer--you know i shall suffer!" his voice broke suddenly. "celia, _darling_!" she was silent for a moment, lying motionless against his heart, then she spoke in a soft murmur of reminiscent tenderness. "d'you remember, jack, the evening we were engaged? you walked about all night because you were afraid you might go to sleep and think it was a dream, and you scribbled a letter in pencil beneath a lamp-post, and put it into the letter-box so that i might have it at breakfast. i've got it yet--in tissue paper, to keep the pencil fresh." "celia--don't! you torture me. of course i remember." "d'you remember that day up the river when we quarrelled, and i cried all over the tea? when i got home at night my face was all smudged. i'd been handling the kettle, and then dried my eyes, and you had never said a word about it, but had been so _lovely_ to me all the way home. i _did_ love you for that, jack!" "i had made you cry to start with. i've made you cry too often. don't cry for me now, celia! i'm not worth it. you will be better without me." then for the first time there came a flash of anger. she sat up suddenly and faced him with flashing eyes. "how _dare_ you say it? how dare you say such a lie? _without_ you? what would be left to me if you went? you _are_ my life. there has been no room for anyone else; you have demanded everything for yourself,--all my care, all my thought, all interest, all my love,--and i have given them to you, till there is nothing left, and i am powerless to live alone. you know it is true!" "you think so now, celia, but you will find life easier without me. this hopeless waiting is hard on a woman, and i've drawn on you all these years, always asking, always needing. it's a wrench, but it will be better for us both. celia, i haven't given you up without a struggle. i make no defence. i know i am treating you abominably, but this thing is stronger than myself. i _cannot_ go on. i must go my own way." "i will _never_ give you up!" said celia firmly. she held out her left hand the third finger of which was encircled by the engagement ring, an inexpensive trifle in turquoise and pearls. "you put that ring there, and made me swear that it should never come off until the wedding-ring was put in its place. it never shall! it's no use giving me back my promise. you don't realise what you are asking. it is an impossibility. i can never believe that you seriously intend to marry another woman until i see her walking out of church on your arm. and then--" "then--" "it would kill me, jack. i could not live." malham rose hastily, and strode across the room. his endurance was at an end. of what use to prolong the agony? his mind was made up, it was useless to go on torturing celia and himself. "it is too late, the thing is done. there is no drawing back. we are engaged." "will you walk about all night, jack, in case you fall asleep and find it is a dream? will you write a letter in pencil and slip it into her letterbox so that she may have it at breakfast?" "celia, don't! for god's sake, don't... i can't stand this!" "will you quarrel with her, jack, and kiss, and make it up? will she stroke your head when you are tired, to take away the pain, and will you lie and look up in her face, and make up little verses about her eyes? i've got all your verses, jack, dozens of them, locked away in my desk." "you know i won't. that sort of thing is over for ever. it is the price i shall have to pay. one can't have the one big thing, and everything else into the bargain. i have made my choice, and the rest must go." "but we must make quite sure what _is_ the big thing. _i_ am your big thing, jack. you are tired and discouraged, and when people are discouraged things look out of proportion. to-day you put success first, and celia second, but you will find out your mistake. you can't live without me, jack, any more than i can live without you. it's gone deeper than you think." malham's hand was on the door, but he turned at that last word and looked at her across the room. she sat as he had so often seen her, leaning forward from the waist, her chin cupped in her hand, her grey eyes bent on him with an intensity of love. among the drab furnishings of the room, the glowing mass of her hair shone with a burnished splendour. the sight of her represented all that was gracious and beautiful--his thought leaped to that other woman from whom he had parted but an hour before, he saw the two faces side by side, and for a moment he wavered. only a moment, then he hardened himself, and turned once more. "it is too late. i have made my choice. goodbye, celia." "_au revoir_, jack. _my_ jack! you will come back to me!" her voice rang strong and valiant. in just that voice she had put courage into him time and again when he had come nigh to despair. in just that voice had she breathed her undying confidence in the future. but this time when he was lost to sight, and the thud of the closing door sounded through the little house, celia laid her bright head on the table, and her tears fell fast on the scattered papers. in aristocratic circles engagements are of short duration. malham was thankful of the fact, and acceded eagerly to a proposed date less than six weeks ahead. a furnished flat was secured in which he and lady anne could set up housekeeping, leaving the choice of a permanent residence to be made at leisure. he welcomed that decision as a relief from a painful ordeal. it had been a favourite amusement of celia's to go house-hunting on holiday afternoons, and under her guidance it had proved a beguiling occupation. when luck was in the ascendant she would put on her best hat, obtain orders to view mansions in west end squares, and give herself airs to the caretaker on the subject of ball-room accommodation. when luck waned she would escort him to garden suburbs, and gush over a sitting-room four yards by five. and the furniture for mansion and villa alike had been chosen a hundred times over from a point of vantage outside shop windows. it would have been molten torture to go house-hunting and furnishing with lady anne! in a quiet unobtrusive fashion lady anne was exacting. she expected daily visits, which were periods of acute misery to her fiance. her uncouth efforts to worm herself into his confidence shamed and exasperated; he was disagreeably conscious of disappointing her expectations, yet more and more did it become impossible to act the lover's part. conversation would lag between them and finally come to an end, then anne's small eyes would redden as from unshed tears, she would lay her chill hands on his, and ask wistfully: "is anything the matter, john? have i offended you in any way?" "how could you offend me, anne? you are everything that is good and generous. i am most grateful for all you have done." "but you must love me, too. i want you to love me. you _do_ love me, john?" once or twice at such questioning, a flood of anger and loathing, almost maniacal in its fury, rushed through malham's veins, urging him on until it was all he could do to refrain from bursting into cruel laughter, into bitter, gibing words. love _her_! that pitiful, sexless thing--he who had known celia, and held her in his arms. was anne blind that she could not see what manner of woman she was? had she no sense that she could not realise the nature of the bargain between them? and every week of that endless six a letter came to him from celia bearing the same message: "i have seen it in the paper, jack, but i know it is not true. you will never do it. you can't do it, jack. you belong to me. dear, it will be harder with every day that passes. be brave and end it _now_! i know you better than you know yourself. nothing that she can give you will make you happy apart from me. it's been hard for you--i know it too well, and you shall never hear a word of reproach, but--come soon, jack! it's weary waiting. i have given you so much that i've no power to live alone. your celia." each letter said the same thing in different words, and each time that one arrived the struggle between love and ambition was fought afresh in malham's mind. never before had he realised all that celia had counted for in his life; never had he yearned so passionately for her presence. a dozen times over he started with rapid footsteps to answer her appeal in person, but never once did he arrive at his destination. the very sight of the mean streets through which he was obliged to pass, served to chill his enthusiasm and awake the remembrance of all that a reconciliation must entail. to break off his engagement with lady anne mulliner at the eleventh hour would be to alienate his political patrons and ring the death knell of his hopes. he would be obliged to drag on year after year waiting for a chance of distinguishing himself at the bar, living meantime in one of these mean little houses, in one of these mean little streets, turning out morning after morning to make his way to the tube, among the crowd of black-coated, middle-class workers. the struggle ended each time in the victory of ambition. he turned and retraced his steps towards his own chambers. the last letter arrived on the morning of the marriage. its message was the same, but the valiant confidence had waned, and a note of wildness took its place. yet even now celia would not, could not, believe that his decision was irrevocable. even now she adjured him to reflect, to remember, to be warned! the handwriting was rough and untidy, hardly recognisable as celia's dainty calligraphy; in every line, in every word there were signs of agitation and despair, but as malham recognised with a pang, there was still no word of reproach. he kissed the letter and held it passionately to his lips, before he dropped it into the fire. the husband of the lady anne mulliner must not treasure love letters from another woman. the paper flamed orange and blue, then shrivelled into blackened ashes. malham, looking on, read into the sight a simile with his own life. the beauty, the splendour of it were burnt out; nothing but ashes remained. it was a curious reflection for a man who would that day plant his foot firmly on the ladder of success! the fashionable church was filled to overflowing; reporters seated in points of vantage jotted down the names of the aristocratic guests with other details of public interest. "marriage of an earl's daughter." "romantic marriage." "marriage in high life." the titles were already drawn out awaiting the following description. "the duchess of a. looked charming in amber velvet with a sable cloak. the marchioness of b. looked charming in green, with a hat with white plumes. the bridesmaids, eleven in number, were a charming group in grey satin and silver veils. they carried charming bouquets of azaleas, which with charming gold and pearl bangles were the gift of the bridegroom. their names were --. the bride wore a gown of white satin covered with old english point lace, the court train was draped with the same valuable lace, and lined with silver tissue. she carried a bouquet of orchids." there were a dozen reporters in the church, and they used the word "charming" many, dozens of times collectively, but not one of them ventured to apply it to the bride! lady anne cried in a softly persistent fashion throughout the ceremony, and the sight of her tears awoke a smouldering fury in malham's heart. why need she cry? she had gained her desire. it was he who should cry! in the vestry a young married relative came forward, and with deft hands straightened the twisted wreath and arranged the folds of the veil. "really, anne!" she cried impatiently, "you positively _must_ think of your appearance. my dear, if you could see yourself! for goodness' sake pull yourself together." as she turned away, she shot a glance at malham, standing tall and impassive beside the table, and there came into her eyes a cold comprehending gleam. "there," said her eyes, "stands a man who has sold his soul!" there were eyes all round him, studying him where he stood, and in them all he read the same condemnation, the same scorn. the organ blared; the bridesmaids ranged themselves behind the bridal couple, the procession left the vestry, and proceeded down the aisle. now there were more eyes, hundreds of eyes, staring with merciless gaze. the bride was trembling with nervousness, her chin shaking like that of a frightened child. all her life she had been snubbed and kept in the background; terror of her conspicuous position for the time being swamped her joy in her handsome spouse. the sound of her panting breath came to malham's ears; he hurried his pace in fear of another breakdown, and the laces of the bridal train caught in the carved woodwork of a pew. there was a momentary pause while a bridesmaid came to the rescue, and malham, turning to discover the nature of the hindrance, felt an icy chill spread down his spine. in the pew by his side, within touch of his hand, stood celia, tall and slim, gazing straight into his face. her hair glowed like flames round her colourless face, her lips were parted, showing a gleam of teeth, her head was thrown back on the white column of her throat,--each cherished detail of her beauty smote on malham with a separate pang, but it was the expression in her eyes which chilled his blood. _what was the expression in her eyes_? malham's heart beat in sickening thuds. was it a moment, or an hour, during which he stood and stared back into those terrible eyes? to the onlookers the pause was barely perceptible; to him it seemed endless as eternity. it was only when he was seated beside his bride in the carriage, and anne was sobbing against his shoulder, that malham realised the meaning of celia's eyes. they were dead eyes. they had _no_ expression! the reception was a nightmare, but it came to an end at last, and malham and his bride bade good-bye to their friends, and started on the first stage of their honeymoon. it had been arranged that they should remain in town until the next morning, when they were to make an early start for the continent. they drove to a fashionable hotel, where a suite of rooms had been secured for their use, and after a couple of hours' rest, went through the ordeal of their first _tete-a-tete_ meal. malham felt like a man in a dream. he moved, he spoke, he ate, and drank as might a machine wound up to perform certain actions, but he was conscious of nothing but a pair of dead eyes gazing at him out of a living face. there was only one feeling of which he was capable--a feeling of fear--of deadly, overmastering fear. dinner over, malham excused himself, and repaired to the great lounge of the hotel. anne had recovered her composure, and had embarked upon a series of sentimental reminiscences which bade fair to drive him demented. at all costs he must escape from her presence. he seated himself at one of the small tables and automatically lifted an evening paper. the first thing that met his eye was his own name at the head of a column. "marriage of mr john malham and lady anne mulliner." he crushed the sheet with a savage hand, and thrust it back on the table, and as he did so another paragraph separated itself from the context and smote upon his brain. "suicide of a high school teacher. a well-dressed young woman was drowned in the serpentine at five o'clock this afternoon. the life-saving apparatus was put in operation with all possible speed, but when the body was recovered, life was found to be extinct. the deceased had letters in her possession addressed to miss celia bevan, wrothesley street, maida vale. it is believed to be a case of premeditated suicide." across the hall two young men were whispering to each other behind their papers. "that fellow over there, by the big palm,--that's malham! reading an account of his own wedding. clever fellow, but poor as a rat. been dragging along for years at the bar, but that's all over now! with a father-in-law like lord fluteson to give him a push, he'll soon romp ahead. jolly good day's work this has been for him!" his companion looked across the lounge. "some fellows," he said grudgingly, "have all the luck!" chapter ten. the girl who wished for work. norah boyce was one of numerous young women who have seen better days. during the seven years which had elapsed since she had bidden farewell to a parisian boarding-school, she had enjoyed all the sweets of existence which fall to the lot of a girl whom nature has endowed with beauty and a deceased parent with an income of five hundred pounds a year. and then, of a sudden, catastrophe overtook her. societies collapsed, banks failed, labourers went on strike and brought down dividends on railway investments. the five hundred pounds was reduced to something considerably under one, and norah spent her nights in tears, and her days in studying the newspapers in search of "something to do." being still young in experience, she started by spending a small fortune on advertisements in which she expressed her willingness to undertake secretarial duties, to act as companion to an invalid lady--as governess to young children, or as instructress in the arts of poker-work, marquetry, and painting on china; then as time went on and the public continued to treat her overtures with contempt, she abandoned this mode of procedure, and contented herself with reading the notices for which _other_ people had paid, and in wasting postage-stamps in reply. it was when this occupation had been continued for several months and her spirits had fallen to the lowest possible ebb that her eye was attracted by a paragraph which awakened new hopes. a lady wished to meet with a young person of good principles and cheerful disposition, who would accompany her to church on sundays, spend some hours of every morning in reading aloud, playing upon the harmonium, and making herself useful and agreeable; and applicants were directed to apply in person at number berrington square, between three and five o'clock in the afternoon. "i shall try for it!" cried norah instantly. "it will be horribly humiliating. i shall be shown into the dining-room, and expected to take a seat between the sideboard and the door, as servants do when they are applying for a situation, but anything is better than sitting here, doing nothing! i don't feel remarkably cheerful at present, but it is in the old lady's power to put me in the wildest spirits, if she is so inclined. she must be old--no human creature under sixty could have written that advertisement. she can't have any children, or she would not be advertising for a companion; she must be well off, or she could not afford to pay for `extras' in this rash fashion; she would have to put up with being dull as i have done the last month. heigho! it would be very pleasing if she took a fancy to me, and adopted me as her heir! i don't in the least see why she shouldn't! i can be very charming when i choose. i shall put on my sealskin coat, and my best hat!" a few hours later, miss boyce knocked at the door of number berrington square, was informed that mrs baker was at home, and shown into a room on the right of the entrance hall. it was the dining-room. "of course! i knew it!" said norah to herself, and straightway proceeded to take stock of her surroundings. a red flock wall-paper, a heavy mahogany sideboard, on which were flanked an imposing array of biscuit-boxes and cruets; mahogany chairs upholstered in black haircloth; an india-rubber plant in the centre of the table, and an american organ in the corner! the visitor rolled her eyes to the ceiling, and went through an expressive pantomime of despair, for she was an artistic, beauty-loving creature, whose spirits were sensibly affected by the colour of a wallpaper, and to whom it was a real trial to live in ugly surroundings. she had barely time to compose herself before the door opened, and the mistress of the house made her appearance. mrs baker was an old lady of the white rabbit type, weak-eyed, anaemic, and kindly, and evidently unaccustomed to the engagement of "young persons," for she shook hands with norah, seated herself in an easy chair by the fire, and waited developments with a blandly inquiring smile. it was evident that norah was expected to advertise her capabilities without the aid of the usual cross-questionings, so, taking her courage in both hands, she launched forth into explanations, prefaced, it must sorrowfully be admitted, by a reference to better days; confessed to a passion for reading aloud and playing on the harmonium, and dwelt at length on the advantages of her scholastic training. when at last she paused for breath, after having talked for a good five minutes on end, the old lady blinked her eyes, and said: "what, love?--i didn't quite catch what you were saying. i am a little hard of hearing!" "i might have known it!" norah told herself reproachfully. "deaf, of course! it just completes the character," and in a heightened voice she proceeded to repeat every word of her former statement. signs of impatience became visible on the listener's face as she proceeded, and she hurried on in order to announce the name of her musical professor before she should be interrupted by the question which was evidently hovering on the old lady's lips. "did you ever happen to meet a family named henstock, who lived in finsbury park? a corner house it was--white, with green posts at the gate?" queried mrs baker, bending forward with an expression of breathless curiosity. norah gasped, and shook her head. the connection between the family of henstock in the corner house in finsbury park, and her own application for the post of companion, was so exceedingly remote as to reduce her to a condition of petrified silence. "how very extraordinary! you are so like mary ellen, the very image of mary ellen! she was a great favourite of mine, was mary ellen, and she married a very worthy young man, an assistant in a bank at bradford. yes! she had two lovely little boys. it was very good of you to come and see me, my dear, and i should like very much to have you with me. i am reading a most interesting biography at present, and i take in several periodicals. yes! perhaps you could come on monday morning. at eleven o'clock." three months' experience of answering advertisements had left norah so little prepared for this speedy acceptance of her services, that she was surprised into protest. "but i do not wish to hurry your decision! perhaps you would like to have references, or to consult your--" "no, love! i have no one to consider but myself, and you have such a strong resemblance to mary ellen! it is in this way: my nephew has been in the habit of going to church with me. i cannot hear very much; but i like to go all the same, and john was in the habit of repeating the sermon to me in the afternoon. yes! he is a very estimable-minded young man, and very good to his old aunt! it was he who suggested that i should advertise for a companion. he said it would be so lonely for me if he ever went out of town, but he will be very pleased when i tell him that i have found someone so like mary ellen. he has such a dislike for these new-fashioned, strong-minded girls who are always calling out for their rights. i am sure, my dear, that you have too much sense for such notions. you look far too pretty and amiable. now about the little matter of remuneration! ... would half a crown a day be agreeable?" norah gasped again, with a sensation as if a pail of water had been suddenly douched over her head. half a crown a day! it was what people paid to charwomen. good gracious! she tried to calculate what sum was represented by seven half-crowns, and the delay which took place before she succeeded in settling the point convinced her that, after all, she would be wise to accept mrs baker's offer, since in another situation she might possibly be required to teach arithmetic and mathematics! she perjured herself, therefore, by declaring that half a crown would be very agreeable indeed, and returned home undecided between hilarity and depression. for the next three weeks norah earned her half-crown a day with equal satisfaction to herself and her employer. the biographies were a trifle dull, it is true, and the harmonium decidedly creaky and out of tune, but the old lady was kindly and affectionate, and her companion had the pleasure of feeling that her services were appreciated. by this time, however, she had fully grasped the fact that seven half-crowns equal seventeen-and-six, and in the conviction that further effort was required to secure herself from anxiety, had recommenced the daily searchings of the newspaper columns. then it was that she discovered an advertisement which filled her with a sense of delighted amusement, because of its strange likeness and yet contrast to the one of a month before. another lady, it appeared, was desirous of finding a companion, but this time the advertiser was a champion of women's rights, who wished to meet with someone of like opinions, who would walk with her in the afternoons and discuss the problems and difficulties of the sex. "`curiouser and curiouser!'" quoted norah to herself. "what a droll coincidence. now, if i had not--but of course as i _have_, i could not possibly... and yet, why not? i am sure after being shut up in that stuffy room all morning reading those dull, old-fashioned books, i am in a most daring and revolutionary mood in the afternoons. i should not be pretending to take an interest in the suffrage question; i should really and truly feel it... it would be instructive to hear what this lady has to say for herself, and then, after marching about the country listening to her tirades, i should probably be quite thankful to get back to medievalism and my dear old lady in the morning.--i'll do it! i will! i'll go and see her without an hour's delay..." the advertisement had not asked for a personal application, but norah had gained experience by this time, and was perfectly aware of the advantage possessed by miss boyce in her sealskin coat and best hat, over the "young persons" who, as a rule, applied for situations. she intended to be not only heard but seen. the advanced lady lived in a flat which was as artistic as the house in berrington square was commonplace. she was a spinster of uncertain age, tall and angular, and so formidable in appearance that at the sight of her norah was overcome with a panic of nervousness. "good afternoon," she stammered. "i--i saw your advertisement in the _daily news_, and thought that i would--that is to say, that i would apply--that i would try to--to.--i hope i have not inconvenienced you by calling in person!" "not at all, not at all. i have already received several replies, but it is far more satisfactory to have a personal interview," returned the spinster, staring very hard at norah's hat, and craning her neck to see how the bows were arranged at the back. "i am ordered to take a certain amount of outdoor exercise daily, and as my friends are not able to accompany me, i wish to meet with a lady who is interested in the same subjects as myself, and with whom i can enjoy exchange of ideas as we walk. you look rather young, but i gather from the fact of your having replied to my advertisement, that you are--" "i am very much interested. i should enjoy hearing your views, and, though i am young, i have seen a great deal of life. i have travelled more than most people, and am now alone in the world, and obliged to earn my own living." norah had been in haste to reply, in order to avoid a more compromising statement, but now she stopped short, surprised by a flash of delight which illumined the listener's face. "ah-h!" cried miss mellor, in the rapturous tone of one who has suddenly been granted a long-craved-for opportunity. "then you have had experience! you _know_! you _fed_! you agree with me that the history of the human race, the throng of events, the multifarious forms of human life are only the accidental form of the idea; they do not belong to the idea itself, in which alone lies the adequate objectivity of the will, but only to that phenomenon which appears to the knowledge of the individual, and which is just as foreign and unessential to the idea itself as the figures which they assume are to the clouds, or the foam flakes to the brooks! so true! so deeply true! you agree with me, i feel sure!" "certainly. quite so. i mean to say--naturally! oh, yes. by all means!" gasped norah weakly, and her head fell back against the chair. she was not to know that the speaker had discovered her little speech in a book only one short half-hour before, and had learned it off by heart in the fond hope of being able to introduce it incidentally into conversation, and she felt faint and dizzy with the effort of trying to understand. miss mellor saw that she had made an impression, and beamed with complacent delight. "ah, yes; i see that we are at one!" she cried. "and is it not a comfort to feel that, having once grasped this idea, we shall now be able to distinguish between the will and the idea, and between the idea and its manifestation? the events of the world will now have significance for us, inasfar only as they are the letters out of which we may read the idea of man. we can never again believe with the vulgar--" "oh, my goodness!" cried norah to herself. "to think that it should have come to this! i'm vulgar! i must be; and i never knew it! i don't understand one _word_ she is saying. if i ever get out of this room alive--" she sank still farther back in her chair and stared at miss mellor with fascinated, unblinking eyes, like a poor little rabbit beneath the spell of the boa-constrictor. in a dim, far-off way, she heard the stream of unmeaning eloquence, but her one supreme longing was to bring the interview to an end, to crawl home and lie down upon the sofa, and put wet cloths on her head, and go to sleep and forget all about her sufferings... suddenly the dock chimed, and she awoke to the fact that it was over half an hour since she had entered the room. she rose to her feet, and was about to falter forth apologies for her ignorance, when, to her astonishment, the advanced lady bore down upon her, and grasping her hand in fervent fashion, declared that she was enchanted to have discovered a kindred spirit, and that, suffering as she did from constant coldness and misunderstanding, it was soul-refreshing to meet with one whose mind was as her own, and that she would henceforth live in anticipation of their afternoon communions! for one moment norah was stupefied with amazement, the next her eyes shone, and the dimples dipped in her cheeks, for with a flash of intuition she had grasped the significance of the situation! what the advanced lady really desired was not a companion who would talk and air her own opinions, but a dummy figure to whom she herself could lay down the law; a target at which she could let fly the arrows of her newly-acquired wisdom. an occasional murmur of assent would therefore be the extent of the companion's duties, which feat norah felt herself well able to accomplish. for the next few months the enterprising miss boyce fulfilled her two daily engagements with equal satisfaction to herself and her employers. in the morning, within the fusty confines of number berrington square, she read aloud extracts from antiquated volumes which had been the favourites of the old lady's youth; likewise retrimmed caps, sprayed the leaves of the india-rubber plant, retrieved dropped stitches in knitting, droned out voluntaries and national airs on the wheezy old harmonium, and listened to endless reminiscences of the henstock family, and other worthies equally unknown. in the afternoons norah roamed the different parks in company with miss mellor, preserving an attentive silence while that good lady quoted the opinions of her friends, or paraphrased the leading articles in the radical press. her first feeling towards this, the second of her employers, had been largely tinged with impatience and lack of sympathy, but as time went on, she relented somewhat in the hardness of her judgment, and felt the dawning of a kindly pity. she was a very lonely woman--this tall angular spinster who talked so loudly of her rights; love had never come into her life, and in all the breadth of the land she had hardly a relation whom she could take by the hand. once, in the middle of a heated argument on the suffrage, miss mellor paused to look longingly at a curly-headed baby toddling across the path; and beside the duck-pond in regent's park she invariably lost the thread of her argument in watching the crowds of merry children feeding their pets. norah reflected that had miss mellor been a happy wife and mother she might not have troubled her head about a vote. all the same, the result of education on the woman's question had been to convince norah that the demand for "rights" had been founded on some very definite wrongs. after the long walk the two ladies would return to tea in the flat, where the companion consumed the wafer-like bread and butter and dainty cakes with philistine enjoyment, and even miss mellor herself descended from her high horse, and inquired curiously: "where do you get your hats?" of her two employers norah had distinct preference for the old lady, mrs baker. she was of a more lovable nature than the voluble miss mellor, and, moreover, as she herself had announced--she had a nephew! the nephew was a handsome, well-set-up man of thirty, who possessed considerable culture and refinement, and a most ingratiating kindliness of demeanour towards his homely old aunt. the first sunday after norah entered upon her duties, young mr baker did not call at berrington square; on the second sunday he came to midday dinner; on the third, he met the two ladies at the church door after morning service, and remained with them for the whole of the afternoon; on the fourth, he was already seated in the pew when they entered the church, and he persisted in these good habits until it became a matter of course that he should spend the whole day in berrington square, as norah herself had done from the beginning of her engagement. in the afternoon mrs baker would invariably make the hospitable suggestion that "if john liked" he could descend to a chill, fireless room in the basement to indulge in an after-dinner weed, but john refused to move until miss boyce had given her repetition of the morning's service. he said that he was afraid she might forget an important point, in which case he should be at hand to jog her memory. "john is so thoughtful!" said his aunt proudly. as a matter of fact, john never once volunteered a suggestion on any one of these occasions. he seemed to be fully occupied in using his eyes and ears, and in truth it was both a pretty and touching sight to see the young fresh face bent close to the withered countenance of the deaf old woman, and to listen to the thrush-like tones of the girl's voice, as with a sweet and simple eloquence she gave her brief resume of the morning's sermon. the old lady nodded and wagged her head to enforce the points, while the tears trickled down her cheeks. from time to time john also would take a promenade to the window, and clear his throat loudly as he stared at the dusty trees. strange how much more powerful those sermons appeared in the repetition! after the recital was over, young mr baker would take miss boyce to examine the ferns in the tiny conservatory, while his aunt enjoyed her forty winks; in the evening he escorted her back to her lodgings. he was a most attentive young man! in mrs baker's opinion "john" was infallible, and by and by norah became so much infected with this view that her afternoon's occupation became fraught with misery, as she thought of what "john" would say if he knew to what heresies she was lending her ears. one sunday afternoon returning to the berrington square drawing-room after a short absence, she overheard a few words which sent an added pang through her heart. "--most fortunate indeed!" john was saying. "you might have searched the world over, and not found another like her. i had begun to fear that the type was extinct. a sweet, modest, old-fashioned girl!" that evening norah wet her pillow with her tears, and astonished the advanced lady the next afternoon by contradicting assertions, and raising up objections in a most unprecedented fashion. these signs of backsliding were very distressing to miss mellor, who had been encouraged by her companion's unfailing acquiescence to imagine herself unanswerable in argument, but she was encouraged to believe that example might perhaps accomplish what precept had failed to inspire. "you will, i know, rejoice with me on a great honour which has been conferred upon me by my fellow-workers," she announced proudly one day. "i have been promoted from the reserves to a foremost position in the fighting line. i am nominated for active service on friday next!" norah's eyes were exceptionally large and expressive, and the saucer-like stare of curiosity which she turned upon the speaker was very gratifying to that good lady's feelings. "on friday evening. at the albert hall. the chancellor is to speak. we shall be there. twenty are nominated for service. _i_ am number nine!" norah stared harder than ever. this sounded rather perilously like the story of a nihilist plot which she had read in a shilling shocker some weeks before. she had visions of bomb explosions and wholesale arrests, and, as ever, the thought of john obtruded itself into the foreground of her mind. what would john think if miss mellor were arrested, and gave the name of norah boyce as her chosen friend and confidante? "number nine, for _what_?" she gasped nervously, and miss mellor was hurried into unthinking reply: "for screaming--i mean protesting. the first eight champions will raise their voices in rotation. they will be silenced, probably ejected. then it will be my turn." "ejected!" norah looked scared. "turned out. oh-h! how dreadful! they will seize hold of you--men will seize hold of you, and pull and drag. they will pinch your arms... it must be horrid to be pinched!" "what would have become of the world if other great reformers had ceased their struggles through dread of being pinched?" demanded miss mellor sternly; and norah felt snubbed, and looked it. she had no courage left for further argument. on the next friday afternoon norah took her way to the flat to accompany her fighting employer on the walk abroad which should invigorate her for the evening's fray, but to her dismay found the good lady stretched upon the sofa, very flushed as to face, and husky as to voice. "it is quinsy," she announced. "i'm subject to it. i felt it coming on, but i would not give in. i have gargled and fomented all morning, but it is too late. i couldn't scream to save my life. it's a terrible, terrible disappointment, but i am thankful that i need not upset the committee's plans. you shall take my place!" "i?" cried norah shrilly. "no, no--i can't! i couldn't--i wouldn't-- not for anything in the whole wide world! call out before a whole meeting, have them all staring at me, strange men catching hold of me, dragging my sleeves, crushing my hat--_never_! i'd sooner die!" "then," croaked miss mellor hoarsely, "i shall go myself!" and from this point she refused to budge. she was ill; in the natural course of events she would grow worse; if she went out into the damp and the cold, and endured the excitement of a crowded political meeting, she would most certainly be very ill indeed; but she had promised; she could not disappoint the committee at the eleventh hour; she had no energy to seek further for a substitute. then her voice took a pathetic turn, and she sighed feebly. "i have been kind to you, norah. i have tried to be your friend. danvers (the maid) would accompany you to the hall. you have nothing to do but to sit still and interrupt when your turn arrives. how can you be so selfish and unkind?" as time went on and argument and appeal alike failed to move miss mellor from her position, a paralysis of helplessness seized norah in its grip. she knew that in the end she would be compelled to consent, for of two horrifying alternatives it seemed the least to dare a certain amount of buffeting for herself, rather than allow another woman to run the risk of serious, even fatal, consequences. at nine o'clock that evening, then, behold a trembling and faint-hearted number nine seated at the end of one of the rows of stalls at the albert hall, the faithful danvers by her side, listening with all her ears, not to the eloquence of the chancellor of the exchequer, but to the shrill interruptions from feminine tongues which punctuated his utterances. numbers one and two had been escorted from the gallery by indulgent, if somewhat contemptuous, stewards. numbers pour and five had received less consideration; number six had been undeniably hustled; number seven had squealed aloud. norah realised with a dread sinking of the heart that the temper of the meeting was rising, and that each fresh disturber of the peace would receive less consideration. only one more, and then... the great building whirled before her eyes, the faces on the platform became faint and blurred, her heart pounded so loudly that it seemed impossible that her neighbours should not hear its thuds. she turned her head to look at the nearest door and examine the faces of the group of stewards waiting in readiness at its portal. were they _very_ big, _very_ fierce, _very_ formidable? which of the number would be the first to tear her from her seat? her pretty face was blanched and drawn beneath her flower-wreathed hat; one of the stewards meeting her glance moved forward to her side with a stifled exclamation of dismay. he bent low over her, whispering in her ear: "miss boyce! what are you doing here? are you alone? you ought not to be here without a man to look after you. it is getting too noisy--too excited. if there are any more interruptions things will become dangerous. let me take you out quietly, while there is time--" john baker, by all that was confounding and terrible! john, the last man on earth whom she would have wished to witness her humiliation! john, who had called her a "modest, old-fashioned girl." ... it was the last straw to poor norah's composure; her fluttering heart gave one sickening leap, and then appeared to stop altogether; she held out her hands with a feeble, despairing gesture, and collapsed in a limp little heap in john baker's arms. when norah came back to consciousness she was lying on a form in a bare, boarded room, and john was engaged in sprinkling water from a water-jug over the front of her best silk blouse. she sat up hastily, brushed the hair from her forehead, and stared around with bewildered eyes. a roar of applause from the great hall broke the silence, and brought back struggling remembrance. "did you--did you turn me out?" "i _carried_ you out! you fainted, and i brought you in here. it was no wonder; you were not accustomed to such sights. did you imagine in your faintness that you had been turned out like those other screaming women, you poor little frightened girl?" asked john's big voice in its most caressing tones. norah shivered with dismay. "i was--i am--i mean i _should_ have been, if i had stayed five minutes longer! i'm number nine!" she cried; and then seeing john's stare of stupefied dismay, promptly threw up her hands to her face, and burst into weak-minded tears. "oh--oh! what _will_ you think of me--what _will_ you say!--i was obliged to earn some money--and half a crown a day was not enough,--mrs baker gives me half a crown. i--i go to another lady in the afternoons, and she is a suffragette. she is very kind to me, and very patient, because i'm stupid, and can't understand, and--and i don't seem to care! i don't _want_ a vote, but she was number nine to-night, and she is ill--her throat is very bad, she might be dangerously ill if she came out. she would only stay at home if i promised to take her place, and, she has been very kind.--i promised, and now i've failed. i was too terribly frightened. and then i saw your face... oh, what _do_ you think of me?" but john baker refused to give any expression of opinion. all he said was: "half a crown a day! she offered you _that_! oh, my poor little girl!" and his voice was so low and tender that at the sound of it norah sobbed afresh. "don't cry. put on your hat. i will take you into the air, and drive you home in a taxi. you will feel better in the air," said john quietly. he gave her his arm, and escorted her into the corridor, and as they walked along, another roar sounded from within the precincts of the hall, and through an open doorway shot a dishevelled female form, struggling in the grasp of half a dozen stewards. danvers herself! the faithful danvers, who, seeing the collapse of her mistress' proxy, had gallantly taken upon herself the duties of number nine. norah shuddered, and grasped more tightly john's protecting arm. "oh, what _must_ you think of me?" she demanded once more; and john, looking down at her as they reached the cool air of the street, replied sturdily: "i think that no woman can serve two masters. can't you make up your mind to take _one_ instead?" chapter eleven. the after years. fifteen years had come and gone. the men and women who had sat round the fire on that memorable new year's eve in mrs ingram's hospitable country manor, had left youth behind, and entered upon the strenuous term of middle age, while their host and hostess had reached a stage still further on the downward path, and frankly ranged themselves among the old. fifteen years ago! and now once more the end of the year was approaching, and mr ingram and his wife were discussing their plans for the festive season. it was a very frail woman who lay back against the cushions of her chair, and to her husband all outside considerations were as naught compared with the necessity of screening her from undue exertion. "forget that it is christmas time, that's the best thing you can do! all your life you have worked and schemed to give other people pleasure, now you must take it easy, and let them have a turn for a change. no christmas presents, no village treats, no house-party over the new year. you and i will have a quiet resting time, and think of nobody but ourselves." his wife smiled, her fine, delicate smile, and stretched out her hand to meet his. "foolish man!" she said softly. "what folly you do talk! the christmas presents are _ready_, dear. i begin collecting them each january, as soon as the last batch is out of the way, and it would break my heart to disappoint the villagers of their treat; but i'll be very good, and leave the whole of the arrangements to the vicar. that's a concession made entirely to please you. i want to please you, because as regards the house-party i am going to ask _you_ to give in to me! i'd been planning a very special gathering for this year. please, dear, don't say no! it would be such a great interest. i want to ask all the members of that heart's desire party of fifteen years ago--all that are left, that's to say, and sit over the fire together as we did then, for the first hour of the new year, and talk over our different experiences. i have thought of it for the last three or four years, but something has always come in the way, and now--now i would rather not postpone it again." her husband knew the meaning of that unwillingness. she was thinking that she might not live to see another new year, and the knowledge was enough to stifle any objections which he might have made. "you shall do as you choose, dearest," he said softly. "i ask only that you should spare yourself. you must spend the mornings in your own room, and then you will be able to enjoy your guests for the rest of the day." he was silent for a few minutes, gazing into the heart of the fire. "it is one thing to wish," he said at last, "and another to confess what has really happened. i wonder if they _will_ confess!" "probably--not!" mrs ingram said. "we may be sure of one thing at least, that the happenings which went deepest will never be put into words. all the same we shall know. it is not only by speech that the heart tells its secrets, hubert!" "but the ordinary man judges only by his ears. his eyes are holden that he cannot see." "ah, well," sighed mrs ingram softly, "there's an instinct that is truer than sight!" her husband pressed her hand, but did not answer. he knew well that his wife possessed a wonderful heart-vision which could pierce beneath the deceptions of surface appearance, down to the truth beneath; but this was a plane to which he could not follow; and in truth he could not trust himself to discuss it. this dearly loved wife had always been of an unusual exalted character, and with the decline of bodily health, she seemed to cast from her one by one the hindering frailties of the flesh, and to become ever more spiritual and crystalline. he reverenced, he worshipped, but--he feared! a spirit so fine seemed out of place on this gross earth. but, thank god! the old gaiety was not dead, and her laugh rang clear as ever as a few minutes later he brought a writing-table to her side, and they embarked upon the work of tracing old friends under new conditions. mr ingram would have been hard put to it to remember the names alone of all who had been present on the historic occasion, but his wife's diary supplied an account not only of these, but of manners and appearance, with a surprisingly verbatim record of what each person had said. she had the memory which records words, and now as she read over one pronouncement after another, something of her own keenness entered into her husband's manner. "by jove, you have a memory! it all comes back as i hear you reading-- the very words--the very expressions. i can see claudia sitting in that chair, telling us about the rich cousin who sent her cast-off clothes, and looking so wonderfully pretty and sparkling. ah, poor claudia! well--one is bound to come up against tragedy, if one follows the happenings of nine lives for fifteen years. all things considered, i think we have less of it than might have been expected. who comes next on the list? norah boyce, eh? we shan't have norah, since that clever husband of hers has got this appointment in canada; but we know at least that things go well with her. nice little norah! she deserved her good luck. and then comes lilith wastneys. no need to look up her address, eh? care of the rt. hon. hereward lowther, would reach her the world over. and john harely malham! these friends of yours have developed into very great personages, dear! do you think they will care to accept invitations from simple country dwellers like ourselves?" "i shall send them invitations, and i think they will come," mrs ingram said quietly. people had a way of doing what she wished, which seemed the more extraordinary as she never argued nor persuaded. "those two are our only notables; the others are leading quite ordinary lives, so ordinary that we shall have to resort to the directory to trace one or two. i have not heard of francis manning for years." "manning, manning! which was manning? the man who was in such a dickens of a hurry to get himself into trouble?" "no, that was val lessing. val is quite a prosperous city man now. he sends me a christmas card every year. francis manning was the big, lazy creature who couldn't think of anything he wanted so much as to be let alone, to jog along in comfort. i have heard nothing of him since he wrote years ago to tell me of his marriage. i sent him a present." "i'll bet you did!" commented her husband, laughing. "oh, well, we can easily track mr manning. then there comes juliet! there's no difficulty about juliet. let me see! what was it that juliet wished for?" "adventure!" mrs ingram said, and they both smiled. "so juliet wished for adventure, did she? well! well!" cried mr ingram nodding. "_how_ many inches should you say she measures round the waist at the present moment?" but at this his wife protested strongly. "too bad! too bad! why should the mere fact of being stout make it seem ridiculous for a woman to have a share in romance or excitement? i'm not going to allow you to laugh at juliet. wait at least until you have heard what she has to say. now we come to the last on the list-- rupert dempster, rupert who wished for love." "i remember," said her husband shortly. many things that had happened on that evening had faded from memory, but the shock occasioned by rupert's unexpected confession had impressed it on his mind. in imagination he could see the firelight playing upon the tired face, and hear the strong, quiet tone speaking of his ideal love, the primal, overmastering affinity of mind for mind, soul for soul, body for body. and it was this rupert dempster who had married a woman admittedly insane! rumour said that she had to a great extent regained her reason, but still... mr ingram registered a hope that dempster and his wife would not accept his wife's invitation for new year's eve! it was new year's eve, and throughout the afternoon one batch of visitors after another drove up to the door of the manor. some had travelled by train, some by motor, and each guest in turn was received by the hostess, welcomed with her inimitable charm, and escorted to the rooms apportioned to them, where tea was served instead of in the hall downstairs, as was the usual custom in the household. it did not satisfy mrs ingram's dramatic sense that her guests should meet one by one; she preferred to postpone the moment until they met _en masse_ round the dinner table later on. six invitations had been sent out, and in due time six replies came back. some were affectionate in tone, others politely formal, some implied a willingness to stay as long as they should be asked; others regretted that one day only could be spared; but so far as the anniversary itself was concerned, each of the six notes brought the acceptance which mrs ingram had so confidently expected. by six o'clock that evening six of the surviving members of the original party were once more gathered together beneath the roof of the manor. it was just eight o'clock when the sound of the gong pealed through the house, and mr and mrs ingram took their stand in the great hall, to watch the procession of their guests down the stairway. first of all came a tall man, muscular and healthy, a typical country squire, the sunburn of his skin showing in marked contrast to his white shirt and waistcoat. a handsome man, with an air of agreeable content, and beside him a stout matron, her large face wreathed in smiles, her dress a handsome creation of the year before last. behind her, creeping close to the wall, a plain, insignificant woman trailed a robe of magnificent gold brocade, while the glitter of diamonds on neck and head lent an additional wanness to the pinched face. this was the lady anne malham, and by her side walked the husband whose success in life had made him a world-known figure. the large head, and hawk-like features had been so often represented in the press that the public recognised him at a glance, but few of those who studied the weary face realised that this was a man who had not yet seen his forty-fifth year. there was no lingering trace of youth on the face of john malham, millionaire! behind the malhams came yet another couple: the woman's left hand rested lightly on the banister, while on the inner side of the stairway, her husband slipped his arm through hers, as though to afford a double security to her descent. slim, ethereally transparent, her white shoulders rising above a dress of misty black, a carmine flush staining the soft oval of her cheeks, eve dempster appeared more like a beautiful wraith than a woman of flesh and blood. the years had brought to her none of the ordinary signs of age; as though loath to mar so exquisite a creature, they had passed by, leaving behind nothing but an air of additional transparence and fragility to mark their course. rupert, on the contrary, looked more than his age. his face was lined as by a ceaseless anxiety, but in his eyes there was a great content. eve dempster's long, misty train floated so far behind as to necessitate a gap in the descent of the guests. the gap, and the isolated position which she occupied as the first of the guests to descend in single file, threw into greater prominence the stolid, ungainly figure of mrs francis manning, clad in a satin gown of a violent shade of blue. her light hair was elaborately waved and dressed in the latest eccentricity of the day; tight white kid gloves came to an end half-way up her reddened arms. she looked what she was, a middle-class matron of the suburbs, divided between pride and embarrassment in her present position. her husband followed close behind, large, heavily built, with clean-shaven face, patient, saddened, strikingly controlled. mrs ingram, watching from the hall beneath, felt a smarting of the eyes as she looked at that face, and remembered the torpid complacence of the days that were gone! the next couple were in appearance perhaps the most normal of any. a man too alert and supple to be yet classed as middle-aged, a pretty, soft-eyed woman, with humorous lips, and a graceful head poised at an angle which suggested an agreeable touch of coquetry; a woman whose spirit remained young; a woman who retained the power to charm, though the dreaded forty hovered but a few years ahead. and then, last of all, sweeping downwards with the indefinable air of those accustomed to high places, came the guests of honour, the rt. hon. hereward lowther, and lilith, his wife. the minister was smiling, and the smile showed him at his best. a physiognomist would have read in his face a curious mingling of weakness and strength but the old shadow was replaced by a radiant complacence, and there was a touch of obvious though perfectly good-natured condescension in his bearing as he surveyed the group in the hall. he was ready to be all that was agreeable to his wife's old friends, but he expected that in their turn they would appreciate the honour paid by his presence. as for lilith herself, a murmur of incredulity arose from the watchers as she stepped into sight, so extraordinarily like the lilith of old did she appear. the pale hair was twisted round the head in identically the same fashion as of yore, the white satin dress, with the swathing of tulle round the shoulders, followed the same natural lines. there was no glitter of gems, but val lessing noticed with a thrill of remembrance that round her throat there were ropes of pearls,--lustrous, shimmering pearls, for which a man might venture his life. in the shaded light of the lamps there were no lines to be seen on the quiet face. it seemed impossible to believe that fifteen long years had passed by since that white-robed figure had last descended that staircase! a few moments of merry greetings and laughter, of introductions by host and hostess, and then the house-party once more formed into pairs, filed into the dining-room, and took their places round the festive board. it was a long and elaborate meal which followed, and in the drawing-room afterwards the guests found a delightful entertainment provided for their benefit. the days were over when dancing appealed as an ideal manner of passing the time; to-night the guests sat still and were amused by others, and as the hour of twelve drew nigh, watched the performance of an exquisite little masque of the seasons, in which the old year and the new played the leading characters. more than one person suspected the authorship of that masque, and recognised another instance of mrs ingram's generalship, in tuning the minds of the hearers to a desired note, before the moment of the conference arrived. they stood together in the great hall, hand in hand, waiting for the striking of the hour from the church tower, men and women, where before had stood youths and maidens; together, as the last note died away, they turned back to the fire, and seated themselves in the circling chairs, but when they were all seated there were still two chairs which remained vacant. to the majority of the company the presence of these chairs appeared the most meaningless of incidents; two only of the number divined their significance,--rupert dempster and the squire's stout, prosaic-looking wife. as usual it was the woman who put her thoughts into words: "ah, poor claudia! poor meriel!" she sighed softly. "how little we thought that they would be absent when we met again! and such tragic fates... that beautiful claudia! can you remember how she sat that night, making her naughty, audacious speeches, and looking so sweet and bewitching all the time that one could not believe that she meant half she said. but she _did_, or how could she have married that man? meriel was staying with her, at the time that she first--found out! she persuaded her to see the specialist. claudia _dared_ not tell her husband. to the very last she braved it out. one would not have expected her to have such courage! and when he did know, he went straight away and never saw her again. she would see no one. she lived alone with her nurses until the end. poor claudia! she wished for great riches, and she got them, but--" "pound bitterness to her soul! yes. that is the reward of seeking the worthless thing," mrs ingram said quietly. "claudia had a few years given to her to taste the power of money, and a few years more to test its helplessness. she learned many lessons, poor child, in that hidden room. i sent for one of her nurses after she died. the woman cried bitterly when she spoke of her. she said she had never had a patient who was more thoughtful and considerate. i was thankful to know that the poor child had had someone with her who really loved and sympathised." there was a tense silence. the pathos of claudia's fate lay heavy upon those who remembered her in the flush of her youthful triumph, and with that other name, too, was the connection of tragedy. "and meriel! meriel wished for happiness," francis manning said slowly. "she was shipwrecked, wasn't she, when she was sailing to india with some friends?" "with geoffrey sterne and his wife," val lessing told him. "my sister kept up a correspondence with her for some years, and i heard from her. they had both been at school with mrs sterne. she appeared to lose her health after the marriage, but while meriel was paying her first visit it was discovered that the real trouble was--drink! there's no harm speaking of it now, for later on it became public property, but at the time they hoped for a cure, and the great object was to let no one suspect. she was fond of meriel and begged her to stay on, in the place of a hired nurse, and meriel was a lonely creature. she told my sister that she was thankful to find someone who needed her. but she had a hard time. all the trouble, and isolation, and patience, and--_hastiness_, for nothing! it was a hopeless case, and grew steadily worse and worse. meriel left off writing during that time, but my sister said that even before that her letters had grown awfully sad... then they sailed for india, i suppose to try what the change would do, and there was a collision. some of the passengers got away in boats and were saved--meriel refused to leave. some of the passengers told how they had seen sterne trying to persuade her; but she would not leave." there was another silence. with one accord the guests looked at mrs ingram, and she recognised the meaning of that look, shook her head, and held out her hands with a gesture of helplessness. "you are thinking that my theory has failed, and that meriel found none of the happiness for which she longed. yes! it sounds like it. her youth spent in isolation, with a drunken woman as companion, and the result of it all--failure! i don't deny it, dear people. i don't argue. on the surface it's a pitiful tale, but we know only the surface. no one can read the secrets of meriel's heart. she was happy in one thing, at least--that the time of her loneliness was short, and i think there are none among you who will deny that meriel is happy _now_. whatever may be your creeds, you will agree that such brave, unselfish giving is a garnering of wealth for the life that is to come. we may be satisfied that meriel has come into her kingdom!" she paused just for a moment, then with a challenging smile turned towards val lessing, who sat on her right. the conversation had taken a pensive turn, and with the generalship of a born hostess she was ready to switch it back into a livelier channel. among all the couples who were present none looked more absolutely sane and satisfied than val and his wife. val could obviously be trusted to give a cheerful report. "well, val, what have you to tell us? was fate kind or unkind enough to lead you through any perilous seas before you reached your present very sunshiny haven?" val bent his head in acknowledgment of the compliment. there was a tinge of embarrassment on his face; he glanced across the hearth at his wife, and as quickly averted his eyes. "w-e-ll," he said slowly, "i think i may say that it _was_! i had an experience of er--what appeared at the time to be a very--er--acute danger. it lasted for some four or five weeks, and then was--er-- relieved in a somewhat remarkable manner. you will excuse the details. i have only to confess that the experience taught me the most useful lesson of my life--to appreciate the blessings of safety! i don't deny that in the course of that experience there were moments of excitement which i intensely enjoyed, but on the whole i discovered that it is much more agreeable to live in peace." he paused for a moment, and into his eyes there leaped a delightful smile. "i may add," he said dryly, "that my wife has relieved me of one great dread. she is good enough to provide a spice of uncertainty, which makes it impossible that i shall ever have to complain of monotony in life!" everyone looked at delia, and delia flicked her long eyelashes, and stared into space with an expression of angelic innocence. but a dimple dipped in her cheek. delia at thirty-eight was still a minx. there was more than one man in the room who envied lessing the possession of his delightful wife! the general laugh subsided, and mrs ingram turned to the squire's wife. "so much for danger!" she said smiling. "now, juliet, what have you to report of adventure? your friends will remember how impatiently you were straining at your bonds. has the adventure really come along?" more than one of the listeners felt it an effort at that moment to repress a smile, so exceedingly unadventurous was the appearance of the portly dame. perhaps she felt the covert amusement, for there was a note of defiance in her voice as she took up the challenge. "yes, it _did_," she said emphatically. "it most certainly did, and i have to thank you, dear mrs ingram, for making me--er--_receptive_--so that when the opportunity arose, i was ready to take it. before our talk here fifteen years ago, i had drifted into the belief that nothing adventurous or interesting could ever happen to me, and that i must just resign myself to be bored. after that i changed my way of thinking, and expected the chance to come. i am like mr lessing--i prefer not to give you any details, but i think i am quite safe in saying that no other woman ever met her husband in the extraordinary circumstances under which i met mine. it was very adventurous indeed, and we were engaged--oh, at once, and married in a month, and after my husband's service abroad we settled down in the dear old house where we are still living with our six children." she paused, and looked around with a warning air. "please don't murmur sympathetically! whenever i say `six,' people always murmur sympathetically, and it's so misplaced. it's just what we wanted--_lots_ of little heads round the table. five sturdy boys, and one little girl." "well, at any rate, you can't have much adventure now!" it was mrs francis manning who spoke, the faint cockney twang of her voice sounding discordantly in contrast to the cultured tones of her companions. "children are such a tie. we have four, and i never seem to have a free hour. and to live in the country, too. it's a good thing you had some adventure when you were young, for there's no chance of it now." "i deny it!" cried juliet, hotly. "i deny it. can anything in the world be more adventurous than to start a new home, and a new generation, to have six young lives entrusted to one to train for the world's service? think what those six lives may mean, multiplying into fresh lives, spreading influence wherever they go! there are no such adventures in life, as marriage and parent-ship, if one can only see them in the right light, and keep on seeing..." she gave a little laugh, half shy, half apologetic, a trifle ashamed of her own intensity. "ah, well! it's adventurous enough to have a pack of boys who ate learning to ride, learning to shoot, trying to copy everything that their father can do to-day, hobbling home almost every day of the week with cuts and bruises, and breaks and sprains. i have all the adventure that i need, and,--what shall i say? only this, that i enjoy it even more than i expected!" she stopped, panting, and her husband smiled at her across the room, and silently clapped his hands. "i beg to second the motion!" he said gravely, and there was a general stir of laughter. it was pleasant to meet a couple of the good old-fashioned type which was yearly becoming more rare. every person in the room felt a sincere respect for captain and mrs antony maplestone. "well, of course--if you put it like that," said mrs manning doubtfully, "i'm sure i've always done my best to be a good mother, and the girls go to school now, which makes it easier, but with the boy being blind--well, naturally, it's a tie! my husband tells me he wished for comfort, and there's no doubt but he's got it. we're not rich, of course, but comfortable, quite comfortable. he's only to express a wish, and it's there for him, and i keep a first-rate cook. but as i said to him only to-day, he doesn't give himself a chance. always slaving and worrying for someone else, particularly for the boy, even now when he is getting quite big, and able to do for himself. it's wonderful how clever blind people become! of course we all want to be helpful, but, as i say, there _is_ a medium course, and everyone notices how frank has altered these last years. if you remember he used to be quite stout--" "please, marion! spare my blushes. i am perfectly well, and my greatest pleasure is looking after the boy." francis manning spoke with quiet self-possession, nevertheless his hearers divined a hidden wound, and unanimously forbore from comment, but those who had known the man fifteen years before, marvelled at the change which had come over his whole personality. it was more than a change; it was a transfiguration. what trumpet-call had sounded in this man's ears to rouse him from his sleep? mrs ingram looked around and met the glance of john malham, millionaire, leaning back in his chair with his head supported on his hand. of all the men in the room he looked the most worn and exhausted, and she wondered if perchance at this very moment his tired brain was evolving another titan scheme by which fresh coffers could be added to his store. her smile had more of pity than envy as she addressed him: "mr malham, it is unnecessary to ask your report! all the world knows how you have succeeded. it only remains for your old friends to congratulate you, and wish you a continuance of your success." "thanks very much, mrs ingram. it is a great pleasure to be here, and to meet you all again. i only wish i could have managed to make a longer stay." malham was obviously ill at ease, obviously annoyed when his wife took up the strain, and in her flat voice proceeded to enlarge on her husband's marvellous powers. with the obvious intention of avoiding the ordeal he bent forward towards juliet, and pointing to a miniature which hung from her neck, said in a low voice, "is that one of the six? the little girl? may i see?" juliet beamed broadly as she held out the pearl-rimmed case containing a pretty round young face. "and you? how many have you?" "none," he said shortly, and juliet hurried to retrieve her mistake. "yes. that's the girl. a great pet, of course. i called her celia. her father thought it too fanciful, but he had had his own way about the boys, so i insisted on it. it's such a pretty name, so sweet and winsome--don't you think so? and uncommon. one meets so many gladyses and phyllises, but so seldom a celia. did you ever know a celia?" she looked at him, and the motherly smile faded at sight of his tortured face. "yes. i knew a celia," he said thickly, and juliet looked hurriedly in another direction, her heart leaping to a swift conclusion. "he loved a girl called celia, and she died, and he married lady anne for her position. all his success has not brought him happiness. oh, the poor, _poor_ man!" meantime lady anne's voice had trailed into silence, and rupert dempster was answering mrs ingram's unspoken summons. like manning he had but little to say, but there was all the difference in the world in his manner of saying it. "i wished for eve," he said simply. "here she is!" and again he slipped his hand through his wife's arm. as a matter of course he had seated himself by her side; as a matter of course eve had looked for his coming. for all their friendliness and courtesy, there was about these two an air of detachment from their surroundings, an air of living apart in a world of their own, fenced round with an ambuscade through which no darts could pass. the affectionate camaraderie of the lessings and maplestones was a good and pleasant thing to witness, but the bond which bound these two was finer, more exalted. eve's eyes were deep and luminous at that moment, but their beautiful glance held no remembrance of her companions. all her thought was for her man. "ah, rupert, yes! you have gained your wish!" mrs ingram said deeply. she looked at the two as they sat side by side, and a reflection of their own radiance showed in her own face. "it was a great wish," she said, "a wish that was worth while, for your treasure can never be taken away. death itself is powerless to divide your souls. dear rupert, i am glad for you. we are all glad! it is good to have you among us to-day..." hereward lowther bent forward in his seat, the firelight playing on his eager, animated face. throughout the evening he had worn an air of expectancy, and now he burst eagerly into speech. "mrs ingram, i have to thank you for a tremendously interesting evening. my wife told me that she had a special reason for wishing to accept your invitation. i understood that we were to celebrate some sort of anniversary, but as old friends you will remember that she is chary of words, and i was entirely ignorant of its nature. i have been intensely interested in the history of the various wishes, but i confess that my chief feeling has been curiosity. please tell me! what was my wife's wish?" mrs ingram looked at the corner by the fireplace where for the last hour a white figure sat, silent, immovable, her face shadowed by an outstanding beam. even so fifteen years ago had the girl lilith wastneys watched and waited, until at her hostess's summons she had moved softly forward to make her extraordinary pronouncement. the remembrance of that moment was vivid in the minds of her old friends, as mrs ingram answered: "lilith," she said deliberately, "wished for power." the next moment the silence was broken by a peal of laughter. it was hereward lowther who laughed, giving way to a gust of amusement with the boy-like unrestraint which still characterised his moods. he threw back his head, he clasped his knees, he opened his mouth and let the loud ha-ha's echo through the hall. in a very paroxysm of amusement he repeated the word, over and again, and between each repetition, swayed with fresh laughter. "power! lilith? lilith wished for power? of all the inexplicable wishes! i might have guessed for months but i should never have guessed that. lilith? the most humble and retiring of women. look at her now! that's where she would always be, if she were not driven forward,-- hiding in some out-of-the-way corner. and you tell me that she wished for _power_? when was that--fifteen years ago? and we have been married for twelve... how extraordinarily she must have changed!" through eight different minds the reflection was passing, how extraordinarily lilith remained the same, but it did not become mere friends to contradict the verdict of a husband, so they remained silent, and, his outburst of amusement over, hereward lowther vouchsafed a more serious attention to the problem. "well!" he said thoughtfully, "we may say that vicariously she has gained her wish. as my wife--" he checked himself as though fearful of seeming to boast, and added quickly, "i should be delighted to feel that i have been able to provide lilith with anything for which she wished!" lilith bent forward and sent him a smile of acknowledgment. then her eyes travelled round the circle and rested on her hostess's face. the two women looked at one another long and steadily and a flush rose into mrs ingram's cheeks. "i think," she said quietly, "i must reckon lilith among my successes. mr lowther, may i tell you how proud my husband and i feel to number you among our guests to-night? ordinary people who can only stand by and watch feel a profound gratitude to workers like yourself, who are types of all that is honourable and disinterested. england owes you a great debt to-day." every man present joined in a murmur of assent, for though political opinions differed, one and all acknowledged the singleness of lowther's aim. across one or two minds flitted a remembrance of the tragic eclipse which had marked the statesman's early career, but in each case the remembrance brought with it an increased admiration. not one man in a thousand would have had the power to climb out of so deep a ditch! and now, one by one, the nine histories had been discussed, and the company instinctively drew their chairs nearer the fire, watching with questioning eagerness the eloquent face of the woman whose words had had so large a bearing on their lives. here she was, an old woman now, worn to the point of breaking, yet vital, as ever, with the flame of an encompassing sympathy. "ah, dear people," she sighed, "dear people, it is so good to meet you again! i am so grateful to you for coming. the remembrance of this night will be company for me during many quiet days. i shall have much to think over, but at present i am conscious only of one thing--that my prophecy is true, is almost _terribly_ true! we are only faintly beginning to understand the real power of steady, concentrated will. the thing that a man aims for, with a strong, single, undeviating aim, that thing, sooner or later, _a man can have_! so much is certain, but i blame myself for not insisting more upon the initial question. _is it worth while_? oh, dear people, so often our ambitions are _not_ worth while. an aim which is to ride dominant over every call, an aim for which all hindrances are to be cast aside, must needs have a spiritual nature, if it is to satisfy a spiritual being. in the days to come, teach your children the importance of this great decision; teach them their power, but be sure, be very sure, to teach them to think long and earnestly, lest in their blindness they choose the dross, and go starving all their days!" john malham leaned back in his chair, so that his face was in the shadow. francis manning's eyes gazed deeply into space. across the silence broke the harp-like tones of eve dempster's voice: "mrs ingram, you have gained your own wish. it is written in your face that it was worth while. will you tell us what it was?" the hostess looked down at her thin, locked hands. her voice trembled, as she slowly recited her answer, dwelling with eloquent emphasis on one of the earlier words: "i have--learned--in whatever state i am, therewith to be content!" the end. http://www.freeliterature.org (images generously made available by the internet archive.) the decameron containing an hundred pleasant novels. _wittily discoursed, betweene seaven honourable ladies, and three noble gentlemen._ london, printed by isaac jaggard, . the epistle dedicatory. to the right honourable, sir phillip herbert, knight of the bath at the coronation of our soveraigne lord king james, lord baron of sherland, earle of montgomery, and knight of the most noble order of the garter, &c. _the philosopher zeno (right honourable, and my most worthily esteemed lord) being demaunded on a time by what meanes a man might attaine to happinesse; made answere:_ by resorting to the dead, and having familiar conversation with them. _intimating thereby:_ the reading of ancient and moderne histories, and endeavouring to learne such good instructions, as have bene observed in our predecessors. _a question also was mooved by great king_ ptolomy, _to one of the learned wise interpreters. in what occasions a king should exercise himselfe, whereto thus hee replyed:_ to know those things which formerly have bin done: and to read bookes of those matters which offer themselves dayly, or are fittest for our instant affaires. and lastly, in seeking those things whatsoever, that make for a kingdomes preservation, and the correction of evill manners or examples. _upon these good and warrantable grounds (most noble lord) beside many more of the same nature, which i omit, to avoide prolixity, i dare boldly affirme, that such as are exercised in the reading of histories, although they seeme to be but yong in yeares, and slenderly instructed in worldly matters: yet gravity and gray-headed age speaketh maturely in them, to the no meane admiration of common and vulgar judgement. as contrariwise, such as are ignorant of things done and past, before themselves had any being: continue still in the estate of children, able to speake or behave themselves no otherwise; and, even within the bounds of their native countries (in respect of knowledge or manly capacity) they are no more then well-seeming dumbe images. in due consideration of the precedent allegations, and uppon the command, as also most noble encouragement of your honour from time to time; this volume of singular and exquisite histories, varied into so many and exact natures, appeareth in the worlds view, under your noble patronage and defence, to be safely sheelded from foule-mouthed slander and detraction, which is too easily throwne upon the very best deserving labours. i know (most worthy lord) that many of them have (long since) bene published before, as stolne from the first originall author, and yet not beautified with his sweete stile and elocution of phrases, neither favouring of his singular morall applications. for, as it was his full scope and ayme, by discovering all vices in their ugly deformities, to make their mortall enemies (the sacred vertues) to shine the clearer, being set downe by them, and compared with them: so every true and upright judgement, in observing the course of these well-carried novels, shall plainly perceive, that there is no spare made of reproofe in any degree whatsoever, where sin is embraced, and grace neglected; but the just deserving shame and punishment thereon inflicted, that others may be warned by their example. in imitation of witty_ Æsope; _who reciteth not a fable, but graceth it with a judicious morall application; as many other worthy writers have done the like. for instance, let me heere insert one. a poore man, having a pike staffe on his shoulder, and travailing thorow a countrey village, a great mastive curre ran mainly at him, so that hardly he could defend himselfe from him. at the length, it was his chance to kill the dogge: for which, the owner immediately apprehending him, and bringing him before the judge, alledged, that he had slaine his servant, which defended his life, house, and goods, and therefore challenged satisfaction. the judge leaning more in favour to the plaintiffe, as being his friend, neighbour, and familiar, then to the justice and equity of the cause; reprooved the poore fellow somewhat sharpely, and peremptorily commanded him, to make satisfaction, or else he would commit him to prison. that were injustice replyed the poore man, because i kilde the dogge in defence of mine owne life, which deserveth much better respect then a million of such curres. sirra, sirra, saide the judge, then you should have turned the other end of your staffe, and not the pike, so the dogges life had beene saved, and your owne in no danger. true sir (quoth the fellow) if the dog would have turn'd his taile, and bit mee with that, and not his teeth, then we both had parted quietly. i know your honour to be so truly judicious, that your selfe can make the moral allusion, both in defence of my poore paines, and acceptation of the same into your protection: with most humble submission of my selfe, and all my uttermost endeavours, to bee alwayes ready at your service._ _the authors prologue, to the lords, ladies, and gentlewomen._ it is a matter of humanity, to take compassion on the afflicted, and although it be fitting towards all in generall, yet to such as are most tied by bond of duty, who having already stood in neede of comfort, do therefore most needfully deserve to enjoy it. among whom, if ever any were in necessity, found it most precious, and thereby received no small contentment, i am one of them; because from my verie yongest yeeres, even untill this instant: mine affections became extraordinarily enflamed, in a place high and noble, more (perhaps) then beseemed my humble condition, albeit no way distasted in the judgement of such as were discreete, when it came truly to their knowledge and understanding. yet (indeed) it was very painfull for me to endure, not in regard of her cruelty, whom i so deerely loved; as for want of better government in mine owne carriage; being altogether swayed by rash and peevish passions, which made my afflictions more offensive to mee, then either wisedome allowed, or suited with my private particular. but, as counsell in misery is no meane comfort, so the good advice of a worthy friend, by many sound and singular perswasions, wrought such a deliberate alteration; as not onely preserved my life (which was before in extreame perill) but also gave conclusion to my inconsiderate love, which in my precedent refractarie carriage, no deliberation, counsell, evident shame, or whatsoever perill should ensue thereon, could in any manner contradict; beganne to asswage of it selfe in time, bestowing not onely on me my former freedome; but delivering me likewise from infinite perplexities. and because the acknowledgement of good turnes or courtesies received (in my poore opinion) is a vertue among all other highly to bee commended, and the contrary also to be condemned: to shewe my selfe not ingratefull, i determined (so soone as i saw my selfe in absolute liberty) in exchange of so great a benefit bestowne on mee, to minister some mitigation, i will not say to such as releeved me, because their owne better understanding, or blessednesse in fortune, may defend them from any such necessity; but rather to them which truly stand in need. and although that my comfort, may some way or other availe the common needie, yet (methinkes) where greefe is greatest, and calamity most insulteth; there ought to be our paines soundly imployed, and our gravest instructions and advise wholly administred. and who can deny, but that it is much more convenient, to commisserate the distresse of ladies and gentlewomen, then the more able condition of men? they, as being naturally bashfull and timorous, have their soft and gentle soules, often enflamed with amorous afflictions, which lie there closely concealed, as they can best relate the power of them, that have bin subject to the greatest proofe. moreover, they being restrained from their wils and desires, by the severity of fathers, mothers, bretheren, and husbands, are shut up (most part of their time) in their chambers, where constrainedly sitting idle, diversity of straunge cogitations wheele up and downe their braines, forging as many severall imaginations, which cannot be alwayes pleasant and contenting. if melancholly, incited by some amorous or lovely apprehension, oppresse their weake and unresisting hearts: they must be glad to beare it patiently (til by better fortune) such occasions happen, as may overcome so proud an usurpation. moreover, we cannot but confesse, that they are lesse able, then men, to support such oppressions: for if men grow affectionate, wee plainely perceive, when any melancholly troublesome thoughts, or what greefes else can any way concerne them, their soules are not subject to the like sufferings. but admit they should fall into such necessity, they can come and go whither they will, heare and see many singular sights, hawk, hunt, fish, fowle, ride, or saile on the seas, all which exercises have a particular power in themselves, to withdraw amorous passions, and appropriate the will to the pleasing appetite, either by alteration of ayre, distance of place, or protraction of time, to kill sorrow, and quicken delight. wherefore, somewhat to amend this error in humane condition, and where least strength is, as we see to bee in you most gracious ladies and gentlewomen, further off (then men) from all fraile felicities: for such as feele the weighty insultations of proud and imprious love, and thereby are most in neede of comfort (and not they that can handle the needle, wheele, and distaffe) i have provided an hundred novelles, tales, fables, or histories, with judicious moralles belonging to them, for your more delight, and queinter exercise. in a faire and worthy assembly, of seven honourable ladies, and three noble gentlemen, they were recounted within the compasse of ten dayes, during the wofull time of our so late dangerous sicknesse, with apt sonnets or canzons, for the conclusion of each severall day. in which pleasing novels, may be observed many strange accidents of love, and other notable adventures, happening as well in our times, as those of graver antiquity: by reading whereof, you may receyve both pleasure and profitable counsell, because in them you shal perceive, both the sin to be shunned, and the vertue to be embraced; which as i wholly hate the one, so i do (and ever will) honour the others advancement. _the table._ the epistle dedicatory. the authors prologue, to the lords, ladies, and gentlewomen. the first day, governed by madam pampinea. . novell. _messire chappelet du prat, by making a false confession, beguiled an holy religious man, and after dyed. and having during his life time, bene a very bad man, at his death was reputed to be a saint, and called s. chappelet._ . novell. _abraham a jew, beeing admonished or advised by a friend of his, named jehannot de chevigny, travailed from paris unto rome: and beholding there, the wicked behaviour of men in the church, returned to paris againe, where (neverthelesse) he became a christian._ . novell. _melchisedech a jewe, by recounting a tale of three rings, to the great soldan, named saladine, prevented a great danger which was prepared for him._ . novell. _a monke having committed an offence, deserving to be very greevously punished; freed himselfe from the paine to be inflicted on him, by wittily reprehending his abbot, with the very same fault._ . novell. _lady marquesse of montferrat, with a banket of hens, and divers other gracious speeches beside, repressed the fond love of the king of france._ . novell. _an honest plaine meaning man (simply & conscionably) reprehended the malignity, hypocrisie, and misdemeanour of many religious persons._ . novell. _bergamino, by telling a tale of a skilfull man, named primasso, and of an abbot of clugni; honestly checked a new kinde of covetousnesse, in master can de la scala._ . novell. _guillaume boursieur, with a few quaint & familiar words, checkt the miserable covetousness of signior herminio de grimaldi._ . novell. _how the king of cyprus was wittily reprehended, by the words of a gentlewoman of gascoignie, and became vertuously altered from his vicious disposition._ . novell. _master albert of bullen, honestly made a lady to blush, that thought to have done as much to him, because she perceived him to be amorously affected towardes her._ the second day, governed by madam philomena. . novell. _martellino counterfetting to bee lame of his members, caused himselfe to bee set on the body of saint arriguo, where hee made shew of his sodaine recovery: but when his dissimulation was discovered, he was well beaten, being afterward taken prisoner, and in great danger of being hanged and strangled by the necke, and yet escaped in the end._ . novell. _rinaldo de este, after he was robbed by theeves arrived at chasteau guillaume, where he was friendly lodged by a faire widow, and recompenced likewise for all his losses; returning afterward safe and well home unto his owne house._ . novell. _of three yong gentlemen, being brethren, and having spent all their landes and possessions vainly, became poore. a nephew of theirs (falling almost into as desperate a condition) became acquainted with an abbot, whom hee afterward found to be the king of englands daughter, and made him her husband in marriage, recompencing all his unckles losses, and seating them again in good estate._ . novell. _landolpho ruffolo, falling into poverty, became a pirate on the seas, and beeing taken by the genewayes, hardly escaped drowning: which yet (neverthelesse) he did, upon a little chest or coffer full of very rich jewels, beeing carried thereon to corfu, where he was well entertained by a good woman: and afterward, returned richly home to his owne house._ . novell. _andrea de piero, travelling from perouse unto naples to buy horses, was (in the space of one night) surprized by three admirable accidents, out of all which he fortunately escaped, and with a rich ring, returned home to his owne house._ . novell. _madame beritola caracalla, was found in an island with two goates, having lost her two sons, and thence travailed into lunigiana: where one of her sonnes became servant to the lord thereof, and was found some-what over-familiar with his maisters daughter, who therefore caused him to be imprisoned. afterward, when the country of sicily rebelled against king charles, the aforesaid sonne chanced to be known by his mother, & was married to his masters daughter. and his brother being found likewise, they both returned to great estate and credite._ . novell. _the soldane of babylon sent one of his daughters, to be joyned in marriage with the king of cholcos; who by divers accidents (in the space of foure yeares) happened into the custodie of nine men, and in sundry places. at length, being restored back to her father, she went to the said king of cholcos, as a maide, and as at first she was intended to be his wife._ . novell. _count d'angiers being falsely accused, was banished out of france, and left his two children in england in divers places. returning afterward (unknowne) thorough scotland, hee found them advanced unto great dignity: then, repairing in the habit of a servitor, into the king of fraunce his army, and his innocency made publikely knowen, he was reseated in his former honourable degree._ . novell. _bernardo, a merchant of geneway, being deceived by another merchant, named ambrosio, lost a great part of his goods: and commanding his innocent wife to be murthered, she escaped, and in the habit of a man, became servant to the soldan. the deceiver being found at last, she compassed such means, that her husband bernardo came into alexandria, and there after due punishment inflicted on the false deceiver, she resumed the garments againe of a woman, and returned home with her husband to geneway._ . novell. _pagamino da monaco, a roving pyrate on the seas, caried away the faire wife of signieur ricciardo di chinzica, who understanding where shee was, went thither; and falling into friendship with pagamino, demanded his wife of him; whereto he yeelded, provided, that she would willingly go away with him: shee denied to part thence with her husband, and signior ricciardo dying, shee became the wife of pagamino._ the third day, governed by madame _neiphila_. . novell. _massetto di lamporechio, by counterfetting himselfe dumbe, became a gardiner in a monastery of nuns, where he had familiar conversation with them all._ . novell. _a querry of the stable belonging to agilulffo, k. of the lombards, found the meanes of accesse to the queenes bedde, without any knowledge or consent in her. this beeing secretly discovered by the king, and the party knowne, hee gave him a marke, by shearing the hair of his head. whereuppon, hee that was so shorne sheared likewise the heads of all his fellowes in the lodging and so escaped the punishment intended towards him._ . novell. _under colour of confession and of a most pure conscience, a faire yong gentlewoman, being amorously affected to an honest man; induced a devout and solemne religious friar, to advise her in the meanes (without his suspition or perceiving) how to enjoy the benefit of her friend, and bring her desires to their full effect._ . novell. _a yong scholler named felice, enstructed puccio di rinieri, how to become rich in a very short time. while puccio made experience of the instructions taught him; felice obtained the favour of his daughter._ . novell. _ricciardo, surnamed the magnifico, gave a horse to signior francesco vergellisi, upon condition; that by his leave and license, he might speak to his wife in his presence, which he did, and she not returning him any answer, made answer to himself on her behalfe, and according to his answer, so the effect followed._ . novell. _ricciardo minutolo fel in love with the wife of philippello fighinolfi, and knowing her to bee very jealous of her husband, gave her to understand, that he was greatly enamored of his wife, and had appointed to meete her privatly in a bathing house, on the next day following: where shee hoping to take him tardy with his close compacted mistresse, found her selfe to be deceived by the said ricciardo._ . novell. _thebaldo elisei, having received an unkinde repulse by his beloved, departed from florence, & returning thither againe (a long while after) in the habit of a pilgrime, hee spake with her, and made his wrongs knowne unto her. hee delivered her husband from the danger of death, because it was proved that he had slaine thebaldo, he made peace with his brethren, and in the end, wisely enjoyed his hearts desire._ . novell. _ferando, by drinking a certaine kind of pouder, was buried for dead & by the abbot who was enamored of his wife, was taken out of his grave, and put into a darke prison, where they made him beleeve that he was in purgatory: afterward when time came that he should be raised to life againe, he was made to keepe a childe, which the abbot had got by his wife._ . novell. _juliet of narbona, cured the king of france of a dangerous fistula: in recompence whereof, she requested to enjoy as her husband in mariage, bertrand the count of roussillion. he having maried her against his wil, as utterly despising her, went to florence, where he made love to a yong gentlewoman. juliet, by a queint and cunning policy, compassed the meanes (insted of his chosen friend) to lye with her owne husband, by whom shee had two sonnes; which being afterward made knowne unto the count, hee accepted her into his favour againe, and loved her as his loyall and honourable wife._ . novell. _the wonderfull and chaste resolved continencie of faire serictha, daughter to siwalde king of denmarke, who beeing sought and sued unto by many worthy persons, that did affect her dearely, would not looke any man in the face, untill such time as she was maried._ the fourth day, governed by philostratus. . novell. _tancrede, prince of salerne, caused the amorous friend of his daughter to be slaine, and sent her his heart in a cup of golde: which afterward she steeped in an impoysoned water, & then drinking it, so dyed._ . novell. _friar albert made a yong venetian gentlewoman beleeve, that god cupid was falne in love with her, and he resorted oftentimes unto her, in disguise of the same god: afterward, being frighted by the gentlewomans kindred and friends hee cast himselfe out of her chamber window, and was hidden in a poore mans house. on the day following, in the shape of a wilde or savage man, he was brought upon the rialto of s. mark, & being there publikely knowne by the brethren of his order, he was committed to prison._ . novell. _three yong gentlemen affecting three sisters, fled with them into canaie. the eldest of them (through jealousie) becommeth the death of her lover. the second, by consenting to the duke of canaies request, is the meanes of saving her life. afterward, her owne friend killeth her, & thence flyeth away with the elder sister. the third couple, both man and woman are charged with her death, and being committed to prison, they confesse the fact: and fearing death, by corruption of money they prevaile with their keepers, escaping from thence to rhodes, where they died in great poverty._ . novell. _gerbino, contrarie to the former plighted faith of his grandfather king gulielmo, soughte with a ship at sea belonging to the king of thunis to take away his daughter, who was then in the same ship. she being slaine by them that had the possession of her, he likewise slew them; and afterward had his owne head smitten off._ . novell. _the three brethren to isabella, slew a gentleman that secretly loved her. his ghost appeared to her in her sleepe, and shewed her in what place they had buried his body. she (in silent manner) brought away his head, and putting it into a pot of earth, such as flowers, basile, or other sweet herbes are usually set in, she watered it (a long while) with her teares: whereof her brethren having intelligence; soone after she died, with meere conceite of sorrow._ . novell. _a beautifull yong virgin, named andreana, became enamored of a young gentleman, called gabriello. in conference together, shee declared a dreame of hers to him, and he another of his unto her; whereupon gabriello fell down sodainly dead. she, and her chamber-maid were apprehended by the officers belonging unto the seigneury, as they were carrying gabriello, to lay them before his owne doore. the potestate offering violence to the virgin, and she resisting him vertuously: it came to the understanding of her father, who approved the innocence of his daughter, and compassed her deliverance. but she afterward, being wearie of all worldly felicities, entred into religion, & became a nun._ . novell. _faire simonida affecting pasquino, and walking with him in a pleasant garden, it fortuned that pasquino rubbed his teeth with a leaf of sage, and immediately fell downe dead. simonida being brought before the bench of justice, and charged with the death of pasquino: she rubbed her teeth likewise, with one of the leaves of the same sage, as declaring what she saw him do, & thereon she dyed also in the same manner._ . novell. _jeronimo affecting a yong mayden named silvestra was constrained by the earnest importunity of his mother, to take a journey to paris. at his returne home from thence againe, he found his love silvestra maried. by secret meanes he got entrance into her house and dyed upon the bed lying by her. afterward, his body being caried unto the church to receive buriall, shee likewise died there instantly upon his coarse._ . novell. _messer guiglielmo of rossiglione having slaine messer guiglielmo guardastagno, whom he imagined to love his wife, gave her his hart to eat. which she knowing afterward; threw her self out of an high window to the ground: and being dead, was then buried with her friend._ . novell. _a physitians wife laid a lover of her maids, supposing him to be dead, in a chest, by reason that he had drunke water which usually was given to procure a sleepy entrancing. two lombard usurers, stealing the chest, in hope of a rich booty, caried it into their owne house, where afterwardes the man awaking, was apprehended for a theefe. the chamber-maid to the physitians wife, going before the bench of justice, accuseth her self for putting the imagined dead body into the chest, whereby he escaped hanging: and the theeves which stole away the chest, were condemned to pay a very great summe of money._ the fift day, governed by madame fiammetta. . novell. _chynon, by falling in love, became wise, and by force of armes, winning his faire ladye iphigenia on the seas, was afterward imprisoned at rhodes. being delivered by one name lysimachus with him he recovered his iphigenia againe, and faire cassandra even in the middest of their mariage. they fled with them into candye, where after they had maried them, they wer called home to their owne dwelling._ . novell. _faire constance of liparis, fell in love with martuccio gomito: and hearing that hee was dead, desperately she entred into a barke which being transported by the winds to susa in barbary, from thence she went to thunis, where she found him to be living. there she made her selfe knowne to him, and he being in great authority, as a privy counsellor to the king: he maried the saide constance, and returned richly home to her, to the island of liparis._ . novell. _pedro bocamazzo, escaping away with a yong damosel which he loved, named angelina, met with theeves in his journey. the damosel flying fearfully into a forest, by chaunce commeth to a castle. pedro being taken by the theeves, & hapning afterward to escape from them, accidentally came to the same castle where angelina was: & marying her, they then returned home to rome._ . novell. _ricciardo manardy, was found by messer lizio da valbonna, as he sat fast asleep at his daughters chamber window, having his hand fast in hirs and sleeping in the same manner. whereupon they were joyned together in mariage, and their long loyall love mutually recompenced._ . novell. _guidotto of cremona, departing out of this mortall life, left a daughter of his with jacomino of pavia. giovanni di severino, and menghino da minghole, fel both in love with the yong maiden, and fought for her; who being afterward knowne to be the sister to giovanni, shee was given in mariage to menghino._ . novell. _guion di procida, being found familiarly conversing with a yong damosel which he loved, and had bene given formerly to frederigo king of sicily: was bound to a stake to bee consumed with fire. from which danger (neverthelesse) hee escaped; being knowne by don rogiero de oria, lorde admirall of sicily, and afterward marryed the damosel._ . novell. _theodoro falling in love with violenta, the daughter to his master, named amarigo, and she conceyving with childe by him, was condemned to be hanged. as they were leading him unto the gallowes, beating and misusing him all the way: hee happened to bee knowne by his owne father, whereupon he was released, and afterward injoyed violenta in mariage._ . novell. _anastasio, a gentleman of the family of the honesti by loving the daughter to signior paulo traversario, lavishly wasted a great part of his substance, without receiving any love from her againe. by perswasion of some of his kindred and friends, he went to a countrey dwelling of his called chiasso, where hee saw a knight desperately pursue a yong damosell, whom he slew, & afterward gave her to be devoured by his hounds. anastasio invited his friends, and hers also whom he so dearly loved, to take part of a dinner with him, who likewise sawe the same damosell so torne in peeces: which his unkind love perceiving, & fearing least the like ill fortune should happen to her, she accepted anastasio to bee her husband._ . novell. _frederigo, of the alberighi family, loved a gentlewoman, and was not requited with like love againe. by bountifull expences, and over liberal invitations, hee wasted and consumed all his lands and goods, having nothing lefte him, but a hawke or faulcon. his unkinde mistresse, happeneth to come visit him, and he not having any other food for her dinner, made a dainty dish of his faulcon for her to feed on. being conquered by this his exceeding kinde courtesie, she changed her former hatred towards him, accepting him as her husband in marriage, and made him a man of wealthy possessions._ . novell. _pedro di vinciolo, went to sup at a friends house in the city. his wife (in the meane while) had a yong man whom she loved, at supper with her. pedro returning home upon a sodaine, the young man was hidden under a coope for hens. pedro, in excuse of his so soone coming home, declareth; how in the house of herculano (with whome hee should have supt) a friend of his wives was found, which was the reason of the suppers breaking off. pedroes wife reproving the error of herculanoes wife: an asse (by chance) treades on the young mans fingers that lay hidden under the henne-coope. upon his crying out, pedro steppeth thither, sees him, knowes him, and findeth the fallacie of his wife: with whom (neverthelesse) he groweth to agreement, in regard of some imperfections in himselfe._ the end of the table. the decameron, containing, an hundred pleasant novelles. _wherein, after demonstration made by the author, upon what occasion it hapned, that the persons (of whom we shall speake heereafter) should thus meete together, to make so queint a narration of novels: hee declareth unto you, that they first begin to devise and conferre, under the government of madam pampinea, and of such matters as may be most pleasing to them all._ the induction of the author, to the following discourses. gracious ladies, so often as i consider with my selfe, and observe respectively, how naturally you are enclined to compassion; as many times do i acknowledge, that this present worke of mine, will (in your judgement) appeare to have but a harsh and offensive beginning, in regard of the mournfull remembrance it beareth at the verie entrance of the last pestilentiall mortality, universally hurtfull to all that beheld it, or otherwise came to knowledge of it. but for all that, i desire it may not be so dreadfull to you, to hinder your further proceeding in reading, as if none were to looke thereon, but with sighes and teares. for, i could rather wish, that so fearefull a beginning, should seeme but as an high and steepy hill appeares to them, that attempt to travell farre on foote, and ascending the same with some difficulty, come afterward to walk upon a goodly even plaine, which causeth the more contentment in them, because the attaining thereto was hard and painfull. for, even as pleasures are cut off by griefe and anguish; so sorrowes cease by joyes most sweete and happie arriving. after this breefe molestation, briefe i say, because it is contained within small compasse of writing; immediately followeth the most sweete and pleasant taste of pleasure, whereof (before) i made promise to you. which (peradventure) could not bee expected by such a beginning, if promise stoode not thereunto engaged. and indeed, if i could wel have conveyed you to the center of my desire, by any other way, then so rude and rocky a passage as this is, i would gladly have done it. but because without this narration, we could not demonstrate the occasion how and wherefore the matters hapned, which you shall reade in the ensuing discourses: i must set them downe (even as constrained thereto by meere necessity) in writing after this manner. the yeare of our blessed saviours incarnation, . that memorable mortality happened in the excellent city, farre beyond all the rest in _italy_; which plague, by operation of the superiour bodies, or rather for our enormous iniquities, by the just anger of god was sent upon us mortals. some few yeeres before, it tooke beginning in the easterne partes, sweeping thence an innumerable quantity of living soules: extending it selfe afterward from place to place westward, untill it seized on the said city. where neither humane skill or providence, could use any prevention, notwithstanding it was cleansed of many annoyances, by diligent officers thereto deputed: besides prohibition of all sickly persons enterance, and all possible provision dayly used for conservation of such as were in health, with incessant prayers and supplications of devoute people, for the asswaging of so dangerous a sicknesse. about the beginning of the yeare, it also began in very strange manner, as appeared by divers admirable effects; yet not as it had done in the east countries, where lord or lady being touched therewith, manifest signes of inevitable death followed thereon, by bleeding at the nose. but here it began with yong children, male and female, either under the armpits, or in the groine by certaine swellings, in some to the bignesse of an apple, in others like an egge, and so in divers greater or lesser, which (in their vulgar language) they termed to be a botch or byle. in very short time after, those two infected parts were grown mortiferous, and would disperse abroad indifferently, to all parts of the body; whereupon, such was the qualitie of the disease, to shew it selfe by blacke or blew spottes, which would appeare on the armes of many, others on their thighes, and everie part else of the body: in some great and few, in others small and thicke. now as the byle (at the beginning) was an assured signe of neere approaching death; so prooved the spots likewise to such as had them: for the curing of which sicknesse it seemed, that the physitians counsell, the vertue of medicines, or any application else, could not yeeld any remedy: but rather it plainely appeared, that either the nature of the disease would not endure it, or ignorance in the physitians could not comprehend, from whence the cause proceeded, and so by consequent, no resolution was to be determined. moreover, beside the number of such as were skilfull in art, many more both women and men, without ever having any knowledge in physicke, became physitians: so that not onely few were healed, but (well-neere) all dyed, within three dayes after the saide signes were seene; some sooner, and others later, commonly without either feaver, or any other accident. and this pestilence was yet of farre greater power or violence; for, not onely healthfull persons speaking to the sicke, comming to see them, or ayring cloathes in kindnesse to comfort them, was an occasion of ensuing death: but touching their garments, or any foode whereon the sicke person fed, or any thing else used in his service, seemed to transferre the disease from the sicke to the sound, in very rare and miraculous manner. among which matter of marvell, let me tell you one thing, which if the eyes of many (as well as mine owne) had not seene, hardly could i be perswaded to write it, much lesse to beleeve it, albeit a man of good credit should report it. i say, that the quality of this contagious pestilence was not onely of such efficacy, in taking and catching it one of another, either men or women: but it extended further, even in the apparant view of many, that the cloathes, or any thing else, wherein one died of that disease, being toucht, or lyen on by any beast, farre from the kind or quality of man, they did not onely contaminate and infect the said beast, were it dogge, cat, or any other; but also it died very soone after. mine owne eyes (as formerly i have said) among divers other, one day had evident experience hereof, for some poore ragged cloathes of linnen and wollen, torne from a wretched body dead of that disease, and hurled in the open streete; two swine going by, and (according to their naturall inclination) seeking for foode on every dung-hill, tossed and tumbled the cloathes with their snouts, rubbing their heads likewise uppon them; and immediately, each turning twice or thrice about, they both fell downe dead on the saide cloathes, as being fully infected with the contagion of them: which accident, and other the like, if not far greater, begat divers feares and imaginations in them that beheld them, all tending to a most inhumane and uncharitable end; namely, to flie thence from the sicke, and touching any thing of theirs, by which meanes they thought their health should be safely warranted. some there were, who considered with themselves, that living soberly, with abstinence from all superfluity; it would be a sufficient resistance against all hurtfull accidents. so combining themselves in a sociable manner, they lived as separatists from all other company, being shut up in such houses, where no sicke body should be neere them. and there, for their more security, they used delicate viands and excellent wines, avoiding luxurie, and refusing speech to one another, not looking forth at the windowes, to heare no cries of dying people, or see any coarses carried to buriall; but having musicall instruments, lived there in all possible pleasure. others were of a contrary opinion, who avouched, that there was no other physicke more certaine, for a disease so desperate, then to drinke hard, be merry among themselves, singing continually, walking every where, and satisfying their appetites with whatsoever they desired, laughing, and mocking at every mournefull accident, and so they vowed to spend day and night: for now they would goe to one taverne, then to another, living without any rule or measure; which they might very easilie doe, because every one of them, (as if he were to live no longer in this world) had even forsaken all things that he had. by meanes whereof the most part of the houses were become common, and all strangers, might doe the like (if they pleased to adventure it) even as boldly as the lord or owner, without any let or contradiction. yet in all this their beastly behaviour, they were wise enough, to shun (so much as they might) the weake and sickly: in which misery and affliction of our city, the venerable authority of the lawes, as well divine as humane, was even destroyed, as it were, through want of the awefull ministers of them. for they being all dead, or lying sicke with the rest, or else lived so solitary, in such great necessity of servants and attendants, as they could not execute any office, whereby it was lawfull for every one to doe as he listed. betweene these two rehearsed extremities of life, there were other of a more moderate temper, not being so daintily dieted as the first, nor drinking so dissolutely as the second; but used all things sufficient for their appetites, and without shutting up themselves, walked abroade, some carrying sweete nose-gayes of flowers in their hands; others odoriferous herbes, and others divers kinds of spiceries, holding them to their noses, and thinking them most comfortable for the braine, because the ayre seemed to be much infected, by the noysome smell of dead carkases, and other hurtfull savours. some other there were also of more inhumane minde (howbeit peradventure it might be the surest) saying, that there was no better physicke against the pestilence, nor yet so good; as to flie away from it, which argument mainely moving them, and caring for no body but themselves, very many, both men and women, forsooke the city, their owne houses, their parents, kindred, friends, and goods, flying to other mens dwellings else-where. as if the wrath of god, in punishing the sinnes of men with this plague, would fall heavily upon none, but such as were enclosed within the city wals; or else perswading themselves, that not any one should there be left alive, but that the finall ending of all things was come. now albeit these persons in their diversity of opinions died not all, so undoubtedly they did not all escape; but many among them becomming sicke, and making a generall example of their flight and folly, among them that could not stirre out of their beds, they languished more perplexedly then the other did. let us omit, that one citizen fled after another, and one neighbour had not any care of another, parents nor kinred never visiting them, but utterly they were forsaken on all sides: this tribulation pierced into the hearts of men, and with such a dreadfull terror, that one brother forsooke another; the unkle the nephew, the sister the brother, and the wife her husband: nay, a matter much greater, and almost incredible; fathers and mothers fled away from their owne children, even as if they had no way appertained to them. in regard whereof, it could be no otherwise, but that a countlesse multitude of men and women fell sicke; finding no charity among their friends, except a very few, and subjected to the avarice of servants, who attended them constrainedly, for great and unreasonable wages, yet few of those attendants to be found any where too. and they were men or women but of base condition, as also of groser understanding, who never before had served in any such necessities, nor indeed were any way else to be imployed, but to give the sicke person such things as he called for, or to awaite the houre of his death; in the performance of which services, oftentimes for gaine, they lost their owne lives. in this extreame calamity, the sicke being thus forsaken of neighbours, kinred, and friends, standing also in such need of servants; a custome came up among them, never heard of before, that there was not any woman, how noble, young, or faire soever shee was, but falling sicke, shee must of necessity have a man to attend her, were he young or otherwise, respect of shame or modesty no way prevailing, but all parts of her body must be discovered to him, which (in the like urgency) was not to be seene by any but women: whereon ensued afterward, that upon the parties healing and recovery, it was the occasion of further dishonesty, which many being more modestly curious of, refused such disgracefull attending, chusing rather to die, then by such helpe to be healed. in regard whereof, as well through the want of convenient remedies, (which the sicke by no meanes could attain unto) as also the violence of the contagion, the multitude of them that died night and day, was so great, that it was a dreadfull sight to behold, and as much to heare spoken of. so that meere necesssity (among them that remained living) begat new behaviours, quite contrary to all which had beene in former times, and frequently used among the city inhabitants. the custome of precedent dayes (as now againe it is) was, that women, kinred, neighbours, and friends, would meete together at the deceased parties house, and there, with them that were of neerest alliance, expresse their hearts sorrow for their friends losse. if not thus, they would assemble before the doore, with many of the best cittizens and kindred, and (according to the quality of the deceased) the clergy met there likewise, and the dead body was carried (in comely manner) on mens shoulders, with funerall pompe of torch-light, and singing, to the church appointed by the deceased. but these seemely orders, after that the fury of the pestilence began to encrease, they in like manner altogether ceased, and other new customes came in their place; because not onely people died, without having any women about them, but infinites also past out of this life, not having any witnesse, how, when, or in what manner they departed. so that few or none there were, to deliver outward shew of sorrow and grieving: but insteed thereof, divers declared idle joy and rejoycing, a use soone learned of immodest women, having put off al feminine compassion, yea, or regard of their owne welfare. very few also would accompany the body to the grave, and they not any of the neighbours, although it had beene an honourable cittizen, but onely the meanest kinde of people, such as were grave-makers, coffin-bearers, or the like, that did these services onely for money, and the beere being mounted on their shoulders, in all haste they would runne away with it, not perhaps to the church appointed by the dead, but to the neerest at hand, having some foure or sixe poore priests following, with lights or no lights, and those of the silliest; short service being said at the buriall, and the body unreverently throwne into the first open grave they found. such was the pittifull misery of poore people, and divers, who were of better condition, as it was most lamentable to behold; because the greater number of them, under hope of healing, or compelled by poverty, kept still within their houses weake and faint, thousands falling sick daily, and having no helpe, or being succoured any way with foode or physicke, all of them died, few or none escaping. great store there were, that died in the streetes by day or night, and many more beside, although they died in their houses; yet first they made it knowne to their neighbours, that their lives perished, rather by the noysome smell of dead and putrified bodies, then by any violence of the disease in themselves. so that of these and the rest, dying in this manner every where, the neighbours observed one course of behaviour, (moved thereto no lesse by feare, that the smell and corruption of dead bodies should harme them, then charitable respect of the dead) that themselves when they could, or being assisted by some bearers of coarses, when they were able to procure them, wold hale the bodies (alreadie dead) out of their houses, laying them before their doores, where such as passed by, especially in the mornings, might see them lying in no meane numbers. afterward, bieres were brought thither, and such as might not have the helpe of bieres, were glad to lay them on tables, and bieres have bin observed, not onely to be charged with two or three dead bodies at once, but many times it was seene also, that the wife with the husband, two or three brethren together; yea, the father and the mother, have thus beene carried along to the grave upon one biere. moreover, oftentimes it hath bene seene, that when two priests went with one crosse to fetch the body; there would follow (behind) three or foure bearers with their bieres, and when the priests intended the buriall but of one bodie, sixe or eight more have made up the advantage, and yet none of them being attended by any seemly company, lights, teares, or the very least decencie, but it plainly appeared, that the verie like account was then made of men or women, as if they had bene dogges or swine. wherein might manifestly bee noted, that that which the naturall course of things could not shewe to the wise, with rare and little losse, to wit, the patient support of miseries and misfortunes, even in their greatest height: not onely the wise might now learne, but also the verie simplest people; & in such sort, that they should alwaies be prepared against all infelicities whatsoever. hallowed ground could not now suffice, for the great multitude of dead bodies, which were daily brought to every church in the city, and every houre in the day; neither could the bodies have proper place of buriall, according to our ancient custome: wherefore, after that the churches and church-yards were filled, they were constrained to make use of great deepe ditches, wherein they were buried by hundreds at once, ranking dead bodies along in graves, as merchandizes are laide along in ships, covering each after other with a small quantity of earth, & so they filled at last up the whole ditch to the brim. now, because i would wander no further in everie particularity, concerning the miseries happening in our citie: i tell you, that extremities running on in such manner as you have heard; little lesse spare was made in the villages round about; wherein (setting aside enclosed castles, which were now filled like to small cities) poore labourers and husband-men, with their whole families, dyed most miserably in out-houses, yea, and in the open fieldes also; without any assistance of physicke, or helpe of servants; & likewise in the high-wayes, or their ploughed landes, by day or night indifferently, yet not as men, but like brute beasts. by meanes whereof, they became lazie and slothfull in their daily endeavours, even like to our citizens; not minding or medling with their wonted affaires: but, as awaiting for death every houre, imployed all their paines, not in caring any way for themselves, their cattle, or gathering the fruits of the earth, or any of their accustomed labours; but rather wasted and consumed, even such as were for their instant sustenance. whereupon, it fell so out, that their oxen, asses, sheepe, and goates, their swine, pullen, yea their verie dogges, the truest and faithfullest servants to men, being beaten and banished from their houses, went wildly wandring abroad in the fields, where the corne grew still on the ground without gathering, or being so much as reapt or cut. many of the fore-said beasts (as endued with reason) after they had pastured themselves in the day time, would returne full fed at night home to their houses, without any government of heardsmen, or any other. how many faire palaces! how many goodly houses! how many noble habitations, filled before with families of lords and ladies, were then to be seene emptie, without any one there dwelling, except some silly servant? how many kindreds, worthy of memory! how many great inheritances! and what plenty of riches, were left without any true successours? how many good men! how many woorthy women! how many valiant and comely yong men, whom none but _galen, hippocrates,_ and _Æsculapius_ (if they were living) could have reputed any way unhealthfull; were seene to dine at morning, with their parents, friends, and familiar confederates, and went to sup in another world with their predecessors? it is no meane breach to my braine, to make repetition of so many miseries; wherefore, being willing to part with them as easily as i may: i say that our citie being in this case, voide of inhabitants, it came to passe (as afterward i understoode by some of good credite) that in the venerable church of s. _marie la neufue_, on a tuesday morning, there being then no other person, after the hearing of divine service, in mourning habits (as the season required) returned thence seven discreet yong gentlewomen, all allyed together, either by friendship, neighbour-hood, or parentage. she among them that was most entred into yeares, exceeded not eight and twenty, and the yongest was no lesse then eighteene; being of noble descent, faire forme, adorned with exquisite behaviour, and gracious modesty. their names i could report, if just occasion did not forbid it, in regard of the occasions following by them related, and because times heereafter shall not taxe them with reproofe; the lawes of pleasure being more straited now adayes (for the matters before revealed) then at that time they were, not onely to their yeares, but to many much riper. neither will i likewise minister matter to rash heades (over-readie in censuring commendable life) any way to impaire the honestie of ladies, by their idle detracting speeches. and therefore, to the end that what each of them saith, may be comprehended without confusion; i purpose to stile them by names, wholly agreeing, or (in part) conformable to their qualities. the first and most aged, we will name _pampinea_; the second _fiammetta_; the third _philomena_; the fourth _Æmilia_; the fift _lauretta_; the sixt _neiphila_; and the last we terme (not without occasion) _elissa_, or _eliza_. all of them being assembled at a corner of the church, not by any deliberation formerly appointed, but meerely by accident, and sitting as it were in a round ring: after divers sighs severally delivered, they conferred on sundry matters answerable to the sad qualitie of the time, and within a while after, madam _pampinea_ began in this manner. faire ladies, you may (no doubt as well as i) have often heard, that no injury is offered to any one, by such as make use but of their owne right. it is a thing naturall for everie one which is borne in this world, to aide, conserve, and defend her life so long as shee can; and this right hath bene so powerfully permitted, that although it hath sometimes happened, that (to defend themselves) men have beene slaine without any offence: yet lawes have allowed it to be so, in whose solicitude lieth the best living of all mortals. how much more honest and just is it then for us, and for every other well-disposed person, to seeke for (without wronging any) and to practise all remedies that wee can, for the conservation of our lives? when i well consider, what we have heere done this morning, and many other already past; remembring (withall) what likewise is proper and convenient for us: i conceive (as all you may do the like) that everie one of us hath a due respect of her selfe, and then i mervaile not, but rather am much amazed (knowing none of us to be deprived of a womans best judgement) that wee seeke not after some remedies for our selves, against that, which every one among us, ought (in reason) to feare. heere we meete and remaine (as it seemeth to mee) in no other manner, then as if we would or should be witnesses, to all the dead bodies at rest in their graves; or else to listen, when the religious sisters here dwelling (whose number now are well-neere come to be none at all) sing service at such houres as they ought to do; or else to acquaint all commers hither (by our mourning habites) with the quality and quantitie of our hearts miseries. and when we part hence, we meete with none but dead bodies; or sicke persons transported from one place to another; or else we see running thorow the city (in most offensive fury) such as (by authoritie of publike lawes) were banished hence, onely for their bad and brutish behaviour in contempt of those lawes, because now they know, that the executors of them are dead and sicke. and if not these, more lamentable spectacles present themselves to us, by the base rascality of the citie; who being fatted with our blood, tearme themselves grave-makers, and in meere contemptible mockerie of us, are mounted on horse-backe, gallopping everie where, reproaching us with our losses and misfortunes, with lewd and dishonest songs: so that we can hear nothing else but such and such are dead, and such and such lie a dying; heere hands wringing, and everie where most pittifull complaining. if we returne home to our houses (i know not whether your case bee answerable to mine) when i can finde none of all my family, but onely my poore waiting chamber-maide; so great are my feares, that the verie haire on my head declareth my amazement, and wheresoever i go or sit downe, me thinkes i see the ghostes and shadowes of deceased friends, not with such lovely lookes as i was wont to behold them, but with most horrid and dreadfull regards, newly stolne upon them i know not how. in these respects, both heere, else-where, and at home in my house, methinkes i am alwaies ill, and much more (in mine owne opinion) then any other bodie, not having meanes or place of retirement, as all we have, and none to remaine heere but onely we. moreover, i have often heard it said, that in tarrying or departing, no distinction is made in things honest or dishonest; onely appetite will be served; and be they alone or in company, by day or night, they do whatsoever their appetite desireth: not secular persons onely, but such as are recluses, and shut up within monasteries, breaking the lawes of obedience, and being addicted to pleasures of the flesh, are become lascivious and dissolute, making the world beleeve, that whatsoever is convenient for other women, is no way unbeseeming them, as thinking in that manner to escape. if it be so, as manifestlie it maketh shew of it selfe; what do we here? what stay we for? and whereon do we dreame? why are we more respectlesse of our health, then all the rest of the citizens? repute we our selves lesse precious then all the other? or do we beleeve, that life is linked to our bodies with stronger chaines, then to others, and that therefore we should not feare any thing that hath power to offend us? wee erre therein, and are deceived. what brutishnesse were it in us, if wee should urge any such beleefe? so often as wee call to minde, what, and how many gallant yong men and women, have beene devoured by this cruell pestilence; wee may evidently observe a contrary argument. wherefore, to the end, that by being over-scrupulous and carelesse, we fall not into such danger, whence when we would (perhaps) we cannot recover our selves by any meanes: i thinke it meete (if your judgement therein shall jumpe with mine) that all of us as we are (at least, if we will doe as divers before us have done, and yet daily endeavour to doe) shunning death by the honest example of other, make our retreate to our countrey houses, wherewith all of us are sufficiently furnished, and thereto delight our selves as best we may, yet without transgressing (in any act) the limits of reason. there shall we heare the pretty birds sweetly singing, see the hilles and plaines verdantly flourishing; the corne waving in the field like the billowes of the sea; infinite store of goodly trees, and the heavens more fairely open to us, then here we can behold them: and although they are justly displeased, yet will they not there denie us better beauties to gaze on, then the walles in our city (emptied of inhabitants) can affoord us. moreover, the ayre is much fresh and cleere, and generally, there is farre greater abundance of all things whatsoever, needefull at this time for preservation of our health, and lesse offence or molestation then wee find here. and although countrey people die, as well as heere our citizens doe, the griefe notwithstanding is so much the lesse, as the houses and dwellers there are rare, in comparison of them in our city. and beside, if we well observe it, here wee forsake no particular person, but rather wee may tearme our selves forsaken; in regard that our husbands, kinred, and friends, either dying, or flying from the dead, have left us alone in this great affliction, even as if we were no way belonging unto them. and therefore, by following this counsell, wee cannot fall into any reprehension; whereas if we neglect and refuse it, danger, distresse, and death, (perhaps) may ensue thereon. wherefore, if you thinke good, i would allow it for well done, to take our waiting women, with all such things as are needfull for us, and (as this day) betake our selves to one place, to morrow to another, taking there such pleasure and recreation, as so sweete a season liberally bestoweth on us. in which manner we may remaine, till we see (if death otherwise prevent us not) what ende the gracious heavens have reserved for us. i would have you also to consider, that it is no lesse seemely for us to part hence honestly, then a great number of other women to remaine here immodestly. the other ladies and gentlewomen, having heard madam _pampinea_, not onely commended her counsell, but desiring also to put it in execution; had already particularly consulted with themselves, by what means they might instantly depart from thence. neverthelesse, madam _philomena_, who was very wise, spake thus. albeit faire ladies, the case propounded by madam _pampinea_ hath beene very wel delivered; yet (for all that) it is against reason for us to rush on, as we are over-ready to doe. remember that we are all women, and no one among us is so childish, but may consider, that when wee shall be so assembled together, without providence or conduct of some man, we can hardly governe our selves. we are fraile, offensive, suspicious, weake spirited, and fearefull: in regard of which imperfections, i greatly doubt (if we have no better direction then our owne) this society will sooner dissolve it selfe, and (perchance) with lesse honour to us, then if we never had begunne it. and therefore it shall be expedient for us, to provide before wee proceede any further. madam _elissa_ hereon thus replied. most true it is, that men are the chiefe or head of women, and without their order, sildome times doe any matters of ours sort to commendable ende. but what meanes shal we make for men? we all know well enough, that the most part of our friends are dead, and such as are living, some be dispearsed here, others there, into divers places and companies, where we have no knowledge of their being. and to accept of strangers, would seeme very inconvenient; wherefore as we have such care of our health, so should wee be as respective (withall) in ordering our intention: that wheresoever wee aime at our pleasure and contentment, reproofe and scandall may by no meanes pursue us. while this discourse thus held among the ladies, three young gentlemen came forth of the church (yet not so young, but the youngest had attained to five and twenty yeeres) in whom, neither malice of the time, loss of friends or kinred, nor any fearefull conceit in themselves, had the power to quench affection; but (perhaps) might a little coole it, in regard of the queazy season. one of them called himselfe _pamphilus_, the second _philostratus_, and the last _dioneus_. each of them was very affable and well conditioned, and walked abroade (for their greater comfort in such a time of tribulation) to trie if they could meete with their faire friends, who (happily) might all three be among these seaven, and the rest kinne unto them in one degree or other. no sooner were these ladies espyed by them, but they met with them also in the same advantage; whereupon madam _pampinea_ (amiably smiling) saide. see how graciously fortune is favourable to our beginning, by presenting our eyes with three so wise and worthy young gentlemen, who will gladly be our guides and servants, if we doe not disdaine them the office. madam _neiphila_ beganne immediatly to blush, because one of them had a love in the company, and saide; good madam _pampinea_ take heed what you say, because (of mine owne knowledge) nothing can be spoken but good of them all; and i thinke them all to be absolutely sufficient, for a farre greater employment then is here intended: as being well worthy to keepe company, not onely with us, but them of more faire and precious esteeme then we are. but because it appeareth plainely enough, that they beare affection to some here among us: i feare, if wee should make the motion, that some dishonour or reproofe may ensue thereby, and yet without blame either in us or them. that is nothing at all, answered madam _philomena_, let mee live honestly, and my conscience not checke me with any crime; speake then who can to the contrary, god and truth shal enter armes for me. i wish that they were as willing to come, as all wee are to bid them welcome: for truly (as madam _pampinea_ saide) wee may very well hope that fortune will bee furtherous to our purposed journey. the other ladies hearing them speake in such manner, not onely were silent to themselves, but all with one accord and consent saide, that it were well done to call them, and to acquaint them with their intention, entreating their company in so pleasant a voyage. whereupon, without any more words, madam _pampinea_ mounting on her feete (because one of the three was her kinsman) went towards them, as they stood respectively observing them; and (with a pleasing countenance) giving them a gracious salutation, declared to them their deliberation, desiring (in behalfe of all the rest) that with a brotherly and modest minde, they would vouchsafe to beare them company. the gentlemen imagined at the first apprehension, that this was spoken in mockage of them, but when they better perceived, that her words tended to solemne earnest; they made answer, that they were all heartily ready to doe them any service. and without any further delaying, before they parted thence, tooke order for their aptest furnishing with all convenient necessaries, and sent word to the place of their first appointment. on the morrow, being wednesday, about breake of day, the ladies, with certaine of their attending gentlewomen, and the three gentlemen, having three servants to waite on them; left the city to beginne their journey, and having travelled about a leagues distance, arrived at the place of their first purpose of stay; which was seated on a little hill, distant (on all sides) from any high way, plentifully stored with faire spreading trees, affoording no meane delight to the eye. on the top of all stood a stately pallace, having a large and spacious court in the middest, round engirt with galleries, hals and chambers, every one separate alone by themselves, and beautified with pictures of admirable cunning. nor was there any want of gardens, meadowes, and other pleasant walkes, with welles and springs of faire running waters, all encompassed with branching vines, fitter for curious and quaffing bibbers, then women sober and singularly modest. this pallace the company found fully fitted and prepared, the beddes in the chambers made and daintily ordered, thickly strewed with variety of flowers, which could not but give them the greater contentment. _dioneus_, who (above the other) was a pleasant young gallant, and full of infinite witty conceits, saide; your wit (faire ladies) hath better guided us hither, then our providence. i know not how you have determined to dispose of your cares; as for mine owne, i left them at the city gate, when i came thence with you: and therefore let your resolution be, to spend the time here in smiles and singing (i meane, as may fittest agree with your dignity) or else give me leave to goe seeke my sorrowes againe, and so to remaine discontented in our desolate city. madam _pampinea_ having in like manner shaken off her sorrowes, delivering a modest and bashfull smile, replied in this manner. _dioneus_, well have you spoken, it is fit to live merrily, and no other occasion made us forsake the sicke and sad citie. but, because such things as are without meane or measure, are subject to no long continuance. i, who began the motion, whereby this society is thus assembled, and ayme at the long lasting thereof: doe hold it very convenient, that wee should all agree, to have one chiefe commaunder among us, in whom the care and providence should consist, for direction of our merriment, performing honour and obedience to the party, as to our patrone and sole governour. and because every one may feele the burthen of sollicitude, as also the pleasure of commaunding, and consequently have a sensible taste of both, whereby no envie may arise on any side: i could wish, that each one of us (for a day onely) should feele both the burthen and honour, and the person so to be advanced, shall receive it from the election of us all. as for such as are to succeede, after him or her that hath had the dayes of dominion: the party thought fit for succession, must be named so soone as night approacheth. and being in this eminencie (according as he or she shall please) hee may order and dispose, how long the time of his rule shall last, as also of the place and manner, where best we may continue our delight. these words were highly pleasing to them all, and, by generall voyce, madame _pampinea_ was chosen queene for the first day. whereupon, madame _philomena_ ranne presently to a bay-tree, because she had often heard, what honour belonged to those branches, and how worthy of honour they were, that rightfully were crowned with them, plucking off divers branches, she made of them an apparant and honourable chaplet, placing it (by generall consent) upon her head, and this, so long as their company continued, manifested to all the rest, the signall of dominion and royall greatnesse. after that madame _pampinea_ was thus made queene, she commanded publique silence, and causing the gentlemens three servants, and the waiting women also (being foure in number) to be brought before her, thus shee began. because i am to give the first example to you all, whereby (proceeding on from good to better) our company may live in order and pleasure, acceptable to all, and without shame to any: i create _parmeno_ (servant to _dioneus_) maister of the houshold, hee taking the care and charge of all our trayne, and for whatsoever appertaineth to our hall service. i appoint also that _silisco_ (servant to _pamphilus_) shall be our dispencer and treasurer, performing that which _parmeno_ shall commaund him. and that _tindaro_ serve as groome of the chamber, to _philostratus_ his maister, and the other two, when his fellowes (impeached by their offices) cannot be present. _misia_ my chambermaid, and _licisca_ (belonging to philomena) shall serve continually in the kitchin, and diligently make ready such vyands, as shall be delivered them by _parmeno. chimera_, wayting-woman to _lauretta_, and _stratilia_ (appertaining to _fiammetta_) shall have the charge and governement of the ladies chambers, and preparing all places where we shall be present. moreover, we will and commaund every one of them (as they desire to deserve our grace) that wheresoever they goe or come, or whatsoever they heare or see: they especially respect to bring us tydings of them. after shee had summarily delivered them these orders, very much commended of every one; shee arose fairely, saying. heere wee have gardens, orchards, meadowes, and other places of sufficient pleasure, where every one may sport & recreate themselves: but so soone as the ninth houre striketh, then all to meete here againe, to dine in the coole shade. this jocund company having received licence from their queene to disport themselves, the gentlemen walked with the ladies into a goodly garden, making chaplets and nosegayes of divers flowers, and singing silently to themselves. when they had spent the time limitted by the queene, they returned into the house, where they found that _parmeno_ had effectually executed his office. for, when they entred into the hall, they saw the tables covered with delicate white naperie, and the glasses looking like silver, they were so transparantly cleare, all the roome beside streawed with floures of juniper. when the queene and all the rest had washed; according as _parmeno_ gave order, so every one was seated at the table: the vyands (delicately drest) were served in, and excellent wines plentifully delivered, none attending but the three servants, and little or no loud table-talke passing among them. dinner being ended, and the tables withdrawne (all the ladies, and the gentlemen likewise, being skilfull both in singing and dauncing, and playing on instruments artificially) the queene commaunded, that divers instruments should be brought, and (as she gave charge) _dioneus_ tooke a lute, and _fiammetta_ a violl _de gamba_, and began to play an excellent daunce. whereupon the queene, with the rest of the ladies, and the other two young gentlemen (having sent their attending servants to dinner) paced foorth a daunce very majestically. and when the daunce was ended, they sung sundry excellent canzonets, out-wearing so the time, untill the queene commaunded them all to rest, because the houre did necessarily require it. the gentlemen having their chambers farre severed from the ladies, curiously strewed with flowers, and their beds adorned in exquisite manner, as those of the ladies were not a jote inferiour to them: the silence of the night bestowed sweet rest on them all. in the morning, the queene and all the rest being risen, accounting overmuch sleepe to be very hurtfull: they walked abroade into a goodly meadowe, where the grasse grew verdantly, and the beames of the sunne heated not over-violently, because the shades of faire spreading trees gave a temperate calmenesse, coole and gentle winds fanning their sweet breath pleasingly among them. all of them being there set downe in a round ring, and the queene in the middest, as being the appointed place of eminencie, she spake in this manner. you see (faire company) that the sunne is highly mounted, the heate (else-where) too extreme for us, and therefore here is our fittest refuge, the aire being so coole, delicate, and acceptable, and our folly well worthie reprehension, if we should walke further, and speede worse. heere are tables, cards, and chesse, as your dispositions may be addicted. but if mine advice might passe for currant, i would admit none of those exercises, because they are too troublesome both to them that play, and such as looke on. i could rather wish, that some quaint discourse might passe among us, a tale or fable related by some one, to urge the attention of all the rest. and so wearing out the warmth of the day, one prety novell will draw on another, until the sun be lower declined, and the heates extremity more diminished, to solace our selves in some other place, as to our minds shal seeme convenient. if therefore what i have sayde be acceptable to you (i purposing to follow in the same course of pleasure) let it appeare by your immediate answer; for, til the evening, i think we can devise no exercise more commodious for us. the ladies & gentlemen allowed of the motion, to spend the time in telling pleasant tales; whereupon the queene saide: seeing you have approoved mine advice, i grant free permission for this first day, that every one shall relate, what to him or her is best pleasing. and turning her selfe to _pamphilus_ (who was seated on her right hand) gave him favour, with one of his novels, to begin the recreation: which he not daring to deny, and perceiving generall attention prepared for him, thus he began. _messire chappelet du prat, by making a false confession, beguyled an holy religious man, and after dyed. and having (during his life time) bene a verie bad man, at his death was reputed to be a saint, and called s. chappelet._ the first novell. _wherein is contained, how hard a thing it is, to distinguish goodnesse from hypocrisie; and how (under the shadow of holinesse) the wickednes of one man, may deceive many._ it is a matter most convenient (deare ladies) that a man ought to begin whatsoever he doth, in the great and glorious name of him, who was the creator of all thinges. wherefore, seeing that i am the man appointed, to begin this your invention of discoursing novelties: i intend to begin also with one of his wonderfull workes. to the end, that this beeing heard, our hope may remaine on him, as the thing onely permanent, and his name for ever to be praised by us. now, as there is nothing more certaine, but that even as temporall things are mortall and transitory, so are they both in and out of themselves, full of sorrow, paine, and anguish, and subjected to infinite dangers: so in the same manner, we live mingled among them, seeming as part of them, and cannot (without some error) continue or defend ourselves, if god by his especiall grace and favour, give us not strength and good understanding. which power we may not beleeve, that either it descendeth to us, or liveth in us, by any merites of our owne; but of his onely most gracious benignity. mooved neverthelesse, and entreated by the intercessions of them, who were (as we are) mortals; and having diligently observed his commandements, are now with him in eternall blessednes. to whom (as to advocates and procurators, informed by the experience of our frailty) wee are not to present our prayers in the presence of so great a judge; but only to himselfe, for the obtaining of all such things as his wisedome knoweth to be most expedient for us. and well may we credit, that his goodnesse is more fully enclined towards us, in his continuall bounty and liberality; then the subtilty of any mortal eye, can reach into the secret of so divine a thought: and sometimes therefore we may be beguiled in opinion, by electing such and such as our intercessors before his high majesty, who perhaps are farre off from him, or driven into perpetuall exile, as unworthy to appeare in so glorious a presence. for he, from whom nothing can be hidden, more regardeth the sincerity of him that prayeth, then ignorant devotion, committed to the trust of a heedlesse intercessor; and such prayers have alwaies gracious acceptation in his sight. as manifestly will appeare, by the novell which i intend to relate; manifestly (i say) not as in the judgement of god, but according to the apprehension of men. there was one named, _musciatto francesi_, who from beeing a most rich and great merchant in _france_, was become a knight, and preparing to go into _tuscany_, with monsieur _charles without land_, brother to the king of _france_ (who was desired and incited to come thither by pope _boniface_) found his affaires greatly intricated here and there (as oftentimes the matters of merchants fall out to bee) and that very hardly hee should sodainly unintangle them, without referring the charge of them to divers persons. and for all he tooke indifferent good order, onely he remained doubtfull, whom he might sufficiently leave, to recover his debts among many _burgundians_. and the rather was his care the more herein, because he knew the _burgundians_ to be people of badde nature, rioters, brablers, full of calumny, and without any faithfulnesse; so that he could not bethinke himselfe of any man (how wicked soever he was) in whom he might repose trust to meete with their lewdnesse. having a long while examined his thoughts upon this point, at last hee remembred one master _chappelet du prat_, who ofttimes had resorted to his house in _paris_. and because he was a man of little stature, yet handsome enough, the french not knowing what this word _chappelet_ might mean, esteeming he should be called rather (in their tongue) _chappell_; imagined, that in regard of his small stature, they termed him _chappelet_, and not _chappell_, and so by the name of _chappelet_ he was every where known, and by few or none acknowledged for _chappel_. this master _chappelet_, was of so good and commendable life; that, being a notarie, he held it in high disdaine, that any of his contractes (although he made but few) should be found without falshoode. and looke how many soever hee dealt withall, he would be urged and required thereto, offering them his paines and travaile for nothing, but to be requited otherwise then by money; which prooved to bee his much larger recompencing, and returned to him the farre greater benefit. hee tooke the onely pleasure of the world, to beare false witnesse, if hee were thereto entreated, and (oftentimes) when hee was not requested at all. likewise, because in those times, great trust and beleefe was given to an oath, he making no care or conscience to be perjured: greatly advantaged himselfe by law suites, in regard that many matters relyed upon his oath, and delivering the truth according to his knowledge. he delighted (beyond measure) and addicted his best studies, to cause enmities & scandals between kindred and friends, or any other persons, agreeing well together; and the more mischiefe he could procure in this kind, so much the more pleasure and delight tooke he therein. if he were called to kil any one, or to do any other villanous deede, he never would make deniall, but go to it very willingly; and divers times it was wel knowen, that many were cruelly beaten, ye slaine by his hands. hee was a most horrible blasphemer of god and his saints, upon the very least occasion, as being more addicted to choller, then any other man could be. never would he frequent the church, but basely contemned it, with the sacraments and religious rites therein administred, accounting them for vile and unprofitable things: but very voluntarily would visit tavernes, and other places of dishonest accesse, which were continually pleasing unto him, to satisfie his lust and inordinate lubricitie. hee would steale both in publike and private, even with such a conscience, as if it were given to him by nature so to do. he was a great glutton and a drunkarde, even till he was not able to take any more: being also a continuall gamester, and carrier of false dice, to cheate with them the verie best friendes he had. but why do i waste time in such extent of words? when it may suffice to say, that never was there a worse man borne; whose wickednesse was for long time supported, by the favour, power, and authoritie of monsieur _musciatto_, for whose sake many wrongs and injuries were patiently endured, as well by private persons (whom hee would abuse notoriously) as others of the court, betweene whom he made no difference at all in his vile dealing. this master _chappelet_, being thus remembred by _musciatto_ (who very well knew his life and behaviour) he perfectly perswaded himselfe, that this was a man apt in all respects, to meete with the treachery of the burgundians: whereupon, having sent for him, thus he beganne. _chappelet_, thou knowest how i am wholly to retreate my selfe from hence, and having some affaires among the burgundians, men full of wickednesse and deceite; i can bethinke my selfe of no meeter a man then _chappelet_, to recover such debts as are due to me among them. and because it falleth out so well, that thou art not now hindered by any other businesse; if thou wilt undergoe this office for me, i will procure thee favourable letters from the court, and give thee a reasonable portion in all thou recoverest. master _chappelet_, seeing himselfe idle, and greedy after worldly goods, considering _mounsieur musciatto_ (who had beene alwayes his best buckler) was now to depart from thence, without any dreaming on the matter, and constrained thereto (as it were) by necessity, set downe his resolution, and answered that hee would gladly doe it. having made their agreement together, and received from _musciatto_ his expresse procuration, as also the kings gracious letters; after that _musciatto_ was gone on his journey, master _chappelet_ went to _dijon_ [sidenote: to borgogna saith the italian.], where he was unknowne (well neere) of any. and there (quite from his naturall disposition) he beganne benignely and graciously, in recovering the debts due; which course he tooke the rather, because they should have a further feeling of him in the ende. being lodged in the house of two florentine brethren, that lived on their monies usance; and (for _mounsieur musciattoes_ sake) using him with honour and respect: it fortuned that he fell sicke, and the two brethren sent for physicions to attend him, allowing their servants to be diligent about him, making no spare of any thing, which gave the best likelyhood of restoring his health. but all their paines proved to no purpose, because he (honest man) being now growne aged, and having lived all his life time very disordredly, fell day by day (according to the physicions judgement) from bad to worse, as no other way appeared but death, whereat the brethren greatly greeved. upon a day, neere to the chamber where the sicke man lay, they entred into this communication. what shall we doe (quoth the one to the other) with this man? we are much hindered by him, for to send him away (sicke as he is) we shall be greatly blamed thereby, and it will be a manifest note of our weake wisedome: the people knowing that first of all we gave him entertainement, and have allowed him honest physical attendance, and he not having any way injuried or offended us, to let him be suddenly expulsed our house (sicke to death as he is) it can be no way for our credit. on the other side, we are to consider also, that he hath bin so badde a man, as he will not now make any confession thereof, neither receive the blessed sacrament of the church, and dying so without confession; there is no church that will accept his body, but it must be buried in prophane ground, like to a dogge. and yet if he would confesse himselfe, his sinnes are so many and monstrous; as the like case also may happen, because there is not any priest or religious person, that can or will absolve him. and being not absolved, he must be cast into some ditch or pit, and then the people of the towne, as well in regard of the account we carry heere, (which to them appeareth so little pleasing, as we are daily pursued with their worst words) as also coveting our spoile and overthrow; upon this accident will cry out and mutiny against us; _beholde these lombard dogs, which are not to be received into the church, why should we suffer them to live heere among us?_ in furious madnesse will they come upon us, and our house, where (peradventure) not contented with robbing us of our goods, our lives will remaine in their mercy and danger; so that, in what sort soever it happen, this mans dying heere, must needs be banefull to us. master _chappelet_, who (as we have formerly saide) was lodged neere to the place where they thus conferred, having a subtle attention (as oftentimes we see sicke persons to bee possessed withall) heard all these speeches spoken of him, and causing them to be called unto him, thus hee spake. i would not have you to be any way doubtfull of me; neither that you shold receive the least damage by me: i have heard what you have said, and am certaine, that it will happen according to your words, if matters should fall out as you conceite; but i am minded to deale otherwise. i have committed so many offences against our lord god, in the whole current of my life; that now i intend one action at the hour of my death, which i trust will make amends for all. procure therefore, i pray you, that the most holy and religious man that is to be found (if there bee any one at all) may come unto me, and referre the case then to me, for i will deale in such sort for you and my selfe, that all shall be well, and you no way discontented. the two brethren, although they had no great hope in his speeches, went yet to a monastery of gray-friars, and requested; that some one holy and learned man, might come to heare the confession of a _lombard_, that lay verie weake and sicke in their house. and one was granted unto them, beeing an aged religious frier, a great read master in the sacred scriptures, a very venerable person, who beeing of good and sanctified life, all the citizens held him in great respect & esteem, and on he went with them to their house. when he was come up into the chamber where master _chappelet_ lay, and being there seated downe by him; he beganne first to comfort him very lovingly, demanding also of him, howe many times he had bin at confession? whereto master _chappelet_ (who never had bin shriven in all his life time) thus replied. holy father, i alwayes used (as a common custome) to bee confessed once (at the least) every weeke, albeit sometimes much more often, but true it is, that being faln into this sicknesse, now eight dayes since; i have not bene confest, so violent hath bene the extremity of my weakenesse. my sonne (answered the good old man) thou hast done well, and so keep thee still hereafter in that minde: but i plainly perceive, seeing thou hast so often confessed thy selfe, that i shall take the lesse labour in urging questions to thee. master _chappelet_ replied: say not so good father, for albeit i have bene so oftentimes confessed, yet am i willing now to make a generall confession, even of all sinnes comming to my remembrance, from the very day of my birth, until this instant houre of my shrift. and therefore i intreate you (holy father) to make a particular demand of every thing, even as if i had never bene confessed at al, and to make no respect of my sicknesse: for i had rather be offensive to mine owne flesh, then by favouring or allowing it ease, to hazard the perdition of my soule, which my redeemer bought with so precious a price. these words were highly pleasing to the holy frier, and seemed to him as an argument of a good conscience: wherefore, after hee had much commended this forwardnesse in him, he began to demand of him if he had never offended with any woman? whereunto master _chappelet_ (breathing foorth a great sigh) answered. holy father, i am halfe ashamed to tell you the truth in this case, as fearing least i should sinne in vaine-glory. whereto the confessor replyed: speake boldly sonne, and feare not; for in telling the truth, be it in confession or otherwise, a man can never sinne. then sayde maister _chappelet_, father, seeing you give me so good an assurance, i will resolve you faithfully heerein. i am so true a virgin-man in this matter, even as when i issued forth of my mothers wombe. o sonne (quoth the frier) how happie and blessed of god art thou? well hast thou lived, and therein hast not meanly merited: having hadde so much libertie to doo the contrary if thou wouldst, wherein very few of us can so answer for our selves. afterward, he demanded of him, how much displeasing to god hee had beene in the sinne of gluttony? when (sighing againe greatly) he answered: too much, and too often, good father. for, over and beside the fasts of our lent season, which everie yeare ought to bee dulie observed by devout people, i brought my selfe to such a customarie use, that i could fast three dayes in every weeke, with bread and water. but indeede (holy father) i confesse, that i have drunke water with such a pleasing appetite and delight (especially in praying, or walking on pilgrimages) even as greedy drunkards do, in drinking good wine. and many times i have desired such sallades of small hearbes, as women gather abroad in the open fields, and feeding onely upon them, without coveting after any other kinde of sustenance; hath seemed much more pleasing to me, then i thought to agree with the nature of fasting, especially, when as it swerveth from devotion, or is not done as it ought to bee. sonne, sonne, replied the confessour, these sinnes are naturall, and very light, and therefore i would not have thee to charge thy conscience with them, more then is needfull. it happeneth to every man (how holy soever he be) that after he hath fasted over-long, feeding will be welcome to him, and drinking good drinke after his travaile. o sir (said maister _chappelet_) never tell me this to comfort me, for well you know, and i am not ignorant therein, that such things as are done for the service of god, ought all to be performed purely, and without any blemish of the minde; what otherwise is done, savoureth of sinne. the friar being well contented with his words, said: it is not amisse that thou understandest it in this manner, and thy conscience thus purely cleared, is no little comfort to me. but tell me now concerning avarice, hast thou sinned therein? by desiring more then was reasonable, or withholding from others, such things as thou oughtst not to detaine? whereto maister _chappelet_ answered. good father, i would not have you to imagine, because you see me lodged here in the house of two usurers, that therefore i am of any such disposition. no truly sir, i came hither to no other end, but onely to chastise and admonish them in friendly manner, to cleanse their mindes from such abhominable profit: and assuredly, i should have prevailed therein, had not this violently sicknesse hindered mine intention. but understand (holy father) that my parents left me a rich man, and immediatly after my fathers death, the greater part of his goods i gave away for gods sake, and then, to sustaine mine owne life, and to helpe the poore members of jesus christ, i betooke my selfe to a meane estate of merchandise, desiring none other then honest gaine thereby, and evermore whatsoever benefit came to me; i imparted halfe thereof to the poore, converting mine owne small portion about my necessary affaires, which that other part would scarcely serve to supply: yet alwayes god gave thereto such a mercifull blessing, that my businesse dayly thrived more and more, arising still from good to better. well hast thou done therein good sonne, said the confessour: but how often times hast thou beene angry? oh sir (said maister _chappelet_) therein i assure yee, i have often transgressed. and what man is able to forbeare it, beholding the dayly actions of men to be so dishonest? no care of keeping gods commaundements, nor any feare of his dreadfull judgements. many times in a day, i have rather wished my selfe dead then living, beholding youth pursuing idle vanities, to sweare and forsweare themselves, tipling in tavernes, and never haunting churches; but rather affecting the worlds follies, then any such duties as they owe to god. alas sonne (quoth the friar) this is a good and holy anger, and i can impose no penance on thee for it. but tell me, hath not rage or furie at any time so over-ruled thee, as to commit murther or manslaughter, or to speake evill of any man, or to doe any other such kinde of injurie? oh father (answered maister _chappelet_) you that seeme to be a man of god, how dare you use any such vile words? if i had had the very least thought, to doe any such act as you speake, doe you thinke that god would have suffered me to live? these are deedes of darknesse, fit for villaines and wicked livers; of which hellish crue, when at any time i have happened to meete with some one of them; i have said, goe, god convert thee. worthy, and charitable words, replied the friar; but tell me sonne, didst thou ever beare false witnesse against any man, or hast spoken falsly, or taken ought from any one, contrary to the will of the owner? yes indeede father, said maister _chappelet_, i have spoken ill of another, because i have sometime seene one of my neighbours, who with no meane shame of the world, would doe nothing else but beate his wife: and of him once i complained to the poore mans parents, saying, that he never did it, but when he was overcome with drinke. those were no ill words, quoth the friar; but i remember, you said that you were a merchant: did you ever deceive any, as some merchants use to doe? truly father, answered maister _chappelet_, i thinke not any, except one man, who one day brought me money which he owed me, for a certaine piece of cloath i solde him, and i put it into a purse without accounting it: about a moneth afterward, i found that there were foure small pence more then was due to me. and never happening to meete with the man againe, after i had kept them the space of a whole yeare, i then gave them away to foure poore people for gods sake. a small matter, said the friar, & truly payed back again to the owner, in bestowing them upon the poore. many other questions hee demaunded of him, whereto still he answered in the same manner: but before he proceeded to absolution, maister _chappelet_ spake thus. i have yet one sinne more, which i have not revealed to you: when being urged by the friar to confesse it, he said. i remember, that i should afford one day in the weeke, to cleanse the house of my soule, for better entertainement to my lord and saviour, and yet i have done no such reverence to the sunday or sabaoth, as i ought to have done. a small fault sonne, replied the friar. o no (quoth maister _chappelet_) doe not terme it a small fault, because sunday being a holy day, is highly to be reverenced: for, as on that day, our blessed lord arose from death to life. but (quoth the confessour) hast thou done nothing else on that day? yes, said he, being forgetfull of my selfe, once i did spet in gods church. the friar smiling, said: alas sonne, that is a matter of no moment, for wee that are religious persons, doe use to spet there every day. the more is your shame, answered maister _chappelet_, for no place ought to be kept more pure and cleane then the sacred temple, wherein our dayly sacrifices are offered up to god. in this manner he held on an houre and more, uttering the like transgressions as these; and at last began to sigh very passionately, and to shed a few teares, as one that was skilfull enough in such dissembling prankes; whereat the confessour being much mooved, said: alas sonne, what aylest thou? oh father (quoth _chappelet_) there remaineth yet one sinne more upon my conscience, whereof i never at any time made confession, so shamefull it appeareth to me to disclose it; and i am partly perswaded, that god will never pardon me for that sinne. how now sonne? said the friar, never say so; for if all the sinnes that ever were committed by men, or shall be committed so long as the world endureth, were onely in one man, and he repenting them, and being so contrite for them, as i see thou art; the grace and mercy of god is so great, that upon penitent confession, he will freely pardon him, and therefore spare not to speak it boldly. alas father (said _chappelet_, still in pretended weeping) this sinne of mine is so great, that i can hardly beleeve (if your earnest prayers doe not assist me) that ever i shall obtaine remission for it. speake it sonne, said the friar, and feare not, i promise that i will pray to god for thee. master _chappelet_ still wept and sighed, and continued silent, notwithstanding all the confessors comfortable perswasions; but after hee had helde him a long while in suspence, breathing forth a sighe, even as if his very heart would have broken, he saide; holy father, seeing you promise to pray to god for me, i will reveale it to you: know then, that when i was a little boy, i did once curse my mother; which he had no sooner spoken, but he wrung his hands, and greeved extraordinarily. oh good son, saide the friar, doth that seeme so great a sinne to thee? why, men doe daily blaspheme our lord god, and yet neverthelesse, upon their hearty repentance, he is alwayes ready to forgive them; and wilt not thou beleeve to obtaine remission, for a sinne so ignorantly committed? weepe no more deare sonne, but comfort thy selfe, and rest resolved, that if thou wert one of them, who nayled our blessed saviour to his crosse; yet being so truly repentant, as i see thou art, he would freely forgive thee. say you so father? quoth _chappelet_. what? mine owne deare mother? that bare me in her wombe nine moneths, day and night, and afterwards fed me with her breasts a thousand times, can i be pardoned for cursing her? oh no, it is too haynous a sinne, and except you pray to god very instantly for me, he will not forgive me. when the religious man perceived, that nothing more was to be confessed by master _chappelet_; he gave him absolution, and his owne benediction beside, reputing him to be a most holy man, as verily beleeving all that he had said. and who would not have done the like, hearing a man to speake in that manner, and being upon the very point of death? afterward, he saide unto him; master _chappelet_, by gods grace you may be soone restored to health, but if it so come to passe, that god doe take your blessed and well disposed soule to his mercy, will it please you to have your body buried in our convent? whereto master _chappelet_ answered; i thanke you father for your good motion, and sorry should i be, if my friends did bury me any where else, because you have promised, to pray to god for me; and beside, i have alwayes carried a religious devotion to your order. wherefore, i beseech you, so soone as you are come home to your convent, prevaile so much by your good meanes, that the holy eucharist, consecrated this morning on your high altar, may be brought unto me: for although i confesse my selfe utterly unworthy, yet i purpose (by your reverend permission) to receive it, as also your holy and latest unction; to this ende, that having lived a greevous sinner, i may yet (at the last) die a christian. these words were pleasing to the good olde man, and he caused every thing to be performed, according as master _chappelet_ had requested. the two brethren, who much doubted the dissembling of _chappelet_, being both in a small partition, which sundered the sicke mans chamber from theirs, heard and understood the passage of all, betweene him and the ghostly father, being many times scarcely able to refrain from laughter, at the fraudulent course of his confession. and often they said within themselves; what manner of man is this, whom neither age, sicknesse, nor terror of death so neere approaching, and sensible to his owne soule, nor that which is much more, god, before whose judgement he knowes not how soone he shall appeare, or else be sent to a more fearefull place; none of these can alter his wicked disposition, but that he will needes die according as he hath lived? notwithstanding, seeing he had so ordered the matter, that he had buriall freely allowed him, they cared for no more. after that _chappelet_ had received the communion, and the other ceremonies appointed for him; weakenesse encreasing on him more and more, the very same day of his goodly confession, he died (not long after) towards the evening. whereupon the two brethren tooke order, that all needefull things should be in a readinesse, to have him buried honourably; sending to acquaint the fathers of the convent therewith, that they might come to say their _vigilles_, according to precedent custome, and then on the morrow to fetch the body. the honest friar that had confessed him, hearing he was dead, went to the prior of the convent, and by sound of the house bell, caused all the brethren to assemble together, giving them credibly to understand, that master _chappelet_ was a very holy man, as appeared by all the parts of his confession, and made no doubt, but that many miracles would be wrought by his sanctified body, perswading them to fetch it thither with all devoute solemnity and reverence; whereto the prior, and all the credulous brethren presently condiscended very gladly. when night was come, they went all to visit the dead body of master _chappelet_, where they used an especiall and solemne _vigill_; and on the morrow, apparrelled in their richest coapes and vestiments, with books in their hands, and the crosse borne before them, singing in the forme of a very devoute procession, they brought the body pompeously into their church, accompanied with all the people of the towne, both men and women. the father confessor, ascending up into the pulpit, preached wonderfull things of him, and the rare holinesse of his life; his fastes, his virginity, simplicity, innocency, and true sanctity, recounting also (among other especiall observations) what _chappelet_ had confessed, as this most great and greevous sinne, and how hardly he could be perswaded, that god would grant him pardon for it. whereby he tooke occasion to reprove the people then present, saying; and you (accursed of god) for the verie least and trifling matter hapning, will not spare to blaspheme god, his blessed mother, and the whole court of heavenly paradise: oh, take example by this singular man, this saint-like man, nay, a verie saint indeede. many additions more he made, concerning his faithfulnesse, truth, & integrity; so that, by the vehement asseveration of his words (whereto all the people there present gave credible beleefe) he provoked them unto such zeale and earnest devotion; that the sermon was no sooner ended, but (in mighty crowds and throngs) they pressed about the biere, kissing his hands and feete, and all the garments about him were torne in peeces, as precious reliques of so holy a person, and happy they thought themselves, that could get the smallest peece or shred or anie thing that came neere to his body, and thus they continued all the day, the body lying still open, to be visited in this manner. when night was come, they buried him in a goodly marble tombe, erected in a faire chappell purposely; and for many dayes after following, it was most strange to see, how the people of the country came thither on heapes, with holy candles and other offerings, with images of waxe fastened to the tombe, in signe of sacred and solemne vowes, to this new created saint. and so farre was spread the fame and renowne of his sanctity, devotion, and integrity of life, maintained constantly by the fathers of the convent; that if any one fell sicke in neede, distresse, or adversity, they would make their vowes to no other saint but him: naming him (as yet to this day they do) saint _chappelet_, affirming upon their oathes, that infinite miracles were there daily performed by him, and especially on such, as came in devotion to visit his shrine. in this manner lived and died master _chappelet du prat_, who before he became a saint, was as you have heard: and i will not deny it to be impossible, but that he may be at rest among other blessed bodies. for, although he lived lewdly and wickedly, yet such might be his contrition in the latest extreamity, that (questionlesse) he might finde mercie. but, because such things remaine unknowne to us, and speaking by outwarde appearance, vulgar judgement will censure otherwise of him, and thinke him to be rather in perdition, then in so blessed a place as paradice. but referring that to the omnipotent appointment, whose clemencie hath alwayes beene so great to us, that he regards not our errors, but the integrity of our faith, making (by meanes of our continuall mediator) of an open enemy, a converted sonne and servant. and as i began in his name, so will i conclude, desiring that it may evermore be had in due reverence, and referre we our selves thereto in all our necessities, with this setled assurance, that he is alwayes readie to heare us. and so he ceased. _abraham a jew, being admonished or advised by a friend of his, named jehannot de chevigny, travailed from paris unto rome: and beholding there the wicked behaviour of men in the church, returned backe to paris again, where yet (neverthelesse) he became a christian._ the second novell. _wherein is contained and expressed, the liberality and goodnesse of god, extended to the christian faith._ the novell recited by _pamphilus_ was highly pleasing to the company, and much commended by the ladies: and after it had beene diligently observed among them, the queen commanded madam _neiphila_ (who was seated neerest to _pamphilus_) that, in relating another of hers, she should follow on in the pastime thus begun. she being no lesse gracious in countenance, then merrily disposed; made answer, that shee would obey her charge, and began in this manner. _pamphilus_ hath declared to us by his tale, how the goodnesse of god regardeth not our errors, when they proceede from things which wee cannot discerne. and i intend to approove by mine, what argument of infallible truth, the same benignity delivereth of it selfe, by enduring patiently the faults of them, that (both in word and worke) should declare unfaigned testimony of such gracious goodnesse, and not to live so dissolutely as they doe. to the end, that others illumined by their light of life, may beleeve with the stronger constancy of minde. as i have heeretofore heard (gracious ladies) there lived a wealthy marchant in _paris_, being a mercer, or seller of silkes, named _jehannot de chevigny_, a man of faithful, honest, and upright dealing; who held great affection and friendship with a very rich jew, named _abraham_, that was a merchant also, and a man of very direct conversation. _jehannot_ well noting the honesty and loyall dealing of this jew, began to have a religious kind of compassion in his soule, much pittying, that a man so good in behaviour, so wise and discreete in all his actions, should be in danger of perdition thorow want of faith. in which regard, lovingly he began to entreate him, that he would leave the errors of his jewish beleefe, and follow the truth of christianity, which he evidently saw (as being good and holy) daily to prosper and enlarge it selfe, whereas (on the contrary) his profession decreased, and grew to nothing. the jew made answer, that he beleeved nothing to be so good & holy, as the jewish religion, and having beene borne therein, therein also he purposed to live and dye, no matter whatsoever, being able to remove him from that resolution. for all this stiffe deniall, _jehannot_ would not so give him over; but pursued him still day by day, reitterating continually his former speeches to him: delivering infinite excellent and pregnant reasons, that merchants themselves were not ignorant, how farre the christian faith excelled the jewish falshoods. and albeit the jew was a very learned man in his owne law, yet notwithstanding, the intire amity hee bare to _jehannot_, or (perhaps) his words fortified by the blessed spirit, were so prevalent with him: that the jew felt a pleasing apprehension in them, though his obstinacie stood (as yet) farre off from conversion. but as hee thus continued strong in opinion, so _jehannot_ left not hourely to labour him: in so much that the jew, being conquered by such earnest and continuall importunity, one day spake to _jehannot_ thus. my worthy friend _jehannot_, thou art extremely desirous, that i should convert to christianity, and i am well contended to doe it, onely upon this condition. that first i will journey to rome, to see him (whom thou sayest) is gods generall vicar here on earth, and to consider on the course of his life and manners, and likewise of his colledge of cardinals. if he and they doe appeare such men to me, as thy speeches affirmes them to be, and thereby i may comprehend, that thy faith and religion is better then mine, as (with no meane paines) thou endeavourest to perswade me: i will become a christian as thou art, but if i finde it otherwise, i will continue a jew as i am. when _jehannot_ heard these words, he became exceeding sorrowfull, saide within himselfe. i have lost all the paines, which i did thinke to be well imployed, as hoping to have this man converted here: for, if he goe to the court of rome, and behold there the wickednes of the priests lives; farewell all hope in me, of ever seeing him to become a christian. but rather, were he already a christian, without all question, he would turne jew: and so (going neerer to _abraham_) he said. alas my loving friend, why shouldst thou undertake such a tedious travell, and so great a charge, as thy journey from hence to rome will cost thee? consider, that to a rich man (as thou art) travaile by land or sea is full of infinite dangers. doest thou not thinke, that here are religious men enow, who will gladly bestowe baptisme upon thee. to me therefore it plainely appeareth, that such a voyage is to no purpose. if thou standest upon any doubt or scruple, concerning the faith whereto i wish thee; where canst thou desire conference with greater doctours, or men more learned in all respects, then this famous citie doth affoord thee, to resolve thee in any questionable case? thou must thinke, that the prelates are such there, as here thou seest them to be, and yet they must needes be in much better condition at rome, because they are neere to the principall pastour. and therefore, if thou wilt credit my counsell, reserve this journey to some time more convenient, when the jubilee of generall pardon happeneth, and then (perchance) i will beare thee company, and goe along with thee as in vowed pilgrimage. whereto the jew replied. i beleeve _jehannot_, that all which thou hast said may be so. but, to make short with thee, i am fully determined (if thou wouldst have me a christian, as thou instantly urgest me to be) to goe thither, for otherwise, i will continue as i am. _jehannot_ perceiving his setled purpose, said: goe then in gods name. but perswaded himselfe, that hee would never become a christian, after hee had once seene the court of rome: neverthelesse, he counted his labour not altogether lost, in regard he bestowed it to a good end, and honest intentions are to be commended. the jew mounted on horse-backe, and made no lingering in his journey to rome, where being arrived, he was very honourably entertained by other jewes dwelling in rome. and during the time of his abiding there (without revealing to any one, the reason of his comming thither) very heedfully he observed, the manner of the popes life, of the cardinals, prelates, and all the courtiers. and being a man very discreete and judicious, he apparantly perceived, both by his owne eye, and further information of friends; that from the highest to the lowest (without any restraint, remorse of conscience, shame, or feare of punishment) all sinned in abhominable luxurie, and not naturally onely, but in foule sodomie, so that the credit of strumpets and boyes was not small, and yet might be too easily obtained. moreover, drunkards, belly-gods, and servants of the paunch, more then of any thing else (even like brutish beasts after their luxurie) were every where to be met withall. and, upon further observation, hee saw all men so covetous and greedy of coyne, that every thing was bought and solde for ready money, not onely the blood of men, but (in plaine termes) the faith of christians, yea, and matters of divinest qualities, how, or to whomsoever appertaining, were it for sacrifices or benefices, whereof was made no meane merchandize, and more brokers were there to be found (then in _paris_ attending upon all trades) of manifest symonie, under the nice name of negotiation, and for gluttony, not sustentation: even as if god had not knowne the signification of vocables, nor the intentions of wicked hearts, but would suffer himselfe to be deceived by the outward names of things, as wretched men commonly use to doe. these things, and many more (fitter for silence, then publication) were so deepely displeasing to the jew, being a most sober and modest man; that he had soone seene enough, resolving on his returne to _paris_, which very speedily he performed. and when _jehannot_ heard of his arrivall, crediting much rather other newes from him, then ever to see him a converted christian; he went to welcome him, and kindly they feasted one another. after some fewe dayes of resting, _jehannot_ demaunded of him; what he thought of our holy father the pope and his cardinals, and generally of all the other courtiers? whereto the jew readily answered; it is strange _jehannot_, that god should give them so much as he doth. for i will truly tell thee, that if i had beene able to consider all those things, which there i have both heard and seene: i could then have resolved my selfe, never to have found in any priest, either sanctity, devotion, good worke, example of honest life, or any good thing else beside. but if a man desire to see luxury, avarice, gluttony, and such wicked things, yea, worse, if worse may be, and held in generall estimation of all men; let him but goe to _rome_, which i thinke rather to be the forge of damnable actions, then any way leaning to grace or goodnesse. and, for ought i could perceive, me thinkes your chiefe pastour, and (consequently) all the rest of his dependants, doe strive so much as they may (with all their engine arte and endeavour) to bring to nothing, or else to banish quite out of the world, christian religion, whereof they should be the support and foundation. but because i perceive, that their wicked intent will never come to passe, but contrariwise, that your faith enlargeth itselfe, shining every day much more cleare and splendant: i gather thereby evidently, that the blessed spirit is the true ground and defence thereof, as being more true and holy then any other. in which respect, whereas i stood stiffe and obstinate against the good admonitions, and never minded to become a christian: now i freely open my heart unto thee, that nothing in the world can or shall hinder me, but i will be a christian, as thou art. let us therefore presently goe to the church, and there (according to the true custome of your holy faith) helpe me to be baptized. _jehannot_, who expected a farre contrary conclusion, then this, hearing him speake it with such constancy; was the very gladdest man in the world, and went with him to the church of _nostre dame_ in _paris_, where he requested the priests there abiding, to bestow baptisme on _abraham_, which they joyfully did, hearing him so earnestly to desire it. _jehannot_ was his godfather, and named him _john_, and afterward, by learned divines he was more fully instructed in the grounds of our faith; wherein he grew of greatly understanding, and led a very vertuous life. _melchisedech a jew, by recounting a tale of three rings, to the great soldan, named saladine, prevented a great danger which was prepared for him._ the third novell. _whereby the author, approving the christian faith, sheweth, how beneficiall a sodaine and ingenious answer may fall out to bee, especially when a man finds himselfe in some evident danger._ madame _neiphila_ having ended her discourse, which was well allowed of by all the company; it pleased the queene, that madam _philomena_ should next succeede in order, who thus began. the tale delivered by _neiphila_, maketh mee remember a doubtfull case, which sometime hapned to another jew. and because that god, and the truth of his holy faith, hath bene already very wel discoursed on: it shall not seeme unfitting (in my poore opinion) to descend now into the accidents of men. wherefore, i will relate a matter unto you, which being attentively heard and considered; may make you much more circumspect, in answering to divers questions and demands, then (perhaps) otherwise you would be. consider then (most woorthy assembly) that like as folly or dulnesse, many times hath overthrowne some men from place of eminencie, into most great and greevous miseries: even so, discreet sense and good understanding, hath delivered many out of irksome perils, and seated them in safest security. and to prove it true, that folly hath made many fall from high authority, into poore and despised calamity; may be avouched by infinite examples, which now were needeless to remember: but, that good sense and able understanding, may proove to be the occasion of great desolation, without happy prevention, i will declare unto you in very few words, and make it good according to my promise. _saladine_, was a man so powerfull and valiant, as not onely his very valour made him soldan of babylon, but also gave him many signall victories, over kings of the sarrazens, and of christians likewise. having in divers warres, and other magnificent employments of his owne, wasted all his treasure, and (by reason of some sodaine accident happening to him) standing in neede to use some great summe of money, yet not readily knowing where, or how to procure it; he remembred a rich jew named _melchisedech_, that lent out money to use or interest in the city of _alexandria_. this man he imagined best able to furnish him, if he could be won to do it willingly: but he was knowne to be so gripple and miserable, that hardly any meanes would drawe him to it. in the end, constrained by necessity, and labouring his wits for some apt device whereby he might have it: he concluded, though hee might not compell him to do it, yet by a practise shadowed with good reason to ensnare him. and having sent for him entertained him very familiarly in his court, and sitting downe by him, thus began. honest man, i have often heard it reported by many, that thou art very skilfull, and in cases concerning god, thou goest beyond all other of these times: wherefore, i would gladly be informed by thee, which of those three lawes or religions, thou takest to be truest; that of the jew, the other of the sarazen, or that of the christian? the jew, being a very wise man, plainly perceived, that _saladine_ sought to entrap him in his answer, and so to raise some quarrell against him. for, if he commended any one of those lawes above the other, he knew that _saladine_ had what he aymed at. wherefore, bethinking himselfe to shape such an answer, as might no way trouble or entangle him: summoning all his sences together, and considering, that dallying with the soldane might redound to his no meane danger, thus he replied. my lord, the question propounded by you, is faire and worthy, & to answer mine opinion truly thereof, doth necessarily require some time of consideration, if it might stand with your liking to allow it: but if not, let me first make entrance to my reply, with a pretty tale, and well worth the hearing. i have oftentimes heard it reported, that (long since) there was a very wealthy man, who (among other precious jewels of his owne) had a goodly ring of great valew; the beauty and estimation whereof, made him earnestly desirous to leave it as a perpetuall memory and honour to his successors. whereupon, he willed and ordained, that he among his male children, with whom this ring (being left by the father) should be found in custody after his death; hee and none other was to bee reputed his heire, and to be honoured and reverenced by all the rest, as being the prime and worthiest person. that sonne, to whom this ring was left by him, kept the same course to his posterity, dealing (in all respects) as his predecessor had done; so that (in short time) the ring (from hand to hand) had many owners by legacie. at length, it came to the hand of one, who had three sonnes, all of them goodly and vertuous persons, and verie obedient to their father: in which regard, he affected them all equally, without any difference or partiall respect. the custome of this ring being knowne to them, each one of them (coveting to beare esteeme above the other) desired (as hee could best make his meanes) his father, that in regard he was now grown very old, he would leave that ring to him, whereby he should bee acknowledged for his heire. the good man, who loved no one of them more then the other, knew not how to make his choise, nor to which of them he should leave the ring: yet having past his promise to them severally, he studied by what meanes to satisfie them all three. wherefore, secretly having conferred with a curious and excellent goldsmith, hee caused two other rings to bee made, so really resembling the first made ring, that himself (when he had them in his hand) could not distinguish which was the right one. lying upon his death-bed, and his sonnes then plying him by their best opportunities, he gave to each of them a ring. and they (after his death) presuming severally upon their right to the inheritance & honour, grew to great contradiction and square: each man producing then his ring, which were so truly all alike in resemblance, as no one could know the right ring from the other. and therefore, suite in law, to distinguish the true heire to his father; continued long time, and so it dooth yet to this very day. in like manner my good lord, concerning those three lawes given by god the father, to three such people as you have propounded: each of them do imagine that they have the heritage of god, and his true law, and also duely to performe his commandements; but which of them do so indeede, the question (as of the three ringes) is yet remaining. _saladine_ well perceyving, that the jew was too cunning to be caught in his snare, and had answered so well, that to doe him further violence, would redound unto his perpetuall dishonour; resolved to reveale his neede and extremity, and try if he would therein friendly sted him. having disclosed the matter, and how he purposed to have dealt with him, if he had not returned so wise an answer; the jew lent him so great a sum of money as hee demanded, and _saladine_ repayed it againe to him justly, giving him other great gifts beside: respecting him as his especiall friend, and maintaining him in very honourable condition, neere unto his owne person. _a monke, having committed an offence, deserving to be very grievously punished; freede himselfe from the paine to be inflicted on him, by wittily reprehending his abbot, with the very same fault._ the fourth novell. _wherein may be noted, that such men as will reprove those errors in others, which remaine in themselves, commonly are the authors of their owne reprehension._ so ceased madam _philomena_, after the conclusion of her tale, when _dioneus_ sitting next unto her, (without tarrying for any other command from the queene, knowing by the order formerly begunne, that he was to follow in the same course) spake in this manner. gracious ladies, if i faile not in understanding your generall intention; we are purposely assembled here to tell tales, and especially such as may please our selves. in which respect, because nothing should be done disorderly, i hold it lawfull for every one (as our queene decreed before her dignity) to relate such a novelty, as (in their owne judgement) may cause most contentment. wherefore having heard, that by the good admonitions of _jehannot de chevigny_, _abraham_ the jew was advised to the salvation of his soule, and _melchisedech_ (by his witty understanding) defended his riches from the traines of _saladine_: i now purpose to tell you in a few plaine words, (without feare of receiving any reprehension) how cunningly a monke compassed his deliverance, from a punishment intended towards him. there was in the country of _lunigiana_ (which is not farre distant from our owne) a monastery, which sometime was better furnished with holinesse and religion, then nowadayes they are; wherein lived (among divers other) a young novice monke, whose hot and lusty disposition (being in the vigour of his yeeres) was such, as neither fastes nor prayers had any great power over him. it chanced on a fasting day about high noone, when all the other monkes were asleepe in their dormitaries or dorters, this frolicke friar was walking alone in their church, which stood in a very solitary place, where ruminating on many matters by himselfe, hee espied a pretty hansome wench (some husbandmans daughter in the countrey, that had beene gathering rootes and hearbes in the field) uppon her knees before an altar, whom he had no sooner seene, but immediately hee felt effeminate temptations, and such as ill fitted with his profession. lascivious desire, and no religious devotion, made him draw neere her, and whether under shrift (the onely cloake to compasse carnall affections) or some other as close conference, to as pernicious and vile a purpose, i know not: but so farre he prevailed upon her frailety, and such a bargaine passed betweene them, that (from the church) he wonne her to his chamber, before any person could perceive it. now, while this yong lusty monke (transported with over-fond affection) was more carelesse of his dalliance, then he should have beene; the lord abbot, being newly arisen from sleepe, and walking softly about the cloyster, came to the monkes dorter doore, where hearing what noyse was made between them, and a feminine voyce, more strange then hee was wont to heare; he layed his eare close to the chamber doore, and plainly perceived, that a woman was within. wherewith being much moved, he intended suddenly to make him open the doore; but (upon better consideration) hee conceived it farre more fitting for him, to returne backe to his owne chamber, and tary untill the monke should come forth. the monke, though his delight with the damosel was extraordinary, yet feare and suspition followed upon it: for, in the very height of all his wantonnesse, he heard a soft treading about the doore. and prying thorow a small crevice in the same doore, perceived apparantly, that the abbot himselfe stood listening there, and could not be ignorant, but that the maide was with him in the chamber. as after pleasure ensueth paine, so the veneriall monke knew well enough (though wanton heate would not let him heede it before) that most greevous punishment must be inflicted on him; which made him sad beyond all measure. neverthelesse, without disclosing his dismay to the young maiden, he began to consider with himselfe on many meanes, whereby to find out one that might best fit his turne. and suddenly conceited an apt stratagem, which sorted to such effect as he would have it: whereupon seeming satisfied for that season, hee tolde the damosell, that (being carefull of her credit) as he had brought her in unseen of any, so he would free her from thence again, desiring her to tarrie there (without making any noyse at all) until such time as he returned to her. going forth of the chamber, and locking it fast with the key, he went directly to the lord abbots lodging, and delivering him the saide key (as every monke used to doe the like, when he went abroade out of the convent) setting a good countenance on the matter, boldly saide; my lord, i have not yet brought in all my part of the wood, which lieth ready cut downe in the forrest; and having now convenient time to doe it, if you please to give me leave, i will goe and fetch it. the abbot perswading himselfe, that he had not beene discovered by the monke, and to be resolved more assuredly in the offence committed; being not a little jocund of so happy an accident, gladly tooke the key, and gave him leave to fetch the wood. no sooner was he gone, but the abbot beganne to consider with himselfe, what he were best to doe in this case, either (in the presence of all the other monkes) to open the chamber doore, that so the offence being knowne to them all, they might have no occasion of murmuring against him, when he proceeded in the monkes punishment; or rather should first understand of the damosell her selfe, how, and in what manner shee was brought thither. furthermore, he considered, that shee might be a woman of respect, or some such mans daughter, as would not take it well, to have her disgraced before all the monkes. wherefore he concluded, first to see (himselfe) what shee was, and then (afterward) to resolve upon the rest. so going very softly to the chamber, and entring in, locked the doore fast with the key, when the poore damosell thinking it had beene the gallant young monke; but finding it to be the lord abbot, shee fell on her knees weeping, as fearing now to receive publike shame, by being betrayed in this unkinde manner. my lord abbot looking demurely on the maide, and perceiving her to be faire, feate, and lovely; felt immediately (although he was olde) no lesse spurring on to fleshly desires, then the young monke before had done; whereupon he beganne to conferre thus privately with himselfe. why should i not take pleasure, when i may freely have it? cares and molestations i endure every day, but sildome find such delights prepared for me. this is a delicate sweete young damosell, and here is no eye that can discover me. if i can enduce her to doe as i would have her, i know no reason why i should gaine-say it. no man can know it, or any tongue blaze it abroade; and sinne so concealed, is halfe pardoned. such a faire fortune as this is, perhaps hereafter will never befall me; and therefore i hold it wisedome, to take such a benefit when a man may enjoy it. upon this immodest meditation, and his purpose quite altered which he came for; he went neerer to her, and very kindly began to comfort her, desiring her to forbeare weeping, and (by further insinuating speeches) acquainted her with his amorous intention. the maide, who was made neither of yron nor diamond, and seeking to prevent one shame by another, was easily wonne to the abbots will, which caused him to embrace and kisse her often. our lusty young novice monke, whom the abbot imagined to be gone for wood, had hid himselfe aloft upon the roofe of the dorter, where, when he saw the abbot enter alone into the chamber, hee lost a great part of his former feare, promising to himselfe a kinde of perswasion, that somewhat would ensue to his better comfort; but when he beheld him lockt into the chamber, then his hope grew to undoubted certainty. a little chincke or crevice favoured him, whereat he could both heare and see, whatsoever was done or spoken by them: so, when the abbot thought hee had staide long enough with the damosell, leaving her still there, and locking the doore fast againe, hee returned thence to his owne chamber. within some short while after, the abbot knowing the monke to be in the convent, and supposing him to be lately returned with the wood, determined to reprove him sharpely, and to have him closely imprisoned, that the damosell might remaine solie to himselfe. and causing him to be called presently before him, with a very stearne and angry countenance giving him many harsh and bitter speeches, commanded, that he should be clapt in prison. the monke very readily answered, saying. my good lord, i have not yet beene so long in the order of saint _benedict_, as to learne all the particularities thereto belonging. and beside sir, you never shewed mee or any of my brethren, in what manner we young monkes ought to use women, as you have otherwise done for our custome of prayer and fasting. but seeing you have so lately therein instructed mee, and by your owne example how to doe it: i heere solemnely promise you, if you please to pardon me but this one error, i will never faile therein againe, but dayly follow what i have seene you doe. the abbot, being a man of quicke apprehension, perceived instantly by this answere; that the monke not onely knew as much as he did, but also had seene (what was intended) that hee should not. wherefore, finding himselfe to be as faulty as the monke, and that hee could not shame him, but worthily had deserved as much himselfe; pardoning him, and imposing silence on eithers offence: they convayed the poore abused damosell forth of their doores, she purposing (never after) to transgresse in the like manner. _the lady marquesse of_ montferrat, _with a banquet of hennes, and divers other gracious speeches beside, repressed the fond love of the king of_ france. the fift novell. _declaring, that wise and vertuous ladies, ought to hold their chastitie in more esteeme, then the greatnesse and treasures of princes: and that a discreete lord should not offer modestie violence._ the tale reported by _dioneus_, at the first hearing of the ladies, began to rellish of some immodestie, as the bashfull blood mounting up into their faces, delivered by apparant testimonie. and beholding one another with scarse-pleasing lookes, during all the time it was in discoursing, no sooner had hee concluded: but with a fewe milde and gentle speeches, they gave him a modest reprehension, and meaning to let him know, that such tales ought not to be tolde among women. afterward, the queene commaunded madame _fiammetta_, (sitting on a banke of flowers before her) to take her turne as next in order: and she, smiling with such a virgin-blush, as very beautifully became her, began in this manner. it is no little joy to me, that wee understand so well (by the discourses already past) what power consisteth in the delivery of wise and ready answeres; and because it is a great part offence and judgement in men, to affect women of great birth and quality, then themselves, as also an admirable fore-sight in women, to keepe off from being surprized in love, by lords going beyond them in degree: a matter offereth it selfe to my memory, well deserving my speech and your attention, how a gentlewoman (both in word and deede) should defend her honour in that kind, when importunity laboureth to betray it. the marquesse of _montferrat_ was a worthy and valiant knight, who being captaine generall for the church, the necessary service required his company on the seas, in a goodly army of the christians against the turkes. upon a day, in the court of king _philip_, sirnamed the one eyed king (who likewise made preparation in _france_, for a royall assistance to that expedition) as many speeches were delivered, concerning the valour and manhood of this marquesse: it fortuned, that a knight was then present, who knew him very familiarly, and hee gave an addition to the former commendation, that the whole world contained not a more equall couple in mariage, then the marquesse & his lady. for, as among all knights, the marquesse could hardly be paraleld for armes and honour; even so his wife, in comparison of all other ladies, was scarcely matchable for beauty and vertue. which words were so waighty in the apprehension of king _philip_, that suddainly (having as yet never seene her) he began to affect her very earnestly, concluding to embarque himselfe at _gennes_ or _genoua_, there to set forward on the intended voyage, and journeying thither by land: hee would shape some honest excuse to see the lady marquesse, whose lord being then from home, opinion perswaded him over-fondly, that he should easily obtaine the issue of his amorous desire. when hee was come within a dayes journey, where the lady marquesse then lay; he sent her word, that she should expect his company on the morrow at dinner. the lady, being singularly wise and judicious; answered the messenger, that she reputed the kings comming to her, as an extraordinary grace and favour, and that hee should be most heartily welcome. afterward, entring into further consideration with her selfe, what the king might meane by this private visitation, knowing her husband to be from home, and it to be no meane barre to his apter entertainement: at last she discreetly conceited (and therein was not deceived) that babling report of her beauty and perfections, might thus occasion the kings comming thither, his journy lying else a quite contrary way. notwithstanding, being a princely lady, and so loyall a wife as ever lived, shee intended to give him her best entertainement: summoning the chiefest gentlemen in the country together, to take due order (by their advise) for giving the king a gracious welcome. but concerning the dinner, and diet for service to his table; that remained onely at her owne disposing. sending presently abroade, and buying all the hennes that the country afforded; shee commaunded her cookes, that onely of them (without any other provision beside) they should prepare all the services that they could devise. on the morrow, the king came according to his promise, and was most honourable welcommed by the lady, who seemed in his eye (farre beyond the knights speeches of her) the fairest creature that ever he had seene before; whereat he mervailed not a little, extolling her perfections to be peerelesse, which much the more enflamed his affections, and (almost) made his desires impatient. the king being withdrawne into such chambers, as orderly were prepared for him, and as beseemed so great a prince: the houre of dinner drawing on, the king and the lady marquesse were seated at one table, and his attendants placed at other tables, answerable to their degrees of honour. plenty of dishes being served in, and the rarest wines that the countrey yeelded, the king had more minde to the faire lady marquesse, then any meate that stood on the table. neverthelesse, observing each service after other, and that all the viands (though variously cooked, and in divers kindes) were nothing else but hennes onely; he began to wonder, and so much the rather, because he knew the countrey to be of such quality, that it affoorded all plenty both of fowles and venyson: beside, after the time of his comming was heard, they had respite enough, both for hawking and hunting; and therefore it encreased his marvell the more, that nothing was provided for him, but hennes onely: wherein to be the better resolved, turning a merry countenance to the lady, thus he spake. madam, are hennes onely bred in this countrey, and no cockes? the lady marquesse, very well understanding his demand, which fitted her with an apt opportunity, to thwart his idle hope, and defend her owne honour; boldly returned the king this answere. not so my lord, but women and wives, howsoever they differ in garments and graces one from another; yet notwithstanding, they are all heere as they be in other places. when the king heard this reply, he knew well enough the occasion of his henne dinner, as also, what vertue lay couched under her answer; perceiving apparantly, that wanton words would prove but in vaine, and such a woman was not easily to be seduced; wherefore, as hee grew enamored on her inconsiderately, so he found it best fitting for his honour, to quench this heate with wisedome discreetely. and so, without any more words, or further hope of speeding in so unkingly a purpose, dinner being ended, by a sudden departing, he smoothly shadowed the cause of his comming, and thanking her for the honour shee had done him, commended her to her chaste disposition, and posted away with speede to _gennes_. _an honest plaine meaning man, (simply and conscionably) reprehended the malignity, hypocrisie, and misdemeanour of many religious persons._ the sixt novell. _declaring, that in few, discreete, and well placed words, the covered craft of church-men may be justly reproved, and their hypocrisie honestly discovered._ madam _Æmilia_ sitting next to the gentle lady _fiammetta_, perceiving the modest chastisement, which the vertuous lady marquesse had given to the king of _france_, was generally graced by the whole assembly; began (after the queene had thereto appointed her) in these words. nor will i conceale the deserved reprehension, which an honest simple lay-man, gave to a covetous holy father, in very few words; yet more to be commended, then derided. not long since (worthy ladies) there dwelt in our owne native city, a friar minor, an inquisitor after matters of faith, who, although he laboured greatly to seeme a sanctified man, and an earnest affecter of christian religion, (as all of them appeare to be in outward shew;) yet he was a much better inquisitor after them, that had their purses plenteously stored with money, then of such as were slenderly grounded in faith. by which diligent continued care in him, he found out a man, more rich in purse, then understanding; and yet not so defective in matters of faith, as misguided by his owne simple speaking, and (perhaps) when his braine was well warmed with wine, words fell more foolishly from him, then in better judgement they could have done. being on a day in company, (very little differing in quality from himselfe) he chanced to say; that he had beene at such good wine, as god himselfe did never drinke better. which words (by some sicophant then in presence) being carried to this curious inquisitor, and he well knowing, that the mans faculties were great, and his bagges swolne up full with no meane abundance: _cum gladiis & fustibus_; with booke, bell, and candle, he raysed an hoast of execrations against him, and the sumner cited him with a solemne processe to appeare before him, understanding sufficiently, that this course would sooner fetch money from him, then amend any misbeliefe in the man; for no further reformation did he seeke after. the man comming before him, he demanded, if the accusation intimated against him, was true or no? whereto the honest man answered, that he could not denie the speaking of such words, and declared in what manner they were uttered. presently the inquisitor, most devoutly addicted to saint _john_ with the golden beard, saide; what? doest thou make our lord a drinker, and a curious quaffer of wines, as if he were a glutton, belly-god, or a taverne haunter, as thou, and other drunkards are. being an hypocrite, as thou art, thou thinkest this to be but a light matter, because it may seeme so in thine owne opinion: but i tell thee plainly, that it deserveth fire and faggot, if i should proceede in justice to inflict it on thee: with these, and other such like threatning words, as also a very stearn and angry countenance, he made the man believe himselfe to be an epicure, and that hee denied the eternity of the soule; whereby he fell into such a trembling feare, as doubting indeed, least he should be burned, that, to be more mercifully dealt withall, he rounded him in the eare, and (by secret means) so annointed his hands with saint _johns_ golden grease, (a very singular remedy against the disease pestilentiall in covetous priests, especially friars minors, that dare touch no money) as the case became very quickly altered. this soveraigne unction was of such vertue (though _galen_ speakes not a word thereof among all his chiefest medicines) and so farre prevailed; that the terrible threatening words of fire and fagot, became meerely frozen up, and gracious language blew a more gentle and calmer ayre; the inquisitor delivering him an hallowed crucifixe, creating him a souldier of the crosse (because he had payed crosses good store for it) and even as if he were to travell under that standard to the holy land; so did hee appoint him a home-paying pennance, namely, to visit him thrice every weeke in his chamber, and to annoint his hands with the selfe-same yellow unguent, and afterward, to heare a masse of the holy crosse, visiting him also at dinner time, which being ended, to doe nothing all the rest of the day, but according as he directed him. the simple man, yet not so simple, but seeing that this weekely greasing the inquisitors hands, would (in time) graspe away all his gold; grew weary of this annointing, and beganne to consider with himselfe, how to stay the course of this chargeable penance: and comming one morning, (according to his injunction) to heare masse, in the gospell he observed these wordes; _you shall receive an hundred for one, and so possesse eternall life_; which saying he kept perfectly in his memory, and, as hee was commanded, at dinner time, he came to the inquisitor, finding him (among his fellowes) seated at the table. the inquisitor presently demanded of him, whether he had heard masse that morning, or no? yes sir, replied the man very readily. hast thou heard any thing therein (quoth the inquisitor) whereof thou art doubtfull, or desirest to be further informed? surely sir, answered the plaine meaning man, i make no doubt of any thing i have heard, but doe beleeve all constantly; onely one thing troubleth me much, and maketh me very compassionate of you, and of all these holy fathers your brethren, perceiving in what wofull and wretched estate you will be, when you shall come into another world. what words are these, quoth the inquisitor? and why art thou moved to such compassion of us? o good sir, saide the man, doe you remember the words in the gospell this morning? you shall receive an hundred for one. that is very true, replied the inquisitor, but what moveth thee to urge those words? i will tell you sir, answered the plaine fellow, so it might please you to be not offended. since the time of my resorting hither, i have daily seene many poore people at your doore, and (out of your abundance) when you and your brethren have fed sufficiently, every one hath had a good messe of pottage: now sir, if for every dishfull given, you are sure to receive an hundred againe, you will all be meerely drowned in pottage. although the rest (sitting at the table with the inquisitor) laughed heartily at this jest; yet he found himselfe toucht in another nature, having (hypocritically) received for one poore offence, above three hundred peeces of gold, and not a mite to be restored againe. but fearing to be further disclosed, yet threatning him with another processe in law, for abusing the words of the gospell; he was content to dismisse him for altogether, without any more golden greasing in the hand. _bergamino, by telling a tale of a skilfull man, named_ primasso, _and of an abbot of clugni; honestly checked a new kinde of covetousnesse, in master_ can de la scala. the seaventh novell. _approving, that it is much unfitting for a prince, or great person, to be covetous; but rather to be liberall to all men._ the curteous demeanour of madam _Æmilia_, and the quaintnesse of her discourse, caused both the queene, and the rest of the company, to commend the invention of carrying the crosse, and the golden oyntment appointed for pennance. afterward, _philostratus_, who was in order to speake next, began in this manner. it is a commendable thing (faire ladies) to hit a but that never stirreth out of his place: but it is a matter much more admirable, to see a thing (suddenly appearing, and sildome or never frequented before) to be as suddenly hit by an ordinary archer. the vicious and polluted lives of priests, yeeldeth matter of it selfe in many things, deserving speech and reprehension, as a true but of wickednesse, and well worthy to be sharply shot at. and therefore, though that honest meaning man did wisely, in touching master inquisitor to the quicke, with the hypocriticall charity of monkes and friars, in giving such things to the poore, as were more meete for swine, or to be worse throwne away; yet i hold him more to be commended, who (by occasion of a former tale, and which i purpose to relate) pleasantly reproved master _can de la scala_, a magnifico and mightie lord, for a sudden and unaccustomed covetousnesse appearing in him, figuring by other men, that which he intended to say of him, in manner following. master _can de la scala_, as fame ranne abroade of him in all places, was (beyond the infinite favours of fortune towards him) one of the most notable and magnificent lords that ever lived in _italy_, since the dayes of _fredericke_ the second emperour. he determining to procure a very solemne assembly at _verona_, and many people being met there from divers places, especially gentlemen of all degrees; suddenly (upon what occasion i know not) his minde altered, and hee would not goe forward with his intention. most of them hee partly recompenced which were come thither, and they dismissed to depart at their pleasure, one onely man remained unrespected, or in any kinde sort sent away, whose name was _bergamino_, a man very pleasantly disposed, and so wittily ready in speaking and answering, as none could easily credit it, but such as heard him; and although his recompence seemed over long delayed, yet hee made no doubt of a beneficiall ending. by some enemies of his, master _can de la scala_ was incensed, that whatsoever he gave or bestowed on him; was as ill imployed and utterly lost, as if it were throwne into the fire, and therefore he neither did or spake any thing to him. some fewe dayes being passed over, and _bergamino_ perceiving, that hee was neither called, nor any account made of, notwithstanding many manly good parts in him; observing beside, that hee found a shrewd consumption in his purse, his inne, horses, and servants being chargeable to him: he began to grow extremely melancholly, and yet hee attended in expectation day by day, as thinking it farre unfitting for him, to depart before he was bidden farewell. having brought with him thither three goodly rich garments, which had beene given him by sundry lords, for his more sightly appearance at this great meeting: the importunate host being greedy of payment, first he delivered him one of them, and yet not halfe the score being wiped off, the second must needes follow, and beside, except he meant to leave his lodging, hee must live upon the third so long as it would last, till hee saw what end his hopes would sort to. it fortuned, during the time of living thus upon his latest refuge, that he met with maister _can_ one day at dinner, where he presented himselfe before him, with a discontented countenance: which master _can_ well observing, more to distaste him, then take delight in any thing that could come from him, he said. _bergamino_, how chearest thou? thou art very melancholly, i pray thee tell us why? _bergamino_ suddenly, without any premeditation, yet seeming as if he had long considered thereon, reported this tale. sir, i have heard of a certaine man, named _primasso_, one skilfully learned in the grammar, and (beyond all other) a very witty and ready versifier: in regard whereof, he was so much admired, and farre renowned, that such as never saw him, but onely heard of him, could easily say, this is _primasso_. it came to passe, that being once at _paris_, in poore estate, as commonly hee could light on no better fortune (because vertue is slenderly rewarded, by such as have the greatest possessions) he heard much fame of the abbot of _clugni_, a man reputed (next to the pope) to be the richest prelate of the church. of him he heard wonderfull and magnificent matters, that he alwayes kept an open and hospitable court, and never made refusall of any (from whence so ever hee came or went) but they did eate and drinke freely there; provided, that they came when the abbot was set at the table. _primasso_ hearing this, and being an earnest desirer, to see magnificent and vertuous men; he resolved to goe see this rare bounty of the abbot, demaunding how far he dwelt from _paris_. being answered, about some three leagues thence; _primasso_ made account, that if he went on betimes in the morning, he should easily reach thither before the houre for dinner. being instructed in the way, and not finding any to walke along with him; fearing, if he went without some furnishment, and should stay long there for his dinner, he might (perhaps) complaine of hunger: he therefore caried three loaves of bread with him, knowing that he could meete with water every where, albeit he used to drinke but little. having aptly convayed his bread about him, he went on his journey, and arrived at the lord abbots court, an indifferent while before dinner time: wherefore, entring into the great hall, and so from place to place, beholding the great multitude of tables, bountifull preparation in the kitchin, and what admirable provision there was for dinner; he said to himselfe, truly this man is more magnificent, then fame hath made him, because shee speakes too sparingly of him. while thus he went about, considering on all these things, he saw the maister of the abbots houshold (because then it was the houre of dinner) commaund water to be brought for washing hands, and every one sitting downe at the table: it fell to the lot of _primasso_, to sit directly against the doore, whereat the abbot must enter into the hall. the custome in this court was such, that no foode should be served to any, of the tables, untill the lord abbot was himselfe first sette: whereupon, every thing being fitte and readie, the maister of the houshold, went to tell his lord, that nothing now wanted but his presence onely. the abbot comming from his chamber to enter the hall, looking about him, as hee was wont to doe; the first man hee saw was _primasso_, who being but in homely habite, and he having not seene him before to his remembrance; a present bad conceite possessed his braine, that he never saw an unworthier person, saying within himselfe: see how i give my goods away to be devoured. so returning backe to his chamber againe, commaunded the doore to be made fast, demaunding of every man neere about him, if they knew the base knave that sate before his entrance into the hall, and all his servants answered no. _primasso_ being extreamely hungry, with travailing on foote so farre, and never used to fast so long; expecting still when meate would be served in, and that the abbot came not at all: drew out one of his loaves which hee brought with him, and very heartily fell to feeding. my lord abbot, after he had stayed within an indifferent while, sent forth one of his men, to see if the poore fellow was gone, or no. the servant told him, that he still stayed there, and fed upon dry bread, which it seemed he had brought thither with him. let him feede on his owne (replyed the abbot) for he shall taste of none of mine this day. gladly wold the abbot, that _primasso_ should have gone thence of himselfe, and yet held it scarsely honest in his lordship, to dismisse him by his owne command. _primasso_ having eaten one of his loaves, and yet the abbot was not come; began to feede upon the second: the abbot still sending to expect his absence, and answered as he was before. at length, the abbot not comming, and _primasso_ having eaten up his second loafe, hunger compeld him to begin with the third. when these newes were carried to the abbot, sodainly he brake forth and saide. what new kinde of needy tricke hath my braine begotte this day? why do i grow disdainfull against any man whatsoever? i have long time allowed my meate to be eaten by all commers that did please to visit me, without exception against any person, gentleman, yeoman, poore or rich, marchant or minstrill, honest man or knave, never refraining my presence in the hall, by basely contemning one poore man. beleeve me, covetousnesse of one mans meate, doth ill agree with mine estate and calling. what though he appeareth a wretched fellow to mee? he may be of greater merit then i can imagine, and deserve more honour then i am able to give him. having thus discoursed with himselfe, he would needs understande of whence and what he was, and finding him to be _primasso_, come onely to see the magnificence which he had reported of him, knowing also (by the generall fame noysed every where of him) that he was reputed to bee a learned, honest, and ingenious man: he grew greatly ashamed of his own folly, and being desirous to make him an amends, strove many waies how to do him honour. when dinner was ended, the abbot bestowed honourable garments on him, such as beseemed his degree and merit, and putting good store of money in his purse, as also giving him a good horsse to ride on, left it at his owne free election, whether hee would stay there still with him, or depart at his pleasure. wherewith _primasso_ being highly contented, yeelding him the heartiest thankes he could devise to doe, returned to _paris_ on horse-back, albeit he came poorly thether on foot. master _can de la scala_, who was a man of good understanding, perceyved immediately (without any further interpretation) what _bergamino_ meant by this morall, and smiling on him, saide: _bergamino_, thou hast honestly expressed thy vertue and necessities, and justly reprooved mine avarice, niggardnesse, and base folly. and trust me _bergamino_, i never felt such a fit of covetousness come upon me, as this which i have dishonestly declared to thee: and which i will now banish from me, with the same correction as thou hast taught mee. so, having payed the host all his charges, redeeming also his robes or garments, mounting him on a good gelding, and putting plenty of crownes in his purse, hee referd it to his owne choise to depart, or dwell there still with him. _guillaume boursier, with a few quaint and familiar words, checkt the miserable covetousnesse of signior_ herminio de grimaldi. the eight novell. _which plainly declareth, that a covetous gentleman, is not worthy of any honour or respect._ madam _lauretta_, sitting next to _philostratus_, when she had heard the witty conceite of _bergamino_; knowing, that shee was to say somewhat, without injunction or command, pleasantly thus began. this last discourse (faire and vertuous company) induceth mee to tell you, how an honest courtier reprehended in like manner (and nothing unprofitably) base covetousnesse in a merchant of extraordinary wealth. which tale, although (in effect) it may seeme to resemble the former; yet perhaps, it will prove no lesse pleasing to you, in regard it sorted to as good an end. it is no long time since, that there lived in _genes_ or _geneway_, a gentleman named signior _herminio de grimaldi_, who (as every one wel knew) was more rich in inheritances, and ready summes of currant mony, then any other knowne citizen in _italy_. and as hee surpassed other men in wealth, so did he likewise excell them in wretched avarice, being so miserably greedy and covetous, as no man in the world could be more wicked that way; because, not onely he kept his purse lockt up from pleasuring any, but denied needful things to himself, enduring many miseries & distresses, onely to avoide expences, contrary to the _genewayes_ generall custome, who alwayes delighted to be decently cloathed, and to have their dyet of the best. by reason of which most miserable basenesse, they tooke from him the sir-name of _grimaldi_, whereof hee was in right descended: and called him master _herminio_ the covetous mizer, a nickname very notably agreeing with his gripple nature. it came to passe, that in this time of his spending nothing, but multiplying daily by infinite meanes, that a civill honest gentleman (a courtier, of ready wit, and discoursive in languages) came to _geneway_, being named _guillaume boursier_. a man very farre differing from divers courtiers in these dayes, who for soothing shamefull and gracelesse manners, in such as allow them maintenance, are called and reputed to bee gentlemen, yea especiall favourites: whereas much more worthily, they should be accounted as knaves and villaines, being borne and bred in all filthinesse, and skilfull in every kinde of basest behaviour, not fit to come in princes courts. for, whereas in passed times, they spent their dayes and paines in making peace, when gentlemen were at warre or dissention, or treating on honest marriages, betweene friends and familiars, & (with loving speeches) would recreate disturbed mindes, desiring none but commendable exercises in court, and sharpely reprooving (like fathers) disordred life, or ill actions in any, albeit with recompence little, or none at all: these upstarts now adayes, employ all their paines in detractions, sowing questions and quarrels betweene one another, making no spare of lyes & falshoods. nay which is worse, they will do this in the presence of any man, upbraiding him with injuries, shames, and scandals (true or not true) upon the very least occasion. and by false and deceitfull flatteries and villanies of their own inventing, they make gentlemen to become as vile as themselves. for which detestable qualities, they are better beloved and respected of theyr misdemeanour'd lords, and recompenced in more bountifull manner, then men of vertuous carriage and desert. which is an argument sufficient, that goodnesse is gone up to heaven, and hath quite forsaken these loathed lower regions, where men are drowned in the mud of all abhominable vices. but returning where i left (being led out of my way by a just and religious anger against such deformity) this gentleman, master _guillaume boursier_, was willingly seene, and gladly welcommed by all the best men in _geneway_. having remayned some few dayes in the city, & (among other matters) heard much talke of the miserable covetousness of master _herminio_, he grew verie desirous to have a sight of him. master _herminio_ had already understood, that this gentleman, master _guillaume boursier_, was vertuously disposed, and (how covetously soever he was inclined) having in him some sparkes of noble nature; gave him very good words, and gracious entertainement, discoursing with him on divers occasions. in company of other _genewayes_ with him, he brought him to a new erected house of his, a building of great cost and beauty, where, after he had shewen him all the variable rarities, he beganne thus. master _guillaume_, no doubt but you have heard and seene many things, and you can instruct me in some quaint conceit or devise, to be fairely figured in painting, at the entrance into the great hall of my house. master _guillaume_ hearing him speake so simply, returned him this answere; sir, i cannot advise you in any thing, so rare or unseen as you talke of: but how to sneeze (after a new manner) upon a full and overcloyed stomacke, to avoide base humours that stupifie the braine, or other matters of the like quality. but if you would be taught a good one indeede, and had a disposition to see it fairely effected; i could instruct you in an excellent embleme, wherewith (as yet) you never came acquainted. master _herminio_ hearing him say so, and expecting no such answere as he had saide; good master _guillaume_, tell me what it is, and on my faith i will have it fairely painted. whereto master _guillaume_ suddenly replied: doe nothing but this sir; paint over the portall at your halles entrance, the lively picture of liberality, to bid all your friends better welcome, then hitherto they have beene. when master _herminio_ heard these words, he became possessed with such a sudden shame, that his complexion changed from the former palenesse, and answered thus. master _guillaume_, i will have your advice so truly figured over my gate, and shee shall give so good welcome to all my guests, that both you, and all these gentlemen shall say; i have both seene her, and am become reasonably acquainted with her. from that time forward, the words of master _guillaume_ were so effectuall with signior _herminio_, that he became the most bountifull and best house-keeper, which lived in his time in _geneway_; no man more honouring and friendly welcoming both strangers and citizens, then he continually used to doe. _the king of cyprus was wittily reprehended, by the words of a gentlewoman of gascoignie, and became vertuously altered from his vicious disposition._ the ninth novell. _giving all men to understand, that justice is necessary in a king, above all things else whatsoever._ the last command of the queene, remained upon madam _elissa_, or _eliza_, who without any delaying, thus beganne. young ladies, it hath often beene seene, that much paine hath beene bestowed, and many reprehensions spent in vaine, till a word happening at adventure, and perhaps not purposely determined, hath effectually done the deede: as appeareth by the tale of madam _lauretta_, and another of mine owne, wherewith i intend briefly to acquaint you, approving, that when good words are discreetly observed, they are of soveraigne power and vertue. in the dayes of the first king of _cyprus_, after the conquest made in the holy land by _godfrey_ of _bullen_, it fortuned, that a gentlewoman of _gascoignie_, travelling in pilgrimage, to visit the sacred sepulcher in _jerusalem_, returning home againe, arrived at _cyprus_, where shee was villanously abused by certaine base wretches. complaining thereof, without any comfort or redresse, shee intended to make her moane to the king of the countrey. whereupon it was tolde her, that therein shee should but loose her labour, because hee was so womanish, and faint-hearted; that not onely he refused to punish with justice the offences of others, but also suffered shamefull injuries done to himselfe. and therefore, such as were displeased by his negligence, might easily discharge their spleene against him, and doe him what dishonour they would. when the gentlewoman heard this, despairing of any consolation, or revenge for her wrongs, shee resolved to checke the kings deniall of justice, and comming before him weeping, spake in this manner. sir, i presume not into your presence, as hoping to have redresse by you, for divers dishonourable injuries done unto me; but, as a full satisfaction for them, doe but teach me how you suffer such vile abuses, as daily are offered to your selfe. to the ende, that being therein instructed by you, i may the more patiently beare mine owne; which (as god knoweth) i would bestow on you very gladly, because you know so well how to endure them. the king, who (till then) had beene very bad, dull, and slothfull, even as sleeping out his time of governement; beganne to revenge the wrongs done to this gentlewoman very severely, and (thenceforward) became a most sharpe justicer, for the least offence offered against the honour of his crowne, or to any of his subjects beside. _master_ albert _of bullen, honestly made a lady to blush, that thought to have done as much to him, because shee perceived him, to be amorously affected towards her._ the tenth novell. _wherein is declared, that honest love agreeth with people of all ages._ after that madam _eliza_ sate silent, the last charge and labour of the like employment, remained to the queene her selfe; whereupon shee beganne thus to speake: honest and vertuous young ladies, like as the starres (when the ayre is faire and cleere) are the adorning and beauty of heaven, and flowers (while the spring time lasteth) doe graciously embellish the meadowes; even so sweete speeches and pleasing conferences, to passe the time with commendable discourses, are the best habit of the minde, and an outward beauty to the body: which ornament of words, when they appeare to be short and sweete, are much more seemely in women, then in men; because long and tedious talking (when it may be done in lesser time) is a greater blemish in women, then in men. among us women, this day, i thinke few or none have therein offended, but as readily have understood short and pithy speeches, as they have beene quicke and quaintly delivered. but when answering suteth not with understanding, it is generally a shame in us, and all such as live; because our moderne times have converted that vertue, which was within them who lived before us, into garments of the bodie, and shew whose habites were noted to bee most gaudie, fullest of imbroyderies, and fantastick fashions: she was reputed to have most matter in her, and therefore to be more honoured and esteemed. never considering, that whosoever loadeth the backe of an asse, or puts upon him the richest braverie; he becommeth not thereby a jote the wiser, or merriteth any more honour then an asse should have. i am ashamed to speake it, because in detecting other, i may (perhaps) as justly taxe my selfe. such imbroydered bodies, tricked and trimmed in such boasting bravery, are they any thing else but as marble statues, dumbe, dull, and utterly insensible? or if (perchaunce) they make an answere, when some question is demaunded of them; it were much better for them to be silent. for defence of honest devise and conference among men and women, they would have the world to thinke, that it proceedeth but from simplicity and precise opinion, covering their owne folly with the name of honesty: as if there were no other honest woman, but shee that conferres onely with her chamber-maide, laundresse, or kitchin-woman, as if nature had allowed them (in their owne idle conceite) no other kinde of talking. most true it is, that as there is a respect to be used in the action of other things; so, time and place are necessarily to be considered, and also whom we converse withall; because sometimes it happeneth, that a man or woman, intending (by a word of jest and merriment) to make another body blush or be ashamed: not knowing what strength of wit remaineth in the opposite, doe convert the same disgrace upon themselves. therefore, that we may the more advisedly stand upon out owne guard, and to prevent the common proverbe, _that women (in all things) make choyse of the woorst:_ i desire that this dayes last tale, which is to come from my selfe, may make us all wise. to the end, that as in gentlenesse of minde we conferre with other; so by excellency in good manners, we may shew our selves not inferiour to them. it is not many yeares since (worthy assembly) that in _bulloigne_ there dwelt a learned physitian, a man famous for skill, and farre renowned, whose name was master _albert_, and being growne aged, to the estimate of threescore and tenne yeares: hee had yet such a sprightly disposition, that though naturall heate and vigour had quite shaken hands with him, yet amorous flames and desires had not wholly forsaken him. having seene (at a banquet) a very beautifull woman, being then in the estate of widdowhood, named (as some say) madame _margaret de chisolieri_, shee appeared so pleasing in his eye; that his sences became no lesse disturbed, then as if he had beene of farre younger temper, and no night could any quietnesse possesse his soule, except (the day before) he had seene the sweet countenance of this lovely widdow. in regard whereof, his dayly passage was by her doore, one while on horsebacke, and then againe on foote; as best might declare his plaine purpose to see her. both shee and other gentlewomen, perceiving the occasion of his passing and repassing; would privately jest thereat together, to see a man of such yeares and discretion, to be amorously addicted, or over-swayed by effeminate passions. for they were partly perswaded, that such wanton ague fits of love, were fit for none but youthfull apprehensions, as best agreeing with their chearefull complexion. master _albert_ continuing his dayly walkes by the widdowes lodging, it chaunced upon a feastivall day, that shee (accompanied with divers other women of great account) being sitting at her doore; espied master _albert_ (farre off) comming thitherward, and a resolved determination among themselves was set downe, to allow him favourable entertainement, and to jest (in some merry manner) at his loving folly, as afterward they did indeede. no sooner was he come neere, but they all arose, and courteously invited him to enter with them, conducting him into a goodly garden, where readily was prepared choyse of delicate wines and banquetting. at length, among other pleasant and delightfull discourses, they demanded of him: how it was possible for him, to be amorously affected towards so beautifull a woman, both knowing and seeing, how earnestly she was sollicited by many gracious, gallant, and youthfull spirits, aptly suting with her yeares and desires? master _albert_ perceiving, that they had drawne him in among them, onely to scoffe and make a mockery of him; set a merry countenance on the matter, and honestly thus answered. beleeve mee gentlewoman (speaking to the widdowe her selfe) it should not appeare strange to any of wisedome and discretion, that i am amorously enclined, and especially to you, because you are well worthy of it. and although those powers, which naturally appertaine to the exercises of love, are bereft and gone from aged people; yet goodwill thereto cannot be taken from them, neither judgement to know such as deserve to be affected: for, by how much they exceede youth in knowledge and experience, by so much the more hath nature made them meet for respect and reverence. the hope which incited me (being aged) to love you, that are affected of so many youthfull gallants, grew thus. i have often chaunced into divers places, where i have seene ladies and gentlewomen, being disposed to a collation or rere-banquet after dinner, to feede on lupines, and young onions or leekes, and although it may be so, that there is little or no goodnesse at all in them; yet the heads of them are least hurtfull, and most pleasing in the mouth. and you gentlewomen generally (guided by unreasonable appetite) will hold the heads of them in your hands, and feede upon the blades or stalkes; which not onely are not good for any thing, but also are of very bad savour. and what know i (lady) whether among the choise of friends, it may fit your fancy to doe the like? for, if you did so, it were no fault of mine to be chosen of you, but thereby were all the rest of your suters the sooner answered. the widdowed gentlewoman, and all the rest in her company, being bashfully ashamed of her owne and their folly, presently said. master _albert_, you have both well and worthily chastised our over-bold presumption, and beleeve mee sir, i repute your love and kindnesse of no meane merit, comming from a man so wise and vertuous: and therefore (mine honour reserved) commaund my uttermost, as alwayes ready to do you any honest service. master _albert_, arising from his seat, thanking the faire widdow for her gentle offer; tooke leave of her and all the company, and she blushing, as all the rest were therein not much behinde her, thinking to checke him, became chidden her selfe, whereby (if wee be wise) let us all take warning. the sunne was now somewhat farre declined, and the heates extremity well worne away, when the tales of the seaven ladies and three gentlemen were thus finished, whereupon their queene pleasantly said. for this day (faire company) there remaineth nothing more to be done under my regiment, but onely to bestow a new queene upon you, who (according to her judgement) must take her turne, and dispose what next is to be done, for continuing our time in honest pleasure. and although the day should endure till darke night, in regard, that when some time is taken before, the better preparation may be made for occasions to follow, to the end also, that whatsoever the new queene shall please to appoint, may be the better fitted for the morrow: i am of opinion, that at the same houre as we now cease, the following dayes shall severally begin. and therefore, in reverence to him that giveth life to all things, and in hope of comfort by our second day; madame _philomena_, a most wise young lady, shall governe as queene this our kingdome. so soone as she had thus spoken, arising from her seate of dignity, and taking the lawrell crowne from off her owne head; she reverently placed it upon madame _philomenaes_, she first of all humbly saluting her, and then all the rest, openly confessing her to be their queene, made gracious offer to obey whatsoever she commaunded. _philomena_, her cheekes delivering a scarlet tincture, to see her selfe thus honoured as their queene, and well remembring the words, so lately uttered by madame _pampinea_; that dulnesse or neglect might not be noted in her, tooke cheerefull courage to her, and first of all, she confirmed the officers, which _pampinea_ had appointed the day before, then shee ordained for the morrowes provision, as also for the supper so neere approaching, before they departed away from thence, and then thus began. lovely companions, although that madam _pampinea_, more in her owne courtesie, then any matter of merit remaining in mee, hath made me your queene: i am not determined, to alter the forme of our intended life, nor to be guided by mine owne judgement, but to associate the same with your assistance. and because you may know what i intend to do, and so (consequently) adde or diminish at your pleasure; in verie few words, you shall plainly understand my meaning. if you have well considered on the course, which this day hath bene kept by madam _pampinea_, me thinkes it hath bene very pleasing and commendable; in which regard, untill by over-tedious continuation, or other occasions of irkesome offence, it shall seeme injurious, i am of the minde, not to alter it. holding on the order then as we have begun to do, we will depart from hence to recreate our selves awhile, and when the sun groweth towards setting, we will sup in the fresh and open ayre: afterward, with canzonets and other pastimes, we will out-weare the houres till bed time. to morrow morning, in the fresh and gentle breath thereof, we will rise & walke to such places, as every one shall finde fittest for them, even as already this day we have done; untill due time shall summon us hither againe, to continue our discoursive tales, wherein (me thinkes) consisteth both pleasure and profit, especially by discreete observation. very true it is, that some things which madam _pampinea_ coulde not accomplish, by reason of her so small time of authority, i will beginne to undergo, to wit, in restraining some matters whereon we are to speake, that better premeditation may passe upon them. for, when respite and a little leysure goeth before them, each discourse will savour of the more formality; and if it might so please you, thus would i direct the order. as since the beginning of the world, all men have bene guided (by fortune) thorow divers accidents and occasions: so beyond all hope & expectation, the issue and successe hath bin good and succesfull, and accordingly should every one of our arguments be chosen. the ladies, and the yong gentlemen likewise, commended her advice, and promised to imitate it; onely _dioneus_ excepted, who when every one was silent, spake thus. madam, i say as all the rest have done, that the order by you appointed, is most pleasing and worthy to bee allowed. but i intreate one speciall favour for my selfe, and to have it confirmed to me, so long as our company continueth; namely, that i may not be constrained to this law of direction, but to tell my tale at liberty, after mine owne minde, and according to the freedome first instituted. and because no one shall imagine, that i urge this grace of you, as being unfurnished of discourses in this kinde, i am well contented to be the last in every dayes exercise. the queene, knowing him to be a man full of mirth and matter, began to consider very advisedly, that he would not have mooved this request, but onely to the end, that if the company grew wearied by any of the tales re-counted, hee would shut uppe the dayes disport with some mirthfull accident. wherefore willingly, and with consent of al the rest he had his suite granted. so, arising all, they walked to a christall river, descending downe a little hill into a vally, graciously shaded with goodly trees; where washing both their hands and feete, much pretty pleasure passed among them; till supper time drawing nere, made them returne home to the palace. when supper was ended, and bookes and instruments being laide before them, the queene commanded a dance, & that madam _Æmilia_, assisted by madam _lauretta_ and _dioneus_, shold sing a sweet ditty. at which command, _lauretta_ undertooke the dance, and led it, _Æmilia_ singing this song ensuing. _the song. so much delight my beauty yeelds to mee, that any other love, to wish or prove; can never sute it selfe with my desire. therein i see, upon good observation, what sweete content due understanding lends: olde or new thoughts cannot in any fashion rob me of that, which mine owne soule commends. what object then, (mongst infinites of men) can i ever finde to dispossesse my minde, and plant therein another new desire? so much delight, &c. but were it so, the blisse that i would chuse, is, by continuall sight to comfort me: so rare a presence never to refuse, which mortall tongue or thought, what ere it be; must still conceale, not able to reveale, such a sacred sweete, for none other meete, but hearts enflamed with the same desire. so much delight, &c._ the song being ended, the chorus whereof was aunswered by them all, it passed with generall applause: and after a few other daunces, the night being well run on, the queene gave ending to this first dayes recreation. so, lights being brought, they departed to their severall lodgings, to take their rest till the next morning. _the end of the first day._ the second day. _wherein, all the discourses are under the government of madam philomena: concerning such men or women, as (in divers accidents) have beene much molested by fortune, and yet afterward, contrary to their hope and expectation, have had a happy and successefull deliverance._ already had the bright sunne renewed the day every where with his splendant beames, and the birds sate merrily singing on the blooming branches, yeelding testimony thereof to the eares of all hearers; when the seven ladies, and the three gentlemen (after they were risen) entered the gardens, and there spent some time in walking, as also making of nose-gayes and chaplets of flowers. and even as they had done the day before, so did they now follow the same course; for, after they had dined, in a coole and pleasing aire they fell to dancing, and then went to sleepe awhile, from which being awaked, they tooke their places (according as it pleased the queene to appoint) in the same faire meadow about her. and she, being a goodly creature, and highly pleasing to beholde, having put on her crowne of laurell, and giving a gracious countenance to the whole company; commanded madam _neiphila_ that her tale should begin this daies delight. whereupon she, without returning any excuse or deniall, began in this manner. martellino _counterfetting to be lame of his members, caused himselfe to be set on the body of saint_ arriguo, _where he made shew of his sudden recovery; but when his dissimulation was discovered, he was well beaten, being afterward taken prisoner, and in great danger of being hanged and strangled by the necke, and yet he escaped in the ende._ the first novell. _wherein is signified, how easie a thing it is, for wicked men to deceive the world, under the shadow and colour of miracles: and that such trechery (oftentimes) redoundeth to the harme of the deviser._ faire ladies, it hath happened many times, that hee who striveth to scorne and floute other men, and especially in occasions deserving to be respected, proveth to mocke himselfe with the selfe-same matter, yea, and to his no meane danger beside. as you shall perceive by a tale, which i intend to tell you, obeying therein the command of our queene, and according to the subject by her enjoyned. in which discourse, you may first observe, what great mischance happened to one of our citizens; and yet afterward, how (beyond all hope) he happily escaped. not long since there lived in the city of _trevers_, an _almaine_ or _germaine_, named _arriguo_, [sidenote: or arrigo.] who being a poore man, served as a porter, or burden-bearer for money, when any man pleased to employ him. and yet, notwithstanding his poore and meane condition, he was generally reputed, to be of good and sanctified life. in which regard (whether it were true or no, i know not) it happened, that when he died (at least as the men of _trevers_ themselves affirmed) in the very instant houre of his departing, all the belles in the great church of _trevers_, (not being pulled by the helpe of any hand) beganne to ring: which being accounted for a miracle, every one saide; that this _arriguo_ had been, and was a saint. and presently all the people of the city ran to the house where the dead body lay, and carried it (as a sanctified body) into the great church, where people, halt, lame, and blinde, or troubled with any other diseases, were brought about it, even as if every one should forth-with be holpen, onely by their touching the bodie. it came to passe, that in so great a concourse of people, as resorted thither from all parts; three of our cittizens went to _trevers_, one of them being named _stechio_, the second _martellino_, and the third _marquiso_, all being men of such condition, as frequented princes courts, to give them delight by pleasant & counterfeited qualities. none of these men having ever beene at _trevers_ before, seeing how the people crowded thorow the streetes, wondred greatly thereat: but when they knew the reason, why the throngs ranne on heapes in such sort together, they grew as desirous to see the shrine, as any of the rest. having ordered all affaires at their lodging, _marquiso_ saide; it is fit for us to see this saint, but i know not how we shall attaine thereto, because (as i have heard) the place is guarded by germane souldiers, and other warlike men, commanded thither by the governours of this city, least any outrage should be there committed: and beside, the church is so full of people, as wee shall never compasse to get neere. _martellino_ being also as forward in desire to see it, presently replied: all this difficulty cannot dismay me, but i will goe to the very body of the saint it selfe. but how? quoth _marquiso_. i will tell thee, answered _martellino_. i purpose to goe in the disguise of an impotent lame person, supported on the one side by thy selfe, and on the other by _stechio_, as if i were not able to walke of my selfe: and you two thus sustaining me, desiring to come neere the saint to cure me; every one will make way, and freely give you leave to goe on. this devise was very pleasing to _marquiso_ and _stechio_, so that (without any further delaying) they all three left their lodging, and resorting into a secret corner aside, _martellino_ so writhed and mishaped his hands, fingers, and armes, his legges, mouth, eyes, and whole countenance, that it was a dreadfull sight to looke upon him, and whosoever beheld him, would verily have imagined, that hee was utterly lame of his limbes, and greatly deformed in his body. _marquiso_ and _stechio_, seeing all sorted so well as they could wish, tooke and led him towards the church, making very pitious moane, and humbly desiring (for gods sake) of every one that they met, to grant them free passage, whereto they charitably condiscended. thus leading him on, crying still; beware there before, and give way for gods sake, they arrived at the body of saint _arriguo_, that (by his helpe) he might be healed. and while all eyes were diligently observing, what miracle would be wrought on _martellino_, hee having sitten a small space upon the saints bodie, and being sufficiently skilfull in counterfeiting; beganne first to extend forth one of his fingers, next his hand, then his arme, and so (by degrees) the rest of his body. which when the people saw, they made such a wonderfull noyse in praise of saint _arriguo_, even as if it had thundered in the church. now it chanced by ill fortune, that there stood a _florentine_ neere to the body, who knew _martellino_ very perfectly; but appearing so monstrously misshapen, when he was brought into the church, hee could take no knowledge of him. but when he saw him stand up and walke, hee knew him then to be the man indeede; whereupon he saide. how commeth it to passe, that this fellow should be so miraculously cured, that never truly was any way impotent? certaine men of the city hearing these words, entred into further questioning with him, demanding, how he knew that the man had no such imperfection? well enough (answered the _florentine_) i know him to be as direct in his limbes and body, as you; i, or any of us all are: but indeede, he knowes better how to dissemble counterfeit trickes, then any man else that ever i saw. when they heard this, they discoursed no further with the _florentine_, but pressed on mainely to the place where _martellino_ stood, crying out aloude. lay holde on this traytor, a mocker of god, and his holy saints, that had no lamenesse in his limbes; but to make a mocke of our saint and us, came hither in false and counterfeit manner. so laying hands uppon him, they threw him against the ground, haling him by the haire on his head, and tearing the garments from his backe, spurning him with their feete, and beating him with their fists, that many were much ashamed to see it. poore _martellino_ was in a pittifull case, crying out for mercy, but no man would heare him; for, the more he cried, the more still they did beat him, as meaning to leave no life in him, which _stechio_ and _marquiso_ seeing, considered with themselves, that they were likewise in a desperate case; and therefore, fearing to be as much misused, they cryed out among the rest; kill the counterfeit knave, lay on loade, and spare him not; neverthelesse, they tooke care how to get him out of the peoples handes, as doubting, least they would kill him indeede, by their extreame violence. sodainly, _marquiso_ bethought him how to do it, and proceeded thus. all the sergeants for justice standing at the church doore, hee ran with all possible speede to the _potestates_ lieutenant, and said unto him. good my lord justice, helpe me in an hard case; yonder is a villaine that hath cut my purse, i desire he may bee brought before you, that i may have my money againe. he hearing this, sent for a dozen of the sergeants, who went to apprehend unhappy _martellino_, and recover him from the peoples fury, leading him on with them to the palace, no meane crowds thronging after him, when they heard that he was accused to bee a cut-purse. now durst they meddle no more with him, but assisted the officers; some of them charging him in like manner, that he had cut theyr purses also. upon these clamours and complaints, the _potestates_ lieutenant (being a man of rude quality) tooke him sodainly aside, and examined him of the crimes wherewith he was charged. but _martellino_, as making no account of these accusations, laughed, and returned scoffing answeres. whereat the judge, waxing much displeased, delivered him over to the strappado, and stood by himselfe, to have him confesse the crimes imposed on him, and then to hang him afterward. beeing let downe to the ground, the judge still demaunded of him, whether the accusations against him were true, or no? affirming, that it nothing avayled him to deny it: whereupon hee thus spake to the judge. my lord, i am heere ready before you, to confesse the truth; but i pray you, demaund of all them that accuse me, when and where i did cut their purses, & then i will tell you that, which (as yet) i have not done, otherwise i purpose to make you no more answers. well (quoth the judge) thou requirest but reason; & calling divers of the accusers, one of them saide, that he lost his purse eight dayes before; another saide six, another foure, and some saide the very same day. which _martellino_ hearing, replyed. my lord, they al lie in their throats, as i will plainly prove before you. i would to god i had never set foote within this city, as it is not many houres since my first entrance, and presently after mine arrivall, i went (in an evill houre i may say for me) to see the saints body, where i was thus beaten as you may beholde. that all this is true which i say unto you, the seigneuries officer that keeps your booke of presentations, will testifie for me, as also the host where i am lodged. wherefore good my lord, if you finde all no otherwise, then as i have said, i humbly entreate you, that upon these bad mens reportes and false informations, i may not be thus tormented, and put in perill of my life. while matters proceeded in this manner, _marquiso_ and _stechio_, understanding how roughly the _potestates_ lieutenant dealt with _martellino_ and that he had already given him the strappado; were in heavy perplexity, saying to themselves; we have carried this businesse very badly, redeeming him out of the frying-pan, and flinging him into the fire. whereupon, trudging about from place to place, & meeting at length with their host, they told him truly how all had happened, whereat hee could not refraine from laughing. afterward, he went with them to one master _alexander agolante_, who dwelt in _trevers_, and was in great credite with the cities cheefe magistrate, to whom hee related the whole discourse; all three earnestly entreating him, to commisserate the case of poore _martellino_. master _alexander_, after he had laughed heartily at this hotte peece of service, went with him to the lord of _trevers_; prevailing so well with him, that he sent to have _martellino_ brought before him. the messengers that went for him, found him standing in his shirt before the judge, very shrewdly shaken with the strappado, trembling and quaking pittifully. for the judge would not heare any thing in his excuse; but hating him (perhaps) because hee was a florentine: flatly determined to have him hangde by the necke, and would not deliver him to the lorde, untill in meere despight he was compeld to do it. the lord of _trevers_, when _martellino_ came before him, and had acquainted him truly with every particular: master _alexander_ requested, that he might be dispatched thence for _florence_, because he thought the halter to be about his necke, and that there was no other helpe but hanging. the lord, smiling (a long while) at the accident, & causing _martellino_ to be handsomely apparrelled, delivering them also his passe, they escaped out of further danger, and tarried no where, till they came unto _florence_. _rinaldo de este, after he was robbed by theeves, arrived at chasteau guillaume, where he was friendly lodged by a faire widdow, and recompenced likewise for all his losses; returning afterward safe and well home into his owne house._ the second novell. _whereby wee may learne, that such things as sometime seeme hurtfull to us, may turne to our benefit and commodity._ much merriment was among the ladies, hearing this tale of _martellinos_ misfortunes, so familiarly reported by madam _neiphila_, and of the men, it was best respected by _philostratus_, who sitting neerest unto _neiphila_, the queene commanded his tale to be the next, when presently he began to speake thus. gracious ladies, i am to speake of universall occasions, mingled with some misfortunes in part, and partly with matters leaning to love: as many times may happen to such people, that trace the dangerous pathes of amorous desires, or have not learned perfectly, to say s. _julians pater noster_, having good beds of their owne, yet (casually) meete with worser lodging. in the time of _azzo_, marquesse of _ferrara_, there was a marchant named _rinaldo de este_, who being one day at _bologna_, about some especiall businesse of his owne; his occasions there ended, and riding from thence towards _verona_, he fell in company with other horsemen, seeming to be merchants like himselfe; but indeede were theeves, men of most badde life and conversation; yet he having no such mistrust of them, rode on, conferring with them very familiarly. they perceiving him to be a merchant, and likely to have some store of money about him, concluded betweene themselves to rob him, so soone as they found apt place and opportunity. but because he should conceive no such suspition, they rode on like modest men, talking honestly & friendly with him, of good parts and disposition appearing in him, offering him all humble and gracious service, accounting themselves happy by his companie, as hee returned the same courtesie to them, because he was alone, and but one servant with him. falling from one discourse to another, they began to talke of such prayers, as men (in journey) use to salute god withall; and one of the theeves (they being three in number), spake thus to _rinaldo_. sir, let it be no offence to you, that i desire to know, what prayer you most use when thus you travell on the way? whereto _rinaldo_ replyed in this manner. to tell you true sir, i am a man grosse enough in such divine matters, as medling more with marchandize, then i do with bookes. neverthelesse, at all times when i am thus in journey, in the morning before i depart my chamber, i say a _pater noster_ and an _ave maria_, for the souls of the father and mother of saint _julian_, and after that, i pray god and s. _julian_ to send me a good lodging at night. and let me tell you sir, that very oftentimes heeretofore, i have met with many great dangers upon the way, from all which i still escaped, and evermore (when night drewe on) i came to an exceeding good lodging. which makes mee firmely beleeve, that saint _julian_ (in honour of whom i speake it) hath begd of god such great grace for me; and mee thinkes, that if any day i should faile of this prayer in the morning: i cannot travaile securely, nor come to a good lodging. no doubt then sir (quoth the other) but you have saide that prayer this morning? i would be sorry else, saide _rinaldo_, such an especiall matter is not to be neglected. he and the rest, who had already determined how to handle him before they parted, saide within themselves: looke thou hast said thy praier, for when we have thy money, saint _julian_ and thou shift for thy lodging. afterward, the same man thus againe conferd with him. as you sir, so i have ridden many journies, and yet i never used any such praier, although i have heard it very much commended, and my lodging hath prooved never the worser. perhaps this verie night will therein resolve us both, whether of us two shall be the best lodged; you that have sayde the prayer, or i that never used it at all. but i must not deny, that in sted thereof, i have made use of some verses, as _dirupisti_, or the _jutemerata_, or _deprofundis_, which are (as my grandmother hath often told mee) of very great vertue and efficacy. continuing thus in talke of divers things, winning way, and beguiling the time, still waiting when their purpose should sort to effect: it fortuned, that the theeves seeing they were come neere to a towne, called _casteau guillaume_, by the foord of a river, the houre somewhat late, the place solitarie, and thickely shaded with trees, they made their assault; and having robd him, left him there on foote, stript into his shirt, saying to him. goe now and see, whether thy saint _julian_ will allow thee this night a good lodging, or no, for our owne we are sufficiently provided; so passing the river, away they rode. _rinaldoes_ servant, seeing his master so sharply assayled, like a wicked villaine, would not assist him in any sort: but giving his horse the spurres, never left gallowping, untill hee came to _chasteau guillaume_, where hee entred upon the point of night, providing himselfe of a lodging, but not caring what became of his master. _rinaldo_ remaining there in his shirt, bare-foote and bare-legged, the weather extremely colde, and snowing incessantly, not knowing what to doe, darke night drawing on, and looking round about him, for some place where to abide that night, to the end he might not dye with colde: he found no helpe at all there for him, in regard that (no long while before) the late warre had burnt and wasted all, and not so much as the least cottage left. compelled by the coldes violence, his teeth quaking, and all his body trembling, hee trotted on towards _chasteau guillaume_, not knowing, whether his man was gone thither or no, or to what place else: but perswaded himselfe, that if he could get entrance, there was no feare of finding succour. but before he came within halfe a mile of the towne, the night grew extreamely darke, and arriving there so late, hee found the gates fast lockt, and the bridges drawne up, so that no entrance might be admitted. grieving greatly hereat, and being much discomforted, rufully hee went spying about the walls, for some place wherein to shrowd himselfe, at least, to keepe the snow from falling upon him. by good hap, hee espied an house upon the wall of the towne, which had a terrace jutting out as a penthouse, under which he purposed to stand all the night, and then to get him gone in the morning. at length, hee found a doore in the wall, but very fast shut, and some small store of strawe lying by it, which he gathered together, and sitting downe thereon very pensively; made many sad complaints to saint _julian_, saying: this was not according to the trust he reposed in her. but saint _julian_, taking compassion upon him, without any over-long tarying; provided him of a good lodging, as you shall heare how. in this towne of _chasteau guillaume_, lived a young lady, who was a widdow, so beautifull and comely of her person, as sildome was seene a more lovely creature. the marquesse _azzo_ most dearely affected her, and (as his choysest jewell of delight) gave her that house to live in, under the terrace whereof poore _rinaldo_ made his shelter. it chaunced the day before, that the marquesse was come thither, according to his frequent custome, to weare away that night in her company, she having secretly prepared a bath for him, and a costly supper beside. all things being ready, and nothing wanting but the marquesse his presence: suddenly a post brought him such letters, which commanded him instantly to horsebacke, and word hee sent to the lady, to spare him for that night, because urgent occasions called him thence, and hee rode away immediately. much discontented was the lady at this unexpected accident, and not knowing now how to spend the time, resolved to use the bath which hee had made for the marquesse, and (after supper) betake her selfe to rest, and so she entred into the bath. close to the doore where poore _rinaldo_ sate, stoode the bath, by which meanes, shee being therein, heard all his quivering moanes, and complaints, seeming to be such, as the swanne singing before her death: whereupon, shee called her chamber-maide, saying to her. goe up above, and looke over the terrace on the wall downe to this doore, and see who is there, and what hee doth. the chamber-maide went up aloft, and by a little glimmering in the ayre, she saw a man sitting in his shirt, bare on feete and legges, trembling in manner before rehearsed. shee demaunding, of whence, and what hee was; _rinaldoes_ teeth so trembled in his head, as very hardly could hee forme any words, but (so well as he could) tolde her what hee was, and how hee came thither: most pittifully entreating her, that if shee could affoord him any helpe, not to suffer him starve there to death with colde. the chamber-maide, being much moved to compassion, returned to her lady, and tolde her all; she likewise pittying his distresse, and remembring shee had the key of that doore, whereby the marquesse both entred and returned, when he intended not to be seene of any, said to her maide. goe, and open the doore softly for him; we have a good supper, and none to helpe to eate it, and if he be a man likely, we can allow him one nights lodging too. the chamber-maide, commending her lady for this charitable kindnesse, opened the doore, and seeing hee appeared as halfe frozen, shee said unto him. make hast good man, get thee into this bath, which yet is good and warme, for my lady her selfe came but newly out of it. whereto very gladly he condiscended, as not tarrying to be bidden twise; finding himselfe so singularly comforted with the heate thereof, even as if hee had beene restored from death to life. then the lady sent him garments, which lately were her deceased husbands, and fitted him so aptly in all respects, as if purposely they had beene made for him. attending in further expectation, to know what else the lady would commaund him; hee began to remember god and saint _julian_, hartily thanking her, for delivering him from so bad a night as was threatned towards him, and bringing him to so good entertainement. after all this, the lady causing a faire fire to be made in the neerest chamber beneath, went and sate by it her selfe, demaunding how the honest man fared. madame, answered the chamber-maide, now that he is in your deceased lords garments, he appeareth to be a very goodly gentleman, and (questionlesse) is of respective birth and breeding, well deserving this gracious favour which you have afforded him. goe then (quoth the lady) and conduct him hither, to sit by this fire, and sup here with mee, for i feare he hath had but a sorrie supper. when _rinaldo_ was entred into the chamber, and beheld her to be such a beautifull lady, accounting his fortune to exceede all comparison, hee did her most humble reverence, expressing so much thankefulnesse as possibly hee could, for this her extraordinary grace and favour. the lady fixing a stedfast eye upon him, well liking his gentle language and behaviour, perceiving also, how fitly her deceased husbands apparell was formed to his person, and resembling him in all familiar respects, he appeared (in her judgement) farre beyond the chambermaides commendations of him; so praying him to sit downe by her before the fire, shee questioned with him, concerning this unhappy nights accident befalne him, wherein he fully resolved her, and shee was the more perswaded, by reason of his servants comming into the towne before night, assuring him, that he should be found for him early in the morning. supper being served in to the table, and hee seated according as the lady commanded, shee began to observe him very considerately; for he was a goodly man, compleate in all perfections of person, a delicate pleasing countenance, a quicke alluring eye, fixed and constant, not wantonly gadding, in the joviall youthfulnesse of his time, and truest temper for amorous apprehension; all these were as battering engines against a bulwarke of no strong resistance, and wrought strangely upon her flexible affections. and though hee fed heartily, as occasion constrained, yet her thoughts had entertained a new kinde of diet, digested onely by the eye; yet so cunningly concealed, that no motive to immodesty could be discerned. her mercy thus extended to him in misery, drew on (by table discourse) his birth, education, parents, friends, and alies; his wealthy possessions by merchandize, and a sound stability in his estate, but above all (and best of all) the single and sole condition of a batcheler; an apt and easie steele to strike fire, especially upon such quicke taking tinder, and in a time favoured by fortune. no imbarment remained, but remembrance of the marquesse, and that being summond to her more advised consideration, her youth and beauty stood up as conscious accusers, for blemishing her honour and faire repute, with lewd and luxurious life; farre unfit for a lady of her degree, and well worthy of generall condemnation. what should i further say? upon a short conference with her chambermaide, repentance for sinne past, and solemne promise of a constant conversion, thus shee delivered her minde to _rinaldo_. sir, as you have related your fortunes to me, by this your casuall happening hither, if you can like the motion so well as shee that makes it, my deceased lord and husband living so perfectly in your person; this house, and all mine, is yours; and of a widow i will become your wife, except (unmanly) you denie me. _rinaldo_ hearing these words, and proceeding from a lady of such absolute perfections, presuming upon so proud an offer, and condemning himselfe of folly if he should refuse it, thus replied. madam, considering that i stand bound for ever hereafter, to confesse that you are the gracious preserver of my life, and i no way able to returne requitall; if you please so to shadow mine insufficiency, and to accept me and my fairest fortunes to doe you service: let me die before a thought of deniall, or any way to yeeld you the least discontentment. here wanted but a priest to joyne their hands, as mutuall affection already had done their hearts, which being sealed with infinite kisses; the chamber-maide called up friar _roger_ her confessor, and wedding and bedding were both effected before the bright morning. in briefe, the marquesse having heard of the marriage, did not mislike it, but confirmed it by great and honourable gifts; and having sent for his dishonest servant, he dispatched him (after sound reprehension) to _ferrara_, with letters to _rinaldoes_ father and friends, of all the accidents that had befalne him. moreover, the very same morning, the three theeves, that had robbed, and so ill entreated _rinaldo_, for another facte by them the same night committed; were taken, and brought to the towne of _chasteau guillaume_, where they were hanged for their offences, and _rinaldo_ with his wife rode to _ferrara_. _three young gentlemen, being brethren, and having spent all their lands and possessions vainely, became poore. a nephew of theirs (falling almost into as desperate a condition) became acquainted with an abbot, whom he afterward found to be the king of_ englands _daughter, and made him her husband in marriage, recompencing all his uncles losses, and seating them againe in good estate._ the third novell. _wherein is declared the dangers of prodigalitie, and the manifold mutabilities of fortune._ the fortunes of _rinaldo de este_, being heard by the ladies and gentlemen, they admired his happinesse, and commended his devotion to saint _julian_, who (in such extreame necessity) sent him so good succour. nor was the lady to be blamed, for leaving base liberty, and converting to the chaste embraces of the marriage bed, the dignity of womens honour, and eternall disgrace living otherwise. while thus they descanted on the happy night betweene her and _rinaldo_, madam _pampinea_ sitting next to _philostratus_, considering, that her discourse must follow in order, and thinking on what shee was to say; the queene had no sooner sent out her command, but shee being no lesse faire then forward, beganne in this manner. ladies of great respect, the more we conferre on the accidents of fortune, so much the more remaineth to consider on her mutabilities, wherein there is no need of wonder, if discreetly we observe, that all such things as we fondly tearme to be our owne, are in her power, and so (consequently) change from one to another, without any stay or arrest (according to her concealed judgement) or setled order (at least) that can bee knowne to us. now, although these things appeare thus daily to us, even apparantly in all occasions, and as hath beene discerned by some of our precedent discourses; yet notwithstanding, seeing it pleaseth the queene, that our arguments should ayme at these ends, i will adde to the former tales another of my owne, perhaps not unprofitable for the hearers, nor unpleasing in observation. sometime heeretofore, there dwelt in our citie, a knight named signior _thebaldo_, who (according as some report) issued from the family of _lamberti_, but others derive him of the _agolanti_; guiding (perhaps) their opinion heerein, more from the traine of children, belonging to the saide _thebaldo_ (evermore equall to that of the _agolanti_) then any other matter else. but setting aside, from which of these two houses he came, i say, that in his time he was a very welthy knight, & had three sonnes; the first being named _lamberto_, the second _thebaldo_, & the third _agolanto_, all goodly and gracefull youths: howbeit, the eldest had not compleated eighteene yeares, when signior _thebaldo_ the father deceased, who left them all his goods and inheritances. and they, seeing them selves rich in readie monies and revennewes, without any other government then their owne voluntary disposition, kept no restraint upon their expences, but maintained many servants, and store of unvalewable horses, beside hawkes and hounds, with open house for all commers; and not onely all delights else fit for gentlemen, but what vanities beside best agreed with their wanton and youthfull appetites. not long had they run on this race, but the treasures lefte them by their father, began greatly to diminish; and their revennewes suffised not, to support such lavish expences as they had begun: but they fell to engaging and pawning their inheritances, selling one to day, and another to morrow, so that they saw themselves quickly come to nothing, and then poverty opened their eyes, which prodigality had before closed up. heereupon, _lamberto_ (on a day) calling his brethren to him, shewed them what the honours of their father had beene, to what height his wealth amounted, and now to what an ebbe of poverty it was falne, onely thorow their inordinate expences. wherefore hee counselled them, (as best he could) before further misery insulted over them; to make sale of the small remainder that was left, and then to betake themselves unto some other abiding, where fairer fortune might chance to shine uppon them. this advice prevailed with them; and so, without taking leave of any body, or other solemnity then closest secrecy, they departed from _florence_, not tarrying in any place untill they were arrived in _england_. comming to the city of london, and taking there a small house upon yearly rent, living on so little charge as possible might be, they began to lend out money at use: wherein fortune was so favourable to them, that (in few yeares) they had gathered a great summe of mony: by means whereof it came to passe, that one while one of them, and afterward another, returned backe againe to _florence_: where, with those summes, a great part of their inheritances were redeemed, and many other bought beside. linking themselves in marriage, and yet continuing their usances in england; they sent a nephew of theirs thither, named _alessandro_, a yong man, and of faire demeanour, to maintaine their stocke in employment: while they three remained still at _florence_, and growing forgetful of their former misery, fell againe into as unreasonable expences as ever, never respecting their houshold charges, because they had good credite among the merchants, and the monies still sent from _alessandro_, supported their expences divers yeares. the dealings of _alessandro_ in england grew very great, for hee lent out much money to many gentlemen, lords, and barons of the land, upon engagement of their manours, castles, and other revennues: from whence he derived immeasurable benefite. while the three brethren held on in their lavish expences, borrowing moneys when they wanted untill their supplyes came from england, whereon (indeede) was their onely dependance: it fortuned, that (contrary to the opinion of al men) warre happened betweene the king of england, and one of his sonnes, which occasioned much trouble in the whole countrey, by taking part on either side, some with the sonne, and other with the father. in regard whereof, those castles and places pawned to _alessandro_, were sodainely seized from him, nothing then remaining that returned him any profit. but living in hope day by day, that peace would be concluded betweene the father and the sonne, he never doubted, but all things then should be restored to him, both the principall and interest, & therefore he would not depart out of the country. the three brethren at _florence_, bounding within no limites their disordered spending, borrowed daily more and more. and after some few yeares, the creditors seeing no effect of their hopes to come from them, all credit being lost with them, and no repayment of promised dues; they were imprisoned, their landes and all they had, not suffising to pay the moity of debts, but their bodies remained in prison for the rest, theyr wives and yong children being sent thence, some to one village, some to another, so that nothing now was to be expected, but poverty & misery of life forever. as for honest _alessandro_, who had awaited long time for peace in england, perceyving there was no likelyhood of it; and considering also, that (beside his tarrying there in vaine to recover his dues) he was in danger of his life; without any further deferring, hee set away for _italy_. it came to passe, that as he issued foorth of _bruges_, hee saw a yong abbot also journeying thence, being cloathed in white, accompanied with divers monkes, and a great traine before, conducting the needefull carriage. two ancient knights, kinsmen to the king, followed after, with whom _alessandro_ acquainted himselfe, as having formerly known them, and was kindly accepted into their company. _alessandro_ riding along with them, courteously requested to know, what those monks were that rode before, and such a traine attending on them? whereto one of the knights thus answered. he that rideth before, is a yong gentleman, and our kinsman, who is newly elected abbot of one of the best abbeyes in england; & because he is more yong in yeares, then the decrees for such a dignity doe allow, we travaile with him to _rome_, to entreat our holy father, that his youth may be dispensed withall, and he confirmed in the sayd dignity; but hee is not to speake a word to any person. on rode this new abbot, sometimes before his traine, and other whiles after, as we see great lords use to do, when they ride upon the high-wayes. it chanced on a day, that _alessandro_ rode somewhat neere to the abbot, who stedfastly beholding him, perceived that he was a verie comely young man, so affable, lovely, and gracious, that even in this first encounter, he hadde never seene any man before, that better pleased him. calling him a little closer, he began to conferre familiarly with him, demanding what he was, whence he came, and whether he travelled. _alessandro_ imparted freely to him all his affaires, in every thing satisfying his demands, and offering (although his power was small) to doe him all the service he could. when the abbot had heard his gentle answers, so wisely & discreetly delivered, considering also (more particularly) his commendable cariage; he tooke him to be (at the least) a well-borne gentleman, and far differing from his owne logger-headed traine. wherefore, taking compassion on his great misfortunes, he comforted him very kindly, wishing him to live alwayes in good hope. for, if hee were vertuous and honest, he should surely attaine to the seate from whence fortune had throwne him, or rather much higher. entreating him also, that seeing he journied towards _tuscany_, as he himselfe did the like, to continue still (if he pleased) in his company. _alessandro_ most humbly thanked him for such gracious comfort; protesting, that he would be alwaies ready, to doe whatsoever he commanded. the abbot riding on, with newer crochets in his braine, then hee had before the sight of _alessandro_; it fortuned, that after divers dayes of travaile, they came to a small countrey village, which affoorded little store of lodging, and yet the abbot would needs lye there. _alessandro_, being well acquainted with the host of the house, willed him, to provide for the abbot and his people, and then to lodge him where hee thought meetest. now, before the abbots comming thither, the harbinger that marshalled all such matters, had provided for his traine in the village, some in one place, and others elsewhere, in the best manner that the towne could yeelde. but when the abbot had supt, a great part of the night being spent, and every one else at his rest; _alessandro_ demaunded of the host, what provision he had made for him; and how hee should be lodged that night? in good sadnesse sir (quoth the host) you see that my house is full of guests, so that i and my people, must gladly sleepe on the tables & benches: neverthelesse, next adjoining to my lord abbots chamber, there are certaine corn-lofts, whether i can closely bring you, and making shift there with a slender pallet-bed, it may serve for one night, insted of a better. but mine host (quoth _alessandro_) how can i passe thorow my lords chamber, which is so little, as it would not allowe lodging for any of his monkes? if i had remembred so much (said the host) before the curtaines were drawne, i could have lodgd his monkes in those corn-lofts, and then both you and i might have slept where now they do. but feare you not, my lords curtaines are close drawne, hee sleepeth (no doubt) soundly, and i can conveigh you thither quietly enough, without the least disturbance to him, and a pallet-bed shal be fitted there for you. _alessandro_ perceyving, that all this might bee easilie done, and no disease offered to the abbot, accepted it willingly, & went thither without any noyse at all. my lord abbot, whose thoughtes were so busied about amorous desires, that no sleepe at all could enter his eyes; heard all this talke betweene the host and _alessandro_, and also where hee was appointed to lodge, wherefore he sayd to himselfe. seeing fortune hath fitted me with a propitious time, to compasse the happines of my hearts desire; i know no reason why i should refuse it. perhaps, i shall never have the like offer againe, or ever be enabled with such an opportunity. so, being fully determined to prosecute his intention, and perswading himselfe also, that the silence of night had bestowed sleepe on all the rest; with a lowe and trembling voyce, he called _alessandro_, advising him to come and lye downe by him, which (after some few faint excuses) he did, and putting off his cloaths, lay downe by the abbot, being not a little prowde of so gracious a favour. the abbot, laying his arme over the others body, began to imbrace and hugge him; even as amorous friends (provoked by earnest affection) use to do. whereat _alessandro_ very much marvayling, and being an _italian_ himselfe, fearing least this folly in the abbot, would convert to foule and dishonest action, shrunk modestly from him. which the abbot perceiving, and doubting, least _alessandro_ would depart and leave him, pleasantly smiling, and with bashfull behaviour, baring his stomack, he tooke _alessandroes_ hand, and laying it thereon, saide; _alessandro_, let all bad thoughts of bestiall abuse be farre off from thee, and feele here, to resolve thee from all such feare. _alessandro_ feeling the abbots brest, found there two pretty little mountainets, round, plumpe, and smooth, appearing as if they had beene of polished ivory; whereby he perceived, that the abbot was a woman: which, setting an edge on his youthfull desires, made him fall to embracing, and immediately he offered to kisse her; but shee somewhat rudely repulsing him, as halfe offended, saide. _alessandro_, forbeare such boldnesse, upon thy lives perill, and before thou further presume to touch me, understand what i shall tell thee. i am (as thou perceivest) no man, but a woman; and departing a virgin from my fathers house, am travelling towards the popes holinesse, to the end that he should bestow me in mariage. but the other day, when first i beheld thee, whether it proceeded from thy happinesse in fortune, or the fatall houre of my owne infelicity for ever, i know not; i conceived such an effectuall kinde of liking towards thee, as never did woman love a man more truly, then i doe thee, having sworne within my soule to make thee my husband before any other; and if thou wilt not accept mee as thy wife, set a locke upon thy lippes concerning what thou hast heard, and depart hence to thine owne bed againe. no doubt, but that these were strange newes to _alessandro_, and seemed meerely as a miracle to him. what shee was, he knew not, but in regard of her traine and company, hee reputed her to be both noble and rich, as also shee was wonderfull faire and beautifull. his owne fortunes stood out of future expectation by his kinsmens overthrow, and his great losses in _england_; wherefore, upon an opportunity so fairely offered, hee held it no wisedome to returne refusall, but accepted her gracious motion, and referred all to her disposing. shee arising out of her bed, called him to a little table standing by, where hung a faire crucifix upon the wall; before which, and calling him to witnesse, that suffered such bitter and cruell torments on his crosse, putting a ring upon his finger, there she faithfully espoused him, refusing all the world, to be onely his: which being on either side confirmed solemnely, by an holy vow, and chaste kisses; shee commanded him backe to his chamber, and shee returned to her bed againe, sufficiently satisfied with her loves acceptation, and so they journied on till they came to _rome_. when they had rested themselves there for some few dayes, the supposed abbot, with the two knights, and none else in company but _alessandro_, went before the pope, and having done him such reverence as beseemed, the abbot began to speake in this manner. holy father (as you know much better then any other) every one that desireth to live well and vertuously, ought to shunne (so farre as in them lieth) all occasions that may induce to the contrary. to the ende therefore, that i (who desire nothing more) then to live within the compasse of a vertuous conversation, may perfect my hopes in this behalfe: i have fled from my fathers court, and am come hither in this habite as you see, to crave therein your holy and fatherly furtherance. i am daughter to the king of _england_, and have sufficiently furnished my selfe with some of his treasures, that your holinesse may bestow me in marriage; because mine unkind father, never regarding my youth and beauty (inferior to few in my native country) would marry me to the king of _north-wales_, an aged, impotent, and sickly man. yet let me tell your sanctity, that his age and weakenesse hath not so much occasioned my flight, as feare of mine owne youth and frailety; when being married to him, instead of loyall and unstained life, lewd and dishonest desires might make me to wander, by breaking the divine lawes of wedlocke, and abusing the royall blood of my father. as i travailed hither with this vertuous intention, our lord, who onely knoweth perfectly, what is best fitting for all his creatures; presented mine eyes (no doubt in his meere mercy and goodnesse) with a man meete to be my husband, which (pointing to _alessandro_) is this young gentleman standing by me, whose honest, vertuous, and civill demeanour, deserveth a lady of farre greater worth, although (perhaps) nobility in blood be denied him, and may make him seeme not so excellent, as one derived from royall discent. holy and religious vowes have past betweene us both, and the ring on his finger, is the firme pledge of my faith and constancie; never to accept any other man in marriage, but him onely, although my father, or any else doe dislike it. wherefore (holy father) the principall cause of my comming hither, being already effectually concluded on, i desire to compleat the rest of my pilgrimage, by visiting the sanctified places in this city, whereof there are great plenty; and also, that sacred marriage, being contracted in the presence of god onely, betweene _alessandro_ and my selfe, may by you be publiquely confirmed, and in an open congregation. for, seeing god hath so appointed it, and our soules have so solemnely vowed it, that no disaster whatsoever can alter it: you being gods vicar here on earth, i hope will not gaine-say, but confirme it with your fatherly benediction, that wee may live in gods feare, and dye in his favour. perswade your selves (faire ladies) that _alessandro_ was in no meane admiration, when hee heard, that his wife was daughter to the king of _england_; unspeakeable joy (questionlesse) wholly overcame him: but the two knights were not a little troubled and offended, at such a strange and unexpected accident, yea, so violent were their passions, that had they beene any where else, then in the popes presence, _alessandro_ had felt their fury, and (perhaps) the princesse her selfe too. on the other side, the pope was much amazed, at the habite she went disguised in, and likewise at the election of her husband; but, perceiving there was no resistance to be made against it, hee yeelded the more willingly to satisfie her desire. and therefore, having first comforted the two knights, and made peace betweene them, the princesse and _alessandro_; he gave order for the rest that was to be done. when the appointed day for the solemnity was come, hee caused the princesse (cloathed in most rich and royall garments) to appeare before all the cardinals, and many other great persons then in presence, who were come to this worthy feast, which hee had caused purposely to be prepared, where she seemed so faire & goodly a lady, that every eye was highly delighted to behold her, commending her with no mean admiration. in like manner was _alessandro_ greatly honoured by the two knights, being most sumptuous in appearance, and not like a man that had lent money to usury, but rather of very royall quality; the pope himselfe celebrating the marriage betweene them, which being finished, with the most magnificent pompe that could be devised, hee gave them his benediction, and licenced their departure thence. _alessandro_, his princesse and her traine thus leaving _rome_, they would needes visite _florence_, where the newes of this accident was (long before) noysed, and they received by the citizens in royall manner. there did shee deliver the three brethren out of prison, having first payed all their debts, and reseated them againe (with their wives) in their former inheritances and possessions. afterward, departing from _florence_, and _agolanto_, one of the uncles travailing with them to _paris_; they were there also most honourably entertained by the king of _france_. from whence the two knights went before for _england_, and prevailed so succesfully with the king; that hee received his daughter into grace and favour, as also his sonne in law her husband, to whom hee gave the order of knighthoode, and (for his greater dignitie) created him earle of _cornewall_. and such was the noble spirit of _alessandro_, that he pacified the troubles betweene the king and his sonne, whereon ensued great comfort to the kingdome, winning the love and favour of all the people; and _agolanto_ (by the meanes of _alessandro_) recovered all that was due to him and his brethren in _england_, returning richly home to _florence_, counte _alessandro_ (his kinsman) having first dubd him knight. longtime hee lived in peace and tranquility, with the faire princesse his wife, proving to be so absolute in wisedome, and so famous a souldier; that (as some report) by assistance of his father in law, hee conquered the realme of _ireland_, and was crowned king thereof. landolpho ruffolo, _falling into poverty, became a pirate on the seas, and being taken by the genewayes, hardly escaped drowning: which yet (neverthelesse) he did, upon a little chest or coffer, full of very rich jewels, being caried thereon to_ corfu, _where he was well entertained by a good woman; and afterward, returned richly home to his owne house._ the fourth novell. _whereby may be discerned, into how many dangers a man may fall, through a covetous desire to enrich himselfe._ madame _lauretta_, sitting next to madame _pampinea_, and seeing how triumphantly shee had finished her discourse; without attending any thing else, spake thus. gracious ladies, wee shall never behold (in mine opinion) a greater act of fortune, then to see a man so suddainly exalted, even from the lowest depth of poverty, to a royall estate of dignity; as the discourse of madame _pampinea_ hath made good, by the happy advancement of _alessandro_. and because it appeareth necessary, that whosoever discourseth on the subject proposed, should no way varie from the very same termes; i shall not shame to tell a tale, which, though it containe farre greater mishaps then the former, may sort to as happy an issue, albeit not so noble and magnificent. in which respect, it may (perhaps) merit the lesse attention; but howsoever that fault shall be found in you, i meane to discharge mine owne duty. opinion hath made it famous for long time, that the sea-coast of _rhegium_ to _gaieta_, is the onely delectable part of all _italy_, wherein, somewhat neere to _salerno_, is a shore looking upon the sea, which the inhabitants there dwelling, doe call the coast of _malfy_, full of small townes, gardens, springs and wealthy men, trading in as many kindes of merchandizes, as any other people that i know. among which townes, there is one, named _ravello_, wherein (as yet to this day there are rich people) there was (not long since) a very wealthy man, named _landolpho ruffolo_, who being not contented with his riches, but coveting to multiply them double and trebble, fell in danger, to loose both himselfe and wealth together. this man (as other merchants are wont to doe) after hee had considered on his affaires, bought him a very goodly ship, lading it with divers sorts of merchandizes, all belonging to himselfe onely, and making his voyage to the isle of _cyprus_. where he found, over and beside the merchandizes he had brought thither, many ships more there arrived, and all laden with the selfe same commodities, in regard whereof, it was needefull for him, not onely to make a good mart of his goods; but also was further constrained (if hee meant to vent his commodities) to sell them away (almost) for nothing, endangering his utter destruction and overthrow. whereupon, grieving exceedingly at so great a losse, not knowing what to doe, and seeing, that from very aboundant wealth, hee was likely to fall into as low poverty: hee resolved to dye, or to recompence his losses upon others, because he would not returne home poore, having departed thence so rich. meeting with a merchant, that bought his great ship of him; with the money made thereof, and also of his other merchandizes, hee purchased another, being a lighter vessell, apt and proper for the use of a pirate, arming and furnishing it in ample manner, for roving and robbing upon the seas. thus hee began to make other mens goods his owne, especially from the turkes he tooke much wealth, fortune being alwayes therein so favourable to him, that hee could never compasse the like by trading. so that, within the space of one yeare, hee had robd and taken so many gallies from the turke; that he found himselfe well recovered, not onely of all his losses by merchandize, but likewise his wealth was wholly redoubled. finding his losses to be very liberally requited, and having now sufficient, it were folly to hazard a second fall; wherefore, conferring with his owne thoughts, and finding that he had enough, and needed not to covet after more: he fully concluded, now to returne home to his owne house againe, and live upon his goods thus gotten. continuing still in feare, of the losses he had sustained by traffique, & minding, never more to imploy his mony that way, but to keep this light vessel, which had holpen him to all his wealth: he commanded his men to put forth their oares, and shape their course for his owne dwelling. being aloft in the higher seas, darke night over-taking them, and a mighty winde suddainly comming upon them: it not onely was contrary to their course, but held on with such impetuous violence; that the small vessell, being unable to endure it, made to land-ward speedily, and in expectation of a more friendly wind, entred a little port of the sea, directing up into a small island, and there safely sheltred it selfe. into the same port which _landolpho_ had thus taken for his refuge, entred (soone after) two great carrackes of _genewayes_ lately come from _constantinople_. when the men in them had espied the small barke, and lockt uppe her passage from getting foorth; understanding the owners name, and that report had famed him to be very rich, they determined (as men evermore addicted naturally, to covet after money and spoile) to make it their owne as a prize at sea. landing some store of their men, well armed with crosse-bowes and other weapons, they tooke possession of such a place, where none durst issue forth of the small barke, but endangered his life with their darts & arrowes. entering aboord the barke, and making it their owne by full possession, all the men they threw over-boord, without sparing any but _landolpho_ himselfe, whom they mounted into one of the carrackes, leaving him nothing but a poore shirt of maile on his backe, and having rifled the barke of all her riches, sunke it into the bottome of the sea. the day following, the rough windes being calmed, the carrackes set saile againe, having a prosperous passage all the day long; but uppon the entrance of darke night, the windes blew more tempestuously then before, and sweld the sea in such rude stormes, that the two carracks were sundered each from other, and by violence of the tempest it came to passe, that the carracke wherein lay poore miserable _landolpho_ (beneath the isle of _cephalonia_) ran against a rocke, and even as a glasse against a wall, so split the carracke in peeces, the goods and merchandizes floating on the sea, chests, coffers, beds, and such like other things, as often hapneth in such lamentable accidents. now, notwithstanding the nights obscurity, and impetuous violence of the billowes; such as could swimme, made shift to save their lives by swimming. others caught hold on such things, as by fortunes favour floated neerest to them, among whom, distressed _landolpho_, desirous to save his life, if possibly it might be, espied a chest or coffer before him, ordained (no doubt) to be the meanes of his safety from drowning. now although the day before, he had wished for death infinite times, rather then to returne home in such wretched poverty; yet, seeing how other men strove for safety of their lives by any helpe, were it never so little, he tooke advantage of this favour offred him, and the rather in a necessitie so urgent. keeping fast upon the coffer so well as he could, and being driven by the winds & waves, one while this way, and anon quite contrarie, he made shift for himselfe till day appeared; when looking every way about him, seeing nothing but clouds, the seas and the coffer, which one while shrunke from under him, and another while supported him, according as the windes and billowes carried it: all that day and night thus he floated up and downe, drinking more then willingly hee would, but almost hunger-starved thorow want of foode. the next morning, either by the appointment of heaven, or power of the windes, _landolpho_ who was (well-neere) become a spundge, holding his armes strongly about the chest, as wee have seene some doe, who (dreading drowning) take hold on any the very smallest helpe; drew neere unto the shore of the iland _corfu_, where (by good fortune) a poore woman was scowring dishes with the salt water and sand, to make them (house-wife like) neate and cleane. when shee saw the chest drawing neere her, and not discerning the shape of any man, shee grew fearefull, and retyring from it, cried out aloude. he had no power of speaking to her, neither did his sight doe him the smallest service; but even as the waves and windes pleased, the chest was driven still neerer to the land, and then the woman perceived that it had the forme of a coffer, and looking more advisedly, beheld two armes extended over it, and afterward, shee espied the face of a man, not being able to judge, whether he were alive, or no. moved by charitable and womanly compassion, shee stept in among the billowes, and getting fast holde on the haire of his head, drew both the chest and him to the land, and calling forth her daughter to helpe her, with much adoe shee unfolded his armes from the chest, setting it up on her daughters head, and then betweene them, _landolpho_ was led into the towne, and there conveyed into a warme stove, where quickly he recovered (by her pains) his strength benummed with extreame cold. good wines and comfortable broathes shee cherished him withall, that his sences being indifferently restored, hee knew the place where he was; but not in what manner he was brought thither, till the good woman shewed him the cofer that had kept him floating upon the waves, and (next under god) had saved his life. the chest seemed of such slender weight, that nothing of any value could be expected in it, either to recompence the womans great paines and kindnesse bestowne on him, or any matter of his owne benefit. neverthelesse, the woman being absent, he opened the chest, and found innumerable precious stones therein, some costly and curiously set in gold, and others not fixed in any mettall. having knowledge of their great worth and value (being a merchant, and skild in such matters) he became much comforted, praysing god for this good successe, and such an admirable meanes of deliverance from danger. then considering with himselfe, that (in a short time) hee had beene twice well buffeted and beaten by fortune, and fearing, least a third mishap might follow in like manner; hee consulted with his thoughts, how he might safest order the businesse, and bring so rich a booty (without perill) to his owne home. wherefore, wrapping up the jewels in very unsightly cloutes, that no suspition at all should be conceived of them, hee saide to the good woman, that the chest would not doe him any further service; but if shee pleased to lende him a small sacke or bagge, shee might keepe the cofer, for in her house it would divers way stead her. the woman gladly did as he desired, and _landolpho_ returning her infinite thankes, for the loving kindnesse shee had affoorded him, throwing the sacke on his necke, passed by a barke to _brundusiam_, and from thence to _tranium_, where merchants in the city bestowed good garments on him, hee acquainting them with his disasterous fortunes, but not a word concerning his last good successe. being come home in safety to _ravello_, hee fell on his knees, and thanked god for all his mercies towards him. then opening the sacke, and viewing the jewels at more leysure then formerly he had done, he found them to be of so great estimation, that selling them but at ordinary and reasonable rates, he was three times richer, then when hee departed first from his house. and having vented them all, he sent a great sum of money to the good woman at _corfu_, that had rescued him out of the sea, and saved his life in a danger so dreadfull: the like hee did to _tranium_, to the merchants that had newly cloathed him; living richly upon the remainder, and never adventuring more to the sea, but ended his dayes in wealth and honour. andrea de piero, _travelling from_ perouse _to_ naples _to buy horses, was (in the space of one night) surprised by three admirable accidents, out of all which hee fortunately escaped, and, with a rich ring, returned home to his owne house._ the fift novell. _comprehending, how needfull a thing it is, for a man that travelleth in affaires of the world, to be provident and well advised, and carefully to keepe himselfe from the crafty and deceitfull allurements of strumpets._ the precious stones and jewels found by _landolpho_, maketh mee to remember (said madam _fiammetta_, who was next to deliver her discourse) a tale, containing no lesse perils, then that reported by madam _lauretta_: but somewhat different from it, because the one happened in sundry yeeres, and this other had no longer time, then the compasse of one poore night, as instantly i will relate unto you. as i have heard reported by many, there sometime lived in _perouse_ or _perugia_, a young man, named _andrea de piero_, whose profession was to trade about horses, in the nature of a horse-courser, or horse-master, who hearing of a good faire or market (for his purpose) at _naples_, did put five hundred crownes of gold in his purse, and journeyed thither in the company of other horse-coursers, arriving there on a sunday in the evening. according to instructions given him by his host, he went the next day into the horse-market, where he saw very many horses that he liked, cheapening their prices as he went up and downe, but could fall to no agreement; yet to manifest that he came purposely to buy, and not as a cheapener onely, often times (like a shalow-brainde trader in the world) he shewed his purse of gold before all passengers, never respecting who, or what they were that observed his follie. it came to passe, that a young _sicillian_ wench (very beautifull, but at commaund of whosoever would, and for small hire) passing then by, and (without his perceiving) seeing such store of gold in his purse; presently she said to her selfe: why should not all those crownes be mine, when the foole that owes them, can keepe them no closer? and so she went on. with this young wanton there was (at the same time) an olde woman (as commonly such stuffe is alwayes so attended) seeming to be _sicillian_ also, who so soone as shee saw _andrea_, knew him, and, leaving her youthfull commodity, ranne to him, and embraced him very kindly. which when the younger lasse perceived, without proceeding any further, she stayed, to see what would ensue thereon. _andrea_ conferring with the olde bawde, and knowing her (but not for any such creature) declared himselfe very affable to her; she making him promise, that shee would come and drinke with him at his lodging. so, breaking off further speeches for that time, shee returned to her young _cammerado_; and _andrea_ went about buying his horses, still cheapning good store, but did not buy any all that morning. the punke that had taken notice of _andreaes_ purse, upon the olde womans comming backe to her (having formerly studied, how shee might get all the gold, or the greater part thereof) cunningly questioned with her, what the man was, whence hee came, and the occasion of his businesse there? wherein she fully informed her particularly, and in as ample manner as himselfe could have done: that shee had long time dwelt in _sicily_ with his father, and afterward at _perouse_; recounting also, at what time she came thence, and the cause which now had drawne him to _naples_. the witty young housewife, being thorowly instructed, concerning the parents and kindred of _andrea_, their names, quality, and all other circumstances thereto leading; began to frame the foundation of her purpose thereupon, setting her resolution downe constantly, that the purse and gold was (already) more then halfe her owne. being come home to her owne house, away shee sent the olde pandresse about other businesse, which might hold her time long enough of employment, and hinder her returning to _andrea_ according to promise, purposing, not to trust her in this serious piece of service. calling a young crafty girle to her, whom she had well tutoured in the like ambassages, when evening drew on, she sent her to _andreas_ lodging, where (by good fortune) she found him sitting alone at the dore, and demanding of him, if he knew an honest gentleman lodging there, whose name was _signior andrea de piero_; he made her answere, that himselfe was the man. then taking him aside, shee said. sir, there is a worthy gentlewoman of this citie, that would gladly speake with you, if you pleased to vouchsafe her so much favour. _andrea_, hearing such a kinde of salutation, and from a gentlewoman, named of worth; began to grow proud in his owne imaginations, and to make no meane estimation of himselfe: as (undoubtedly) that he was an hansome proper man, and of such cariage and perfections, as had attracted the amorous eye of this gentlewoman, and induced her to like and love him beyond all other, _naples_ not contayning a man of better merit. whereupon he answered the mayde, that he was ready to attend her mistresse, desiring to know, when it should be, and where the gentlewoman would speake with him? so soone as you please sir, replied the damosell, for she tarieth your comming in her owne house. instantly _andrea_ (without leaving any direction of his departure in his lodging, or when he intended to returne againe) said to the girle: goe before, and i will follow. this little chamber-commodity, conducted him to her mistresses dwelling, which was in a streete named _malpertuis_, a title manifesting sufficiently the streetes honesty: but hee, having no such knowledge thereof, neither suspecting any harme at all, but that he went to a most honest house, and to a gentlewoman of good respect; entred boldly, the mayde going in before, and guiding him up a faire payre of stayres, which he having more then halfe ascended, the cunning young queane gave a call to her mistresse, saying; _signior andrea_ is come already, whereupon, she appeared at the stayres-head, as if she had stayed there purposely to entertaine him. she was young, very beautifull, comely of person, and rich in adornements, which _andrea_ well observing, & seeing her descend two or three steps, with open armes to embrace him, catching fast hold about his neck; he stood as a man confounded with admiration, and she contained a cunning kinde of silence, even as if she were unable to utter one word, seeming hindered by extremity of joy at his presence, and to make him effectually admire her extraordinary kindnesse, having teares plenteously at commaund, intermixed with sighes and broken speeches, at last, thus she spake. _signior andrea_, you are the most welcom friend to me in all the world; sealing this salutation with infinite sweet kisses and embraces: whereat (in wonderfull amazement) he being strangely transported, replied; madame, you honour me beyond all compasse of merit. then, taking him by the hand, shee guided him thorow a goodly hall, into her owne chamber, which was delicately embalmed with roses, orenge-flowres, and all other pleasing smelles, and a costly bed in the middest, curtained round about, very artificiall pictures beautifying the walles, with many other embellishments, such as those countries are liberally stored withall. he being meerely a novice in these kinds of wanton carriages of the world, and free from any base or degenerate conceit; firmely perswaded himselfe, that (questionlesse) shee was a lady of no meane esteeme, and he more then happy, to be thus respected and honoured by her. they both being seated on a curious chest at the beds feete, teares cunningly trickling downe her cheekes, and sighes intermedled with inward sobbings, breathed forth in sad, but very seemely manner; thus shee beganne. i am sure _andrea_, that you greatly marvell at me, in gracing you with this solemne and kinde entertainment, and why i should so melt my selfe in sighes and teares, at a man that hath no knowledge of me, or (perhaps) sildome or never heard any speeches of me: but you shall instantly receive from mee matter to augment your greater marvell, meeting heere with your owne sister, beyond all hope or expectation in either of us both. but seeing that heaven hath beene so gracious to me, to let mee see one of my brethren before i die (though gladly i would have seene them all) which is some addition of comfort to me, and that which (happily) thou hast never heard before, in plaine and truest manner, i will reveale unto thee. _piero_, my father and thine, dwelt long time (as thou canst not chuse but to have understood) in _palermo_, where, through the bounty, and other gracious good parts remaining in him, he was much renowned; and (to this day) is no doubt remembred, by many of his loving friends and well-willers. among them that most intimately affected _piero_, my mother (who was a gentlewoman, and at that time a widow) did dearest of all other love him; so that forgetting the feare of her father, brethren, yea, and her owne honour, they became so privately acquainted, that i was begotten, and am here now such as thou seest me. afterward, occasions so befalling our father, to abandon _palermo_, and returne to _perouse_, he left my mother and me his little daughter, never after (for ought that i could learne) once remembring either her or me: so that (if he had not beene my father) i could have much condemned him, in regard of his ingratitude to my mother, and love which hee ought to have shewne me as his childe, being borne of no chamber-maide, neither of a city sinner; albeit i must needes say, that shee was blame-worthy, without any further knowledge of him (moved onely thereto by most loyal affection) to commit both her selfe, and all the wealth shee had, into his hands: but things ill done, and so long time since, are more easily controled, then amended. being left so young at _palermo_, and growing (well neere) to the stature as now you see me; my mother, being wealthy, gave mee in marriage to one of the _gergentes_ family, a gentleman, and of great revenewes, who in his love to me and my mother, went and dwelt at _palermo_: where falling into the _guelphes_ faction, and making one in the enterprize with _charles_ our king; it came to passe, that they were discovered to _fredericke_ king of _arragon_, before their intent could be put in execution, whereupon, we were enforced to flie from _sicilie_, even when my hope stood fairely to have beene the greatest lady in all the iland. packing up then such few things as wee could take with us, few i may well call them, in regard of our wealthy possessions, both in pallaces, houses, and lands, all which we were constrained to forgoe: we made our recourse to this city, where wee found king _charles_ so benigne and gracious to us, that recompencing the greater part of our losses, he bestowed lands and houses on us here, beside a continuall large pension to my husband your brother in law, as hereafter himselfe shall better acquaint you withall. thus came i hither, and thus remaine here, where i am able to welcome my brother _andrea_, thankes more to fortune, then any friendlinesse in him: with which words she embraced and kissed him many times, sighing and weeping as shee did before. _andrea_ hearing this fable so artificially delivered, composed from point to point, with such likely protestations, without faltring or failing in any one words utterance; and remembring perfectly for truth, that his father had formerly dwelt at _palermo_; knowing also (by some sensible feeling in himselfe) the custome of young people, who are easily conquered by affection in their youthfull heate; seeing beside the teares, trembling speeches, and earnest embracings of this cunning commodity: he tooke all to be faithfully true by her thus spoken, and upon her silence, thus he replied. lady, let it not seeme strange to you, that your words have raised marvell in me, because (indeede) i had no knowledge of you, even no more then as if i had never seene you, never also having heard my father to speake either of you or your mother (for some considerations best knowne to himselfe) or if at any time he used such language, either my youth then, or defective memory since, hath utterly lost it. but truly, it is no little joy and comfort to me, to finde a sister here, where i had no such hope or expectation, and where also my selfe am a meere stranger. for to speake my mind freely of you, and the perfections gracefully appearing in you, i know not any man, of how great repute or quality soever, but you may well beseeme his acceptance, much rather then mine, that am but a meane merchant. but faire sister, i desire to be resolved in one thing, to wit, by what meanes you had understanding of my being in this city? whereto readily shee returned him this answer. brother, a poore woman of this city, whom i employ sometimes in houshold occasions, came to me this morning, and (having seene you) tolde me, that shee dwelt a long while with our father, both at _palermo_, and _perouse_. and because i held it much better beseeming my condition, to have you visit me in mine owne dwelling, then i to come see you at a common inne; i made the bolder to send for you hither. after which words, in very orderly manner, shee enquired of his chiefest kindred and friends, calling them readily by their proper names, according to her former instructions. whereto _andrea_ still made her answer, confirming thereby his beliefe of her the more strongly, and crediting whatsoever shee saide, farre better then before. their conference having long time continued, and the heate of the day being somewhat extraordinary, shee called for _greeke_ wine, and banquetting stuffe, drinking to _andrea_; and he pledging her very contentedly. after which, he would have returned to his lodging, because it drew neere supper time; which by no meanes shee would permit, but seeming more then halfe displeased, shee saide. now i plainely perceive brother, how little account you make of me, considering, you are with your owne sister, who (you say) you never saw before, and in her owne house, whether you should alwayes resort when you come to this city; and would you now refuse her, to goe and sup at a common inne. beleeve me brother, you shall sup with me, for although my husband is now from home, to my no little discontentment: yet you shall find brother, that his wife can bid you welcome, and make you good cheere beside. now was _andrea_ so confounded with this extremity of courtesie, that he knew not what to say, but onely thus replied. i love you as a sister ought to be loved, and accept of your exceeding kindnesse: but if i returne not to my lodging, i shall wrong mine host and his guests too much, because they will not sup untill i come. for that (quoth shee) we have a present remedy, one of my servants shal goe and give warning, whereby they shall not tarry your comming. albeit, you might doe me a great kindnesse, to send for your friends to sup with us here, where i assure ye they shall finde that your sister (for your sake) will bid them welcome, and after supper, you may all walke together to your inne. _andrea_ answered, that he had no such friends there, as should be so burthenous to her: but seeing shee urged him so farre, he would stay to sup with her, and referred himselfe solely to her disposition. ceremonious shew was made, of sending a servant to the inne, for not expecting _andreas_ presence at supper, though no such matter was performed; but, after divers other discoursings, the table being covered, and variety of costly viands placed thereon, downe they sate to feeding, with plenty of curious wines liberally walking about, so that it was darke night before they arose from the table. _andrea_ then offring to take his leave, she would (by no meanes) suffer it, but tolde him that _naples_ was a citie of such strict lawes and ordinances, as admitted no night-walkers, although they were natives, much lesse strangers, but punished them with great severity. and therefore, as she had formerly sent word to his inne, that they should not expect his comming to supper, the like had she done concerning his bed, intending to give her brother _andrea_ one nights lodging, which as easily she could affoord him, as she hadde done a supper. all which this new-caught woodcocke verily crediting, and that he was in company of his owne sister _fiordeliza_ (for so did she cunningly stile her selfe, and in which beleefe hee was meerely deluded) he accepted the more gladly her gentle offer, and concluded to stay there all that night. after supper, their conference lasted very long, purposely dilated out in length, that a great part of the night might therein be wasted: when, leaving _andrea_ to his chamber, and a lad to attend, that he shold lacke nothing; she with her women went to their lodgings, and thus our brother and supposed sister were parted. the season then being somewhat hot and soultry, _andrea_ put off his hose and doublet, and beeing in his shirt alone, layed them underneath the beds boulster, as seeming carefull of his money. but finding a provocation to the house of office, he demanded of the lad, where hee might find it; who shewed him a little doore in a corner of the chamber, appointing him to enter there. safely enough he went in, but chanced to tread upon a board, which was fastened at neither ende to the joynts whereon it lay, being a pit-fall made of purpose, to entrap any such coxecombe, as would be trained to so base a place of lodging, so that both he and the board fell downe together into the draught; yet such being his good fortune, to receive no harme in the fall (although it was of extraordinary height) onely the filth of the place, (it being over full) had fowly myred him. now for your better understanding the quality of the place, and what ensued thereupon, it is not unnecessary to describe it, according to a common use observed in those parts. there was a narrow passage or entrie, as often we see reserved betweene two houses, for eithers benefit to such a needfull place; and boards loosely lay upon the joynts, which such as were acquainted withall, could easily avoide any perill, in passing to or from the stoole. but our so newly created brother, not dreaming to find a queane to his sister, receiving so foule a fall into the vaulte, and knowing not how to helpe himselfe, being sorrowfull beyond measure; cryed out to the boy for light and aide, who intended not to give him any. for the crafty wag, (a meete attendant for so honest a mistresse) no sooner heard him to be fallen, but presently he ranne to enforme her thereof, and shee as speedily returned to the chamber, where finding his cloathes under the beds head, shee needed no instruction for search in his pockets. but having found the gold, which _andrea_ indiscreetely carried alwayes about him, as thinking it could no where else be so safe: this was all shee aymed at, and for which shee had ensnared him, faigning her selfe to be of _palermo_, and daughter to _piero_ of _perouse_, so that not regarding him any longer, but making fast the house of office doore, there shee left him in that miserable taking. poore _andrea_ perceiving, that his calles could get no answer from the lad; cryed out louder, but all to no purpose: when seeing into his owne simplicity, and understanding his error, though somewhat too late, hee made such meanes constrainedly, that he got over a wall, which severed that foule sinke from the worlds eye; and being in the open streete, went to the doore of the house, which then he knew too well to his cost, making loude exclaimes with rapping and knocking, but all as fruitlesse as before. sorrowing exceedingly, and manifestly beholding his misfortune; alas (quoth he) how soone have i lost a sister, and five hundred crownes besides? with many other words, loude calles, and beatings upon the doore without intermission, the neighbours finding themselves diseased, and unable to endure such ceaselesse vexation, rose from their beds, and called to him, desiring him to be gone and let them rest. a maide also of the same house, looking forth at the window, and seeming as newly raised from sleepe, called to him, saying; what noyse is that beneath? why virgin (answered _andrea_) know you not me? i am _andrea de piero_, brother to your mistresse _fiordeliza_. thou art a drunken knave, replied the maide, more full of drinke then wit, goe sleepe, goe sleepe, and come againe to morrow: for i know no _andrea de piero_, neither hath my mistresse any such brother, get thee gone good man, and suffer us to sleepe i pray thee. how now (quoth _andrea_) doest thou not understand what i say? thou knowest that i supt with thy mistresse this night; but if our _sicilian_ kindred be so soone forgot, i pray thee give me my cloathes which i left in my chamber, and then very gladly will i get mee gone. hereat the maide laughing out aloude, saide; surely the man is mad, or walketh the streetes in a dreame; and so clasping fast the window, away shee went and left him. now could _andrea_ assure himselfe, that his gold and cloathes were past recovery, which moving him to the more impatience, his former intercessions became converted into fury, and what hee could not compasse by faire entreats, he entended to winne by outrage and violence, so that taking up a great stone in his hand, hee layed upon the doore very powerfull strokes. the neighbours hearing this molestation still, admitting them not the least respite of rest, reputing him for a troublesome fellow, and that he used those counterfeit words, onely to disturbe the mistresse of the house, and all that dwelled neere about her; looking againe out at their windowes, they altogether began to rate and reprove him, even like so many bawling curres, barking at a strange dog passing thorow the streete. this is shamefull villany (quoth one) and not to be suffered, that honest women should be thus molested in their houses, with foolish idle words, and at such an unseasonable time of the night. for gods sake (good man) be gone, and let us sleepe; if thou have any thing to say to the gentlewoman of the house, come to morrow in the day time, and no doubt but shee will make thee sufficient answer. _andrea_ being somewhat pacified with these speeches, a shag-hairde swash-buckler, a grim-visagde ruffian (as sildome bawdy houses are without such swaggering champions) not seene or heard by _andrea_, all the while of his being in the house rapping out two or three terrible oathes, opened a casement, and with a stearne dreadfull voyce, demaunded who durst keepe that noyse beneath? _andrea_ fearefully looking up, and (by a little glimmering of the moone) seeing such a rough fellow, with a blacke beard, strowting like the quilles of a porcupine, and patches on his face, for hurts received in no honest quarels, yawning also and stretching, as angry to have his sleepe disturbed: trembling and quaking, answered; i am the gentlewomans brother of the house. the ruffian interrupting him, and speaking more fiercely then before; sealing his words with horrible oathes, said. sirra, rascall, i know not of whence or what thou art, but if i come downe to thee, i will so bombast thy prating coxcombe, as thou was never better beaten in all thy life, like a drunken slave and beast as thou art, that all this night wilt not let us sleepe; and so hee clapt to the window againe. the neighbours, well acquainted with this ruffians rude conditions, speaking in gentle manner to _andrea_, said. shift for thy selfe (good man) in time, and tarrie not for his comming downe to thee; except thou art wearie of thy life, be gone therefore, and say thou hast a friendly warning. these words dismaying _andrea_, but much more the stearne oathes and ugly sight of the ruffian, incited also by the neighbours counsell, whom he imagined to advise him in charitable manner: it caused him to depart thence, taking the way homeward to his inne, in no meane affliction and torment of minde, for the monstrous abuse offered him, and losse of his money. well he remembred the passages, whereby (the day before) the young girle had guided him, but the loathsome smell about him, was so extreamely offensive to himselfe: that, desiring to wash him at the sea side, he strayed too farre wide on the contrary hand, wandring up the streete called _ruga gatellana_. proceeding on still, even to the highest part of the citie, hee espied a lanthorne and light, as also a man carrying it, and another man with him in company, both of them comming towards him. now, because he suspected them two of the watch, or some persons that would apprehend him: he stept aside to shunne them, and entred into an olde house hard by at hand. the other mens intention was to the very same place, and going in, without any knowledge of _andreaes_ being there, one of them layd downe divers instruments of yron, which he had brought thither on his backe, and had much talke with his fellow concerning those engines. at last one of them said, i smell the most abhominable stinke, that ever i felt in all my life. so, lifting up his lanthorne, he espied poore pittifull _andrea_, closely couched behinde the wall. which sight somewhat affrighting him, he yet boldly demaunded, what and who hee was: whereto _andrea_ aunswered nothing, but lay still and held his peace. neerer they drew towards him with their light, demaunding how hee came thither, and in that filthy manner. constraint having now no other evasion, but that (of necessity) all must out: hee related to them the whole adventure, in the same sort as it had befalne him. they greatly pittying his misfortune, one of them said to the other. questionlesse, this villanie was done in the house of _scarabone buttafuoco_; and then turning to _andrea_, proceeded thus. in good faith poore man, albeit thou hast lost thy money, yet art thou highly beholding to fortune, for falling (though in a foule place) yet in succesfull manner, and entring no more backe into the house. for, beleeve mee friend, if thou hadst not falne, but quietly gone to sleepe in the house; that sleepe had beene thy last in this world, and with thy money, thou hadst lost thy life likewise. but teares and lamentations are now helplesse, because, as easily mayest thou plucke the starres from the firmament, as get againe the least doyt of thy losse. and for that shag-haird slave in the house, he will be thy deaths-man, if he but understand, that thou makest any enquiry after thy money. when he had thus admonished him, he began also in this manner to comfort him. honest fellow, we cannot but pitty thy present condition, wherefore, if thou wilt friendly associate us, in a businesse which wee are instantly going to effect: thy losse hath not beene so great, but on our words wee will warrant thee, that thine immediate gaine shall farre exceede it. what will not a man (in desperate extremity) both well like and allow of, especially, when it carrieth apparance of present comfort? so fared it with _andrea_, hee perswaded himselfe, worse then had already happened, could not befall him; and therefore he would gladly adventure with them. the selfe same day preceding this disastrous night to _andrea_, in the chiefe church of the citie, had beene buried the archbishop of _naples_, named _signior philippo minutolo_, in his richest pontificall roabes and ornaments, and a ruby on his finger, valued to be worth five hundred duckets of gold: this dead body they purposed to rob and rifle, acquainting _andrea_ with their whole intent, whose necessity (coupled with a covetous desire) made him more forward then well advised, to joyne with them in this sacriligious enterprise. on they went towards the great church, _andreaes_ unsavourie perfume much displeasing them, whereupon the one said to his fellow. can we devise no ease for this foule and noysome inconvenience? the very smell of him will be a meanes to betray us. there is a well-pit hard by, answered the other, with a pulley and bucket descending downe into it, and there we may wash him from this filthinesse. to the well-pit they came, where they found the rope and pulley hanging ready, but the bucket (for safety) was taken away: whereon they concluded, to fasten the rope about him, and so let him downe into the well-pit, and when he had washed himselfe, hee should wagge the rope, and then they would draw him up againe, which accordingly they forth-with performed. now it came to passe, that while hee was thus washing himselfe in the well-pit, the watch of the citie walking the round, and finding it to be a very hote and sweltring night; they grew dry and thirsty, and therefore went to the well to drinke. the other two men, perceiving the watch so neere upon them: left _andrea_ in the pit to shift for himselfe, running away to shelter themselves. their flight was not discovered by the watch, but they comming to the well-pit, _andrea_ remained still in the bottome, and having cleansed himselfe so well as hee could, sate wagging the rope, expecting when hee should be haled up. this dumbe signe the watch discerned not, but sitting downe by the wells side, they layde downe their billes and other weapons, tugging to draw up the rope, thinking the bucket was fastened thereto, and full of water. _andrea_ being haled up to the pits brim, left holding the rope any longer, catching fast hold with his hands for his better safety: and the watch at the sight heereof being greatly affrighted, as thinking that they had dragd up a spirit; not daring to speake one word, ranne away with all the hast they could make. _andrea_ hereat was not a little amazed, so that if he had not taken very good hold on the brim: he might have falne to the bottome, and doubtlesse there his life had perished. being come forth of the well, and treading on billes and halbards, which he well knew that his companions had not brought thither with them; his mervaile so much the more encreased, ignorance and feare still seizing on him, with silent bemoaning his many misfortunes, away thence he wandred, but hee wist not whither. as he went on, he met his two fellowes, who purposely returned to drag him out of the well, and seeing their intent already performed, desired to know who had done it: wherein _andrea_ could not resolve them, rehearsing what hee could, and what weapons hee found lying about the well. whereat they smiled, as knowing, that the watch had haled him up, for feare of whom they left him, and so declared to him the reason of their returne. leaving off all further talke, because now it was about midnight, they went to the great church, where finding their entrance to be easie: they approached neere the tombe, which was very great, being all of marble, and the cover-stone weighty, yet with crowes of yron and other helps, they raised it so high, that a man might without perill passe into it. now began they to question one another, which of the three should enter into the tombe. not i, said the first; so said the second: no, nor i, answered _andrea_. which when the other two heard, they caught fast hold of him, saying. wilt not thou goe into the tombe? be advised what thou sayest, for, if thou wilt not goe in: we will so beat thee with one of these yron crowes, that thou shalt never goe out of this church alive. thus poore _andrea_ is still made a property, and fortune (this fatall night) will have no other foole but he, as delighting in his hourly disasters. feare of their fury makes him obedient, into the grave he goes, and being within, thus consults with himselfe. these cunning companions suppose me to be simple, & make me enter the tombe, having an absolute intention to deceive me. for, when i have given them all the riches that i finde here, and am ready to come forth for mine equall portion: away will they runne for their owne safety, and leaving me here, not onely shall i loose my right among them, but must remaine to what danger may follow after. having thus meditated, he resolved to make sure of his owne share first, and remembring the rich ring, whereof they had tolde him: forthwith hee tooke it from the archbishops finger, finding it indifferently fitte for his owne. afterward, hee tooke the crosse, miter, rich garments, gloves and all, leaving him nothing but his shirt, giving them all these severall parcels; protesting, that there was nothing else. still they pressed upon him, affirming that there was a ring beside, urging him to search diligently for it; yet still he answered, that hee could not finde it, and for their longer tarying with him, seemed as if he serched very carefully, but all appeared to no purpose. the other two fellowes, as cunning in craft as the third could be, still willed him to search, and watching their aptest opportunity: tooke away the props that supported the tombe-stone, and running thence with their got booty, left poore _andrea_ mewed up in the grave. which when he perceived, and saw this misery to exceede all the rest, it is farre easier for you to guesse at his greefe, then i am any way able to expresse it. his head, shoulders, yea all his utmost strength he employeth, to remove that over-heavy hinderer of his liberty: but all his labour beeing spent in vaine, sorrow threw him in a swoond upon the byshoppes dead body, where if both of them might at that instant have bene observed, the arch-byshops dead body, and _andrea_ in greefe dying, very hardly had bene distinguished. but his senses regaining their former offices, among his silent complaints, consideration presented him with choyse of these two unavoydable extremities. dye starving must he in the tombe, with putrifaction of the dead body; or if any man came to open the grave, then must he be apprehended as a sacrilegious theefe, and so be hanged, according to the lawes in that case provided. as he continued in these strange afflictions of minde, sodainely hee heard a noise in the church of divers men, who (as he imagined) came about the like businesse, as hee and his fellowes had undertaken before; wherein he was not a jot deceived, albeit his feare the more augmented. having opened the tombe, and supported the stone, they varied also among themselves for entrance, and an indiffrent while contended about it. at length, a priest being one in the company, boldly said. why how now you white-liver'd rascals? what are you affraid of? do you thinke he will eate you? dead men cannot bite, and therefore i my selfe will go in. having thus spoken, he prepared his entrance to the tombe in such order, that he thrust in his feete before, for his easier descending downe into it. _andrea_ sitting upright in the tombe, and desiring to make use of this happy opportunity, caught the priest fast by one of his legges, making shew as if he meant to dragge him downe. which when the priest felt, he cryed out aloud, getting out with all the hast he could make, and all his companions, being well neere frighted out of their wits, ranne away amaine, as if they had bene followed by a thousand divels. _andrea_ little dreaming on such fortunate successe, made meanes to get out of the grave, and afterward forth of the church, at the very same place where he entred. now began day-light to appeare, when hee, having the rich ring on his finger, wandred on hee knew not whether: till comming to the sea-side, he found the way directing to his inne, where all his company were with his host, who had bene very carefull for him. having related his manifold mischances, his hoste friendly advised him with speede to get him out of _naples_. as instantly he did, returning home to _perouse_, having adventured his five hundred crownes on a ring, where-with hee purposed to have bought horses, according to the intent of his journey thither. _madame beritola caracalla, was found in an island with two goates, having lost her two sonnes, and thence travailed into lunigiana: where one of her sonnes became servant to the lord thereof, and was found somewhat over-familiar with his masters daughter, who therefore caused him to bee imprisoned. afterward, when the country of sicily rebelled against k. charles, the aforesaid sonne chanced to be knowne by his mother, and was married to his masters daughter. and his brother being found likewise; they both returned to great estate and credit._ the sixt novell. _heerein all men are admonished, never to distrust the powerfull hand of heaven, when fortune seemeth to be most adverse against them._ the ladies and gentlemen also, having smiled sufficiently at the severall accidents which did befall the poore traveller _andrea_, reported at large by madame _fiammetta_, the lady _Æmillia_, seeing her tale to be fully concluded, began (by commandement of the queene) to speake in this manner. the diversitie of changes and alterations in fortune as they are great, so must they needs be greevous; and as often as we take occasion to talk of them, as often do they awake and quicken our understandings, avouching, that it is no easie matter to depend upon her flatteries. and i am of opinion, that to heare them recounted, ought not any way to offend us, be it of men wretched or fortunate; because, as they enstruct the one with good advise, so they animate the other with comfort. and therefore, although great occasions have beene already related, yet i purpose to tell a tale, no lesse true then lamentable; which albeit it sorted to a successefull ending, yet notwithstanding, such and so many were the bitter thwartings, as hardly can i beleeve, that ever any sorrow was more joyfully sweetened. you must understand then (most gracious ladies) that after the death of _fredericke_ the second emperour, one named _manfred_, was crowned king of _sicilie_, about whom lived in great account and authority, a _neapolitane_ gentleman, called _henriet capece_, who had to wife a beautifull gentlewoman, and a _neapolitane_ also, named madam _beritola caracalla_. this _henriet_ held the government of the kingdome of _sicilie_, and understanding, that king _charles_ the first, had wonne the battle of _beneventum_, and slaine king _manfred_; the whole kingdome revolting also to his devotion, and little trust to be reposed in the _sicillians_, or he willing to subject himselfe to his lords enemy; provided for his secret flight from thence. but this being discovered to the _sicillians_, he and many more, who had beene loyall servants to king _manfred_, were suddenly taken and imprisoned by king _charles_, and the sole possession of the iland confirmed to him. madam _beritola_ not knowing (in so sudden and strange an alteration of state affaires) what was become of her husband, fearing also greatly before, those inconveniences which afterward followed; being overcome with many passionate considerations, having left and forsaken all her goods, going aboard a small barke with a sonne of hers, aged about some eight yeeres, named _geoffrey_, and growne great with childe with another; shee fled thence to _lipary_, where shee was brought to bed of another sonne, whom shee named (answerable both to his and her hard fortune) _the poore expelled_. having provided her selfe of a nurse, they altogether went aboard againe, setting sayle for _naples_ to visit her parents; but it chanced quite contrary to her expectation, because by stormie windes and weather, the vessell being bound for _naples_, was hurried to the ile of _ponzo_, where entring into a small port of the sea, they concluded to make their aboade, till a time more furtherous should favour their voyage. as the rest, so did madam _beritola_ goe on shore in the iland, where having found a separate and solitary place, fit for her silent and sad meditations, secretly by her selfe, shee sorrowed for the absence of her husband. resorting daily to this her sad exercise, and continuing there her complaints, unseene by any of the marriners, or whosoever else: there arrived suddenly a galley of pyrates, who seazing on the small barke, carried it and all the rest in it away with them. when _beritola_ had finished her wofull complaints, as daily shee was accustomed to doe, shee returned backe to her children againe; but finding no person there remaining, whereat she wondered not a little: immediately (suspecting what had happened indeede) she lent her lookes on the sea, and saw the galley, which as yet had not gone farre, drawing the smaller vessell after her. heereby plainly she perceyved, that now she had lost her children, as formerly shee had done her husband; being left there poore, forsaken, and miserable, not knowing when, where, or how to finde any of them againe, and calling for her husband and children, shee fell downe in a swound uppon the shore. now was not any body neere, with coole water or any other remedy, to helpe the recovery of her lost powers; wherefore her spirites might the more freely wander at their own pleasure: but after they were returned backe againe, and had won their wonted offices in her body, drowned in teares, and wringing her hands, shee did nothing but call for her children and husband, straying all about, in hope to finde them, seeking in caves, dennes, and every where else, that presented the verie least glimpse of comfort. but when she saw all her paines sort to no purpose, and darke night drawing swiftly on, hope and dismay raising infinit perturbations, made her yet to be somewhat respective of her selfe, & therefore departing from the sea-shore, she returned to the solitary place, where she used to sigh and mourne alone by her selfe. the night being over-past with infinite feares and affrights, & bright day saluting the world againe, with the expence of nine hours and more, she fell to her former fruitlesse travailes. being somewhat sharply bitten with hunger, because the former day and night shee hadde not tasted any food: she made therefore a benefit of necessity, and fed on the green hearbes so well as she could, not without many piercing afflictions, what should become of her in this extraordinary misery. as shee walked in these pensive meditations, she saw a goate enter into a cave, and (within a while after) come forth againe, wandering along thorow the woods. whereupon she stayed, and entred where she saw the beast issue forth, where she found two yong kids, yeaned (as it seemed) the selfesame day, which sight was very pleasing to her, and nothing (in that distresse) could more content her. as yet she had milke freshly running in both her brests, by reason of her so late delivery in child-bed; wherefore shee lay downe unto the two yong kids, and taking them tenderly in her armes, suffered each of them to sucke a teate, whereof they made not any refusall, but tooke them as lovingly as their dammes, and from that time forward, they made no distinguishing betweene their damme and her. thus this unfortunate lady, having found some company in this solitary desert, fed on hearbes & roots, drinking faire running water, and weeping silently to her selfe, so often as she remembred her husband, children, and former dayes past in much better manner. here shee resolved now to live and dye, being at last deprived both of the damme and yonger kids also, by theyr wandering further into the neere adjoining woods, according to their naturall inclinations; whereby the poore distressed lady became more savage and wilde in her daily conditions, then otherwise shee would have bene. after many monthes were over-passed, at the very same place where she tooke landing; by chance, there arrived another small vessell of certaine _pisans_, which remained there divers dayes. in this bark was a gentleman, named _conrado de marchesi malespini_, with his holy and vertuous wife, who were returned backe from a pilgrimage, having visited all the sanctified places, that then were in the kingdome of _apulia_, & now were bound homeward to their owne abiding. this gentleman, for the expelling of melancholy perturbations, one especiall day amongst other, with his wife, servants, and waiting hounds, wandered up into the iland, not far from the place of madam _beritolaes_ desert dwelling. the hounds questing after game, at last happened on the two kiddes where they were feeding, and (by this time) had attained to indifferent growth: and finding themselves thus pursued by the hounds, fled to no other part of the wood, then to the cave where _beritola_ remained, and seeming as if they sought to be rescued only by her, she sodainly caught up a staffe, and forced the hounds thence to flight. by this time, _conrado_ and his wife, who had followed closely after the hounds, was come thither, and seeing what had hapned, looking on the lady, who was become blacke, swarthy, meager, and hairy, they wondered not a little at her, and she a great deale more at them. when (upon her request) _conrado_ had checkt back his hounds, they prevailed so much by earnest intreaties, to know what she was, and the reason of her living there; that she intirely related her quality, unfortunate accidents, and strange determination for living there. which when the gentleman had heard, who very well knew her husband, compassion forced teares from his eyes, and earnestly he laboured by kinde perswasions, to alter so cruel a deliberation; making an honourable offer, for conducting her home to his owne dwelling, where shee should remaine with him in noble respect, as if she were his owne sister, without parting from him, till fortune should smile as fairely on her, as ever she had done before. when these gentle offers could not prevaile with her, the gentleman left his wife in her company, saying, that he would go fetch some foode for her; and because her garments were all rent and torne, hee woulde bring her other of his wives, not doubting but to winne her thence with them. his wife abode there with _beritola_, very much bemoaning her great disasters, and when both viands and garments were brought: by extremity of intercession, they caused her to put them on, and also to feede with them, albeit she protested, that shee would not part thence into any place, where any knowledge should be taken of her. in the end, they perswaded her, to go with them into _lunigiana_, carrying also with her the two yong goats and their damme, which were then in the cave altogether, prettily playing before _beritola_, to the great admiration of _conrado_ and his wife, as also the servants attending on them. when the windes and weather grew favourable for them, madam _beritola_ went aboard with _conrado_ and his wife, being followed by the two young goates and their damme; and because her name should bee knowne to none but _conrado_, and his wife onely, shee would be stiled no otherwise, but the goatherdesse. merrily, yet gently blew the gale, which brought them to enter the river of _macra_, where going on shore, and into their owne castell, _beritola_ kept company with the wife of _conrado_, but in a mourning habite, and a wayting gentlewoman of hers, honest, humble, and very dutifull, the goates alwayes familiarly keeping them company. returne wee now to the pyrates, which at _ponzo_ seized on the small barke, wherein madam _beritola_ was brought thither, and carried thence away, without any sight or knowledge of her. with such other spoiles as they had taken, they shaped their course for _geneway_, and there (by consent of the patrones of the galley) made a division of their booties. it came to passe, that (among other things) the nurse that attended on _beritola_, and the two children with her, fell to the share of one _messer gasparino d'oria_, who sent them together to his owne house, there to be employed in service as servants. the nurse weeping beyond measure for the losse of her lady, and bemoaning her owne miserable fortune, whereinto shee was now fallen with the two young laddes; after long lamenting, which shee found utterly fruitlesse and to none effect, though she was used as a servant with them, and being but a very poore woman, yet was shee wise and discreetly advised. wherefore, comforting both her selfe, and them so well as she could, and considering the depth of their disaster; shee conceited thus, that if the children should be knowne, it might redounde to their greater danger, and shee be no way advantaged thereby. hereupon, hoping that fortune (early or late) would alter her stearne malice, and that they might (if they lived) regaine once more their former condition: shee would not disclose them to any one whatsoever, till shee should see the time aptly disposed for it. being thus determined, to all such as questioned her concerning them, she answered that they were her owne children, naming the eldest not _geoffrey_, but _jehannot de procida_. [sidenote: or grannotto da prochyta.] as for the youngest, shee cared not greatly for changing his name, and therefore wisely enformed _geoffrey_, upon what reason shee had altered his name, and what danger he might fall into, if he should otherwise be discovered; being not satisfied with thus telling him once, but remembring him thereof very often, which the gentle youth (being so well instructed by the wise and carefull nurse) did very warily observe. the two young laddes, very poorely garmented, but much worse hosed and shodde, continued thus in the house of _gasparino_, where both they and the nurse were long time imployed, about very base and drudging offices, which yet they endured with admirable patience. but _jehannot_, aged already about sixteene yeeres, having a loftier spirit, then belonged to a slavish servant, despising the basenesse of his servile condition; departed from the drudgery of _messer gasparino_, and going aboard the gallies, which were bound for _alexandria_, fortuned into many places, yet none of them affoording him any advancement. in the ende, about three or foure yeares after his departure from _gasparino_, being now a brave young man, and of very goodly forme: he understood, that his father (whom he supposed to be dead) was as yet living; but in captivity, and prisoner to king _charles_. wherefore, despairing of any successefull fortune, hee wandred here and there, till he came to _lunigiana_, and there (by strange accident) he became servant to _messer conrado malespina_, where the service proved well liking to them both. very sildome times hee had a sight of his mother, because shee alwayes kept company with _conradoes_ wife; and yet when they came within view of each other, shee knew not him, nor he her, so much yeeres had altered them both, from what they were wont to be, and when they saw each other last. _jehannot_ being thus in the service of _messer conrado_, it fortuned that a daughter of his, named _spina_, being the widdow of one _messer nicolas grignan_, returned home to her fathers house. very beautifull and amiable shee was, young likewise, aged but little above sixteene; growing wonderously amorous of _jehannot_, and he of her, in extraordinary and most fervent manner; which love was not long without full effect, continuing many moneths before any person could perceive it: which making them to build on the more assurance, they began to carrie their meanes with lesse discretion, then is required in such nice cases, and which cannot be too providently managed. upon a day, he and shee walking to a goodly wood, plentifully furnished with spreading trees, having out-gone the rest of their company; they made choise of a pleasant place, very daintily shaded, and beautified with all sorts of floures. there they spent sometime in amorous discourse, beside some other sweete embraces, which though it seemed over-short to them, yet was it so unadvisedly prolonged; that they were on a sudden surprized, first by the mother, and next by _messer conrado_ himselfe: who greeving beyond measure, to be thus trecherously dealt withall, caused them to be apprehended by three of his servants, and (without telling them any reason why) ledde bound to another castle of his, and fretting with extremity of rage, concluded in his minde, that they should both shamefully be put to death. the mother to this regardlesse daughter, having heard the angry words of her husband, and how hee would be revenged on the faultie; could not endure that he should be so severe: wherefore, although shee was likewise much afflicted in minde, and reputed her daughter worthy (for so great an offence) of all cruell punishment: yet shee hasted to her displeased husband, and began to entreate, that he would not runne on in such a furious spleene, now in his aged yeares, to be the murtherer of his owne childe, and soile his hands in the blood of his servant. rather he might finde out some milde course for the satisfaction of his anger, by committing them to close imprisonment, there to remaine & mourne for their follie committed. the vertuous and religious lady alledged so many commendable examples, and used such plenty of mooving perswasions; that she quite altred his minde, from putting them to death, and he commanded onely, that they should separately bee imprisoned, with little store of foode, and lodging of the uneasiest, untill hee should otherwise determine of them, and so it was done. what their life now was in captivity and continuall teares, with stricter abstinence then was needefull for them; all this i must commit to your consideration. _jehannot_ and _spina_ remaining in this comfortlesse condition, and an whole yeere being now out-worne, yet _conrado_ keeping them thus still imprisoned: it came to passe, that _don pedro_ king of _arragon_, by the meanes of _messer john de procida_, caused the isle of _sicily_ to revolt, and tooke it away from king _charles_, whereat _conrado_ (he being of the _ghibbiline_ faction) not a little rejoyced. _jehannot_ having intelligence thereof, by some of them that had him in custody, breathing foorth a vehement sigh, spake in this manner. alas poore miserable wretch as i am! that have already gone begging through the world above fourteene yeares, in expectation of nothing else but this opportunity; and now it is come, must i be in prison, to the end, that i should never more hope for any future happinesse? and how can i get forth of this prison, except it be by death onely? how now, replied the officer of the guard? what doth this businesse of great kings concerne thee? what affaires hast thou in _sicily_? once more _jehannot_ sighed extreamly, and returned him this answer. me thinkes my heart (quoth hee) doth cleave in sunder, when i call to minde the charge which my father had there, for although i was but a little boy when i fled thence: yet i can well remember, that i sawe him governour there, at such time as king _manfred_ lived. the guard, pursuing on still his purpose, demanded of him, what, and who his father was? my father (replyed _jehannot_) i may now securely speake of him, being out of the perill which neerely concerned me if i had beene discovered. he was the named (and so still if he be living) _henriet capece_, and my name is _geoffrey_, not _jehannot_; and i make no doubt, but if i were free from hence, and might be returned home to _sicily_, i should (for his sake) be placed in some authority. the honest man of the guard, without seeking after any further information; so soone as he could compasse the leysure, reported all to _messer conrado_, who having heard these newes (albeit he made no shew thereof to the revealer) went to madam _beritola_, graciously demaunding of her, if she had any sonne by her husband, who was called _geoffrey_. the lady replyed in teares, that if her eldest sonne were as yet living, hee was so named, and now aged about two and twenty yeares. _conrado_ hearing this, imagined this same to be the man, considering further withall, that if it fell out to prove so: he might have the better meanes of mercie, and closely concealing his daughters shame, joyfully joyne them in marriage together. hereupon he secretly caused _jehannot_ to be brought before him, examining him particularly of all his passed life, and finding (by most manifest arguments) that his name was truly _geoffrey_, & he the eldest son of _henriet capece_, he spake to him alone in this manner. _jehannot_, thou knowest how great the injuries are which thou hast done me, & my deare daughter, gently entreating thee (as became a good & honest servant) that thou shouldest alwayes have bin respective of mine honour, and all that do appertain unto me. there are many noble gentlemen, who sustaining the wrong which thou hast offred me, they would have procured thy shameful death, which pitty & compassion will not suffer in me. wherefore seeing (as thou informest me) that thou art honourably derived both by father & mother; i will give end to all thine anguishes, even when thy self art so pleased, releasing thee from the misery & captivity, wherein i have so long time kept thee, and in one instant, reduce thine honour & mine into compleat perfection. as thou knowest, my daughter _spina_, whom thou hast embraced in kindnesse as a friend (although farre unfitting for thee or her) is a widow, and her mariage is both great and good; what her manners and conditions are, thou indifferently knowest, and art not ignorant of her father and mother: concerning thine owne estate, as now i purpose not to speake any thing. therefore, when thou wilt, i am so determined, that whereas thou hast immodestly affected her, she shall become thy honest wife, and accepting thee as my son, to remain with me so long as you both please. imprisonment had somewhat misshapen _jehannot_ in his outward forme, but not impaired a jot of that noble spirit, really derived from his famous progenitors, much lesse the true love he bare to his faire friend. and although most earnestly he desired that, which _conrado_ now so franckly offered him, and was in his power onely to bestow on him; yet could he not cloude any part of his greatnesse, but with a resolved judgement, thus replied. my lord, affectation of rule, desire of wealthy possessions, or any other matter whatsoever, could never make me a traytor to you or yours; but that i have loved, do love & for ever shal love your beautious daughter; if that be treason, i freely confesse it, & will die a thousand deaths, before you or any else shal enforce me to denie it; for i hold her highly worthy of my love. if i have bin more unmannerly with her, then became me, according to the opinion of vulgar judgment, i have committed but that error, which evermore is so attendant upon youth; that to denie it, is to denie youth also. and if reverend age would but remember, that once he was young, & measure others offences by his own; they would not be thought so great or greevous, as you (& many more) account them to be, mine being committed as a friend, & not as an enemy: what you make offer of so willingly to do, i have alwayes desired, & if i had thought it would have bin granted, long since i had most humbly requested it; and so much the more acceptable would it have bin to me, by how much the further off it stood from my hopes. but if you be so forward as your words doe witnesse, then feede mee not with any further fruitlesse expectation: but rather send me backe to prison, and lay as many afflictions on mee as you please: for my endeared love to your daughter _spina_, maketh mee to love you the more for her sake; how hardly soever you entreate me, & bindeth me in the greater reverence to you, as being the father of my fairest friend. _messer conrado_ hearing these words, stood as one confounded with admiration, reputing him to be a man of lofty spirit, and his affection most fervent to his daughter, which was not a little to his liking. wherefore, embracing him, and kissing his cheeke, without any longer dallying, hee sent in like manner for his daughter. her restraint in prison had made her lookes meager, pale and wanne, and very weake was shee also of her person, farre differing from the woman shee was wont to be, before her affection to _jehannot_; there in presence of her father, and with free consent of either, they were contracted as man and wife, and the espousals agreed on according to custome. some few dayes after, (without any ones knowledge of that which was done) having furnished them with all things fit for the purpose, and time aptly serving, that the mothers should be partakers in this joy; he called his wife, and madam _beritola_, to whom first he spake in this manner. what will you say madam, if i cause you to see your eldest son, not long since married to one of my daughters? whereunto _beritola_ thus replied. my lord, i can say nothing else unto you, but that i shall be much more obliged to you, then already i am, and so much the rather, because you will let me see the thing which is dearer to me then mine owne life; and rendring it unto mee in such manner as you speake of, you will recall backe some part of my former lost hopes: and with these words the teares streamed aboundantly from her eyes. then turning to his wife, he saide; and you deare love, if i shew you such a sonne in law, what will you thinke of it? sir (quoth shee) what pleaseth you, must and shall satisfie me, be he gentleman, or a beggar. well said madam, answered _messer conrado_, i hope (within few dayes) to make you both joyfull. so when the amorous couple had recovered their former feature, and honourable garments were prepared for them, privately thus he said to _geoffrey_; beyond the joy which already thou art inriched withall, how would it please thee to meet with thine owne mother here? i cannot beleeve sir, replied _geoffrey_, that her greevous misfortunes have suffered her to live so long: yet notwithstanding, if heaven hath beene so merciful to her, my joyes were incomparable, for by her gracious counsell, i might well hope to recover no meane happinesse in _sicilie_. within a while after, both the mothers were sent for, who were transported with unspeakable joyes, when they beheld the so lately maried couple; being also much amazed, when they could not guesse what inspiration had guided _conrado_ to this extraordinary benignity, joyning _jehannot_ in mariage with _spina_. hereupon madam _beritola_, remembring the speeches between her and _conrado_, began to observe him very advisedly, and by a hidden vertue, which long had silently slept in her, and now with joy of spirit awaked, calling to minde the lineatures of her sonnes infancy, without awaiting for any other demonstrations, shee folded him in her armes with earnest affection. motherly joy and pitty now contended so violently together, that shee was not able to utter one word, the sensitive vertues being so closely combined, that (even as dead) shee fell downe in the armes of her sonne. and he wondering greatly thereat, making a better recollection of his thoughts, did well remember, that he had often before seene her in the castell, without any other knowledge of her. neverthelesse, by meere instinct of nature, whose power (in such actions) declares it selfe to be highly predominant; his very soule assured him, that shee was his mother, and blaming his understanding, that he had not before beene better advised, he threw his armes about her, and wept exceedingly. afterward, by the loving paines of _conradoes_ wife, as also her daughter _spina_, madam _beritola_ (being recovered from her passionate trance, and her vitall spirits executing their offices againe;) fell once more to the embracing of her sonne, kissing him infinite times, with teares and speeches of motherly kindnesse, he likewise expressing the same dutifull humanity to her. which ceremonious courtesies being passed over and over, to no little joy in all the beholders, beside repetition of their severall misfortunes. _messer conrado_ made all knowne to his friends, who were very glad of this new alliance made by him, which was honoured with many solemn & magnificent feastings. which being all concluded, _geoffrey_ having found out fit place and opportunity, for conference with his new created father, without any sinister opposition; began as followeth. honourable father, you have raised my contentment to the highest degree, and have heaped also many gracious favours on my noble mother; but now in the finall conclusion, that nothing may remaine uneffected, which consisteth in your power to performe: i would humbly entreate you, to honour my mother with your company, at a feast of my making, where i would gladly also have my brother present. _messer gasparino d'oria_ (as i have once heretofore told you) questing as a common pyrate on the seas, tooke us, and sent us home to his house as slaves, where (as yet he detaineth him.) i would have you likewise send one into _sicilie_, who informing himselfe more amply in the state of the country; may understand what is become of _henriet_ my father, and whether he be living or no. if he remaine alive, to know in what condition he is; and being secretly instructed in all things, then to returne backe againe to you. this motion made by _geoffrey_, was so pleasing to _conrado_, that without any reference to further leysure, hee dispatched thence two discreete persons, the one to _genewaye_, and the other to _sicilie_: he which went for _geneway_, having met with _gasparino_, earnestly entreated him, (on the behalfe of _conrado_) to send him the _poore expelled_; and his nurse recounting every thing in order, which _conrado_ had tolde him, concerning _geoffrey_ and his mother: when _gasparino_ had heard the whole discourse, he marvelled greatly thereat, and saide; true it is, that i will doe any thing for _messer conrado_, which may be to his love and liking, provided, that it lie in my power to performe; and (about some foureteene yeeres since) i brought such a lad as you seeke for, with his mother home to my house; whom i will gladly send unto him. but you may tell him from me, that i advise him from over-rash crediting the fables of _jehannot_, that now tearms himselfe by the name of _geoffrey_, because hee is a more wicked boy, then he taketh him to be, and so did i find him. having thus spoken, and giving kinde welcome to the messenger, secretly he called the nurse unto him, whom he heedfully examined concerning this case. shee having heard the rebellion in the kingdome of _sicilie_, and understanding withall, that _henriet_ was yet living; joyfully threw off all her former feare, relating every thing to him orderly, and the reasons moving her, to conceale the whole businesse in such manner as shee had done. _gasparino_ well perceiving, that the report of the nurse, and the message received from _conrado_, varied not in any one circumstance, beganne the better to credit her wordes. and being a man most ingenious, making further inquisition into the businesse, by all the possible meanes he could devise, and finding every thing to yeeld undoubted assurance; ashamed of the vile and base usage, wherein hee had so long time kept the ladde, and desiring (by his best meanes) to make him amends; he had a faire daughter, aged about thirteene yeeres, and knowing what manner of man he was, his father _henriet_ also yet living, he gave her to him in marriage, with a very bountifull and honourable dowry. the joviall dayes of feasting being past, he went aboard a galley, with the _poore expelled_; his daughter, the ambassadour, and the nurse, departing thence to _lericy_, where they were nobly welcommed by _messer conrado_, and his castle being not farre from thence, with an honourable traine they were conducted thither, and entertained with all possible kindnesse. now concerning the comfort of the mother, meeting so happily with both her sonnes, the joy of the brethren and mother together, having also found the faithfull nurse, _gasparino_ and his daughter, in company now with _conrado_ and his wife, friends, familiars, and all generally in a jubilee of rejoycing: it exceedeth capacity in me to expresse it, and therefore i referre it to your more able imagination. in the time of this mutuall contentment, to the ende that nothing might be wanting, to compleat and perfect this universall joy; our lord, a most aboundant bestower where he beginneth, added long wished tydings, concerning the life and good estate of _henriet capece_. for, even as they were feasting, and the concourse great of worthy guests, both of lords and ladies: the first service was scarcely set on the tables, but the ambassador which was sent to _sicilie_, arrived there before them. among many other important matters, he spake of _henriet_, who being so long a time detained in prison by king _charles_, when the commotion arose in the city against the king; the people (grudging at _henriets_ long imprisonment) slew the guards, and let him at liberty. then as capitall enemy to king _charles_, he was created captaine generall, following the chase, and killing the french. by meanes whereof, he grew great in the grace of king _pedro_, who replanted him in all the goods and honours which he had before, with very high and eminent authority. hereunto the ambassadour added, that he was entertained with extraordinary grace, and delivery of publike joy and exaltation, when his wife and sonne were knowne to be living, of whom no tydings had at any time beene heard, since the houre of his surprizall. moreover, that a swift winged barke was now sent thither (upon the happy hearing of this newes) well furnished with noble gentlemen, to attend till their returning backe. we neede to make no doubt concerning the tydings brought by this ambassadour, nor of the gentlemens welcome, thus sent to madam _beritola_ and _geoffrey_; who before they would sit downe at the table, saluted _messer conrado_ and his kinde lady (on the behalfe of _henriet_) for all the great graces extended to her and her sonne, with promise of any thing, lying in the power of _henriet_, to rest continually at their command. the like they did to _signior gasparino_, (whose liberall favours came unlooked for) with certaine assurance, that when _henriet_ should understand what hee had done for his other sonne, the _poore expelled_; there would be no defailance of riciprocall courtesies. as the longest joyes have no perpetuity of lasting, so all these gracefull ceremonies had their conclusion, with as many sighes and teares at parting, as joyes abounded at their first encountring. imagine then, that you see such aboard, as were to have here no longer abiding, madam _beritola_ and _geoffrey_, with the rest, as the _poore expelled_, the so late married wives, and the faithfull nurse bearing them company. with prosperous windes they arrived in _sicilie_, where the wife, sonnes, and daughters, were joyfully met by _henriet_ at _palermo_, and with such honourable pompe, as a case so important equally deserved. the histories make further mention, that there they lived (a long while after) in much felicity, with thankfull hearts (no doubt) to heaven, in acknowledgement of so many great mercies received. _the soldan of babylon sent one of his daughters, to be joyned in marriage with the king of_ cholcos; _who by divers accidents (in the space of foure yeeres) happened into the custody of nine men, and in sundry places. at length being restored backe to her father, shee went to the saide king of_ cholcos, _as a maide, and as at first shee was intended to be his wife._ the seaventh novell. _a lively demonstration, that the beauty of a woman, (oftentimes) is very hurtfull to her selfe, and the occasion of many evils, yea, and of death, to divers men._ peradventure the novell related by madam _Æmilia_, did not extend it selfe so farre in length, as it moved compassion in the ladies mindes, hearing the hard fortunes of _beritola_ and her children, which had incited them to weeping: but that it pleased the queene (upon the tales conclusion) to command _pamphilus_, to follow (next in order) with his discourse, and hee being thereto very obedient, beganne in this manner. it is a matter of no meane difficulty (vertuous ladies) for us to take intire knowledge of every thing we doe, because (as oftentimes hath beene observed) many men, imagining if they were rich, they should live securely, and without any cares. and therefore, not onely have their prayers and intercessions aimed at that end, but also their studies and daily endeavours, without refusall of any paines or perils have not meanely expressed their hourely solicitude. and although it hath happened accordingly to them, and their covetous desires fully accomplished; yet at length they have met with such kinde of people, who likewise thirsting after their wealthy possessions, have bereft them of life, being their kinde and intimate friends, before they attained to such riches. some other, being of low and base condition, by adventuring in many skirmishes and foughten battels, trampling in the bloud of their brethren and friends, have beene mounted to the soveraigne dignity of kingdomes, (beleeving that therein consisted the truest happinesse) but bought with the dearest price of their lives. for, beside their infinite cares and feares, wherewith such greatnesse is continually attended, at their royall tables, they have drunke poyson in a golden pot. many other in like manner (with most earnest appetite) have coveted beauty and bodily strength, not foreseeing with any judgement, that these wishes were not without perill; when being endued with them, they either have beene the occasion of their death, or such a lingering lamentable estate of life, as death were a thousand times more welcome to them. but because i would not speake particularly of all our fraile and humane affections, i dare assure ye, that there is not any one of these desires, to be elected among us mortals, with entire foresight or providence, warrantable against their ominous issue. wherefore, if we would walke directly, wee should dispose our willes and affections, to be ordered and guided onely by him, who best knoweth what is needfull for us, and will bestow them at his good pleasure. nor let me lay this blamefull imputation upon men onely, for offending in many things through over lavish desires: because you your selves (gracious ladies) sinne highly in one, as namely, in coveting to be beautifull. so that it is not sufficient for you, to enjoy those beauties bestowne on you by nature: but you practise to encrease them, by the rarities of art. wherefore, let it not offend you, that i tell you the hard fortune of a faire sarrazines, to whom it happened (by strange adventures) within the compasse of foure yeares, nine severall times to be maried, and onely for her beauty. it is now a long time since, that there lived a soldane in _babylon_, named _beminidab_, to whom (while he lived) many things happened, answerable to his owne desires. among divers other children both male and female, he had a daughter, called _alathiella_, and shee (according to the common voyce of every one that saw her) was the fayrest lady then living in all the world. and because the king of _cholcos_ had wonderfully assisted him, in a valiant foughten battaile, against a mighty armie of _arabes_, who on a suddaine had assailed him: hee demaunded his faire daughter in marriage, which likewise was kindly granted to him. a goodly and well armed ship was prepared for her, with full furnishment of all necessary provision, and accompanied with an honourable traine, both lords and ladies, as also most costly and sumptuous accoustrements; commending her to the mercy of heaven, in this manner was shee sent away. the time being propitious for their parting thence, the mariners hoised their sayles, leaving the part of _alexandria_, and sayling prosperously many dayes together. when they had past the country of _sardignia_, and (as they imagined) were well neere to their journeyes end: suddainly arose boisterous and contrary windes, which were so impetuous beyond all measure, and so tormented the ship wherein the lady was; that the mariners, seeing no signe of comfort, gave over all hope of escaping with life. neverthelesse, as men most expert in implacable dangers, they laboured to their uttermost power, and contended with infinite blustring tempests, for the space of two dayes and nights together, hoping the third day would prove more favourable. but therein they saw themselves deceived, for the violence continued still, encreasing in the night time more and more, being no way able to comprehend, either where they were, or what course they tooke, neither by marivall judgement, or any apprehension else whatsoever, the heavens were so clouded, and the nights darknesse so extreame. being (unknowne to them) neere the isle of _majorica_, they felt the ship to split in the bottome, by meanes whereof, perceiving now no hope of escaping (every one caring for himselfe, and not any other) they threw forth a squiffe on the troubled waves, reposing more confidence of safety that way, then abiding any longer in the broken ship. howbeit, such as were first descended downe, made stout resistance against all other followers, with their drawne weapons: but safety of life so farre prevailed, that what with the tempests violence, and over-lading of the squiffe, it sunke to the bottome, and all perished that were therein. the ship being thus split, and more then halfe full of water, tossed and tormented by the blustring windes, first one way, and then another: was at last driven into a strand of the isle _majorica_, no other persons remaining therein; but onely the lady and her women, all of them (through the rude tempest, and their owne conceived feare) lying still, as if they were more then halfe dead. and there, within a stones cast of the neighbouring shore, the ship (by the rough surging billowes) was fixed fast in the sands, and so continued all the rest of the night, without any further molestation of the windes. when day appeared, and the violent stormes were more mildly appeased, the lady, who seemed well-neere dead, lifted up her head, and began (weake as she was) to call first one, and then another: but she called in vaine, for such as she named were farre enough from her. wherefore, hearing no answere, nor seeing any one, she wondered greatly, her feares encreasing then more and more. raysing her selfe so well as shee could, she beheld the ladies that were of her company, and some other of her women, lying still without any stirring: whereupon, first jogging one, and then another, and calling them severally by their names; shee found them bereft of understanding, and even as if they were dead, their hearts were so quailed, and their feare so over-ruling, which was no meane dismay to the poore lady her selfe. neverthelesse, necessity now being her best counsallour, seeing her selfe thus all alone, and not knowing in what place she was, she used such meanes to them that were living, that (at the last) they came better to knowledge of themselves. and being unable to guesse, what was become of the men and mariners, seeing the ship also driven on the sands, and filled with water: she began (with them) to lament most grievously, and now it was about the houre of mid-day, before they could descry any person on the shore, or any else to pitty them in so urgent a necessity. at length, noone being past, a gentleman, named _bajazeth_, attended by divers of his followers on horseback, and returning from a country house belonging to him, chanced to ride by on the sands. upon sight of the ship lying in that case, he imagined truely what had happened, and commanded one of his men to enter aboord it, which (with some difficulty) hee did, to resolve his lord what remayned therein. there hee found the faire young lady, with such small store of company as was left her, fearefully hidden under the prow of the ship. so soone as they saw him, they held up their hands, wofully desiring mercy of him: but he perceiving their lamentable condition, and that hee understoode not what they said to them; their affliction grew the greater, labouring by signes and gestures, to give him knowledge of their misfortune. the servant, gathering what he could by their outward behaviour, declared to his lord, what hee had seene in the ship: who caused the women to be brought on shore, and all the precious things remaining with them, conducting them with him to a place not farre off, where, with foode and warmth he gave them comfort. by the rich garments which the lady was cloathed withall, hee reputed her to be a gentlewoman well derived, as the great reverence done to her by the rest, gave him good reason to conceive. and although her lookes were pale and wan, as also her person mightily altered, by the tempestuous violence of the sea: yet notwithstanding, she appeared faire and lovely in the eye of _bajazeth_, whereupon forthwith he determined, that if she were not maried, he would enjoy her as his owne in mariage, or if he could not winne her to be his wife, yet (at the least) shee should be his friend, because shee remained now in his power. _bajazeth_ was a man of sterne lookes, rough and harsh both in speech and behaviour: yet causing the lady to be honourably used divers dayes together, she became thereby well comforted and recovered. and seeing her beauty to exceede all comparison, he was afflicted beyond measure, that he could not understand her, nor she him, whereby hee could not know, of whence or what she was. his amorous flames encreasing more and more; by kinde, courteous, and affable actions, hee laboured to compasse what he aymed at. but all his endeavour proved to no purpose, for shee refused all familiar privacie with him, which so much the more kindled the fury of his desire. this being well observed by the lady, having now remayned there a moneth & more, and collecting by the customes of the countrey, that she was among turkes, and in such a place, where although she were knowne, yet it would little advantage her, beside, that long protraction of time would provoke _bajazeth_, by faire meanes or force to obtaine his will: she propounded to her selfe (with magnanimity of spirit) to tread all misfortunes under her feete, commaunding her women (whereof she had but three now remaining alive) that they should not disclose what she was; except it were in some such place, where manifest signes might yeeld hope of regaining their liberty. moreover, shee admonished them, stoutly to defend their honour and chastity, affirming, that shee had absolutely resolved with her selfe, that never any other should enjoy her, but her intended husband; wherein her women did much commend her, promising to preserve their reputation, according as she had commanded. day by day were the torments of _bajazeth_ wonderfully augmented, yet still his kinde offers scornefully refused, and he as farre off from compassing his desires, as when hee first began to moove the matter: wherefore, perceiving that all faire courses served to no effect, hee resolved to compasse his purpose by craft and subtilty, reserving rigorous extremity for his finall conclusion. and having once observed, that wine was very pleasing to the lady, she being never used to drinke any at all, because (by her countries law) it was forbidden her, and no meane store having beene lately brought to _bajazeth_ in a barke of _geneway_: hee resolved to surprize her by meanes thereof, as a chiefe minister of _venus_, to heate the coolest blood. and seeming now in his outward behaviour, as if he had given over his amorous pursuite, and which she strove by all her best endeavours to withstand: one night, after a very majestick and solemne manner, he prepared a delicate and sumptuous supper, whereto the lady was invited: and hee had given order, that hee who attended on her cup, should serve her with many wines compounded and mingled together, which hee accordingly performed, as being cunning enough in such occasions. _alathiella_, mistrusting no such trecherie intended against her, and liking the wines pleasing taste extraordinarily; dranke more then stoode with with her precedent modest resolution, and forgetting all her passed adversities, became very frollick and merry: so that seeing some women daunce after the manner observed therein _majorica_, she also fell to dauncing, according to the _alexandrian_ custome. which when _bajazeth_ beheld, he imagined the victory to be more then halfe wone, and his hearts desire very neere the obtaining: plying her still with wine upon wine, and continuing this revelling the most part of the night. at the length, the invited guests being all gone, the lady retired then to her chamber, attended on by none but _bajazeth_ himselfe, and as familiarly, as if hee had beene one of her women, shee no way contradicting his bold intrusion, so faire had wine over-gone her sences, and prevailed against all modest bashfulnesse. these wanton embracings, strange to her that had never tasted them before, yet pleasing beyond measure, by reason of his trecherous advantage: afterward drew on many more of the like carowsing meetings, without so much as a thought of her passed miseries, or those more honourable and chaste respects, that ever ought to attend on ladies. now, fortune envying these their stolne pleasures, and that she, being the purposed wife of a potent king, should thus become the wanton friend of a much meaner man, whose onely glory was her shame: altered the course of their too common pastimes, by preparing a farre greater infelicity for them. this _bajazeth_ had a brother, aged about five and twenty yeares, of most compleate person, in the very beauty of his time, and fresh as the sweetest smelling rose, he being named _amurath_. after he had once seene this lady (whose faire feature pleased him beyond all womens else) she seemed in his suddaine apprehension, both by her outward behaviour and civill apparancie, highly to deserve his very best opinion, for she was not meanely entred into his favour. now he found nothing to his hinderance, in obtayning the height of his hearts desire, but onely the strict custody and guard, wherein his brother _bajazeth_ kept her: which raised a cruell conceit in his minde, whereon followed (not long after) as cruell an effect. it came to passe, that at the same time, in the port of the citie, called _caffa_, there lay then a ship laden with merchandize, being bound thence for _smirna_, of which ship two _geneway_ merchants (being brethren) were the patrones and owners, who had given direction for hoysing the sayles, to depart thence when the winde should serve. with these two _genewayes amurath_ had covenanted, for himselfe to goe abord the ship the night ensuing, and the lady in his company. when night was come, having resolved with himselfe what was to be done: in a disguised habite hee went to the house of _bajazeth_, who stood not any way doubtfull of him, and with certaine of his most faithfull confederates (whom he had sworne to the intended action) they hid themselves closely in the house. after some part of the night was over-past, hee knowing the severall lodgings both of _bajazeth_ and _alathiella_: slew his brother soundly sleeping, and seizing on the lady, whom hee found awake and weeping, threatned to kill her also, if shee made any noyse. so, being well furnished, with the greater part of costly jewels belonging to _bajazeth_, unheard or undescried by anybody, they went presently to the port, and there, without any further delay, _amurath_ and the lady were received into the ship, but his companions returned backe againe; when the mariners, having their sayles ready set, and the winde aptly fitting for them, launched forth merrily into the maine. you may well imagine, that the lady was extraordinarily afflicted with griefe for her first misfortune, and now this second chancing so suddainly, must needes offend her in greater manner: but _amurath_ did so kindly comfort her, with milde, modest, and manly perswasions; that all remembrance of _bajazeth_ was quickly forgotten, and shee became converted to lovely demeanour, even when fortune prepared a fresh misery for her, as not satisfied with those whereof shee had tasted already. the lady being enriched with unequalled beauty (as wee have often related before) her behaviour also in such exquisite and commendable kinde expressed: the two brethren, owners of the ship, became so deepely enamoured of her, that forgetting all their more serious affaires, they studied by all possible meanes, to be pleasing and gracious in her eye, yet with such a carefull cariage, that _amurath_ should neither see or suspect it. when the brethren had imparted their loves extremity each to the other, and plainely perceived, that though they were equally in their fiery torments, yet their desires were utterly contrary: they began severally to consider, that gaine gotten by merchandize, admitted an equall and honest division, but this purchase was of a different quality, pleading the title of a sole possession, without any partner or intruder. fearefull and jealous were they both, least either should ayme at the others intention, yet willing enough to shake hands, in ridding _amurath_ out of the way, who onely was the hinderer of their hopes. whereupon they concluded together, that on a day, when the ship sayled on very swiftly, and _amurath_ was sitting upon the deck, studiously observing, how the billowes combatted each with other, and not suspecting any such treason in them towards him: stealing softly behinde him, suddainly they threw him into the sea, the ship fleeting on above halfe a leagues distance, before any perceived his fall into the sea. when the lady heard thereof, and saw no likely meanes of recovering him againe, she fell to her wonted teares and lamentations: but the two lovers came quickly to comfort her, using kinde words and pithie perswasions (albeit shee understood them not, or at the most very little) to appease the violence of her passions; and, to speake uprightly, shee did not so much bemoane the loss of _amurath_, as the multiplying of her owne misfortunes, still one succeeding in the necke of another. after divers long and well delivered orations, as also very faire and courteous behaviour, they had indifferently pacified her complaynings: they began to discourse and commune with themselves, which of them had most right and title to _alathiella_, and (consequently) ought to enjoy her. now that _amurath_ was gone, each pleaded his priviledge to be as good as the others, both in the ship, goods, and all advantages else whatsoever happening: which the elder brother absolutely denied, alleadging first his propriety of birth, a reason sufficient, whereby his younger ought to give him place; likewise his right and interest both in ship and goods, to be more then the others, as being heire to his father, and therefore in justice to be highest preferred. last of all, that his strength onely threw _amurath_ into the sea, and therefore gave him the full possession of his prize, no right at all remaining to his brother. from temperate and calme speeches, they fell to frownes and ruder language, which heated their blood in such violent manner, that forgetting brotherly affection, and all respect of parents or friends, they drew forth their poniards, stabbing each other so often and desperately, that before any in the shippe had the power or meanes to part them, both of them being very dangerously wounded, the younger brother fell downe dead, the elder being in little better case, by receiving so many perilous hurts, remained (neverthelesse) living. this unhappy accident displeased the lady very highly, seeing her selfe thus left alone, without the help or counsell of any body, and fearing greatly, least the anger of the two brethrens parents and friends, should now be laide to her charge, and thereon follow severity of punishment. but the earnest entreaties of the wounded surviver, and their arrivall at _smirna_ soone after, delivered him from the danger of death, gave some ease to her sorrow, and there with him shee went on shore. remaining there with him in a common inne, while he continued in the chirurgians cure, the fame of her singular and much admired beauty was soone spread abroade throughout all the city; and amongst the rest, to the hearing of the prince of _ionia_, who lately before (on very urgent occasions) was come to _smirna_. this rare rumour, made him desirous to see her, and after he had seene her, shee seemed farre fairer in his eye, then common report had noysed her to be, and suddenly grew so enamored of her, that shee was the onely idea of his best desires. afterward, understanding in what manner shee was brought thither, he devised how to make her his owne; practising all possible meanes to accomplish it: which when the wounded brothers parents heard of, they not onely made tender of their willingnesse therein, but also immediately sent her to him: a matter most highly pleasing to the prince, and likewise to the lady her selfe; because shee thought now to be freed from no meane perill, which (otherwise) the wounded merchants friends might have inflicted on her. the prince perceiving, that beside her matchlesse beauty, shee had the true character of royall behaviour; greeved the more, that he could not be further informed of what countrey shee was. his opinion being so stedfastly grounded, that (lesse then noble) shee could not be, was a motive to set a keener edge on his affection towards her, yet not to enjoy her as in honourable and loving complement onely, but as his espoused lady and wife. which appearing to her by apparant demonstrations, though entercourse of speech wanted to confirme it; remembrance of her so many sad disasters, and being now in a most noble and respected condition, her comfort enlarged it selfe with a setled hope, her feares grew free from any more molestations, and her beauties became the onely theame and argument of private and publike conference in all _natolia_, that (welneere) there was no other discourse, in any assembly whatsoever. hereupon the duke of _athens_, being young, goodly, and valiant of person, as also a neere kinsman to the prince, had a desire to see her; and under colour of visiting his noble kinsman, (as oftentimes before he had done) attended with an honourable traine, to _smirna_ he came, being there most royally welcommed, and bounteously feasted. within some few dayes of his there being, conference passed betweene them, concerning the rare beauty of the lady; the duke questioning the prince, whether shee was of such wonder, as fame had acquainted the world withall? whereto the prince replied; much more (noble kinsman) then can be spoken of, as your owne eyes shall witnesse, without crediting any words of mine. the prince solliciting the duke thereto very earnestly, they both went together to see her; and shee having before heard of their comming, adorned her selfe the more majestically, entertaining them with ceremonious demeanour (after her countries custome) which gave most gracious and unspeakable acceptation. at the princes affable motion, shee sate downe betweene them, their delight being beyond expression, to behold her, but abridged of much more felicity, because they understood not any part of her language: so that they could have no other conference, but by lookes and outward signes onely; and the more they beheld her, the more they marvelled at her rare perfections, especially the duke, who hardly credited that shee was a mortall creature. thus not perceiving, what deepe carowses of amorous poyson, his eyes dranke downe by the meere sight of her, yet thinking thereby onely to be satisfied; he lost both himselfe and his best sences, growing in love (beyond all measure) with her. when the prince and he were parted from her, and hee was at his owne private amorous meditations in his chamber; he reputed the prince far happier then any man else whatsoever, by the enjoying of such a peerelesse beauty. after many intricate and distracted cogitations, which molested his braines incessantly, regarding more his loves wanton heate, then reason, kindred, and honourable hospitality; he resolutely determined (whatsoever ensued thereupon) to bereave the prince of his faire felicity, that none but himselfe might possesse such a treasure, which he esteemed to be the height of all happinesse. his courage being conformable to his bad intent, with all hast it must be put in execution; so that equity, justice, and honesty, being quite abandoned, nothing but subtill stratagems were now his meditations. on a day, according to a fore compacted treachery, which he had ordered with a gentleman of the princes chamber, who was named _churiacy_; he prepared his horses to be in readinesse, and dispatched all his affaires else for a sudden departure. the night following, he was secretly conveyed by the said _churiacy_, and a friend of his with him (being both armed) into the princes chamber, where he (while the lady was soundly sleeping) stood at a gazing window towards the sea, naked in his shirt, to take the coole ayre, because the season was exceeding hot. having formerly enstructed his friend what was to be done, verie softly they stept to the prince, and running their weapons quite thorow his body, immediately they threw him forth of the window. here you are to observe, that the pallace was seated on the sea shore, and very high, and the window whereat the prince then stood looking foorth, was directly over divers houses, which the long continuance of time, and incessant beating on by the surges of the sea, had so defaced and ruined them, as sildome they were visited by any person; whereof the duke having knowledge before, was the easier perswaded, that the falling of the princes body in so vaste a place, could neither be heard, or descried by any. the duke and his companion having thus executed what they came for, proceeded yet in their cunning a little further; casting a strangling coard about the necke of _churiacy_, seeming as if they hugged and embraced him: but drew it with so maine strength, that he never spake one word after, and so threw him downe after the prince. this done, and plainely perceiving that they were not heard or seene, either by the lady, or any other: the duke tooke a light in his hand, going on to the bed, where the lady lay most sweetely sleeping; whom the more he beheld, the more he admired and commended: but if in her garments shee appeared so pleasing, what did shee now in a bed of such state and majesty? being no way daunted by his so late committed sinne, but swimming rather in surfet of joy, his hands all bloody, and his soule much more uglie; he laide him downe on the bed by her, bestowing infinite kisses and embraces on her, she supposing him to be the prince all this while, nor opening her eyes to be otherwise resolved. but this was not the delight he aimed at, neither did he thinke it safe for him, to delay time with any longer tarying there: wherefore having his agents at hand fit and convenient for the purpose, they surprized her in such sort, that she could not make any noise or outcry, and carrying her thorough the same false posterne, whereat themselves had entred, laying her in a princely litter; away they went with all possible speede, not tarrying in any place, untill they were arrived neere _athens_. but thither hee would not bring her, because himselfe was a married man, but rather to a goodly castle of his owne, not distant farre off from the city; where he caused her to be kept very secretly (to her no little greefe and sorrow) yet attended on and served in most honourable manner. the gentlemen usually attending on the prince, having waited all the next morning till noone, in expectation of his rising, and hearing no stirring in the chamber: did thrust at the doore, which was but onely closed together, & finding no body there, they presently imagined, that he was privately gone to some other place, where (with the lady, whom he so deerely affected) hee might remaine some few dayes for his more contentment, and so they relied verily perswaded. within some fewe dayes following, while no other doubt came in question, the princes foole, entering by chance among the ruined houses, where lay the dead bodies of the prince and _churiacy_: tooke hold of the corde about _churiacyes_ necke, and so went along dragging it after him. the bodye being knowne to many, with no meane mervaile, how hee should bee murthered in so vile manner: by giftes and faire perswasions they wonne him, to bring them to the place where hee found it. and there (to the no little greefe of all the cittie) they found the princes body also, which they caused to bee interred with all the most majesticke pomp that might bee. upon further inquisition, who should commit so horrid a deed, perceyving likewise, that the duke of _athens_ was not to be found, but was closely gone: they judged (according to the truth) that he had his hand in this bloody businesse, and had carried away the lady with him. immediately, they elected the princes brother to bee their lord and soveraigne, inciting him to revenge so horrid a wrong, and promising to assist him with their utmost power. the new chosen prince being assured afterward, by other more apparant and remarkeable proofes, that his people informed him with nothing but truth: sodainly, and according as they had concluded, with the helpe of neighbours, kindred, and friends, collected from divers places; he mustred a goodly and powerful army, marching on towards _athens_, to make war against the duke. no sooner heard he of this warlike preparation made against him, but he likewise levied forces for his owne defence, and to his succour came many great states: among whom, the emperor of _constantinople_ sent his sonne _constantine_, attended on by his nephew _emanuell_, with troopes of faire and towardly force, who were most honourably welcommed and entertained by the duke, but much more by the dutchesse, because she was their sister in law. military provision thus proceeding on daily more and more, the dutches making choise of a fit and convenient houre, took these two princes with her to a with-drawing chamber; and there in flouds of teares flowing from her eyes, wringing her hands, and sighing incessantly, shee recounted the whole history, occasion of the warre, and how dishonourably the duke had dealt with her about this strange woman, whom he purposed to keepe in despight of her, as thinking that she knew nothing thereof, and complaining very earnestly unto them, entreated that for the dukes honour, and her comfort, they would give their best assistance in this case. the two young lords knew all this matter, before shee thus reported it to them; and therefore, without staying to listen her any longer, but comforting her so wel as they could, with promise of their best employed paines: being informed by her, in what place the lady was so closely kept, they tooke their leave, and parted from her. often they had heard the lady much commended, and her incomparable beauty highly extolled, yea, even by the duke himselfe; which made them the more desirous to see her: wherefore earnestly they solicited him, to let them have a sight of her, and he (forgetting what happened to the prince, by shewing her so unadvisedly to him) made them promise to grant their request. causing a magnificent dinner to be prepared, & in a goodly garden, at the castle where the lady was kept: on the morrow morning, attended on by a small train, away they rode to dine with her. _constantine_ being seated at the table, he began (as one confounded with admiration) to observe her judiciously, affirming secretly to his soule that he had never seene so compleat a woman before; and allowing it for justice, that the duke, or any other whosoever, if (to enjoy so rare a beauty) they had committed treason, or any mischiefe else beside, yet in reason they ought to be held excused. nor did he bestow so many lookes upon her, but his prayses infinitely surpassed them, as thinking that he could not sufficiently commend her, following the duke step by step in affection: for being now growne amorous of her, and remembrance of the intended warre utterly abandoned; no other thoughts could come neerer him, but how to bereave the duke of her, yet concealing his love, and not imparting it to any one. while his fancies were thus amorously set on fire, the time came, that they must make head against the prince, who already was marching within the dukes dominions: wherefore the duke _constantine_ and all the rest, according to a counsell held among them, went to defend certaine of the frontiers, to the end that the prince might passe no further. remaining there divers dayes together, _constantine_, who could thinke on nothing else, but the beautifull lady, considered with himselfe, that while the duke was now so far off from her, it was an easie matter to compasse his intent: hereupon, the better to colour his present returne to _athens_, he seemed to be surprized with a sudden extreame sicknesse, in regard whereof (by the dukes free lisence, and leaving all his power to his cousen _emanuel_) forthwith he journeyed backe to _athens_. after some conference had with his sister, concerning her dishonourable wrongs endured at his hands only by the lady: he solemnly protested, that if shee were so pleased, he would aide her powerfully in the matter, by taking her from the place where she was, and never more afterward, to be seene in that countrey any more. the dutchesse being faithfully perswaded, that he would doe this onely for her sake, and not in any affection he bare to the lady, made answer that it highly pleased her; alwayes provided, that it might be performed in such sort, as the duke her husband should never understand, that ever shee gave any consent thereto, which _constantine_ sware unto her by many deep oathes, whereby she referred all to his owne disposition. _constantine_ hereupon secretly prepared in readinesse a subtill barke, sending it (in an evening) neere to the garden where the lady resorted; having first informed the people which were in it, fully in the businesse that was to be done. afterward, accompanied with some other of his attendants, hee went to the palace to the lady, where he was gladly entertained, not only by such as waited on her, but also by the lady her selfe. leading her along by the arme towards the garden, attended on by two of her servants, and two of his owne, seeming as if he was sent from the duke, to conferre with her: they walked alone to a port opening on the sea, which standing ready open, upon a signe given by him to one of his complices, the barke was brought close to the shore, and the lady being suddenly seized on, was immediately conveyed into it; and he returning backe to her people, with his sword drawne in his hand, saide: let no man stirre, or speake a word, except he be willing to loose his life: for i intend not to rob the duke of his faire friend, but to expel the shame and dishonour which he hath offered to my sister, no one being so hardy as to returne him any answer. aboard went _constantine_ with his consorts, and sitting neer to the lady, who wrung her hands, and wept bitterly; he commanded the marriners to launch forth, flying away on the wings of the wind, till about the breake of day following, they arrived at _melasso_. there they tooke landing, and reposed on shore for some few dayes, _constantine_ labouring to comfort the lady, even as if shee had been his owne sister, shee having good cause to curse her infortunate beauty. going aboard the barke againe, within few dayes they came to _setalia_, and there fearing the reprehension of his father, and least the ladie should be taken from him; it pleased _constantine_ to make his stay, as in a place of no meane security. and (as before) after much kinde behaviour used towards the lady, without any meanes in her selfe to redresse the least of all these great extremities: shee became more milde and affable, for discontentment did not a jot quaile her. while occurrences passed on in this manner, it fortuned, that _osbech_ the king of _turky_ (who was in continuall war with the emperour) came by accident to _laiazzo_: and hearing there how lasciviously _constantine_ spent his time in _setalia_, with a lady which he had stolne, being but weake and slenderly guarded; in the night with certaine well provided ships, his men & he entred the towne, & surprized many people in their beds, before they knew of their enemies comming, killing such as stood upon their defence against them, (among whom was _constantine_) and burning the whole towne, brought their booty and prisoners aboard their ships, wherewith they returned backe to _laiazzo_. being thus come to _laiazzo, osbech_, who was a brave and gallant young man, upon a review of the pillage; found the faire lady, whom hee knew to be the beloved of _constantine_, because shee was found lying on his bed. without any further delay, he made choyse of her to be his wife; causing his nuptials to be honourably sollemnized, and many moneths hee lived there in great joy with her. but before occasions grew to this effect, the emperour made a confederacy with _bassano_, king of _cappadocia_, that hee should descend with his forces; one way upon _osbech_, and hee would assault him with his power on the other. but he could not so conveniently bring this to passe, because the emperour would not yeeld to _bassano_, in any unreasonable matter he demanded. neverthelesse, when he understood what had happened to his son (for whom his griefe was beyond all measure) he granted the king of _cappadociaes_ request, solliciting him with all instancy, to be the more speedy in assailing _osbech_. it was not long, before hee heard of this conjuration made against him; and therefore speedily mustered up all his forces, ere he would be encompassed by two such potent kings, and marched on to meete the king of _cappadocia_, leaving his lady and wife, (for her safety) at _laiazzo_, in the custodie of a true and loyall servant of his. within a short while after, he drew neere the campe belonging to the king of _cappadocia_, where boldly he gave him battell; chancing therein to be slaine, his army broken and discomfited, by meanes whereof the king of _cappadocia_ remaining conquerour, marched on towards _laiazzo_, every one yeelding him obeysance all the way as he went. in the meane space, the servant to _osbech_, who was named _antiochus_, and with whom the faire lady was left in guard; although hee was aged, yet seeing shee was so extraordinarily beautifull, he fell in love with her, forgetting the sollemne vowes he had made to his master. one happinesse hee had in this case to helpe him, namely, that he understood and could speake her language, a matter of no meane comfort to her; who constrainedly had lived divers yeeres together, in the state of a deafe or dumbe woman, because every where else they understood her not, nor shee them, but by shewes and signes. this benefit of familiar conference, beganne to embolden his hopes, elevate his courage, and make him seeme more youthfull in his owne opinion, then any ability of body could speake unto him, or promise him in the possession of her, who was so farre beyond him, and so unequall to be enjoyed by him; yet to advance his hopes a great deale higher, newes came, that _osbech_ was vanquished and slaine, and that _bassano_ made everie where havocke of all: whereon they concluded together, not to tarrie there any longer, but storing themselves with the goods of _osbech_, secretly they departed thence to _rhodes_. being seated there in some indifferent abiding, it came to passe, that _antiochus_ fell into a deadly sicknesse, to whom came a _cyprian_ merchant, one much esteemed by him, as being an intimate friend and kinde acquaintance, and in whom hee reposed no small confidence. feeling his sicknesse to encrease more and more upon him dayly, hee determined, not onely to leave such wealth as hee had to this merchant, but the faire lady likewise; and calling them both to his beds side, he brake his minde unto them in this manner. deare love, and my most worthily respected friend, i perceive plainly and infallibly, that i am drawing neere unto my end, which much discontenteth me; because my hope was, to have lived longer in this world, for the enjoying of your kinde and most esteemed company. yet one thing maketh my death very pleasing and welcome to me, namely, that lying thus in my bed of latest comfort in this life: i shall expire and finish my course, in the armes of those two persons, whom i most affected in all this world, as you my ever dearest friend, and you faire lady, whom (since the very first sight of you) i loved and honoured in my soule. irksome and very grievous it is to me, that (if i dye) i shall leave you here a stranger, without the counsaile and helpe of any body: and yet much more offensive would it become, if i had not such a friend as you here present, who i am faithfully perswaded, will have the like care and respect of her (even for my sake) as of myselfe, if time had allotted my longer tarying here. and therefore (worthy friend) most earnestly i desire you, that if i dye, all mine affaires and she may remaine to your trusty care, as being (by my selfe) absolutely commended to your providence, and so to dispose both of the one and other, as may best agree with the comfort of my soule. as for you (choise beauty) i humbly entreate, that after my death you would not forget mee, to the end, i may make my vaunt in another world, that i was affected here, by the onely fairest lady that ever nature framed. if of these two things you will give me assurance; i shall depart from you with no meane comfort. the friendly merchant, and likewise the lady, hearing these words, wept both bitterly, and after hee had given over speaking: kindly they comforted him, with promise and solemne vowes, that if hee dyed, all should be performed which he had requested. within a short while after, he departed out of this life, and they gave him very honourable buriall, according to that country custome. which being done, the merchant dispatching all his affaires at _rhodes_, was desirous to returne home to _cyprus_, in a carrack of the catelans then there being: moving the lady in the matter, to understand how shee stood enclined, because urgent occasions called him thence to _cyprus_. the lady made answere, that she was willing to passe thither with him, hoping for the love hee bare to deceased _antiochus_, that he would respect her as his sister. the merchant was willing to give her any contentment, but yet resolved her, that under the title of being his sister, it would be no warrant of security to them both; wherefore hee rather advised her, to stile him as her husband, and hee would terme her his wife, and so hee should be sure to defend her from all injuries whatsoever. being abord the carrack, they had a cabine and small bed conveniently allowed them, where they slept together, that they might the better be reputed as man and wife; for, to passe otherwise, would have beene very dangerous to them both. and questionlesse, their faithfull promise made at _rhodes_ to _antiochus_, sicknesse on the sea, and mutuall respect they had of each others credit, was a constant restraint to all wanton desires, and a motive rather to incite chastity, then otherwise, and so (i hope) you are perswaded of them. but howsoever, the windes blewe merrily, the carrack sayled lustily, and (by this time) they are arrived at _baffa_, where the _cyprian_ merchant dwelt, and where shee continued a long while with him, no one knowing otherwise, but that shee was his wife indeede. now it fortuned, that there arrived also at the same _baffa_ (about some especiall occasions of his) a gentleman, whose name was _antigonus_, well stept into yeares, and better stored with wisedome then wealth: because by medling in many matters, while hee followed the service of the king of _cyprus_, fortune had beene very adverse to him. this ancient gentleman, passing (on a day) by the house where the lady lay, and the merchant being gone about his businesse into _armenia_: hee chanced to see the lady at a window of the house, and because shee was very beautifull, he observed her the more advisedly, recollecting his sences together, that doubtlesse he had seene her before, but in what place hee could not remember. the lady her selfe likewise, who had so long time beene fortunes tennis ball, and the terme of her many miseries drawing now neere ending: began to conceive (upon the very first sight of _antigonus_) that she had formerly seene him in _alexandria_, serving her father in place of great degree. hereupon, a suddaine hope perswaded her, that by the advice and furtherance of this gentleman, she should recover her wonted royall condition: and opportunity now aptly fitting her, by the absence of her pretended merchant husband, she sent for him, requesting to have a few words with him. when he was come into the house, she bashfully demanded of him, if he was not named _antigonus_ of _famagosta_, because shee knew one (like him) so called? hee answered, that he was so named, saying moreover: madame, me thinkes that i should know you, but i cannot remember where i have seene you, wherefore i would entreate (if it might stand with your good liking) that my memory might be quickned with better knowledge of you. the lady perceiving him to be the man indeede, weeping incessantly, she threw her armes about his necke, and soone after asked _antigonus_ (who stood as one confounded with mervaile) if hee had never seene her in _alexandria_? upon these words, _antigonus_ knew her immediatly to be _alathiella_, daughter to the great soldane, who was supposed (long since) to be drowned in the sea: and offering to doe her such reverence as became him, she would not permit him, but desired, that he would be assistant to her, and willed him also to sit downe a while by her. a goodly chaire being brought him, in very humble manner he demanded of her, what had become of her in so long a time: because it was verily beleeved throughout all egypt, that shee was drowned in the sea. i would it had bin so, answered the lady, rather then to leade such a life as i have done; and i thinke my father himselfe would wish it so, if ever he should come to the knowledge thereof. with these words the teares rained downe her faire cheekes: wherefore _antigonus_ thus spake unto her. madame, discomfort not your selfe before you have occasion, but (if you be so pleased) relate your passed accidents to mee, and what the course of your life hath bene: perhaps, i shall give you such friendly advice as may stand you in sted, and no way be injurious to you. fetching a sigh, even as if her heart would have split in sunder, thus she replyed. ah _antigonus_, me thinkes when i looke on thee, i seeme to behold my royall father, and therefore mooved with the like religious zeale and charitable love, as (in duty) i owe unto him: i will make knowne to thee, what i rather ought to conceale, and hide from any person living. i know thee to bee honourable, discreete, and truely wise, though i am a fraile, simple, and weake woman, therefore i dare discover to thee, rather then any other that i know, by what straunge and unexpected misfortunes, i have lived so long obscurely in the world. and if in thy great and grave judgement (after the hearing of my many miseries) thou canst any way restore me to my former estate, i pray thee do it: but if thou perceive it impossible to bee done, as earnestly likewise i entreate thee, never to reveale to any living person, that either thou hast seene me, or heard any speech of me. after these words, the teares still streaming from her faire eyes, shee recounted the whole passage of her rare mishaps, even from her shipwracke in the sea of _majorica_, until that very instant houre; speaking them in such harsh manner as they hapned, and not sparing any jot of them. _antigonus_ being mooved to much compassion, declared how hee pitied her by his teares, and having bene silent an indifferent while, as considering in this case, what was best to be done, thus he began. madam, seeing you have past through such a multitude of misfortunes, yet undiscovered, what and who you are: i will render you as blamelesse to your father, and estate you as fairely in his love, as at the hour when you parted from him, and afterward make you wife to the king of _cholcos_. she demanding of him, by what meanes possibly this could be accomplished: breefely he made it knowne to her, how, and in what manner hee would performe it. to cut off further tedious circumstances, forthwith he returned to _famagosta_, and going before the king of the country, thus he spake to him. sir, you may (if so you will be pleased) in an instant, do me an exceeding honour, who have bene impoverished by your service, and also a deed of great renowne to your selfe, without any much matter of expence and cost. the king demanding how? _antigonus_ thus answered. the fayre daughter of the soldane, so generally reported to be drowned, is arrived at _baffa_, and to preserve her honour from blemishing, hath suffered many crosses and calamities: being at this instant in very poore estate, yet desirous to re-visite her father. if you please to send her home under my conduct, it will be great honour to you, and no meane benefite to mee; which kindnesse will for ever be thankfully remembred by the soldan. the king in royall magnificence, replied sodainly, that he was highly pleased with these good tydings; & having sent honourably for her from _baffa_, with great pompe she was conducted to _famagosta_, and there most graciously welcommed both by the king and queene, with solemne triumphes, bankets, and revelling, performed in most majesticke manner. being questioned by the king and queene, concerning so large a time of strange misfortunes: according as _antigonus_ had formerly enstructed her, so did she shape the forme of her answers, and satisfied (with honour) all their demands. so, within few dayes after, upon her earnest & instant request, with an honourable traine of lords and ladies, shee was sent thence, and conducted all the way by _antigonus_, untill she came unto the soldans court. after some few dayes of her reposing there, the soldan was desirous to understand, how she could possibly live so long, in any kingdome or province whatsoever, and yet no knowledge to bee taken of her? the lady, who perfectly retained by heart, and had all her lessons at her fingers ends, by the warie instructions which _antigonus_ had given her, answered her father in this manner. sir, about the twentith day after my departure from you, a verie terrible and dreadfull tempest over-tooke us, so that in dead time of the night, our ship being split in sunder upon the sands, neere to a place called _varna_; what became of all the men that were aboord, i neither know, or ever heard of. onely i remember, then when death appeared, and i being recovered from death to life, certaine pezants of the countrey, comming to get what they could finde in the ship so wrackt, i was first (with two of my women) brought and set safely on the shore. no sooner were we there, but certaine rude shagge-haird villaines set upon us, carrying away from me both my women, then haling me along by the haire of my head, neither teares or intercessions could draw any pitty from them. as thus they dragd me into a spacious woodd, foure horsemen on a sodaine came riding by, who seeing how dishonourably the villaines used me, rescued me from them, and forced them to flight. but the foure horsemen, seeming (in my judgement) to bee persons of power and authority, letting them go, came to mee, urging sundry questions to me, which neither i understood, or they mine answers. after many deliberations held among themselves, setting me upon one of their horses, they brought me to a monastery of religious women, according to the custome of their law: and there, whatsoever they did or sayde, i know not, but i was most benignely welcommed thither, and honoured of them extraordinarily, where (with them in devotion) i dedicated my selfe to the goddesse of chastity, who is highly reverenced and regarded among the women of that countrey, and to her religious service, they are wholly addicted. after i had continued some time among them, and learned a little of their language; they asked me, of whence, and what i was. reason gave me so much understanding, to be fearfull of telling them the trueth, for feare of expulsion from among them, as an enemy to their law and religion: wherefore i answered (according as necessity urged) that i was daughter to a gentleman of _cyprus_, who sent me to bee married in _candie_; but our fortunes (meaning such as had the charge of mee) fell out quite contrary to our expectation, by losses, shipwracke, and other mischances; adding many matters more beside, onely in regard of feare, & yeelding obediently to observe their customes. at length, she that was in cheefest preheminence among these women (whom they termed by the name of their lady abbesse) demaunded of me, whither i was willing to abide in that condition of life, or to returne home againe into _cyprus_. i answerd, that i desired nothing more. but she, being very carefull of mine honour, would never repose confidence in any that came for _cyprus_; till two honest gentlemen of _france_, who hapned thither about two moneths since, accompanied with their wives, one of them being a neere kinswoman to the lady abbesse. and she well knowing, that they travelled in pilgrimage to _jerusalem_, to visit the holy sepulcher, where (as they beleeve) that he whom they held for their god was buried, after the jewes had put him to death: recommended me to their loving trust, with especial charge, for delivering me to my father in _cyprus_. what honourable love and respect i found in the company of those gentlemen and their wives, during our voyage backe to _cyprus_: the history would be over-tedious in reporting, neither is it much material to our purpose, because your demand is to another end. sayling on prosperously in our ship, it was not long, before wee arrived at _baffa_, where being landed, and not knowing any person, neither what i should say to the gentlemen, who onely were carefull for delivering me to my father, according as they were charged by the reverend abbesse: it was the will of heaven doubtlesse (in pitty and compassion of my passed disasters) that i was no sooner come on shore at _baffa_: but i should there haply meete with _antigonus_, whome i called unto in our countrey language, because i would not be understood by the gentlemen nor their wives, requesting him to acknowledge me as his daughter. quickly he apprehended mine intention, accomplishing what i requested, and (according to his poore power) most bounteously feasted the gentlemen and their wives, conducting me to the k. of _cyprus_, who received me royally, and sent me home to you with so much honour, as i am no way able to relate. what else remaineth to be said, _antigonus_ who hath oft heard the whole story of my fortunes, at better leisure will report. _antigonus_ then turning to the soldan, said: my lord, as shee hath often told me, and by relation both of the gentlemen and their wives, she hath delivered nothing but trueth. onely shee hath forgotten somewhat worth the speaking, as thinking it not fit for her to utter, because (indeede) it is not so convenient for her. namely, how much the gentlemen and their wives (with whom she came) commended the rare honesty and integrity of life, as also the unspotted vertue, wherein she lived, among those chaste religious women, as they constantly (both with teares and solemne protestations) avouched to me, when kindly they resigned their charge to mee. of all which matters, and many more beside, if i should make discourse to your excellencie; this whole day, the night ensuing, and the next dayes full extendure, are not sufficient to acquaint you withall. let it suffice then, that i have said so much, as (both by the reports, and mine owne understanding) may give you faithfull assurance, to make your royall vaunt; of having the fayrest, most vertuous, and honest lady to your daughter, of any king or prince whatsoever. the soldane was joyfull beyond all measure, welcomming both him and the rest in most stately manner, oftentimes entreating the gods very heartily, that he might live to requite them with equall recompence, who had so graciously honoured his daughter: but (above all the rest) the king of _cyprus_, who sent her home so majestically. and having bestowne great gifts on _antigonus_, within a few dayes after, hee gave him leave to returne to _cyprus_: with thankfull favours to the king as well by letters, as also by ambassadours espresly sent, both from himselfe and his daughter. when as this businesse was fully finished, the soldane, desiring to accomplish what formerly was intended and begun, namely, that shee might be wife to the king of _cholcos_: he gave him intelligence of all that had happened, writing moreover to him, that (if he were so pleased) hee would yet send her in royall manner to him. the king of _cholcos_ was exceeding joyfull of these glad tydings, and dispatching a worthy trayne to fetch her, she was convayed thither very pompously, and she who had beene embraced by so many, was received by him as an honest virgine, living long time after with him in much joy and felicity. and therefore, it hath beene said as a common proverbe: the mouth well kist comes not short of good fortune, but is still renewed like the moone. _the count_ d'angiers _being falsly accused, was banished out of_ france, _& left his two children in_ england _in divers places. returning afterward (unknowne) thorow_ scotland, _hee found them advanced unto great dignity. then, repayring in the habite of a servitour, into the king of_ france _his armie, and his innocencie made publiquely knowne; hee was reseated in his former honourable degree._ the eight novell. _whereby all men may plainely understand, that loyalty faithfully kept to the prince (what perils so ever doe ensue) doth yet neverthelesse renowne a man, and bring him to farre greater honour._ the ladies sighed very often, hearing the variety of wofull miseries happening to _alathiella_: but who knoweth, what occasion moved them to those sighes? perhaps there were some among them, who rather sighed they could not be so often married as she was, rather then for any other compassion they had of her disasters. but leaving that to their owne construction, they smiled merrily at the last speeches of _pamphilus_, and the queene perceiving the novell to be ended: shee fixed her eye upon madame _eliza_, as signifying thereby, that she was next to succeede in order, which shee joyfully embracing, spake as followeth. the field is very large and spacious, wherein all this day we have walked, and there is not any one here, so wearied with running the former races, but nimbly would adventure on as many more, so copious are the alterations of fortune, in sad repetition of her wonderfull changes; and among the infinity of her various courses, i must make addition of another, which i trust will no way discontent you. when the romaine empire was translated from the french to the germains, mighty dissentions grew between both the nations, insomuch that it drew a dismall and a lingring warre. in which respect, as well for the safety of his owne kingdome, as to annoy and disturbe his enemies; the king of _france_ and one of his sonnes, having congregated the forces of their owne dominions, as also of their friends and confederates, they resolved manfully to encounter their enemies. but before they would adventure on any rash proceeding; they held it as the chiefest part of pollicie and royall providence, not to leave the state without a chiefe or governour. and having had good experience of _gualtier_, counte _d'angiers_, to be a wise, worthy, and most trusty lord, singularly expert in militarie discipline, and faithfull in all affaires of the kingdome (yet fitter for ease and pleasure, then laborious toyle and travaile:) hee was elected lieutenant governour in their sted, over the whole kingdome of _france_, and then they went on in their enterprize. now began the counte to execute the office committed to his trust, by orderly proceeding, and with great discretion, yet not entring into any businesse, without consent of the queene and her faire daughter in law: who although they were left under his care and custodie, yet (notwithstanding) he honoured them as his superiours, and as the dignity of their quality required. heere you are to observe, concerning counte _gualtier_ himselfe, that he was a most compleat person, aged little above forty yeares; as affable and singularly conditioned, as any noble man possibly could be, nor did those times afford a gentleman, that equalled him in all respects. it fortuned, that the king and his sonne being busie in the afore-named warre, the wife and lady of counte _gualtier_ died in the meane while, leaving him onely a sonne and a daughter, very young and of tender yeares, which made his owne home the lesse welcome to him, having lost his deare love and second selfe. hereupon, hee resorted to the court of the said ladies the more frequently, often conferring with them, about the waighty affaires of the kingdome: in which time of so serious interparlance, the kings sonnes wife, threw many affectionate regards upon him, convaying such conspiring passions to her heart (in regard of his person and vertues) that her love exceeded all capacity of governement. her desires out-stepping all compasse of modesty, or the dignity of her princely condition; throwes off all regard of civill and sober thoughts, and guides her into a labyrinth of wanton imaginations. for, she regards not now the eminencie of his high authority, his gravity of yeares, and those parts that are the true conducts to honour: but lookes upon her owne loose and lascivious appetite, her young, gallant, and over-ready yeelding nature, comparing them with his want of a wife, and likely hope (thereby) of her sooner prevailing; supposing, that nothing could be her hinderance, but onely bashfull shame-facednesse, which she rather chose utterly to forsake and set aside, then to faile of her hote enflamed affection, and therefore, shee would needes be the discoverer of her owne disgrace. upon a day, being alone by her selfe, and the time seeming suteable to her intention: shee sent for the counte, under colour of some other important conference with him. the counte _d'angiers_, whose thoughts were quite contrary to hers: immediately went to her, where they both sitting downe together on a beds side in her chamber, according as formerly shee had plotted her purpose; twice hee demaunded of her, upon what occasion she had thus sent for him. she sitting a long while silent, as if she had no answere to make him: pressed by the violence of her amorous passions, a vermillion tincture leaping up into her face, yet shame enforcing teares from her eyes, with words broken and halfe confused, at last she began to deliver her minde in this manner. honourable lord, and my dearely respected friend, being so wise a man as you are, it is no difficult matter for you to know, what a fraile condition is imposed both on men and women; yet (for divers occasions) much more upon the one, then the other. wherefore desertfully, in the censure of a just and upright judge, a fault of divers conditions (in respect of the person) ought not to be censured with one and the same punishment. beside, who will not say, that a man or woman of poore and meane estate, having no other helpe for maintainance, but laborious travaile of their bodies should worthily receive more sharpe reprehension, in yeelding to amorous desires, or such passions as are incited by love; then a wealthy lady whose living relieth not on her paines or cares, neither wanteth any thing that she can wish to have: i dare presume, that you your selfe will allow this to be equall and just. in which respect, i am of the minde, that the fore-named allegations, ought to serve as a sufficient excuse, yea, and to the advantage of her who is so possessed, if the passions of love should over-reach her: alwayes provided, that shee can pleade (in her owne defence) the choise of a wise and vertuous friend, answerable to her owne condition and quality, and no way to be taxed with a servile or vile election. these two especiall observations, allowable in my judgement, and living now in me, seazing on my youthfull blood and yeares: have found no mean inducement to love, in regard of my husbands far distance from me, medling in the rude uncivill actions of warre, when he should rather be at home in more sweet imployment. you see sir, that these orators advance themselves here in your presence, to acquaint you with the extremity of my over-commanding agony: and if the same power hath dominion in you, which your discretion (questionlesse) cannot be voide of; then let me entreate such advise from you, as may rather helpe, then hinder my hopes. beleeve it then for trueth sir, that the long absence of my husband from me, the solitary condition wherein i am left, ill agreeing with the hot blood running in my veines, & the temper of my earnest desires: have so prevailed against my strongest resistances, that not onely so weake a woman as i am, but any man of much more potent might (living in ease and idlenesse as i doe) cannot withstand such continuall assaults, having no other helpe then flesh and blood. nor am i so ignorant, but publique knowledge of such an error in me, would be reputed a shrewd taxation of honesty: whereas (on the other side) secret carriage, and heedfull managing such amorous affaires, may passe for currant without any reproach. and let me tell you noble counte, that i repute love highly favourable to mee, by guiding my judgement with such moderation, to make election of a wise, worthy, and honourable friend, fit to enjoy the grace of a farre greater lady then i am, and the first letter of his name, is the count _d'angiers_. for if error have not misled mine eye, as in love no lady can be easily deceived: for person, perfections, and all parts most to be commended in a man, the whole realme of _france_ containeth not your equall. observe beside, how forward fortune sheweth her selfe to us both in this case, you to be destitute of a wife, as i am of an husband; for i count him as dead to me, when he denies me the duties belonging to a wife. wherefore, in regard of the unfaigned affection i beare you, and compassion, which you ought to have of royall princesse, even almost sicke to death for your sake: i earnestly entreate you, not to denie me your loving society, but pittying my youth and fiery afflictions (never to be quenched but by your kindnesse) i may enjoy my hearts desire. as shee uttered these words, the teares streamed aboundantly downe her faire cheekes, preventing her of any further speech: so that dejecting her head into her bosome, overcome with the predominance of her passions; shee fell upon the countes knee, whereas else shee had falne upon the ground. when hee, like a loyall and most honourable man, sharply reprehended her fonde and idle love, and when shee would have embraced him about the necke; hee repulsed her roughly from him, protesting upon his honourable reputation, that rather then hee would so wrong his lord and maister, he would endure a thousand deathes. the lady seeing her desire disappointed, and her fond expectation utterly frustrated: grewe instantly forgetfull of her intemperate love, and falling into extremity of rage, converted her former gentle speeches, into this harsh and ruder language. villaine (quoth shee) shall the longing comforts of my life, be abridged by thy base and scornefull deniall? shall my destruction bee wrought by thy currish unkindnesse, and all my hoped joyes be defeated in a moment? know slave, that i did not so earnestly desire thy sweet embracements before, but now as deadly i hate and despise them, which either thy death or banishment shall dearely pay for. no sooner had shee thus spoken, but tearing her haire, and renting her garments in pieces, shee ranne about like a distracted woman, crying out aloude: helpe, helpe, the count _d'angiers_ will forcibly dishonour mee, the lustfull count will violence mine honour. _d'angiers_ seeing this, and fearing more the malice of the over-credulous court, then either his owne conscience, or any dishonourable act by him committed, beleeving likewise, that her slanderous accusation would bee credited, above his true and spotlesse innocency: closely he conveyed himselfe out of the court, making what hast hee could, home to his owne house, which being too weake for warranting his safety upon such pursuite as would be used against him, without any further advice or counsell, he seated his two children on horsebacke, himselfe also being but meanly mounted, thus away thence hee went to _calice_. upon the clamour and noise of the lady, the courtiers quickly flocked thither; and, as lies soone winne beleefe in hasty opinions, upon any silly or shallow surmise: so did her accusation passe for currant, and the counts advancement being envied by many, made his honest carriage (in this case) the more suspected. in hast and madding fury, they ran to the counts houses, to arrest his person, and carry him to prison: but when they could not finde him, they raced his goodly buildings downe to the ground, and used all shamefull violence to them. now, as il newes sildome wants a speedy messenger; so, in lesse space then you will imagine, the king and dolphin heard thereof in the camp, and were therewith so highly offended, that the count had a sodaine and severe condemnation, all his progeny being sentenced with perpetuall exile, and promises of great and bountifull rewards, to such as could bring his body alive or dead. thus the innocent count, by his over-hasty and sodaine flight, made himselfe guilty of this foule imputation: and arriving at _callice_ with his children, their poore and homely habites, hid them from being knowne, and thence they crossed over into england, staying no where untill hee came to london. before he would enter into the city, he gave divers good advertisements to his children, but especially two precepts above all the rest. first, with patient soules to support the poore condition, whereto fortune (without any offence in him or them) had thus dejected them. next, that they should have most heedfull care, at no time to disclose from whence they came, or whose children they were, because it extended to the perill of their lives. his sonne, being named _lewes_, and now about nine yeares old, his daughter called _violenta_, and aged seaven yeares, did both observe their fathers direction, as afterward it did sufficiently appeare. and because they might live in the safer securitie, hee thought it for the best to change their names, calling his sonne _perotto_, and his daughter _gianetta_, for thus they might best escape unknowne. being entred into the city, and in the poore estate of beggers, they craved every bodies mercy and almes. it came to passe, that standing one morning at the cathedral church-doore, a great lady of england, being then wife to the lord high marshall, comming forth of the church, espied the count and his children there begging. of him she demanded what countrey-man he was? and whether those children were his owne, or no? the count replyed, that he was borne in _picardy_, and for an unhappy fact committed by his eldest sonne (a stripling of more hopefull expectation, then proved) hee was enforced, with those his two other children to forsake his country. the lady being by nature very pittiful, looking advisedly on the yong girle, beganne to grow in good liking of her; because (indeede) she was amiable, gentle, and beautifull, whereupon shee saide. honest man, thy daughter hath a pleasing countenance, and (perhaps) her inward disposition may proove answerable to hir outward goods parts: if therefore thou canst bee content to leave her with me, i will give her entertainment, and upon her dutifull carriage and behaviour, if she live to such yeares as may require it, i will have her honestly bestowne in marriage. this motion was verie pleasing to the count, who readily declared his willing consent thereto, and with the teares trickling downe his cheekes, in thankfull manner he delivered his prettie daughter to the lady. shee being thus happily bestowne, hee minded to tarry no longer in _london_; but, in his wonted begging manner, travailing thorough the country with his sonne _perotto_, at length hee came into _wales_: but not without much weary paine and travell, being never used before, to journey so far on foote. there dwelt another lord, in office of marshalship to the king of _england_, whose power extended over those partes; a man of very great authority, keeping a most noble and bountifull house, which they termed the _president of wales his court_; whereto the count and his son oftentimes resorted, as finding there good releefe and comfort. on a day, one of the presidents sons, accompanied with divers other gentlemens children, were performing certaine youthfull sports & pastimes, as running, leaping, and such like, wherein _perotto_ presumed to make one among them, excelling all the rest in such commendable manner, as none of them came any thing nere him. divers times the president had taken notice thereof, and was so well pleased with the lads behaviour, that he enquired, of whence he was? answer was made, that hee was a poore mans son, that every day came for an almes to his gate. the president being desirous to make the boy his, the count (whose dayly prayers were to the same purpose) frankly gave his son to the nobleman: albeit naturall and fatherly affection, urged some unwillingnesse to part so with him; yet necessity and discretion, found it to bee for the benefit of them both. being thus eased of care for his son and daughter, and they (though in different places) yet under good and woorthie government: the count would continue no longer in _england_: but, as best he could procure the meanes, passed over into _ireland_, and being arrived at a place called _stanford_, became servant to an earle of that country, a gentleman professing armes, on whom he attended as a serving man, & lived a long while in that estate very painfully. his daughter _violenta_, clouded under the borrowed name of _gianetta_, dwelling with the lady at _london_, grew so in yeares, beauty, comelinesse of person, and was so gracefull in the favour of her lord and lady, yea, of every one in the house beside, that it was wonderfull to behold. such as but observed her usuall carriage, and what modesty shined clearely in her eyes, reputed her well worthy of honourable preferment; in which regard, the lady that had received her of her father, not knowing of whence, or what shee was; but as himselfe had made report, intended to match her in honourable mariage, according as her vertues worthily deserved. but god, the just rewarder of all good endeavours, knowing her to be noble by birth, and (causelesse) to suffer for the sinnes of another; disposed otherwise of her, and that so worthy a virgin might be no mate for a man of ill conditions, no doubt ordained what was to be done, according to his owne good pleasure. the noble lady, with whom poore _gianetta_ dwelt, had but one onely sonne by her husband, and he most deerely affected of them both, as well in regard hee was to be their heire, as also for his vertues and commendable qualities, wherein he excelled many young gentlemen. endued he was with heroycal valour, compleate in all perfections of person, and his mind every way answerable to his outward behaviour, exceeding _gianetta_ about sixe yeeres in age. hee perceiving her to be a faire and comely maiden, grew to affect her so entirely, that all things else he held contemptible, and nothing pleasing in his eye but shee. now, in regard her parentage was reputed poore, hee kept his love concealed from his parents, not daring to desire her in marriage: for loth hee was to loose their favour, by disclosing the vehemency of his afflictions, which proved a greater torment to him, then if it had beene openly knowne. it came to passe, that love over-awed him in such sort, as he fell into a violent sicknesse, and score of physicions were sent for, to save him from death, if possibly it might be. their judgements observing the course of his sicknesse, yet not reaching to the cause of the disease, made a doubtfull question of his recovery; which was so displeasing to his parents, that their griefe and sorrow grew beyond measure. many earnest entreaties they moved to him, to know the occasion of his sicknesse, whereto he returned no other answer, but heart-breaking sighes, and incessant teares, which drew him more and more into weakenesse of body. it chanced on a day, a physicion was brought unto him, being young in yeeres, but well experienced in his practise, and as hee made triall of his pulse, _gianetta_ (who by his mothers command, attended on him very diligently) upon some especial occasion entred into the chamber, which when the young gentleman perceived, and that shee neither spake word, nor so much as looked towards him, his heart grew great in amorous desire, and his pulse did beate beyond the compasse of ordinary custome; whereof the physicion made good observation, to note how long that fit would continue. no sooner was _gianetta_ gone forth of the chamber, but the pulse immediately gave over beating, which perswaded the physicion, that some part of the disease had now discovered it selfe apparantly. within a while after, pretending to have some speech with _gianetta_, and holding the gentleman still by the arme, the physicion caused her to be sent for, and immediately shee came. upon her very entrance into the chamber, the pulse began to beate againe extreamely, and when shee departed, it presently ceased. now was he thorowly perswaded, that hee had found the true effect of his sicknesse; when taking the father and mother aside, thus he spake to them. if you be desirous of your sons health, it consisteth not either in physicion or physicke, but in the mercy of your faire maide _gianetta_; for manifest signes have made it knowne to me, and he loveth the damosell very dearely: yet (for ought i can perceive, the maide doth not know it) now if you have respect of his life, you know (in this case) what is to be done. the nobleman and his wife hearing this, became somewhat satisfied, because there remained a remedy to preserve his life: but yet it was no meane griefe to them, if it should so succeede, as they feared, namely, the marriage betweene their sonne and _gianetta_. the physicion being gone, and they repairing to their sicke sonne, the mother began with him in this manner. sonne, i was alwayes perswaded, that thou wouldest not conceale any secret from me, or the least part of thy desires; especially, when without enjoying them, thou must remaine in the danger of death. full well art thou assured, or in reason oughtest to be, that there is not any thing for thy contentment, be it of what quality soever, but it should have beene provided for thee, and in as ample manner as for mine owne selfe. but though thou hast wandred so farre from duty, and hazarded both thy life and ours, it commeth so to passe, that heaven hath been more mercifull to thee, then thou wouldest be to thy selfe or us. and to prevent thy dying of this disease, a dreame this night hath acquainted me with the principall occasion of thy sickenesse, to wit, extraordinary affection to a young maiden, in some such place as thou hast seene her. i tell thee sonne, it is a matter of no disgrace to love, and why shouldst thou shame to manifest as much, it being so apt and convenient for thy youth? for if i were perswaded, that thou couldst not love, i should make the lesse esteeme of thee. therefore deare sonne, be not dismayed, but freely discover thine affections. expel those disastrous drouping thoughts, that have indangered thy life by this long lingering sicknesse. and let thy soule be faithfully assured, that thou canst not require any thing to be done, remaining within the compasse of my power, but i will performe it; for i love thee as dearely as mine owne life. set therefore aside this nice conceit of shame and feare, revealing the truth boldly to me, if i may stead thee in thy love; resolving thy selfe unfaignedly, that if my care stretch not to compasse thy content, account me for the most cruell mother living, and utterly unworthy of such a sonne. the young gentleman having heard these protestations made by his mother, was not a little ashamed of his owne follie; but recollecting his better thoughts together, and knowing in his soule, that no one could better further his hopes, then shee; forgetting all his former feare, he returned her this answere; madam, and my dearely affected mother, nothing hath more occasioned my loves so strict concealement, but an especiall error, which i finde by daily proofe in many, who being growne to yeeres of grave discretion, doe never remember, that they themselves have bin yong. but because heerein i find you to be both discreet and wise, i will not onely affirme, what you have seen in me to be true, but also will confesse, to whom it is: upon condition, that the effect of your promise may follow it, according to the power remaining in you, whereby you onely may secure my life. his mother, desirous to bee resolved, whether his confession would agree with the physitians words, or no, and reserving another intention to her selfe: bad him feare nothing, but freely discover his whole desire, and forthwith she doubted not to effect it. then madame (quoth hee) the matchlesse beauty, and commendable qualities of your maid _gianetta_, to whom (as yet) i have made no motion, to commisserate this my languishing extremity, nor acquainted any living creature with my love: the concealing of these afflictions to my selfe, hath brought mee to this desperate condition: and if some meane bee not wrought, according to your constant promise, for the full enjoying of my longing desires, assure your selfe (most noble mother) that the date of my life is very short. the lady well knowing, that the time now rather required kindest comfort, then any severe or sharpe reprehension; smiling on him, saide. alas deere sonne, wast thou sicke for this? be of good cheare, and when thy strength is better restored, then referre the matter to me. the young gentleman, being put in good hope by his mothers promise, began (in short time) to shew apparant signes of well-forwarded amendment: to the mothers great joy and comfort, disposing her selfe daily to proove, how in honour she might keepe promise with her son. within a short while after, calling _gianetta_ privately to her, in gentle manner, and by the way of pleasant discourse, she demanded of her, whither she was provided of a lover, or no. _gianetta_, being never acquainted with any such questions, a scarlet dye covering all her modest countenance, thus replied. madam, i have no neede of any lover, and very unseemly were it, for so poore a damosell as i am, to have so much as a thought of lovers: being banished from my friends and kinsfolke, and remaining in service as i do. if you have none (answered the lady) wee will bestowe one on you, which shall content your minde, and bring you to a more pleasing kinde of life; because it is farre unfit, that so faire a maid as you are, should remaine destitute of a lover. madam, sayde _gianetta_, considering with my selfe, that since you received me of my poore father, you have used me rather like your daughter, then a servant; it becommeth mee to doe as pleaseth you. notwithstanding, i trust (in the regard of mine own good and honour) never to use any complaint in such a case: but if you please to bestow a husband on me, i purpose to love and honour him onely, & not any other. for, of all the inheritance left me by my progenitors, nothing remaineth to me but honourable honesty, and that shall bee my legacie so long as i live. these words were of a quite contrary complexion, to those which the lady expected from her, and for effecting the promise made unto hir sonne: howbeit (like a wise and noble lady) much shee inwardly commended the maids answers, and saide unto her. but tell me _gianetta_, what if my lord the king (who is a gallant youthfull prince, and you so bright a beauty as you are) should take pleasure in your love, would ye denie him? sodainly the maide returned this answer; madam, the king (perhaps) might enforce me; but with my free consent, hee shall never have any thing of me that is not honest. nor did the lady mislike her maides courage and resolution, but breaking off all her further conference, intended shortly to put her project in proofe, saying to her son, that when he was fully recovered, he should have private accesse to _gianetta_, whom shee doubted not but would be tractable enough to him; for she held it no meane blemish to her honour, to moove the maide any more in the matter, but let him compasse it as he could. farre from the yong gentlemans humour was this answer of his mother, because he aimed not at any dishonourable end: true, faithfull, & honest love was the sole scope of his intention, foule and loathsome lust he utterly defied; whereupon, he fell into sickenesse againe, rather more violently then before. which the lady perceiving, revealed her whole intent to _gianetta_, and finding her constancie beyond common comparison, acquainted her lord with all she had done, and both consented (though much against their mindes) to let him enjoy her in honourable marriage: accounting it better, for preservation of their onely sons life, to match him farre inferiour to his degree, then (by denying his desire) to let him pine away, and die for her love. after great consultation with kindred and friendes, the match was agreed upon, to the no little joy of _gianetta_, who devoutly returned infinite thankes to heaven, for so mercifully respecting her dejected poore estate, after the bitter passage of so many miseries, and never tearming her selfe any otherwise, but the daughter of a poore _piccard_. soone was the yong gentleman recovered and married, no man alive so well contented as he, and setting downe an absolute determination, to lead a loving life with his _gianetta_. let us now convert our lookes to _wales_, to _perotto_; being lefte there with the other lord marshall, who was the president of that countrey. on he grew in yeares, choisely respected by his lord, because hee was most comely of person, and addicted to all valiant attempts: so that in tourneyes, justes, and other actions of armes, his like was not to bee found in all the island, being named onely _perotto_ the valiant _piccard_, and so was he famed farre and neere. as god had not forgotten his sister, so in mercy he became as mindefull of him; for, a contagious mortalitie hapning in the country, the greater part of the people perished thereby, the rest flying thence into other partes of the land, whereby the whole province became dispeopled and desolate. in the time of this plague and dreadfull visitation, the lord president, his lady, sonnes, daughters, brothers, nephewes, and kindred dyed, none remaining alive, but one onely daughter marriageable, a few of the houshold servants, beside _perotto_, whom (after the sicknesse was more mildly asswaged) with counsaile and consent of the country people, the young lady accepted to be her husband, because hee was a man so worthy and valiant, and of all the inheritance left by her deceased father, she made him lord and sole commaunder. within no long while after, the king of _england_, understanding that his president of _wales_ was dead, and fame liberally relating, the vertues, valour, and good parts of _perotto_ the piccard: hee created him to be his president there, and to supply the place of his deceased lord. these faire fortunes, within the compasse of so short a time, fell to the two innocent children of the count _d'angiers_, after they were left by him as lost and forlorne. eighteene yeares were now fully over-past, since the count _d'angiers_ fled from _paris_, having suffered (in miserable sort) many hard and lamentable adversities, and seeing himselfe now to be growne aged, hee was desirous to leave ireland, and to know (if hee might) what was become of both his children. hereupon, perceiving his wonted forme to be so altered, that such as formerly had conversed most with him, could now not take any knowledge of him, & feeling his body (through long labour and exercise endured in service) more lusty, then in his idle youthfull yeares, especially when he left the court of _france_, hee purposed to proceede in his determination. being very poore and simple in apparell, hee departed from the irish earle his maister, with whom hee had continued long in service, to no advantage or advancement, and crossing over into _england_, travailed to the place in _wales_, where he left _perotto_: and where hee found him to be lord marshall and president of the country, lusty and in good health, a man of goodly feature, and most honourably respected and reverenced of the people. well may you imagine, that this was no small comfort to the poore aged countes heart, yet would he not make himselfe knowne to him or any other about him? but referred his joy to a further enlarging or diminishing, by sight of the other limme of his life, his dearely affected daughter _gianetta_, denying rest to his body in any place, untill such time as he came to _london_. making there secret enquiry, concerning the lady with whom he had left his daughter: hee understoode, that a young gentlewoman, named _gianetta_, was married to that ladies onely son; which made a second addition of joy to his soule, accounting all his passed adversities of no value, both his children being living, and in so high honour. having found her dwelling, and (like a kinde father) being earnestly desirous to see her; he dayly resorted neere to the house, where sir _roger mandavill_ (for so was _gianettaes_ husband named) chauncing to see him, being moved to compassion because he was both poore and aged: commaunded one of his men, to take him into the house, and to give him some foode for gods sake, which (accordingly) the servant performed. _gianetta_ had divers children by her husband, the eldest of them being but eight yeares olde, yet all of them so faire and comely as could be. as the olde count sate eating his meate in the hall, the children came all about him, embracing, hugging, and making much of him, even as if nature had truly instructed them, that this was their aged, though poore grandfather, and hee as lovingly receiving these kinde relations from them, wisely and silently kept all to himselfe, with sighes, teares, and joyes entermixed together. so that the children would not part from him, though their tutour and maister called them often, which being tolde to their mother, shee came foorth of the neere adjoining parlour, and threatned to beate them, if they would not doe what their maister commanded them. then the children began to cry, saying, that they would tarie still by the good olde man, because he loved them better then their maister did; whereat both the lady and the count began to smile. the count, like a poore beggar, and not as father to so great a lady, arose, and did her humble reverence, because shee was now a noble woman, conceiving wonderfull joy in his soule, to see her so faire and goodly a creature: yet could she take no knowledge of him, age, want and misery had so mightily altred him, his head all white, his beard without any comely forme, his garments so poore, and his face so wrinkled, leane and meager, that hee seemed rather some carter, then a count. and _gianetta_ perceiving, that when her children were fetcht away, they returned againe to the olde man, and would not leave him; desired their maister to let them alone. while thus the children continued making much of the good olde man, lord _andrew mandevile_, father to sir _roger_, came into the hall, as being so willed to doe by the childrens schoolemaister. he being a hastie minded man, and one that ever despised _gianetta_ before, but much more since her mariage to his sonne, angerly said. let them alone with a mischiefe, and so befall them, their best company ought to be with beggers, for so are they bred and borne by the mothers side: and therefore it is no mervaile, if like will to like, a beggers brats to keepe company with beggers. the count hearing these contemptible words, was not a little greeved thereat, and although his courage was greater, then his poore condition would permit him to expresse; yet, clouding all injuries with noble patience, hanging downe his head, and shedding many a salt teare, endured this reproach, as hee had done many, both before and after. but honourable sir _roger_, perceiving what delight his children tooke in the poore mans company; albeit he was offended at his fathers harsh words, by holding his wife in such base respect; yet favoured the poore count so much the more, and seeing him weepe, did greatly compassionate his case, saying to the poore man, that if hee would accept of his service, he willingly would entertaine him. whereto the count replied, that very gladly he would embrace his kinde offer: but hee was capable of no other service, save onely to be an horse-keeper, wherein he had imployed the most part of his time. heereupon, more for pleasure and pitty, then any necessity of his service, he was appointed to the keeping of one horse, which was onely for his daughters saddle, and daily after he had done his diligence about the horse, he did nothing elsee but play with the children. while fortune pleased thus to dally with the poore count _d'angiers_, & his children, it came to passe, that the king of _france_ (after divers leagues of truces passed between him & the _germaines_) died, and next after him, his son the dolphin was crowned king, and it was his wife that wrongfully caused the counts banishment. after expiration of the last league with the _germains_, the warres began to grow much more fierce and sharpe, and the king of _england_, (upon request made to him by his new brother of _france_) sent him very honourable supplies of his people, under the conduct of _perotto_, his lately elected president of _wales_, and sir _roger mandevile_, son to his other lord high marshall; with whom also the poore count went, and continued a long while in the campe as a common souldier, where yet like a valiant gentleman (as indeed he was no lesse) both in advice and actions; he accomplished many more notable matters, then was expected to come from him. it so fell out, that in the continuance of this warre, the queen of _france_ fell into a grievous sicknes, and perceiving her selfe to be at the point of death, shee became very penitently sorrowfull for all her sinnes, earnestly desiring that shee might be confessed by the archbishop of _roane_, who was reputed to be an holy and vertuous man. in the repetition of her other offences, she revealed what great wrong she had done to the count _d'angiers_, resting not so satisfied, with disclosing the whole matter to him alone; but also confessed the same before many other worthy persons, and of great honour, entreating them to worke so with the king; that (if the count were yet living, or any of his children) they might be restored to their former honour againe. it was not long after, but the queene left this life, and was most royally enterred, when her confession being disclosed to the king, after much sorrow for so injuriously wronging a man of so great valour and honour: proclamation was made throughout the camp, and in many other parts of _france_ beside, that whosoever could produce the count _d'angiers_, or any of his children, should richly be rewarded for each one of them; in regard he was innocent of the foule imputation, by the queenes owne confession, and for his wrongfull exile so long, he should be exalted to his former honour with farre greater favours, which the king franckely would bestow upon him. when the count (who walked up and downe in the habite of a common servitor) heard this proclamation, forth-with he went to his master sir _roger mandevile_, requesting his speedy repaire to lord _perotto_, that being both assembled together, he would acquaint them with a serious matter, concerning the late proclamation published by the king. being by themselves alone in the tent, the count spake in this manner to _perotto_. sir, s. _roger mandevile_ here, your equal competitor in this military service, is the husband to your naturall sister, having as yet never received any dowry with her, but her inherent unblemishable vertue & honour. now because she may not still remain destitute of a competent dowry: i desire that sir _roger_, and none other, may enjoy the royall reward promised by the king. you lord _perotto_, whose true name is _lewes_, manifest your selfe to be nobly borne, and sonne to the wrongfull banished count _d'angiers_: avouch moreover, that _violenta_, shadowed under the borrowed name of _gianetta_, is your owne sister; and deliver me up as your father, the long exiled count _d'angiers. perotto_ hearing this, beheld him more advisedly, and began to know him: then, the tears flowing abundantly from his eyes, he fell at his feete, and often embracing him, saide: my deere and noble father! a thousand times more deerely welcome to your sonne _lewes_. sir _roger mandevile_, hearing first what the count had said, and seeing what _perotto_ afterward performed; became surprized with such extraordinary joy and admiration, that he knew not how to carry himselfe in this case. neverthelesse, giving credite to his words, and being somewhat ashamed, that he had not used the count in more respective manner, & remembring beside, the unkinde language of his furious father to him: he kneeled downe, humbly craving pardon, both for his fathers rudenes and his owne, which was courteously granted by the count, embracing him lovingly in his armes. when they had a while discoursed their severall fortunes, sometime in teares, and then againe in joy, _perotto_ and sir _roger_, would have the count to be garmented in better manner, but in no wise he would suffer it; for it was his onely desire, that sir _roger_ should be assured of the promised reward, by presenting him in the kings presence, and in the homely habit which he did then weare, to touch him with the more sensible shame, for his rash beleefe, and injurious proceeding. then sir _roger mandevile_, guiding the count by the hand, and _perotto_ following after, came before the king, offering to present the count and his children, if the reward promised in the proclamation might be performed. the king immediately commanded, that a reward of inestimable valew should be produced; desiring sir _roger_ uppon the sight thereof, to make good his offer, for forthwith presenting the count and his children. which hee made no longer delay of, but turning himselfe about, delivered the aged count, by the title of his servant, and presenting _perotto_ next, said. sir, heere i deliver you the father and his son, his daughter who is my wife, cannot so conveniently be heere now, but shortly, by the permission of heaven, your majesty shall have a sight of her. when the king heard this, stedfastly he looked on the count; and, notwithstanding his wonderfull alteration, both from his wonted feature and forme: yet, after he had very seriously viewed him, he knew him perfectly; and the teares trickling downe his cheekes, partly with remorsefull shame, and joy also for his so happy recovery, he tooke up the count from kneeling, kissing, and embracing him very kindely, welcomming _perotto_ in the selfesame manner. immediately also he gave commaund, that the count should be restored to his honours, apparrell, servants, horses, and furniture, answerable to his high estate and calling, which was as speedily performed. moreover, the king greatly honoured sir _roger mandevile_, desiring to be made acquainted with all their passed fortunes. when sir _roger_ had received the royall reward, for thus surrendring the count and his sonne, the count calling him to him, saide. take that princely remuneration of my soveraigne lord the king, and commending me to your unkinde father, tell him that your children are no beggars brats, neither basely borne by their mothers side. sir _roger_ returning home with his bountifull reward, soone after brought his wife and mother to _paris_, and so did _perotto_ his wife, where in great joy and triumph, they continued a long while with the noble count; who had all his goods and honours restored to him, in farre greater measure then ever they were before: his sonnes in law returning home with their wives into _england_, left the count with the king at _paris_, where he spent the rest of his dayes in great honour and felicity. bernardo, _a merchant of_ geneway, _being deceived by another merchant, named_ ambroginolo, _lost a great part of his goods. and commanding his innocent wife to be murthered, shee escaped, and (in the habite of a man) became servant to the soldane. the deceiver being found at last, shee compassed such meanes, that her husband_ bernardo _came into_ alexandria, _and there, after due punishment inflicted on the false deceiver, shee resumed the garments againe of a woman, and returned home with her husband to_ geneway. the ninth novell. _wherein is declared, that by over-liberall commending the chastity of women, it falleth out (oftentimes) to be very dangerous, especially by the meanes of treacherers, who yet (in the ende) are justly punished for their treachery._ madam _eliza_ having ended her compassionate discourse, which indeede had moved all the rest to sighing; the queene, who was faire, comely of stature, and carrying a very majesticall countenance, smiling more familiarly then the other, spake to them thus. it is very necessary, that the promise made to _dioneus_, should carefully be kept, and because now there remaineth none, to report any more novelse, but onely he and my selfe: i must first deliver mine, and he (who takes it for an honour) to be the last in relating his owne, last let him be for his owne deliverance. then pausing a little while, thus shee began againe. many times among vulgar people, it hath passed as a common proverbe: that the deceiver is often trampled on, by such as he hath deceived. and this cannot shew it selfe (by any reason) to be true, except such accidents as awaite on treachery, doe really make a just discovery thereof. and therefore according to the course of this day observed, i am the woman, that must make good what i have saide for the approbation of that proverbe; no way (i hope) distastfull to you in the hearing, but advantageable to preserve you from any such beguiling. there was a faire and good inne in _paris_, much frequented by many great _italian_ merchants, according to such variety of occasions and businesse, as urged their often resorting thither. one night among many other, having had a merry supper together, they began to discourse on divers matters, and falling from one relation to another; they communed in very friendly manner, concerning their wives, lefte at home in their houses. quoth the first, i cannot well imagine what my wife is now doing, but i am able to say for my selfe, that if a pretty female should fall into my company: i could easily forget my love to my wife, and make use of such an advantage offered. a second replyed; and trust me, i should do no lesse, because i am perswaded, that if my wife be willing to wander, the law is in her owne hand, and i am farre enough from home: dumbe walles blab no tales, & offences unknowne are sildome or never called in question. a thirde man jumpt in censure, with his former fellowes of the jury; and it plainly appeared, that al the rest were of the same opinion, condemning their wives over-rashly, and alledging, that when husbands strayed so far from home, their wives had wit enough to make use of their time. onely one man among them all, named _bernardo lomellino_, & dwelling in _geneway_, maintained the contrary; boldly avouching, that by the especiall favour of fortune, he had a wife so perfectly compleat in al graces and vertues, as any lady in the world possibly could be, and that _italy_ scarsely contained her equall. for, she was goodly of person, and yet very young, quicke, quaint, milde, and courteous, and not any thing appertaining to the office of a wife, either for domesticke affayres, or any other imployment whatsoever, but in woman-hoode shee went beyond all other. no lord, knight, esquire, or gentleman, could bee better served at his table, then himselfe dayly was, with more wisedome, modesty and discretion. after all this, hee praised her for riding, hawking, hunting, fishing, fowling, reading, writing, enditing, and most absolute keeping his bookes of accounts, that neither himselfe, or any other merchant could therein excell her. after infinite other commendations, he came to the former point of their argument, concerning the easie falling of women into wantonnesse, maintaining (with a solemne oath) that no woman possibly could be more chaste and honest then she: in which respect, he was verily perswaded, that if he stayed from her ten yeares space, yea (all his life time) out of his house; yet never would shee falsifie her faith to him, or be lewdly allured by any other man. among these merchants thus communing together, there was a young proper man, named _ambroginolo_ of _placentia_, who began to laugh at the last praises, which _bernardo_ had used of his wife, and seeming to make a mockerie thereat, demaunded, if the emperour had given him this priviledge, above all other married men? _bernardo_ being somewhat offended, answered: no emperour hath done it, but the especiall blessing of heaven, exceeding all the emperours on the earth in grace, and thereby have received this favour; whereto _ambroginolo_ presently thus replied. _bernardo_, without all question to the contrary, i beleeve that what thou hast said, is true, but, for ought i can perceive, thou hast slender judgement in the nature of things: because, if thou didst observe them well, thou couldst not be of so grosse understanding; for, by comprehending matters in their true kinde and nature, thou wouldst speake of them more correctly then thou doest. and to the end, thou mayest not imagine, that wee who have spoken of our wives, doe thinke any otherwise of them, then as well and honestly as thou canst of thine, nor that any thing elsee did urge these speeches of them, or falling into this kinde of discourse, but onely by a naturall instinct and admonition; i will proceede familiarly a little further with thee, upon the matter already propounded. i have ever more understood, that man was the most noble creature, formed by god to live in this world, and woman in the next degree to him: but man, as generally is beleeved, and as is discerned by apparant effects, is the most perfect of both. having then the most perfection in him, without all doubt, he must be so much the more firme and constant. so in like manner, it hath beene, and is universally graunted, that woman is more various and mutable, and the reason thereof may be approved, by many naturall circumstances, which were needlesse now to make any mention of. if a man then be possessed of the greater stability, and yet cannot containe himselfe from condiscending, i say not to one that entreates him, but to desire any other that may please him, and beside, to covet the enjoying of his owne pleasing contentment (a thing not chancing to him once in a moneth, but infinite times in a dayes space.) what can you then conceive of a fraile woman, subject (by nature) to entreaties, flatteries, gifts, perswasions, and a thousand other enticing meanes, which a man (that is affected to her) can use? doest thou think then that shee hath any power to containe? assuredly, though thou shouldst rest so resolved, yet cannot i be of the same opinion. for i am sure thou beleevest, and must needes confesse it, that thy wife is a woman, made of flesh and blood, as other women are: if it be so, shee cannot be without the same desires, and the weakenesse or strength as other women have, to resist such naturall appetites as her owne are. in regard whereof, it is meerely impossible (although shee be most honest) but she must needs do that which other women do; for there is nothing elsee possible, either to be denied or affirmed to the contrary, as thou most unadvisedly hast done. _bernardo_ answered in this manner. i am a merchant, and no philosopher, and like a merchant i meane to answere thee. i am not to learne, that these accidents by thee related, may happen to fooles, who are void of understanding or shame: but such as are wise, and endued with vertue, have alwayes such a precious esteeme of their honour, that they will containe those principles of constancie, which men are meerely carelesse of, and i justifie my wife to be one of them. beleeve me _bernardo_ (replied _ambroginolo_) if so often as thy wives minde is addicted to wanton folly, a badge of scorne should arise on thy forehead, to render testimonie of her female frailty; i beleeve the number of them would be more, then willingly you would wish them to be. and among all married men, in every degree, the notes are so secret of their wives imperfections, that the sharpest sight is not able to discerne them; and the wiser sort of men are willing not to know them; because shame and losse of honour is never imposed, but in cases evident and apparant. perswade thy selfe then _bernardo_, that, what women may accomplish in secret, they will rarely faile to doe: or if they abstaine, it is through feare and folly. wherefore, hold it for a certaine rule, that that woman is onely chaste, that never was solicited personally, or if she endured any such sute, either shee answered yea, or no. and albeit i know this to be true, by many infallible and naturall reasons, yet could i not speake so exactly as i doe; if i had not tried experimentally, the humours and affections of divers women. yea, and let me tell thee more _bernardo_, were i in private company with thy wife, howsoever pure and precise thou presumest her to be: i should account it a matter of no impossibility, to finde in her the selfe same frailty. _bernardoes_ blood began now to boile, and patience being a little put downe by choller, thus hee replied. a combat of words requires over-long continuance, for i maintaine the matter, which thou deniest, and all this sorts to nothing in the end. but seeing thou presumest, that all women are so apt and tractable, and thy selfe so confident of thine owne power: i willingly yeeld (for the better assurance of my wifes constant loyalty) to have my head smitten off, if thou canst winne her to any such dishonest act, by any meanes whatsoever thou canst use unto her; which if thou canst not doe, thou shalt onely loose a thousand duckets of gold. now began _ambroginolo_ to be heated with these words, answering thus. _bernardo_, if i had won the wager, i know not what i should doe with thy head; but if thou be willing to stand upon the proofe, pawne downe five thousand duckets of gold, (a matter of much lesse value then thy head) against a thousand duckets of mine, granting me a lawfull limitted time, which i require to be no more then the space of three moneths, after the day of my departing hence. i will stand bound to goe for _geneway_, and there winne such kinde consent of thy wife, as shall be to mine owne consent. in witnesse whereof, i will bring backe with me such private and especiall tokens, as thou thy selfe shalt confesse that i have not failed. provided, that thou doe first promise upon thy faith, to absent thy selfe thence during my limitted time, and be no hinderance to me by thy letters, concerning the attempt by me undertaken. _bernardo_ saide, be it a bargaine, i am the man that will make good my five thousand duckets; and albeit the other merchants then present, earnestly laboured to breake the wager, knowing great harme must needs ensue thereon: yet both the parties were so hot and fiery, as all the other men spake to no effect, but writings were made, sealed, and delivered under either of their hands, _bernardo_ remaining at _paris_, and _ambroginolo_ departing for _geneway_. there he remained some few dayes, to learne the streetes name where _bernardo_ dwelt, as also the conditions and qualities of his wife, which scarcely pleased him when he heard them; because they were farre beyond her husbands relation, and shee reputed to be the onely wonder of women; whereby he plainely perceived, that he had undertaken a very idle enterprise, yet would he not give it over so, but proceeded therein a little further. he wrought such meanes, that he came acquainted with a poore woman, who often frequented _bernardoes_ house, and was greatly in favour with his wife; upon whose poverty he so prevailed, by earnest perswasions, but much more by large gifts of money, that he won her to further him in this manner following. a faire and artificiall chest he caused to be purposely made, wherein himselfe might be aptly contained, and so conveyed into the house of _bernardoes_ wife, under colour of a formall excuse; that the poore woman should be absent from the city two or three dayes, and shee must keepe it safe till he returne. the gentlewoman suspecting no guile, but that the chest was the receptacle of all the womans wealth; would trust it in no other roome, then her owne bed-chamber, which was the place where _ambroginolo_ most desired to bee. being thus conveyed into the chamber, the night going on apace, and the gentlewoman fast asleepe in her bed, a lighted taper stood burning on the table by her, as in her husbands absence shee ever used to have: _ambroginolo_ softly opened the chest, according as cunningly hee had contrived it; and stepping forth in his sockes made of cloath, observed the scituation of the chamber, the paintings, pictures, and beautifull hangings, with all things elsee that were remarkable, which perfectly he committed to his memory. going neere to the bed, he saw her lie there sweetly sleeping, and her young daughter in like manner by her, shee seeming then as compleate and pleasing a creature, as when shee was attired in her best bravery. no especiall note or marke could hee descrie, whereof he might make credible report, but onely a small wart upon her left pappe, with some few haires growing thereon, appearing to be as yellow as gold. sufficient had he seene, and durst presume no further; but taking one of her rings, which lay upon the table, a purse of hers, hanging by on the wall, a light wearing robe of silke, and her girdle, all which he put into the chest; and being in himselfe, closed it fast as it was before, so continuing there in the chamber two severall nights, the gentlewoman neither mistrusting or missing any thing. the third day being come, the poore woman, according as formerly was concluded, came to have home her chest againe, and brought it safely into her owne house; where _ambroginolo_ comming forth of it, satisfied the poore woman to her own liking, returning (with all the forenamed things) so fast as conveniently he could to _paris_. being arrived there long before his limitted time, he called the merchants together, who were present at the passed words and wager; avouching before _bernardo_, that he had won his five thousand duckets, and performed the taske he undertooke. to make good his protestation, first he described the forme of the chamber, the curious pictures hanging about it, in what manner the bed stood, and every circumstance elsee beside. next he shewed the severall things, which he brought away thence with him, affirming that he had received them of her selfe. _bernardo_ confessed, that his description of the chamber was true, and acknowledged moreover, that these other things did belong to his wife: but (quoth he) this may be gotten, by corrupting some servant of mine, both for intelligence of the chamber, as also of the ring, purse, and what elsee is beside; all which suffice not to win the wager, without some other more apparant and pregnant token. in troth, answered _ambroginolo_, me thinks these should serve for sufficient proofes; but seeing thou art so desirous to know more: i plainely tell thee, that faire _genevra_ thy wife, hath a small round wart upon her left pappe, and some few little golden haires growing thereon. when bernardo heard these words, they were as so many stabs to his heart, yea, beyond all compasse of patient sufferance, and by the changing of his colour, it was noted manifestly, (being unable to utter one word) that _ambroginolo_ had spoken nothing but the truth. within a while after, he saide; gentlemen, that which _ambroginolo_ hath saide, is very true, wherefore let him come when he will, and he shall be paide; which accordingly he performed on the very next day, even to the utmost penny, departing then from _paris_ towards _geneway_, with a most malicious intention to his wife: being come neere to the city, he would not enter it, but rode to a countrey house of his, standing about tenne miles distant thence. being there arrived, he called a servant, in whom hee reposed especiall trust, sending him to _geneway_ with two horses, writing to his wife, that he was returned, and shee should come thither to see him. but secretly he charged his servant, that so soone as he had brought her to a convenient place, he should there kill her, without any pitty or compassion, and then returne to him againe. when the servant was come to _geneway_, and had delivered his letter and message, _genevra_ gave him most joyful welcome, and on the morrow morning mounting on horse-backe with the servant, rode merrily towards the countrey house; divers things shee discoursed on by the way, til they descended into a deepe solitary valey, very thickly beset with high and huge spreading trees, which the servant supposed to be a meete place, for the execution of his masters command. suddenly drawing forth his sword, and holding _genevra_ fast by the arme, he saide; mistresse, quickly commend your soule to god, for you must die, before you passe any further. _genevra_ seeing the naked sword, and hearing the words so peremptorily delivered, fearefully answered; alas deare friend, mercy for gods sake; and before thou kill me, tell me wherein i have offended thee, and why thou must kill me? alas good mistresse replied the servant, you have not any way offended me, but in what occasion you have displeased your husband, it is utterly unknowne to me: for he hath strictly commanded me, without respect of pitty or compassion, to kill you by the way as i bring you, and if i doe it not, he hath sworne to hang me by the necke. you know good mistresse, how much i stand obliged to him; and how impossible it is for me, to contradict any thing that he commandedeth. god is my witnesse, that i am truly compassionate of you, and yet (by no meanes) may i let you live. _genevra_ kneeling before him weeping, wringing her hands, thus replied. wilt thou turne monster, and be a murtherer of her that never wronged thee, to please another man, and on a bare command? god, who truly knoweth all things, is my faithfull witnesse, that i never committed any offence, whereby to deserve the dislike of my husband, much lesse so harsh a recompence as this is. but flying from mine owne justification, and appealing to thy manly mercy, thou mayest (wert thou but so well pleased) in a moment satisfie both thy master and me, in such manner as i will make plaine and apparant to thee. take thou my garments, spare me onely thy doublet, and such a bonnet as is fitting for a man, so returne with my habite to thy master, assuring him, that the deede is done. and here i sweare to thee, by that life which i enjoy but by thy mercy, i will so strangely disguise my selfe, and wander so farre off from these countries, as neither he or thou, nor any person belonging to these parts, shall ever heare any tydings of me. the servant, who had no great good will to kill her, very easily grew pittifull, tooke off her upper garments, and gave her a poore ragged doublet, a sillie chapperone, and such small store of money as he had, desiring her to forsake that countrey, and so left her to walke on foote out of the vally. when he came to his maister, and had delivered him her garments, he assured him, that he had not onely accomplished his commaund, but also was most secure from any discovery: because he had no sooner done the deede, but foure or five very ravenous wolfes, came presently running to the dead body, and gave it buriall in their bellies. _bernardo_ soone after returning to _geneway_, was much blamed for such unkinde cruelty to his wife; but his constant avouching of her treason to him (according then to the countries custome) did cleare him from all pursuite of law. poore _genevra_, was left thus alone and disconsolate, and night stealing fast upon her, shee went to a silly village neere adjoining, where (by the meanes of a good olde woman) she got such provision as the place afforded, making the doublet fit to her body, and converting her petticote to a paire of breeches, according to the mariners fashion: then cutting her haire, and queintly disguised like to a sayler, shee went to the sea coast. by good fortune, she met there with a gentleman of _cathalogna_, whose name was _signior enchararcho_, who came on land from his ship, which lay hulling there about _albagia_, to refresh himselfe at a pleasant spring. _enchararcho_ taking her to be a man, as shee appeared no otherwise by her habite; upon some conference passing betweene them, shee was entertained into his service, and being brought aboord the ship, she went under the name of _sicurano da finale_. there shee had better apparell bestowne on her by the gentleman, and her service proved so pleasing and acceptable to him, that hee liked her care and diligence beyond all comparison. it came to passe within a short while after, that this gentleman of _cathalogna_ sayled (with some charge of his) into _alexandria_, carying thither certaine peregrine faulcons, which hee presented to the soldane: who oftentimes welcommed this gentleman to his table, where hee observed the behaviour of _sicurano_, attending on his maisters trencher, and therewith was so highly pleased; that he requested to have him from the gentleman, who (for his more advancement) willingly parted with his so lately entertained servant. _sicurano_ was so ready and discreete in his dayly services; that he grew in as great grace with the soldane, as before he had done with _enchararcho_. at a certaine season in the yeare, as customarie order (there observed) had formerly beene, in the citie of _acres_, which was under the soldanes subjection: there yearely met a great assembly of merchants, as christians, moores, jewes, sarrazines, and many other nations beside, as at a common mart or fayre. and to the end, that the merchants (for the better sale of their goods) might be there in the safer assurance; the soldane used to send thither some of his ordinarie officers, and a strong guard of souldiers beside, to defend them from all injuries and molestation, because he reaped thereby no meane benefit. and who should be now sent about this businesse, but his new elected favourite _sicurano_; because she was skilfull and perfect in the languages. _sicurano_ being come to _acres_, as lord and captaine of the guard for the merchants, and for the safety of their merchandizes: she discharged her office most commendably, walking with her traine through every part of the fayre, where shee observed a worthy company of merchants, sicilians, pisanes, genewayes, venetians, and other italians, whom the more willingly shee noted, in remembrance of her native countrey. at one especiall time, among other, chancing into a shop or boothe belonging to the venetians; she espied (hanging up with other costly wares) a purse and a girdle, which suddainly shee remembred to be sometime her owne, whereat she was not a little abashed in her mind. but, without making any such outward shew, courteously she requested to know, whose they were, and whether they should be sold, or no. _ambroginolo_ of _placentia_, was likewise come thither, and great store of merchandizes hee had brought with him, in a carrack appertaining to the venetians, and hee, hearing the captaine of the guard demaund, whose they were; stepped foorth before him, and smiling, answered: that they were his, but not to be solde, yet if hee liked them gladly, hee would bestowe them on him. _sicurano_ seeing him smile, suspected, least himselfe had (by some unfitting behaviour) beene the occasion thereof: and therefore, with a more setled countenance, hee said. perhaps thou smilest, because i that am a man, professing armes, should question after such womanish toyes. _ambroginolo_ replied. my lord, pardon me, i smile not at you, or your demaund; but at the manner how i came by these things. _sicurano_, upon this answere, was ten times more desirous then before, and said. if fortune favoured thee in friendly manner, by the obtaining of these things: if it may be spoken, tell me how thou hadst them. my lord (answered _ambroginolo_) these things (with many more beside) were given me by a gentlewoman of _geneway_, named madame _genevra_, the wife to one _bernardo lomellino_, in recompence of one nights lodging with her, and she desired me to keepe them for her sake. now, the maine reason of my smiling, was the remembrance of her husbands folly, in waging five thousand duckets of golde, against one thousand of mine, that i should not obtaine my will of his wife, which i did, and thereby wone the wager. but hee, who better deserved to be punished for his folly, then shee, who was but sicke of all womens disease: returning from _paris_ to _geneway_, caused her to be slaine, as afterward it was reported by himselfe. when _sicurano_ heard this horrible lye, immediatly shee conceived, that this was the occasion of her husbands hatred to her, and all the hard haps which she had since suffered: whereupon, shee reputed it for more then a mortall sinne, if such a villaine should passe without due punishment. _sicurano_ seemed to like well this report, and grew into such familiarity with _ambroginolo_, that (by her perswasions) when the fayre was ended, she tooke him higher with her into _alexandria_, and all his wares along with him, furnishing him with a fit and convenient shop, where he made great benefit of his merchandizes, trusting all his monies in the captaines custody, because it was the safest course for him; and so he continued there with no meane contentment. much did shee pitty her husbands perplexity, devising by what good and warrantable meanes, she might make knowne her innocency to him; wherein her place and authority did greatly sted her, and shee wrought with divers gallant merchants of _geneway_, that then remained in _alexandria_, and by vertue of the _soldans_ friendly letters, beside to bring him thither upon an especiall occasion. come he did, albeit in poore and meane order, which soone was better altered by her appointment, and he very honourably (though in private) entertained by divers of her worthy friends, till time did favour what shee further intended. in the expectation of _bernardoes_ arrivall, shee had so prevailed with _ambroginolo_, that the same tale which he formerly tolde to her, he delivered againe in presence of the _soldane_, who seemed to be well pleased with it: but after shee had once seene her husband, shee thought upon her more serious businesse; providing her selfe of an apt opportunity, when shee entreated such favour of the _soldane_, that both the men might be brought before him, where if _ambroginolo_ would not confesse (without constraint) that which he had made his vaunt of concerning _bernardoes_ wife, he might be compelled thereto perforce. _sicuranoes_ word was a law with the _soldane_, so that _ambroginolo_ and _bernardo_ being brought face to face, the _soldane_, with a sterne and angry countenance, in the presence of a most princely assembly; commanded _ambroginolo_ to declare the truth, yea, upon peril of his life, by what means he won the wager, of the five thousand golden duckets he received of _bernardo. ambroginolo_ seeing _sicurano_ there present, upon whose favour he wholly relied, yet perceiving her lookes likewise to be as dreadfull as the _soldanes_, and hearing her threaten him with most greevous torments, except he revealed the truth indeede: you may easily guesse (faire company) in what condition he stood at that instant. frownes and fury he beheld on either side, and _bernardo_ standing before him, with a world of famous witnesses, to heare his lie confounded by his owne confession, and his tongue to denie what it had before so constantly avouched. yet dreaming on no other paine or penalty, but restoring backe the five thousand duckets of gold, and the other things by him purloyned, truly he revealed the whole forme of his falshood. then _sicurano_ according as the _soldane_ had formerly commanded him, turning to _bernardo_, saide. and thou, upon the suggestion of this foule lie, what didst thou to thy wife? being (quoth _bernardo_) overcome with rage, for the losse of my money, and the dishonour i supposed to receive by my wife; i caused a servant of mine to kill her, and as he credibly avouched, her body was devoured by ravenous wolves in a moment after. these things being thus spoken and heard, in the presence of the _soldane_, and no reason (as yet) made knowne, why the case was so seriously urged, and to what end it would succeede: _sicurano_ spake in this manner to the soldane. my gracious lord, you may plainely perceive, in what degree that poore gentlewoman might make her vaunt, being so well provided, both of a loving friend, and a husband. such was the friends love, that in an instant, and by a wicked lye, hee robbed her both of her renowne and honour, and bereft her also of her husband. and her husband, rather crediting anothers falshood, then the invincible trueth, whereof he had faithfull knowledge, by long and very honourable experience; caused her to be slaine, and made foode for devouring wolves. beside all this, such was the good will and affection, borne to that woman both by friend and husband, that the longest continuer of them in her company, makes them alike in knowledge of her. but because your great wisedome knoweth perfectly, what each of them have worthily deserved: if you please (in your ever knowne gracious benignity) to permit the punishment of the deceiver, and pardon the party so deceived; i will procure such meanes, that she shall appeare here in your presence, and theirs. the soldane, being desirous to give _sicurano_ all manner of satisfaction, having followed the course so industriously: bad him to produce the woman, and hee was well contented. whereat _bernardo_ stoode much amazed, because he verily beleeved that she was dead. and _ambroginolo_ foreseeing already a preparation for punishment, feared, that the repayment of the money would not now serve his turne: not knowing also what he should further hope or suspect, if the woman her selfe did personally appeare, which hee imagined would be a miracle. _sicurano_ having thus obtayned the soldanes permission, in teares, humbling her selfe at his feete, in a moment shee lost her manly voyce and demeanour, as knowing, that she was now no longer to use them, but must truely witnesse what she was indeede, and therefore thus spake. great soldane, i am the miserable and unfortunate _genevra_, that, for the space of sixe whole yeares, have wandered through the world, in the habite of a man, falsly and most maliciously slaundered, by this villainous traytour _ambroginolo_, and by this unkinde cruell husband, betrayed to his servant to be slaine, and left to be devoured by savage beasts. afterward, desiring such garments as better fitted for her, and shewing her brests; she made it apparant, before the soldane and his assistants, that she was the very same woman indeede. then turning her selfe to _ambroginolo_, with more then manly courage, she demaunded of him, when, and where it was, that he lay with her, as (villainously) he was not ashamed to make his vaunt. but hee, having alreadie acknowledged the contrarie, being stricken dumbe with shamefull disgrace, was not able to utter one word. the soldane, who had alwayes reputed _sicurano_ to be a man, having heard and seene so admirable an accident: was so amazed in his minde, that many times he was very doubtfull, whether this was a dreame, or an absolute relation of trueth. but, after hee had more seriously considered thereon, and found it to be reall and infallible: with extraordinary gracious praises, he commended the life, constancie, conditions and vertues of _genevra_, whom (till that time) he had alwayes called _sicurano_. so committing her to the company of honourable ladies, to be changed from her manly habite: he pardoned _bernardo_ her husband (according to her request formerly made) although hee had more justly deserved death; which likewise himselfe confessed, and falling at the feete of _genevra_, desired her (in teares) to forgive his rash transgression, which most lovingly she did, kissing and embracing him a thousand times. then the soldane strictly commaunded, that on some high and eminent place of the citie, _ambroginolo_ should be bound and impaled on a stake, having his naked body annointed all over with honey, and never to be taken off, untill (of it selfe) it fell in pieces, which, according to the sentence, was presently performed. next, he gave expresse charge, that all his mony and goods should be given to _genevra_, which valued above ten thousand double duckets. forth-with a solemne feast was prepared, wherein, much honour was done to _bernardo_, being the husband of _genevra_: and to her, as to a most worthy woman, and matchlesse wife, he gave in costly jewelse, as also vesselse of gold and silver plate, so much as amounted to above ten thousand double duckets more. when the feasting was finished, he caused a ship to be furnished for them, graunting them licence to depart for _geneway_ when they pleased: whither they returned most rich and joyfully, being welcommed home with great honour, especially madame _genevra_, whom every one supposed to be dead, and alwayes after, so long as shee lived, shee was most famous for her manifold vertues. but as for _ambroginolo_, the very same day that he was impaled on the stake, annointed with honey, and fixed in the place appointed, to his no meane torment: he not onely died, but likewise was devoured to the bare bones, by flyes, waspes and hornets, whereof the countrey notoriously aboundeth. and his bones, in full forme and fashion, remained strangely blacke for a long while after, knit together by the sinewes; as a witnesse to many thousands of people, which afterward beheld his carkasse of his wickednesse against so good and vertuous a woman, that had not so much as a thought of any evill towards him. and thus was the proverbe truly verified, that shame succeedeth after ugly sinne, and the deceiver is trampled and trod, by such as himselfe hath deceived. pagamino da monaco, _a roving pirate on the seas, caried away the faire wife of_ signior ricciardo di chinzica, _who understanding where shee was, went thither; and falling into friendship with_ pagamino, _demaunded his wife of him; whereto he yeelded, provided, that shee would willingly goe away with him. she denied to part thence with her husband, and_ signior ricciardo _dying; she became the wife of_ pagamino. the tenth novell. _wherein olde men are wittily reprehended, that will match themselves with younger women, then is fit for their yeares and insufficiencie; never considering, what afterward may happen to them._ every one in this honest and gracious assembly, most highly commended the novell recounted by the queene: but especially _dioneus_, who remained, to finish that dayes pleasure with his owne discourse; and after many praises of the former tale were past, thus he began. faire ladies, part of the queenes novell, hath made an alteration of my minde, from that which i intended to proceede next withall, and therefore i will report another. i cannot forget the unmanly indiscretion of _bernardo_, but much more the base arrogancie of _ambroginolo_, how justly deserved shame fell upon him; as well it may happen to all other, that are so vile in their owne opinions, as he apparantly approved himselfe to be. for, as men wander abroade in the world, according to their occasions in diversity of countries, and observation of the peoples behaviour: so are their humours as variously transported. and if they finde women wantonly disposed abroade, the like judgement they give of their wives at home; as if they had never knowne their birth and breeding, or made proofe of their loyall carriage towards them. wherefore, the tale that i purpose to relate, will likewise condemne all the like kinde of men; but more especially such, as suppose themselves to be endued with more strength, then nature ever meant to bestow upon them, foolishly beleeving, that they can cover and satisfie their owne defects, by fabulous demonstrations; and thinking to fashion other of their owne complexions, that are meerely strangers to such grosse follies. let me tell you then, that there lived in _pisa_ (about some hundred yeeres before _tuscanie_ & _liguria_ came to embrace the christian faith) a judge better stored with wisdome and ingenuity, then corporall abilities of the body, he being named _signior ricciardo di cinzica_. he being more then halfe perswaded, that he could content a woman with such satisfaction as he daily bestowed on his studies, being a widdower, and extraordinarily wealthy; laboured (with no meane paines and endeavour) to enjoy a faire and youthfull wife in marriage: both which qualities he should much rather have avoyded, if he could have ministred as good counsell to himselfe, as he did to others, resorting to him for advice. upon this his amorous and diligent inquisition, it came so to passe, that a worthy gentlewoman, called _bertolomea_, one of the very fairest and choysest young maides in _pisa_, whose youth did hardly agree with his age; but mucke was the motive of this mariage, and no expectation of mutuall contentment. the judge being maried, and the bride brought solemnly home to his house, we need make no question of brave cheare & banqueting, wel furnished by their friends on either side: other matters were now hammering in the judges head, for though he could please all his clyents with counsell; yet now such a sute was commenced against himself, and in beauties court of continuall requests, that the judge failing in plea for his owne defence, was often non-suited by lacke of answer; yet he wanted neither good wines, drugges, and all restauratives, to comfort the heart, and encrease good blood; but all avayled not in this case. but well fare a good courage, where performance faileth, he could liberally commend his passed joviall dayes, and make a promise of as faire felicities yet to come; because his youth would renew it selfe, like to the eagle, and his vigour in as full force as before. but beside all these idle allegations, he would needs instruct his wife in an almanack or calender, which (long before) he had bought at _ravenna_, and wherein he plainely shewed her, that there was not any one day in the yeere, but it was dedicated to some saint or other. in reverence of whom, and for their sakes, he approved by divers arguments & reasons, that a man & his wife ought to abstaine from bedding together. hereto he added, that those saints dayes had their fasts & feasts, beside the foure seasons of the yeere, the vigils of the apostles, and a thousand other holy dayes, with fridayes, saturdayes, & sundayes, in honour of our lords rest, and all the sacred time of lent; as also certaine observations of the moone, & infinite other exceptions beside; thinking perhaps, that it was as convenient for men to refraine from their wives conversation, as he did often times from sitting in the court. these were his daily documents to his young wife, wherewith (poore soule) she became so tired, as nothing could be more irksome to her; and very carefull he was, lest any other shold teach her what belonged to working daies, because he wold have her know none but holidaies. afterward it came to passe, that the season waxing extremely hot, _signior ricciardo_ would goe recreate himselfe at his house in the countrey, neere unto the black mountaine, where for his faire wives more contentment, he continued divers dayes together. and for her further recreation, he gave order, to have a day of fishing; he going aboard a small pinnace among the fishers, and shee was in another, consorted with divers other gentlewomen, in whose company shee shewed her selfe very well pleased. delight made them launch further into the sea, then either the judge was willing they should have done, or agreed with respect of their owne safety. for suddenly a galliot came upon them, wherein was one _pagamino_, a pyrate very famous in those dayes, who espying the two pinnaces, made out presently to them, and seized on that wherein the women were. when he beheld there so faire a young woman, he coveted after no other purchase; but mounting her into his galliot, in the sight of _signior ricciardo_, who (by this time) was fearefully landed, he caried her away with him. when _signior_ judge had seene this theft (he being so jealous of his wife, as scarcely he would let the ayre breathe on her) it were a needlesse demand, to know whether he was offended, or no. he made complaint at _pisa_, and in many other places beside, what injury he had sustained by those pyrates, in carying his wife thus away from him: but all was in vaine, he neither (as yet) knew the man, nor whether he had conveyed her from him. _pagamino_ perceiving what a beautifull woman she was, made the more precious esteeme of his purchase, and being himselfe a bachelar, intended to keepe her as his owne; comforting her with kind and pleasing speeches, not using any harsh or uncivill demeanour to her, because shee wept and lamented grievously. but when night came, her husbands calendar falling from her girdle, and all the fasts & feasts quite out of her remembrance; she received such curteous consolations from _pagamino_, that before they could arrive at _monaco_, the judge & his law cases, were almost out of her memory, such was his affable behaviour to her, and she began to converse with him in more friendly manner, and he entreating her as honourably, as if shee had beene his espoused wife. within a short while after, report had acquainted _ricciardo_ the judge, where, & how his wife was kept from him; whereupon he determined, not to send any one, but rather to go himselfe in person, & to redeem her from the pyrate, with what sums of mony he should demand. by sea he passed to _monaco_, where he saw his wife, and shee him, as (soone after) shee made known to _pagamino_. on the morrow following, _signior ricciardo_ meeting with _pagamino_, made means to be acquainted with him, & within lesse then an houres space, they grew into familiar & private conference: _pagamino_ yet pretending not to know him, but expected what issue this talke would sort to. when time served, the judge discoursed the occasion of his comming thither, desiring him to demand what ransome he pleased, & that he might have his wife home with him; whereto _pagamino_ thus answered. my lord judge, you are welcome hither, and to answer you breefely very true it is, that i have a yong gentlewoman in my house, whome i neither know to be your wife, of any other mans elsee whatsoever: for i am ignorant both of you and her, albeit she hath remained a while here with me. if you bee her husband, as you seeme to avouch, i will bring her to you, for you appeare to be a worthy gentleman, and (questionles) she cannot chuse but know you perfectly. if she do confirme that which you have said, and be willing to depart hence with you: i shall rest well satisfied, and will have no other recompence for her ransome (in regard of your grave and reverent yeares) but what your selfe shall please to give me. but if it fall out otherwise, and prove not to be as you have affirmed: you shall offer me great wrong, in seeking to get her from me; because i am a young man, and can as well maintaine so faire a wife, as you, or any man elsee that i know. beleeve it certainly, replied the judge, that she is my wife, and if you please to bring me where she is, you shall soone perceive it: for, she will presently cast her armes about my neck, and i durst adventure the utter losse of her, if shee denie to doe it in your presence. come on then, said _pagamino_, and let us delay the time no longer. when they were entred into _pagaminoes_ house, and sate downe in the hall, he caused her to be called, and shee, being readily prepared for the purpose, came forth of her chamber before them both, where friendly they sate conversing together; never uttering any one word to _signior ricciardo_, or knowing him from any other stranger, that _pagamino_ might bring in to the house with him. which when my lord the judge beheld, (who expected to finde a farre more gracious welcome) he stoode as a man amazed, saying to himselfe. perhaps the extraordinary griefe and melancholly, suffered by me since the time of her losse; hath so altred my wonted complexion, that shee is not able to take knowledge of me. wherefore, going neerer to her, hee said. faire love, dearely have i bought your going on fishing, because never man felt the like afflictions, as i have done since the day when i lost you: but by this your uncivill silence, you seeme as if you did not know me. why dearest love, seest thou not that i am thy husband _ricciardo_, who am come to pay what ransome this gentleman shall demaund, even in the house where now we are: so to convay thee home againe, upon his kinde promise of thy deliverance, after the payment of thy ransome? _bertolomea_ turning towards him, and seeming as if shee smiled to her selfe, thus answered. sir, speake you to me? advise your selfe well, least you mistake me for some other, because, concerning my selfe, i doe not remember, that ever i did see you till now. how now quoth _ricciardo_? consider better what you say, looke more circumspectly on me, and then you will remember, that i am your loving husband, and my name is _ricciardo di cinzica_. you must pardon me sir, replied _bertolomea_, i know it not so fitting for a modest woman (though you (perhaps) are so perswaded) to stand gazing in the faces of men: and let mee looke upon you never so often, certaine i am, that (till this instant) i have not seene you. my lord judge conceived in his mind, that thus she denied all knowledge of him, as standing in feare of _pagamino_, and would not confesse him in his presence. wherefore hee entreated of _pagamino_, to affoord him so much favour, that he might speake alone with her in her chamber. _pagamino_ answered, that he was well contented therewith, provided, that he should not kisse her against her will. then he requested _bertolomea_, to goe with him alone into her chamber, there to heare what he could say, and to answere him as shee found occasion. when they were come into the chamber, and none there present but he and shee, _signior ricciardo_ began in this manner. heart of my heart, life of my life, the sweetest hope that i have in this world; wilt thou not know thine owne _ricciardo_, who loveth thee more then he doth himselfe? why art thou so strange? am i so disfigured, that thou knowest me not? behold me with a more pleasing eye, i pray thee. _bertolomea_ smiled to her selfe, and without suffering him to proceed any further in speech, returned him this answere. i would have you to understand sir, that my memory is not so oblivious, but i know you to be _signior ricciardo di cinzica_, and my husband by name or title; but during the time that i was with you, it very ill appeared that you had any knowledge of me. for if you had been so wise and considerate, as (in your own judgement) the world reputed you to be, you could not be voide of so much apprehension, but did apparantly perceive, that i was young, fresh, and cheerefully disposed; and so (by consequent) meet to know matters requisite for such young women, beside allowance of food & garments, though bashfulnesse & modesty forbid to utter it. but if studying the lawes were more welcome to you then a wife, you ought not to have maried, & you loose the worthy reputation of a judge, when you fall from that venerable profession, and make your selfe a common proclaimer of feasts and fasting dayes, lenten seasons, vigils, & solemnities due to saints, which prohibite the houshold conversation of husbands and wives. here am i now with a worthy gentleman, that entertained mee with very honourable respect, and here i live in this chamber, not so much as hearing of any feasts or fasting daies; for, neither fridaies, saturdaies, vigils of saints, or any lingering lents, enter at this doore: but here is honest and civill conversation, better agreeing with a youthfull disposition, then those harsh documents wherewith you tutord me. wherefore my purpose is to continue here with him, as being a place sutable to my mind & youth, referring feasts, vigils, & fasting dayes, to a more mature & stayed time of age, when the body is better able to endure them, & the mind may be prepared for such ghostly meditations: depart therefore at your owne pleasure, and make much of your calender, without enjoying any company of mine, for you heare my resolved determination. the judge hearing these words, was overcome with exceeding griefe, & when she was silent, thus he began. alas deare love, what an answer is this? hast thou no regard of thine owne honour, thy parents, & friends? canst thou rather affect to abide here, for the pleasures of this man, and so sin capitally, then to live at _pisa_ in the state of my wife? consider deare heart, when this man shall waxe weary of thee, to thy shame & his owne disgrace, he will reject thee. i must and shall love thee for ever, and when i dye, i leave thee lady and commandresse of all that is mine. can an inordinate appetite, cause thee to be carelesse of thine honour, and of him that loves thee as his owne life? alas, my fairest hope, say no more so, but returne home with me, and now that i am acquainted with thy inclination; i will endeavour heereafter to give thee better contentment. wherefore (deare heart) doe not denie me, but change thy minde, and goe with me, for i never saw merry day since i lost thee. sir (quoth she) i desire no body to have care of mine honour, beside my selfe, because it cannot be here abused. and as for my parents, what respect had they of me, when they made me your wife: if then they could be so carelesse of mee, what reason have i to regard them now? and whereas you taxe me, that i cannot live here without capitall sin; farre is the thought thereof from me, for, here i am regarded as the wife of _pagamino_, but at _pisa_, you reputed me not worthy your society: because, by the point of the moone, and the quadratures of geomatrie; the planets held conjunction betweene you and me, whereas here i am subject to no such constellations. you say beside, that hereafter you will strive to give me better contentment then you have done: surely, in mine opinion it is no way possible, because our complexions are so farre different, as ice is from fire, or gold from drosse. as for your allegation, of this gentlemans rejecting me, when his humour is satisfied; should if it prove to be so (as it is the least part of my feare) what fortune soever shall betide me, never will i make any meanes to you, what miseries or misadventures may happen to me; but the world will affoord me one resting place or other, and more to my contentment, then if i were with you. therefore i tell you once againe, to live secured from all offence to holy saints, and not to injury their feasts, fasts, vigills, and other ceremonious seasons: here is my demourance, and from hence i purpose not to part. our judge was now in a wofull perplexity, and confessing his folly, in marying a wife so yong, and far unfit for his age and abilitie: being halfe desperate, sad and displeased, he came forth of the chamber, using divers speeches to _pagamino_, whereof he made little or no account at all, and in the end, without any other successe, left his wife there, & returned home to _pisa_. there, further afflictions fell upon him, because the people began to scorne him, demanding dayly of him, what was become of his gallant young wife, making hornes, with ridiculous pointings at him: whereby his sences became distracted, so that he ran raving about the streetes, and afterward died in very miserable manner. which newes came no sooner to the eare of _pagamino_, but, in the honourable affection hee bare to _bertolomea_, he maried her, with great solemnity; banishing all fasts, vigils, and lents from his house, and living with her in much felicity. wherefore (faire ladies) i am of opinion, that _bernardo_ of _geneway_, in his disputation with _ambroginolo_, might have shewne himselfe a great deale wiser, and spared his rash proceeding with his wife. this tale was so merrily entertained among the whole company, that each one smiling upon another, with one consent commended _dioneus_, maintaining that he spake nothing but the truth, & condemning _bernardo_ for his cruelty. upon a generall silence commanded, the queene perceiving that the time was now very farre spent, and every one had delivered their severall novelse, which likewise gave a period to her royalty: shee gave the crowne to madam _neiphila_, pleasantly speaking to her in this order. heereafter, the government of these few people is committed to your trust and care, for with the day concludeth my dominion. madam _neiphila_, blushing at the honour done unto her, her cheekes appeared of a vermillion tincture, her eyes glittering with gracefull desires, and sparkling like the morning starre. and after the modest murmure of the assistants was ceased, and her courage in chearfull manner setled, seating her selfe higher then she did before, thus she spake. seeing it is so, that you have elected me your queene, to varie somewhat from the course observed by them that went before me, whose government you have all so much commended: by approbation of your counsell, i am desirous to speake my mind, concerning what i wold have to be next followed. it is not unknown to you all, that to morrow shal be friday, and saturday the next day following, which are daies somewhat molestuous to the most part of men, for preparation of their weekly food & sustenance. moreover, friday ought to be reverendly respected, in remembrance of him, who died to give us life, and endured his bitter passion, as on that day; which makes me to hold it fit and expedient, that wee should mind more weighty matters, and rather attend our prayers & devotions, then the repetition of tales or novelse. now concerning saturday, it hath bin a custom observed among women, to bath & wash themselves from such immundicities as the former weekes toile hath imposed on them. beside, it is a day of fasting, in honour of the ensuing sabath, whereon no labour may be done, but the observation of holy exercises. by that which hath bin saide, you may easily conceive, that the course which we have hitherto continued, cannot bee prosecuted, in one and the same manner: wherefore, i would advice and do hold it an action wel performed by us, to cease for these few dayes, from recounting any other novelse. and because we have remained here foure daies already, except we would allow the enlarging of our company, with some other friends that may resort unto us: i think it necessary to remove from hence, & take our pleasure in another place, which is already by me determined. when we shal be there assembled, and have slept on the discourses formerly delivered, let our next argument be still the mutabilities of fortune, but especially to concerne such persons, as by their wit and ingenuity, industriously have attained to some matter earnestly desired, or elsee recovered againe, after the losse. heereon let us severally study and premeditate, that the hearers may receive benefit thereby, with the comfortable maintenance of our harmlesse recreations; the priviledge of _dioneus_ alwayes reserved to himselfe. every one commended the queens deliberation, concluding that it shold be accordingly prosecuted: and thereupon, the master of the houshold was called, to give him order for that evenings table service, and what elsee concerned the time of the queenes royalty, wherein he was sufficiently instructed: which being done, the company arose, licensing every one to doe what they listed. the ladies and gentlemen walked to the garden, and having sported themselves there a while; when the houre of supper came, they sate downe, and fared very daintily. being risen from the table, according to the queenes command, madam _Æmilia_ led the dance, and the ditty following, was sung by madam _pampinea_, being answered by all the rest, as a chorus. _the song. and if not i, what lady elsee can sing, of those delights, which kind contentment bring? come, come, sweet love, the cause of my chiefe good, of all my hopes, the firme and full effect; sing we together, but in no sad moode, of sighes or teares, which joy doth counterchecke: stolne pleasures are delightfull in the taste, but yet loves fire is often times too fierce; consuming comfort with ore-speedy haste, which into gentle hearts too far doth pierce. and if not i, &c. the first day that i felt this fiery heate, so sweete a passion did possesse my soule, that though i found the torment sharpe, and great; yet still me thought t'was but a sweete controule. nor could i count it rude, or rigorous, taking my wound from such a piercing eye: as made the paine most pleasing, gracious, that i desire in such assaults to die. and if not i, &c. grant then great god of love, that i may still enjoy the benefit of my desire; and honour her with all my deepest skill, that first enflamde my heart with holy fire. to her my bondage is free liberty, my sicknesse health, my tortures sweet repose; say shee the word, in full felicity, all my extreames joyne in an happy close. then if not i, what lover elsee can sing, of those delights which kind contentment bring._ after this song was ended, they sung divers other beside, and having great variety of instruments, they played to them as many pleasing dances. but the queene considering that the meete houre for rest was come, with their lighted torches before them they all repaired to their chambers; sparing the other dayes next succeeding, for those reasons by the queene alleaged, and spending the sunday in solemne devotion. _the ende of the second day._ the third day. _upon which day, all matters to be discoursed on, doe passe under the regiment of madam_ neiphila: _concerning such persons as (by their wit and industry) have attained to their long wished desires, or recovered something, supposed to be lost. the induction to the ensuing discourses._ the morning put on a vermillion countenance, and made the sunne to rise blushing red, when the queene (and all the faire company) were come abroade forth of their chambers; the seneshall or great master of the houshold, having (long before) sent all things necessary to the place of their next intended meeting. and the people which prepared there every needfull matter, suddainely when they saw the queen was setting forward, charged all the rest of their followers, as if it had been preparation for a campe; to make hast away with the carriages, the rest of the familie remaining behind, to attend upon the ladies and gentlemen. with a milde, majesticke, and gentle peace, the queen rode on, being followed by the other ladies, and the three young gentlemen, taking their way towards the west; conducted by the musicall notes of sweete singing nightingales, and infinite other pretty birds beside, riding in a tract not much frequented, but richly abounding with faire hearbes and floures, which by reason of the sunnes high mounting, beganne to open their bosome, and fill the fresh ayre with their odorifferous perfumes. before they had travelled two small miles distance, all of them pleasantly conversing together; they arrived at another goodly palace, which being somewhat mounted above the plaine, was seated on the side of a little rising hill. when they were entred there into, and had seene the great hall, the parlours, and beautifull chambers, every one stupendiously furnished, with all convenient commodities to them belonging, and nothing wanting, that could be desired; they highly commended it, reputing the lord thereof for a most worthy man, that had adorned it in such princely manner. afterward, being descended lower, and noting the most spacious and pleasant court, the sellars stored with the choysest wines, and delicate springs of water every where running, their prayses then exceeded more and more. and being weary with beholding such variety of pleasures, they sate downe in a faire gallery, which took the view of the whole court, it being round engirt with trees and floures, whereof the season then yeelded great plenty. and then came the discreete master of the houshold, with divers servants attending on him, presenting them with comfits, and other banquetting, as also very singular wines, to serve in sted of a breakefast. having thus reposed themselves a while, a garden gate was set open to them, coasting on one side of the pallace, and round inclosed with high mounted walles. whereinto when they were entred, they found it to be a most beautifull garden, stored with all varieties that possibly could be devised; and therefore they observed it the more respectively. the walkes and allyes were long and spacious, yet directly straite as an arrow, environed with spreading vines, whereon the grapes hung in copious clusters; which being come to their full ripenesse, gave so rare a smell throughout the garden, with other sweete savours intermixed among, that they supposed to feele the fresh spiceries of the east. it would require large length of time, to describe all the rarities of this place, deserving much more to be commended, then my best faculties will affoord me. in the middest of the garden, was a square plot, after the resemblance of a meadow, flourishing with high grasse, hearbes, and plants, beside a thousand diversities of floures, even as if by the art of painting they had beene there deputed. round was it circkled with very verdant orenge and cedar trees, their branches plentiously stored with fruite both old and new, as also the floures growing freshly among them, yeelding not onely a rare aspect to the eye, but also a delicate savour to the smell. in the middest of this meadow, stood a fountaine of white marble, whereon was engraven most admirable workemanship, and within it (i know not whether it were by a naturall veine, or artificiall) flowing from a figure, standing on a collomne in the midst of the fountaine, such aboundance of water, and so mounting up towards the skies, that it was a wonder to behold. for after the high ascent, it fell downe againe into the wombe of the fountaine, with such a noyse and pleasing murmur, as the streame that glideth from a mill. when the receptacle of the fountaine did overflow the bounds, it streamed along the meadow, by secret passages and chanelse, very faire and artificially made, returning againe into every part of the meadow, by the like wayes of cunning conveighance, which allowed it full course into the garden, running swiftly thence down towards the plaine; but before it came thether, the very swift current of the streame, did drive two goodly milles, which brought in great benefit to the lord of the soile. the sight of this garden, the goodly grafts, plants, trees, hearbes, frutages, and flowers, the springs, fountaines, and prety rivolets streaming from it, so highly pleased the ladies and gentlemen, that among other infinite commendations, they spared not to say: if any paradise remayned on the earth to be seene, it could not possibly bee in any other place, but onely was contained within the compasse of this garden. with no meane pleasure and delight they walked round about it, making chaplets of flowers, and other faire branches of the trees, continually hearing the birds in mellodious notes, ecchoing and warbling one to another, even as if they envied each others felicities. but yet another beauty (which before had not presented it selfe unto them) on a sodaine they perceyved; namely divers prety creatures in many parts of the gardens. in one place conies tripping about; in another place hares: in a third part goats browsing on the hearbes, & little yong hindes feeding every where: yet without strife or warring together, but rather living in such a domesticke and pleasing kinde of company, even as if they were appoynted to enstruct the most noble of all creatures, to imitate their sociable conversation. when their senses had sufficiently banquetted on these several beauties, the tables were sodainly prepared about the fountaine, where first they sung sixe canzonets; and having paced two or three dances, they sate downe to dinner, according as the queene ordained, being served in very sumptuous manner, with all kinde of costly and delicate viands, yet not any babling noise among them. the tables being withdrawne, they played againe upon their instruments, singing and dancing gracefully together: till, in regard of the extreame heate, the _queene_ commanded to give over, and permitted such as were so pleased, to take their ease and rest. but some, as not satisfied with the places pleasures, gave themselves to walking: others fell to reading the lives of the romanes; some to the chesse, and the rest to other recreations. but, after the dayes warmth was more mildely qualified, and everie one had made benefit of their best content: they went (by order sent from the _queene_) into the meadow where the fountaine stood, and being set about it, as they used to do in telling their tales (the argument appointed by the _queene_ being propounded) the first that had the charge imposed, was _philostratus_, who began in this manner. massetto di lamporechio, _by counterfetting himselfe to be dumbe, became a gardiner in a monastery of nunnes, where he had familiar conversation with them all._ the first novell. _wherein is declared, that virginity is very hardly to be kept, in all places._ most woorthy ladies, there wantes no store of men and women, that are so simple, as to credit for a certainty, that so soon as a yong virgin hath the veile put on hir head (after it is once shorn and filletted) & the blacke cowle given to cover her withall: shee is no longer a woman, nor more sensible of feminine affections, then as if in turning nun, shee became converted to a stone. and if (perchance) they heard some matters, contrary to their former setled perswasion; then they growe so furiously offended, as if one had committed a most foul and enormous sinne, directly against the course of nature. and the torrent of this opinion hurries them on so violently, that they will not admit the least leisure to consider, how (in such a full scope of liberty) they have power to do what they list, yea beyonde all meanes of sufficient satisfying; never remembring withall, how potent the priviledge of idlenesse is, especially when it is backt by solitude. in like manner, there are other people now, who do verily believe, that the spade and pickaxe, grosse feeding and labour, do quench all sensuall and fleshly concupiscences, yea, in such as till and husband the grounds, by making them dull, blockish, and (almost) meere senslesse of understanding. but i will approve (according as the queene hath commanded me, and within the compasse of her direction) and make it apparant to you al, by a short and pleasant tale; how greatly they are abused by error, that build upon so weake a foundation. not far from _alexandria_, there was (and yet is) a great & goodly monastery, belonging to the lord of those parts, who is termed the admirall. and therein, under the care and trust of one woman, divers virgins were kept as recluses or nunnes, vowed to chastity of life; out of whose number, the soldan of _babylon_ (under whom they lived in subjection) at every three yeares end, had usually three of these virgins sent him. at the time whereof i am now to speak, there remained in the monastery, no more but eight religious sisters only, beside the governesse or lady abbesse, and an honest poore man, who was a gardiner, and kept the garden in commendable order. his wages being small, and he not well contented therewith, would serve there no longer: but making his accounts even, with the _factotum_ or bayliffe belonging to the house, returned thence to the village of _lamporechio_, being a native of the place. among many other that gave him welcom home, was a yong hebrew pezant of the country, sturdy, strong, and yet comely of person, being named _masset_. but because he was born not farre off from _lamporechio_, and had there bin brought up all his yonger dayes, his name of _masset_ (according to their vulgar speech) was turned to _massetto_, and therefore he was usually called and knowne, by the name of _massetto_ of _lamporechio_. _massetto_, falling in talke with the honest poore man, whose name was _lurco_, demanded of him what services hee had done in the monasterie, having continued there so long a time? quoth _lurco_ i laboured in the garden, which is very faire and great; then i went to the forest to fetch home wood, and cleft it for their chamber fuell, drawing uppe all their water beside, with many other toilesome services elsee: but the allowance of my wages was so little, as it would not pay for the shooes i wore. and that which was worst of all, they being all yong women, i thinke the devill dwelse among them, for a man cannot doe any thing to please them. when i have bene busie at my worke in the garden, one would come & say, put this heere, put that there; and others would take the dibble out of my hand, telling me, that i did not performe any thing well, making me so weary of their continuall trifling, as i have lefte all businesse, gave over the garden, and what for one molestation, as also many other; i intended to tarry no longer there, but came away, as thou seest. and yet the _factotum_ desired me at my departing, that if i knew any one, who would undertake the aforesaid labours, i should send him thither, as (indeed) i promised to do; but let mee fall sicke and dye, before i helpe to send them any. when _massetto_ had heard the words of _lurco_, hee was so desirous to dwell among the nunnes, that nothing elsee now hammered in his head: for he meant more subtilly, then poore _lurco_ did, and made no doubt, to please them sufficiently. then considering with himselfe, how best he might bring his intent to effect; which appeared not easily to be done, he could question no further therein with _lurco_, but onely demanded other matters of him, and among them said. introth thou didst well _lurco_, to come away from so tedious a dwelling; had he not need to be more then a man that is to live with such women? it were better for him to dwell among so many divelse, because they understand not the tenth part that womens wily wits can dive into. after their conference was ended, _massetto_ began to beat his braines, how he might compasse to dwell among them, & knowing that he could well enough performe all the labours, whereof _lurco_ had made mention: he cared not for any losse he should sustaine thereby: but onely stoode in doubt of his entertainment, because he was too yong and sprightly. having pondered on many imaginations, he saide to himselfe. the place is farre enough distant hence, and none there can take knowledge of mee; if i have wit sufficient, cleanely to make them beleeve that i am dumbe, then (questionlesse) i shall be received. and resolving to prosecute this determination, he tooke a spade on his shoulder, and without revealing to any body, whether he went, in the disguise of a poore labouring countryman, he travelled to the monastery. when he was there arrived, he found the great gate open, and entering in boldly, it was his good hap to espy the _fac-totum_ in the court, according as _lurco_ had given description of him. making signes before him, as if he were both dumbe and deafe; he manifested, that he craved an almes for gods sake, making shewes beside, that if need required, he could cleave wood, or do any reasonable kinde of service. the _fac-totum_ gladly gave him food, and afterward shewed him divers knotty logs of wood, which the weake strength of _lurco_ had left uncloven; but this fellow being more active and lusty, quickly rent them all to pieces. now it so fell out, that the _fac-totum_ must needs go to the forrest, and tooke _massetto_ along with him thither: where causing him to fell divers trees, by signes he bad him to lade the two asses therewith, which commonly carried home all the wood, and so drive them to the monasterie before him, which _massetto_ knew well enough how to do, and performed it very effectually. many other servile offices were there to bee done, which caused the _fac-totum_ to make use of his paines divers other dayes beside: in which time, the lady abbesse chancing to see him, demanded of the _fac-totum_ what he was? madam (quoth hee) a poore labouring man, who is both deafe and dumbe: hither he came to crave an almes the other day, which in charity i could do no lesse but give him; for which hee hath done many honest services about the house. it seemes beside, that hee hath some pretty skill in gardening, so that if i can perswade him to continue here, i make no question of his able services: for the old silly man is gone, and we have neede of such a stout fellow, to do the businesse belonging unto the monastery, and one fitter for the turne, comes sildome hither. moreover, in regard of his double imperfections, the sisters can sustaine no impeachment by him. whereto the abbesse answered, saying; by the faith of my body, you speake but the truth: understand then, if hee have any knowledge in gardening, and whether hee will dwell heere, or no: which compasse so kindly as you can. let him have a new paire of shoes, fill his belly daily full of meate, flatter, and make much of him, for wee shall finde him worke enough to do. all which, the _fac-totum_ promised to fulfill sufficiently. _massetto_, who was not farre off from them all this while, but seemed seriously busied, about sweeping and making cleane the court, hearde all these speeches; and being not a little joyfull of them, saide to himselfe. if once i come to worke in your garden, let the proofe yeelde praise of my skill and knowledge. when the _fac-totum_ perceived, that he knew perfectly how to undergo his businesse, and had questioned him by signes, concerning his willingnesse to serve there still, and received the like answer also, of his dutifull readinesse thereto; he gave him order, to worke in the garden, because the season did now require it; and to leave all other affayres for the monastery, attending now onely the gardens preparation. as _massetto_ was thus about his garden emploiment, the nunnes began to resort thither, and thinking the man to bee dumbe and deafe indeede, were the more lavish of their language, mocking and flowting him very immodestly, as being perswaded, that he heard them not. and the lady abbesse, thinking he might as well be an eunuch, as deprived both of hearing and speaking, stood the lesse in feare of the sisters walks, but referred them to their owne care and providence. on a day, _massetto_ having laboured somewhat extraordinarily, lay downe to rest him selfe awhile under the trees, and two delicate yong nunnes, walking there to take the aire, drew neere to the place where he dissembled sleeping; and both of them observing his comelinesse of person, began to pity the poverty of his condition, but much more the misery of his great defectes. then one of them, who had a little livelier spirit then the other, thinking _massetto_ to be fast asleepe, began in this manner. sister (quoth she) if i were faithfully assured of thy secrecie, i would tell thee a thing which i have often thought on, and it may (perhaps) redound to thy profit. [sidenote: example, at least excuses formed to that intent prevaileth much with such kind of religious women.] sister, replyed the other nun, speake your minde boldly, and beleeve it (on my maiden-head) that i will never reveale it to any creature living. encouraged by this solemne answer, the first nun thus prosecuted her former purpose, saying. i know not sister, whether it hath entred into thine understanding or no, how strictly we are here kept and attended, never any man daring to adventure among us, except our good and honest _fac-totum_, who is very aged; and this dumbe fellow, maimed, and made imperfect by nature, and therefore not woorthy the title of a man. ah sister, it hath oftentimes bin told me, by gentle-women comming hither to visite us, that all other sweetes in the world, are meere mockeries, to the incomparable pleasures of man and woman, of which we are barred by our unkind parents, binding us to perpetuall chastity, which they were never able to observe themselves. a sister of this house once told me, that before her turne came to be sent to the soldane, she fell in frailty, with a man that was both lame and blinde, and discovering the same to her ghostly father in confession; he absolved her of that sinne; affirming, that she had not transgressed with a man, because he wanted his rationall and understanding parts. behold sister, heere lyes a creature, almost formed in the selfe-same mold, dumb and deafe, which are two the most rational and understanding parts that do belong to any man, and therefore no man, wanting them. if folly & frailty should be committed with him (as many times since hee came hither it hath run in my minde) hee is by nature, sworne to such secrecie, that he cannot (if he would) be a blabbe thereof. beside, the lawes and constitutions of our religion doth teach us, that a sinne so assuredly concealed, is more then halfe absolved. _ave maria_ sister (said the other nunne) what kinde of words are these you utter? doe not you know, that wee have promised our virginity to god? oh sister (answered the other) how many things are promised to him every day, and not one of a thousand kept or performed? if wee have made him such a promise, and some of our weaker witted sisters do performe it for us, no doubt but he will accept it in part of payment. yea but sister, replied the second nunne againe, there is another danger lying in our way: if wee prove to be with childe, how shall we doe then? sister (quoth our couragious wench) thou art afraid of a harme, before it happen, if it come so to passe, let us consider on it then: thou art but a novice in matters of such moment, and wee are provided of a thousand meanes, whereby to prevent conception. or, if they should faile, wee are so surely fitted, that the world shall never know it: let it suffice, our lives must not be (by any) so much as suspected, our monasterie questioned, or our religion rashly scandalized. thus shee schooled her younger sister in wit, albeit as forward as she in will, and longed as desirously, to know what kinde a creature a man was. after some other questions, how this intention of theirs might be safely brought to full effect: the sprightly nunne, that had wit at will, thus answered. you see sister (quoth she) it is now the houre of midday, when all the rest of our sisterhood are quiet in their chambers, because we are then allowed to sleepe, for our earlier rising to morning mattins. here are none in the garden now but our selves, and, while i awake him, be you the watch, and afterward follow me in my fortune, for i will valiantly leade you the way. _massetto_ imitating a dogges sleepe, heard all this conspiracie intended against him, and longed as earnestly, till shee came to awake him. which being done, he seeming very simply sottish, and she chearing him with flattering behaviour: into the close arbour they went, which the sunnes bright eye could not pierce into, and there i leave it to the nunnes owne approbation, whether _massetto_ was a man rationall, or no. ill deedes require longer time to contrive, then act, and both the nunnes, having beene with _massetto_ at this new forme of confession, were enjoyned (by him) such an easie and silent penance, as brought them the oftner to shrift, and made him to proove a perfect confessour. desires obtained, but not fully satisfied, doe commonly urge more frequent accesse, then wisdome thinkes expedient, or can continue without discoverie. our two joviall nunnes, not a little proud of their private stolne pleasures, so long resorted to the close arbour; till an other sister, who had often observed their haunt thither, by meanes of a little hole in her window; that shee began to suspect them with _massetto_, and imparted the same to two other sisters, all three concluding, to accuse them before the lady abbesse. but upon a further conference had with the offenders, they changed opinion, tooke the same oath as the forewoman had done, and because they would be free from any taxation at all: they revealed their adventures to the other three ignorants, and so fell all eight into one formall confederacie, but by good and warie observation, least the abbesse her selfe should descry them; finding poore _massetto_ such plenty of garden-worke, as made him very doubtfull in pleasing them all. it came to passe in the end, that the lady abbesse, who all this while imagined no such matter, walking all alone in the garden on a day, found _massetto_ sleeping under an almond tree, having then very little businesse to doe, because he had wrought hard all the night before. shee observed him to be an hansome man, young, lusty, well limbde, and proportioned, having a mercifull commisseration of his dumbnesse and deafenesse, being perswaded also in like manner, that if he were an eunuch too, he deserved a thousand times the more to be pittied. the season was exceeding hot, and he lay downe so carelesly to sleepe, that something was noted, wherein shee intended to be better resolved, almost falling sicke of the other nunnes disease. having awaked him, she commanded him (by signes) that he should follow her to her chamber, where he was kept close so long, that the nunnes grew offended, because the gardener came not to his dayly labour. well may you imagine that _massetto_ was no misse-proud man now, to be thus advanced from the garden to the chamber, and by no worse woman, then the lady abbesse her selfe, what signes, shewes, or what language he speaks there, i am not able to expresse; onely it appeard that his behaviour pleased her so well, as it procured his daily repairing thither; and acquainted her with such familiar conversation, as shee would have condemned in the nuns her daughters, but that they were wise enough to keepe it from her. now began _massetto_ to consider with himselfe, that he had undertaken a taske belonging to great _hercules_, in giving contentment to so many, and by continuing dumbe in this manner, it would redound to his no meane detriment. whereupon, as hee was one night sitting by the abbesse, the string that restrained his tongue from speech, brake on a sodaine, and thus he spake. madam, i have often heard it said, that one cocke may doe service to ten severall hennes, but ten men can (very hardly) even with all their best endeavour, give full satisfaction every way to one woman; and yet i am tied to content nine, which is farre beyond the compasse of my power to doe. already have i performed so much garden and chamber-worke, that i confesse my selfe starke tired, and can travaile no further; and therefore let me entreate you to lysence my departure hence, or finde some meanes for my better ease. the abbesse hearing him speake, who had so long served there dumbe; being stricken into admiration, and accounting it almost a miracle, saide. how commeth this to passe? i verily beleeved thee to be dumbe. madam (quoth _massetto_) so i was indeed, but not by nature; onely i had a long lingering sicknesse, which bereft me of speech, and which i have not onely recovered againe this night, but shall ever remaine thankfull to you for it. the abbesse verily credited his answer, demanding what he meant, in saying, that he did service to nine? madam, quoth he, this were a dangerous question, and not easily answered before all the eight sisters. upon this reply, the abbesse plainly perceived, that not onely shee had fallen into folly, but all the nunnes likewise cried guilty too: wherefore being a woman of sound discretion, she would not grant that _massetto_ should depart, but to keepe him still about the nunnes businesse, because the monastery should not be scandalized by him. and the _fac-totum_ being dead a little before, his strange recovery of speech revealed, and some things elsee more neerely concerning them: by generall consent, & with the good liking of _massetto_, he was created the _fac-totum_ of the monasterie. all the neighbouring people dwelling thereabout, who knew _massetto_ to be dumbe, by fetching home wood daily from the forrest, and divers employments in other places; were made to beleeve that by the nunnes devoute prayers and discipline, as also the merits of the saint, in whose honour the monastery was built and erected, _massetto_ had his long restrained speech restored, and was now become their sole _fac-totum_, having power now to employ others in drudgeries, and ease himselfe of all such labours. and albeit he make the nunnes to be fruitfull, by encreasing some store of yonger sisters; yet all matters were so close & cleanly carried, as it was never talkt of, till after the death of the ladie abbesse, when _massetto_ beganne to grow in good yeares, and desired, to returne home to his native abiding, which (within a while after) was granted him. thus _massetto_, being rich and old, returned home like a wealthy father, taking no care for the nursing of his children, but bequeathed them to the place where they were bred and born, having (by his wit and ingenious apprehension) made such a benefit of his youthfull years, that now he merrily tooke ease in his age. _a querry of the stable, belonging to_ agilulffo; _king of the lombards, found the meanes of accesse to the queenes bed, without any knowledge or consent in her. this being secretly discovered by the king, and the party knowne, he gave him a marke, by shearing the haire of his head. whereupon, he that was so shorne, sheared likewise the heads of all his fellowes in the lodging, and so escaped the punishment intended towards him._ the second novell. _wherein is signified, the providence of a wise man, when he shall have reason to use revenge. and the cunning craft of another, when hee compasseth meanes to defend himselfe from perill._ when the novell of _philostratus_ was concluded, which made some of the ladies blush, and the rest to smile: it pleased the queene, that madam _pampinea_ should follow next, to second the other gone before; when she, smiling on the whole assembly, began thus. there are some men so shallow of capacity, that they will (neverthelesse) make shew of knowing and understanding such things, as neither they are able to doe, nor appertaine to them: whereby they will sometimes reprehend other mens errors, and such faults as they have unwillingly committed, thinking thereby to hide their owne shame, when they make it much more apparant and manifest. for proofe whereof, faire company, in a contrary kinde i will shew you the subtill cunning of one, who (perhaps) might be reputed of lesse reckoning then _massetto_; and yet hee went beyond a king, that thought himselfe to be a much wiser man. _agilulffo_, king of _lombardie_, according as his predecessours had done before him, made the principall seate of his kingdome, in the citie of _pavia_, having embraced in mariage, _tendelinga_, the late left widdow of _vetario_, who likewise had beene king of the _lombards_; a most beautifull, wise and vertuous lady, but made unfortunate by a mischance. the occurrences and estate of the whole realme, being in an honourable, quiet and well setled condition, by the discreete care and providence of the king; a querrie appertaining to the queenes stable of horse, being a man but of meane and lowe quality, though comely of person, and of equall stature to the king; became immeasurably amorous of the queene. and because his base and servile condition, had endued him with so much understanding, as to know infallibly, that his affection was mounted, beyond the compasse of conveniencie; wisely hee concealed it to himselfe, not acquainting any one therewith, or daring so much, as to discover it either by lookes, or any other affectionate behaviour. and although hee lived utterly hopelesse, of ever attaining to his hearts desires; yet notwithstanding, hee proudly gloried, that his love had soared so high a pitch, as to be enamoured of a queene. and dayly, as the fury of his flame encreased; so his cariage was farre above his fellowes and companions, in the performing of all such serviceable duties, as any way he imagined might content the queene. whereon ensued, that whensoever shee roade abroad to take the ayre, shee used oftner to mount on the horse, which this querrie brought when shee made her choise, then any of the other that were led by his fellowes. and this did he esteeme as no meane happinesse to him, to order the stirrope for her mounting, and therefore gave dayly his due attendance: so that, to touch the stirrope, but (much more) to put her foote into it, or touch any part of her garments, he thought it the onely heaven on earth. but, as we see it oftentimes come to passe, that by how much the lower hope declineth, so much the higher love ascendeth; even so fel it out with this poore querry; for, most irkesome was it to him, to endure the heavy waight of his continuall oppressions, not having any hope at all of the very least mitigation. and being utterly unable to relinquish his love divers times he resolved on some desperate conclusion, which might yet give the world an evident testimony, that he dyed for the love he bare to the queene. and upon this determination, hee grounded the successe of his future fortune, to dye in compassing some part of his desire, without either speaking to the queene, or sending any missive of his love; for to speake or write, were meerely in vaine, and drew on a worser consequence then death, which he could bestow on himselfe more easily, and when he listed. no other course now beleagers his braines, but onely for secret accesse to the queenes bed, and how he might get entrance into her chamber, under colour of the king, who (as he knew very well) slept manie nights together from the queene. wherefore, to see in what manner, & what the usuall habit was of the king, when he came to keepe companie with his queene: he hid himselfe divers nights in a gallery, which was betweene both their lodging chambers. at length, he saw the king come forth of his chamber, himselfe all alone, with a faire night-mantle wrapt about him, carrying a lighted taper in the one hand, and a small white wand in the other, so went he on to the queenes lodging; and knocking at the doore once or twice with the wand, and not using any word, the doore opened, the light was left without, and he entered the chamber, where he stayed not long, before his returning backe againe, which likewise very diligently he observed. so familiar was he in the wardrobe, by often fetching and returning the king and queenes furnitures; that the fellowe to the same mantle, which the king wore when he went to the queene, very secretly he conveighed away thence with him, being provided of a light, and the verie like wand. now bestowes he costly bathings on his body, that the least sent of the stable might not be felt about him; and finding a time sutable to his desire, when he knew the king to be at rest in his owne lodging, and all elsee sleeping in their beds; closely he steals into the gallery, where alighting his taper, with tinder purposely brought thither, the mantle folded about him, and the wand in his hand, valiantly he adventures upon his lives perill. twice hee knockt softly at the doore, which a wayting woman immediately opened, and receyving the light, went forth into the gallery, while the supposed king, was conversing with the queene. alas good queene, heere is sinne committed, without any guiltie thought in thee, as (within a while after) it plainely appeared. for, the querry having compassed what he most coveted, and fearing to forfeite his life by delay, when his amorous desire was indifferently satisfied: returned backe as he came, the sleepy waiting woman not so much as looking on him, but rather glad, that she might get her to rest againe. scarcely was the querrie stept into his bed, unheard or discerned by any of his fellowes, divers of them lodging both in that and the next chamber: but it pleased the king to visite the queene, according to his wonted manner, to the no little mervaile of the drowsie wayting woman, who was never twice troubled in a night before. the king being in bed, whereas alwayes till then, his resort to the queene, was altogether in sadnesse and melancholly, both comming and departing without speaking one word: now his majestie was become more pleasantly disposed, whereat the queene began not a little to mervaile. now trust mee sir, quoth shee, this hath been a long wished, and now most welcome alteration, vouchsafing twice in a night to visite me, and both within the compasse of one houre; for it cannot be much more, since your being here, and now comming againe. the king hearing these words, sodainly presumed, that by some counterfeit person or other, the queene had been this night beguiled: wherefore (very advisedly) hee considered, that in regard the party was unknowne to her, and all the women about her; to make no outward appearance of knowing it, but rather concealed it to himselfe. farre from the indiscretion of some hare-braind men, who presently would have answered and sworne; i came not hither this night, till now. whereupon many dangers might ensue, to the dishonour and prejudice of the queene; beside, hir error being discovered to hir, might afterward be an occasion, to urge a wandring in her appetite, and to covet after change againe. but by this silence, no shame redounded to him or her, whereas prating, must needes be the publisher of open infamie: yet was hee much vexed in his minde, which neither by lookes or words hee would discover, but pleasantly said to the queene. why madame, although i was once heere before to night, i hope you mislike not my second seeing you, nor if i should please to come againe. no truely sir, quoth she, i only desire you to have care of your health. well, said the king, i will follow your counsaile, and now returne to mine owne lodging againe, committing my queene to her good rest. his blood boyling with rage and distemper, by such a monstrous injurie offered him; he wrapt his night-mantle about him, and leaving his chamber, imagining, that whatsoever he was, needes he must be one of his owne house: he tooke a light in his hand, and convayed it into a little lanthorne, purposing to be resolved in his suspition. no guests or strangers were now in his court, but onely such as belonged to his houshold, who lodged altogether about the escurie and stables, being there appointed to divers beds. now, this was his conceite, that whosoever had beene so lately familiar with the queene, his heart and pulse could (as yet) be hardly at rest, but rather would be troubled with apparant agitation, as discovering the guilt of so great an offender. many chambers had hee passed thorow, where all were soundly sleeping, and yet he felt both their brests and pulses. at last he came to the lodging of the man indeede, that had so impudently usurped his place, who could not as yet sleepe, for joy of his atchieved adventure. when he espied the king come in, knowing well the occasion of his search, he began to waxe very doubtfull, so that his heart and pulse beating extremely, he felt a further addition of feare, as being confidently perswaded, that there was now no other way but death, especially if the king discovered his agony. and although many considerations were in his braine, yet because he saw that the king was unarmed, his best refuge was, to make shew of sleepe, in expectation what the king intended to doe. among them all he had sought, yet could not find any likelihood, whereby to gather a grounded probability; untill he came to this querry, whose heart and pulses laboured so sternely, that he said to himselfe; yea mary, this is the man that did the deede. neverthelesse, purposing to make no apparance of his further intention, he did nothing elsee to him, but drawing foorth a paire of sheares, which purposely he brought thither with him, he clipped away a part of his lockes, which (in those times) they used to weare very long, to the end that he might the better know him the next morning, and so returned backe to his lodging againe. the querry, who partly saw, but felt what was done to him; perceived plainely (being a subtill ingenious fellow) for what intent he was thus marked. wherefore, without any longer dallying, up he rose, and taking a paire of sheares, wherewith they used to trim their horses; softly he went from bed to bed, where they all lay yet soundly sleeping, and clipt away each mans locke from his right eare, in the selfe same manner as the king had done his, and being not perceived by any one of them, quietly he laide him downe againe. in the morning, when the king was risen, he gave command that before the pallace gates were opened, all his whole family should come before him, as instantly his will was fulfilled. standing all uncovered in his presence, he began to consider with himselfe, which of them was the man that he had marked. and seeing the most part of them to have their lockes cut, all after one and the selfe same manner; marvailing greatly, he saide to himselfe. the man whom i seeke for, though he be but of meane and base condition, yet it plainely appeareth, that he is of no deject or common understanding. and seeing, that without further clamour and noyse, he could not find out the party he looked for; he concluded, not to win eternall shame, by compassing a poore revenge: but rather (by way of admonition) to let the offender know in a word, that he was both noted and observed. so turning to them all, he saide; he that hath done it, let him be silent, and doe so no more, and now depart about your businesse. some other turbulent spirited man, no imprisonments, tortures, examinations, and interrogatories, could have served his turne; by which course of proceeding, he makes the shame to be publikely knowne, which reason requireth to keepe concealed. but admit that condigne vengeance were taken, it diminisheth not one title of the shame, neither qualifieth the peoples bad affections, who will lash out as liberally in scandall, and upon the very least babling rumor. such therefore as heard the kings words, few though they were, yet truly wise; marvelled much at them, and by long examinations among themselves, questioned, but came far short of his meaning; the man onely excepted, whom indeede they concerned, and by whom they were never discovered, so long as the king lived, neither did he dare at any time after, to hazard his life in the like action, under the frownes or favour of fortune. _under colour of confession, and of a most pure conscience, a faire young gentlewoman, being amourously affected to an honest man; induced a devoute and solemne religious friar, to advise her in the meanes (without his suspition or perceiving) how to enjoy the benefit of her friend, and bring her desires to their full effect._ the third novell. _declaring, that the leude and naughty qualities of some persons, doe oftentimes misguide good people, into very great and greevous errors._ when madam _pampinea_ sate silent, and the querries boldnesse equalled with his crafty cunning, and great wisedome in the king had passed among them with generall applause; the queene, turning her selfe to madam _philomena_, appointed her to follow next in order, and to hold rancke with her discourse, as the rest had done before her: whereupon _philomena_ graciously began in this manner. it is my purpose, to acquaint you with a notable mockery, which was performed (not in jest, but earnest) by a faire gentlewoman, to a grave and devoute religious friar, which will yeelde so much the more pleasure and recreation, to every secular understander, if but diligently he or shee doe observe; how commonly those religious persons (at least the most part of them) like notorious fooles, are the inventers of new courses and customes, as thinking themselves more wise and skilful in all things then any other; yet prove to be of no worth or validity, addicting the very best of all their devises, to expresse their owne vilenesse of minde, and fatten themselves in their sties, like to pampered swine. and assure your selves worthy ladies, that i doe not tell this tale onely to follow the order enjoyned me; but also to informe you that such saint-like holy sirs, of whom we are too opinative and credulous, may be, yea, and are (divers times) cunningly met withall, in their craftinesse, not onely by men, but likewise some of our owne sexe, as i shall make it apparant to you. in our owne city (more full of craft and deceit, then love or faithfull dealing) there lived not many yeeres since a gentlewoman, of good spirit, highly minded, endued with beauty and all commendable qualities, as any other woman (by nature) could be. her name, or any others, concerned in this novell, i meane not to make manifest, albeit i know them, because some are yet living, and thereby may be scandalized; and therefore it shall suffice to passe them over with a smile. this gentlewoman, seeing her selfe to be descended of very great parentage, and (by chance) married to an artezen, a clothier or drapier, that lived by the making and selling of cloth: shee could not (because he was a trades-man) take downe the height of her minde; conceiving, that no man of meane condition (how rich soever) was worthy to enjoy a gentlewoman in marriage. observing moreover, that with all his wealth and treasure, he understood nothing better, then to open skeines of yarne, fill shuttles, lay webbes in loomes, or dispute with his spinsters, about their businesse. being thus over-swayed with her proud opinion, shee would no longer be embraced, or regarded by him in any manner, saving onely because she could not refuse him; but would find some other for her better satisfaction, who might seeme more worthy of her respect, then the drapier her husband did. hereupon shee fell so deepe in love, with a very honest man of our city also, and of indifferent yeeres; as what day shee saw him not, shee could take no rest the night ensuing. the man himselfe knew nothing hereof, and therefore was the more neglect and carelesse, and she being curious, nice, yet wisely considerate; durst not let him understand it, neither by any womans close conveyed message, nor yet by letters, as fearing the perils which happen in such cases. but her eye observing his daily walkes and resorts, gave her notice of his often conversing with a religious friar, who albeit he was a fat and corpulent man, yet notwithstanding, because he seemed to leade a sanctimonious life, and was reported to be a most honest man; she perswaded her selfe, that he might be the best meanes, betweene her and her friend. having considered with her selfe, what course was best to be observed in this case; upon a day, apt and convenient, shee went to the convent, where he kept, and having caused him to be called, shee told him, that if his leysure so served, very gladly shee would be confessed, and onely had made her choyce of him. the holy man seeing her, and reputing her to be a gentlewoman, as indeede shee was no lesse; willingly heard her, and when shee had confessed what shee could, shee had yet another matter to acquaint him withall, and thereupon thus she began. holy father, it is no more then convenient, that i should have recourse to you, to be assisted by your help and councell, in a matter which i will impart unto you. i know, that you are not ignorant of my parents and husband, of whom i am affected as dearely as his life, for proofe whereof, there is not any thing that i can desire, but immediatly i have it of him, he being a most rich man, and may very sufficiently affoord it. in regard whereof, i love him equally as my selfe, and, setting aside my best endeavours for him; i must tell you one thing, if i should do anything contrary to his liking and honour, no woman can more worthily deserve death, then my selfe. understand then, good father, that there is a man, whose name i know not, but hee seemeth to be honest, and of good worth; moreover (if i am not deceived) hee resorteth oftentimes to you, being faire and comely of person, going alwayes in blacke garments of good price and value. this man, imagining (perhaps) no such minde in me, as truely there is; hath often attempted mee, and never can i be at my doore, or window, but hee is alwayes present in my sight, which is not a little displeasing to me; he watcheth my walkes, and much i mervaile, that he is not now here. let me tell you holy sir, that such behaviours, doe many times lay bad imputations upon very honest women, yet without any offence in them. it hath often run in my minde, to let him have knowledge thereof by my brethren: but afterward i considered, that men (many times) deliver messages in such sort, as draw on very ungentle answeres, whereon grow words, and words beget actions. in which respect, because no harme or scandall should ensue, i thought it best to be silent; determining, to acquaint you rather therewith, then any other, as well because you seeme to be his friend, as also in regard of your office, which priviledgeth you, to correct such abuses, not onely in friends, but also in strangers. enowe other women there are, (more is the pitty) who (perhaps) are better disposed to such suites, then i am, and can both like and allowe of such courting, otherwise then i can doe; as being willing to embrace such offers, and (happily) loath to yeeld deniall. wherefore, most humbly i entreat you, good father (even for our blessed ladies sake) that you would give him a friendly reprehension, and advise him, to use such unmanly meanes no more hereafter. with which words, shee hung downe her head in her bosome, cunningly dissembling, as if shee wept, wiping her eyes with her handkerchife, when not a teare fell from them, but indeed were dry enough. the holy religious man, so soone as he heard her description of the man, presently knew whom shee meant, and highly commending the gentlewoman, for her good and vertuous seeming disposition, beleeved faithfully all that shee had said: promising her, to order the matter so well and discreetly, as shee should not be any more offended. and knowing her to be a woman of great wealth (after all their usuall manner, when they cast forth their fishing nets for gaine:) liberally he commended almes-deedes, and dayly workes of charity, recounting to her (beside) his owne perticular necessities. then, giving him two pieces of gold, she said. i pray you (good father) to be mindfull of me, and if he chance to make any deniall: tell him boldly, that i spake it my selfe to you, and by the way of a sad complaint her confession being ended, and penance easie enough enjoyned her, shee promised to make her parents bountifull benefactours to the convent, and put more money into his hand, desiring him in his masses, to remember the soules of her deceased friends, and so returned home to her house. within a short while after her departure, the gentleman, of whom she had made this counterfeit complaint, came thither, as was his usuall manner, and having done his duty to the holy father; they sate downe together privately, falling out of one discourse into another. at the length, the frier (in very loving and friendly sort) mildly reproved him, for such amorous glaunces, and other pursuites, which (as he thought) hee dayly used to the gentlewoman, according to her owne speeches. the gentleman mervailed greatly thereat, as one that had never seene her, and very sildome passed by the way where she dwelt, which made him the bolder in his answeres; wherein the confessour interrupting him, said. never make such admiration at the matter, neither waste more words in these stout denials, because they cannot serve thy turne: i tell thee plainely, i heard it not from any neighbours, but even of her owne selfe, in a very sorrowfull and sad complaint. and though (perhaps) hereafter, thou canst very hardly refraine such follies; yet let mee tell thee so much of her (and under the seale of absolute assurance) that she is the onely woman of the world, who (in my true judgement) doth hate and abhorre all such base behaviour. wherefore, in regard of thine owne honour, as also not to vexe & prejudice so vertuous a gentlewoman: i pray thee refrain such idlenes henceforward, & suffer hir to live in peace. the gentleman, being a little wiser then his ghostly father, perceived immediatly (without any further meditating on the matter) the notable pollicie of the woman: whereupon, making somewhat bashfull appearance of any error already committed; hee said, hee would afterward be better advised. so, departing from the frier, he went on directly, to passe by the house where the gentlewoman dwelt, and she stood alwayes ready on her watch, at a little window, to observe, when hee should walke that way: and seeing him comming, she shewed her selfe so joyfull, and gracious to him, as he easily understood, whereto the substance of the holy fathers chiding tended. and, from that time forward, hee used dayly, though in covert manner (to the no little liking of the gentlewoman and himselfe) to make his passage through that streete, under colour of some important occasions there, concerning him. soone after, it being plainely discerned on either side, that the one was as well contented with these walkes, as the other could be: shee desired to enflame him a little further, by a more liberall illustration of her affection towards him, when time and place affoorded convenient opportunity. to the holy father againe shee went, (for shee had been too long from shrift) and kneeling downe at his feete, intended to begin her confession in teares; which the friar perceiving, sorrowfully demanded of her, what new accident had happened? holy father (quoth shee) no novell accident, but onely your wicked and ungracious friend, by whom (since i was here with you, yea, no longer agoe then yesterday) i have beene so wronged, as i verily beleeve that hee was borne to be my mortall enemie, and to make me doe something to my utter disgrace for ever; and whereby i shall not dare to be seene any more of you, my deare father. how is this? answered the friar, hath he not refrained from afflicting you so abusively? pausing a while, and breathing foorth many a dissembled sigh, thus shee replyed. no truly, holy father, there is no likelyhood of his abstaining; for since i made my complaint to you, he belike taking it in evill part, to be contraried in his wanton humours, hath (meerely in despight) walked seaven times in a day by my doore, whereas formerly, he never used it above once or twice. and well were it (good father) if he could be contented with those walkes, and gazing glaunces which hee dartes at me: but growne he is so bolde and shamelesse, that even yesterday, (as i tolde you) he sent a woman to me, one of his _pandoraes_, as it appeared, and as if i had wanted either purses or girdles, he sent me (by her) a purse and a girdle. whereat i grew so grievously offended, as had it not beene for my due respect and feare of god, and next the sacred reverence i beare to you my ghostly father; doubtlesse, i had done some wicked deede. neverthelesse, happily i withstood it, and will neither say or doe any thing in this case, till first i have made it knowne to you. then i called to minde, that having redelivered the purse and girdle to his shee messenger, (which brought them) with lookes sufficient to declare my discontentment: i called her backe againe, fearing least shee would keepe them to her selfe, and make him beleeve, that i had received them (as i have heard such kind of women use to doe sometimes) and in anger i snatcht them from her, and have brought them hither to you, to the end that you may give him them againe; and tell him, i have no neede of any such things, thankes be to heaven and my husband, as no woman can be better stored then i am. wherefore good father, purposely am i now come to you, and i beseech you accept my just excuse, that if he will not abstaine from thus molesting me, i will disclose it to my husband, father, and brethren, whatsoever shall ensue thereon: for i had rather he should receive the injury (if needs it must come) then i to be causelesly blamed for him; wherein good father tell me, if i doe not well. with many counterfeit sobbes, sighes, and teares, these wordes were delivered; and drawing foorth from under her gowne, a very faire and rich purse, as also a girdle of great worth, shee threw them into the friers lap. he verily beleeving all this false report, being troubled in his minde thereat beyond measure, tooke the gentlewoman by the hand, saying: daughter, if thou be offended at these impudent follies, assuredly i cannot blame thee, not will any wise man reproove thee for it; and i commend thee for following my counsell. but let me alone for schooling of my gentleman: ill hath he kept his promise made to mee; wherefore, in regard of his former offence, as also this other so lately committed, i hope to set him in such a heate, as shall make him leave off from further injurying thee. and in gods name, suffer not thy selfe to be conquered by choler, in disclosing this to thy kindred or husband, because too much harme may ensue thereon. but feare not any wrong to thy selfe; for, both before god and men, i am a true witnesse of thine honesty and vertue. now began she to appeare somewhat better comforted; & forbearing to play on this string any longer, as wel knowing the covetousness of him and his equals, she said. holy father, some few nights past, me thought in my sleepe, that divers spirits of my kindred appeared to me in a vision, who (me thought) were in very great paines, and desired nothing else but almes; especially my god-mother, who seemed to bee afflicted with such extreme poverty, that it was most pittifull to behold. and i am half perswaded, that her torments are the greater, seeing mee troubled with such an enemy to goodnesse. wherefore (good father) to deliver her soule and the others, out of those fearfull flames; among your infinite other devout prayers, i would have you to say the fortie masses of s. _gregory_, as a meanes for their happy deliverance, and so she put ten ducates into his hand. which the holy man accepted thankfully, and with good words, as also many singular examples, confirmed her bountifull devotion: and when he had given her his benediction, home she departed. after that the gentlewoman was gone, hee sent for his friend, whom she so much seemed to be troubled withall; and when he was come, hee beholding his holy father to looke discontentedly: thought, that now he should heare some newes from his mistresse, and therefore expected what he would say. the frier, falling into the course of his former reprehensions, but yet in more rough and impatient manner, sharpely checkt him for his immodest behaviour towards the gentlewoman, in sending her the purse and girdle. the gentleman, who as yet could not guesse whereto his speeches tended; somewhat coldly and temperately, denied the sending of such tokens to her, to the end that he would not be utterly discredited with the good man, if so bee the gentlewoman had shewne him any such things. but then the frier, waxing much more angry, sternly said. bad man as thou art, how canst thou deny a manifest trueth? see sir, these are none of your amorous tokens? no, i am sure you doe not know them, nor ever saw them till now. the gentleman, seeming as if he were much ashamed, saide. truely father i do know them, and confesse that i have done ill, and very greatly offended: but now i will sweare unto you, seeing i understande how firmely she is affected, that you shall never heare any more complaints of me. such were his vowes and protestations, as in the end the ghostly father gave him both the purse and girdle: then after he had preached, & severely conjured him, never more to vexe her with any gifts at all, and he binding himselfe thereto by a solemne promise, he gave him license to depart. now grew the gentleman very jocond, being so surely certified of his mistresses love, and by tokens of such worthy esteeme; wherefore no sooner was hee gone from the frier, but hee went into such a secret place, where he could let her behold at her window, what precious tokens he had receyved from her, whereof she was extraordinarily joyfull, because her devices grew still better and better; nothing now wanting, but her husbands absence, upon some journey from the city, for the full effecting of her desire. within a few dayes after, such an occasion hapned, as her husband of necessity must journey to _geneway_; and no sooner was hee mounted on horsebacke, taking leave of her and all his friends: but she, being sure hee was gone, went in all hast to her ghostly father; and, after a few faigned outward shewes, thus she spake. i must now plainly tell you, holy father, that i can no longer endure this wicked friend of yours; but because i promised you the other day, that i would not do any thing, before i had your counsell therein, i am now come to tell you, the just reason of my anger, and full purpose to avoid all further molestation. your friend i cannot terme him, but (questionles) a very divel of hell. this morning, before the breake of day, having heard (but how, i know not) that my husband was ridden to _geneway_: got over the wall into my garden, and climbing up a tree which standeth close before my chamber window, when i was fast asleepe, opened the casement, and would have entred in at the window. but, by great good fortune, i awaked, and made shew of an open out-cry: but that he entreated mee, both for gods sake and yours, to pardon him this error, and never after he would presume any more to offend me. when he saw, that (for your sake) i was silent, he closed fast the window againe, departed as he came, and since i never saw him, or heard any tidings of him. now judge you, holy father, whether these be honest courses, or no, and to be endured by any civil gentlewoman; neither would i so patiently have suffered this, but onely in my dutifull reverence to you. the ghostly father hearing this, became the sorrowfullest man in the world, not knowing how to make her any answer, but only demanded of her divers times, whether she knew him so perfectly, that she did not mistake him for some other? quoth she, i would i did not know him from any other. alas deere daughter (replied the frier) what can more be sayd in this case, but that it was over-much boldnesse, and very il done; & thou shewedst thy selfe a worthy wise woman, in sending him away so mercifully, as thou didst. once more i would entreat thee (deare and vertuous daughter) seeing grace hath hitherto kept thee from dishonour, and twice already thou hast credited my counsell, let me now advise thee this last time. spare speech, or complaining to any other of thy friends, and leave it to me, to try if i can overcome this unchained divel, whom i tooke to be a much more holy man. if i can recall him from this sensuall appetite, i shall account my labour well employed; but if i cannot do it, henceforward (with my blessed benediction) i give thee leave to do, even what thy heart will best tutor thee to. you see sir (said shee) what manner of man he is, yet would i not have you troubled or disobeyed, only i desire to live without disturbance, which work (i beseech you) as best you may: for i promise you, good father, never to solicite you more uppon this occasion: and so, in a pretended rage, shee returned backe from the ghostly father. scarsely was she gone forth of the church, but in commeth the man that had (supposedly) so much transgressed; and the fryer taking him aside, gave him the most injurious words that could be used to a man, calling him disloyall, perjured, and a traitor. hee who had formerly twice perceived, how high the holy mans anger mounted, did nothing but expect what he wold say; and, like a man extreamly perplexed, strove how to get it from him, saying; holy father, how come you to be so heinously offended? what have i done to incense you so strangely? heare mee dishonest wretch answered the frier, listen what i shall say unto thee. thou answerest me, as if it were a yeare or two past, since so foule abuses were by thee committed, & they almost quite out of thy remembrance. but tell me wicked man, where wast thou this morning, before breake of the day? wheresoever i was, replyed the gentleman, mee thinkes the tidings come very quickly to you. it is true, said the frier, they are speedily come to me indeed, and upon urgent necessity. after a little curbing in of his wrath, somewhat in a milder strain, thus he proceeded. because the gentlewomans husband is journeyed to _geneway_, proves this a ladder to your hope, that to embrace her in your armes, you must climbe over the garden wall, like a treacherous robber in the night season, mount up a tree before her chamber window, open the casement, as hoping to compasse that by importunity, which her spotlesse chastity will never permit. there is nothing in the world, that possibly she can hate more then you, and yet you will love her whether she will or no. many demonstrations her selfe hath made to you, how retrograde you are to any good conceit of her, & my loving admonishments might have had better successe in you, then as yet they shewe by outward apparance. but one thing i must tell you, her silent sufferance of your injuries all this while, hath not bin in any respect of you, but at my earnest entreaties, and for my sake. but now shee will be patient no longer, and i have given her free license, if ever heereafter you offer to attempt her any more, to make her complaint before her brethren, which will redound to your no meane danger. the gentleman, having wisely collected his love-lesson out of the holy fathers angry words, pacified the good old man so wel as he could with very solemne promises and protestations, that he should heare (no more) any misbehaviour of his. and being gone from him, followed the instructions given in her complaint, by climbing over the garden wall, ascending the tree, and entering at the casement, standing ready open to welcome him. thus the friers simplicity, wrought on by her most ingenuous subtiltie, made way to obtaine both their longing desires. _a yong scholler, named_ felice, _enstructed_ puccio di rinieri, _how to become rich in a very short time. while_ puccio _made experience of the instructions taught him;_ felice _obtained the favour of his daughter._ the fourth novell. _wherein is declared, what craft and subtilty some wily wits can devise, to deceive the simple, and compasse their owne desires._ after that _philomena_ had finished her tale, she sate still; and _dioneus_ with faire and pleasing language, commended the gentlewomans quaint cunning, but smiled at the confessors witlesse simplicity. then the _queen_, turning with chearefull looks towards _pamphilus_, commaunded him to continue on their delight; who gladly yeelded, and thus began. madame, many men there are, who while they strive to climbe from a good estate, to a seeming better; doe become in much worse condition then they were before. as happened to a neighbour of ours, and no long time since, as the accident will better acquaint you withall. according as i have heard it reported, neere to saint _brancazio_, there dwelt an honest man, and some-what rich, who was called _puccio di rinieri_, and who addicted all his paines and endeavours to alchimy: wherefore, he kept no other family, but onely a widdowed daughter, and a servant; and because he had no other art or exercise, hee used often to frequent the market place. and in regard he was but a weake witted man, and a gourmand or grosse feeder; his language was the more harsh and rude, like to our common porters or loutish men, and his carriage also absurd, boore-like, and clownish. his daughter, being named _monna isabetta_, aged not above eight and twenty, or thirty yeers; was a fresh indifferent faire, plumpe, round woman, cherry cheekt, like a queene-apple; and, to please her father, fed not so sparingly, as otherwise she wold have done, but when she communed or jested with any body, she would talke of nothing, but onely concerning the great vertue in alchimy, extolling it above all other arts. much about this season of the yeare, there returned a young scholler from _paris_, named _felice_, faire of complexion, comely of person, ingeniously witted, and skilfully learned, who (soone after) grew into familiarity with _puccio_: now because he could resolve him in many doubts, depending on his profession of alchimy, (himselfe having onely practise, but no great learning) he used many questions to him, shewed him very especiall matters of secrecy, entertaining him often to dinners and suppers, whensoever he pleased to come and converse with him; and his daughter likewise, perceiving with what favour her father respected him, became the more familiar with him, allowing him good regard and reverence. the young man continuing his resort to the house of _puccio_, and observing the widow to be faire, fresh, and prettily formall; he began to consider with himselfe, what those things might be, wherein shee was most wanting; and (if he could) to save anothers labour, supply them by his best endeavours. thus not alwayes carrying his eyes before him, but using many backe and circumspect regards, he proceeded so farre in his wylie apprehensions, that (by a few sparkes close kept together) he kindled part of the same fire in her, which began to flame apparantly in him. and he very wittily observing the same, as occasion first smiled on him, and allowed him favourable opportunity, so did hee impart his intention to her. now albeit he found her plyant enough, to gaine physick for her owne griefe, as soone as his; yet the meanes and manner were (as yet) quite out of all apprehension. for shee in no other part of the world, would trust her selfe in the young mans company, but onely in her fathers house; and that was a place out of all possibility, because _puccio_ (by a long continued custome) used to watch well neere all the night, as commonly he did, each night after other, never stirring foorth of the roomes, which much abated the edge of the young mans appetite. after infinite intricate revolvings, wheeling about his busied braine, he thought it not altogether an _herculian_ taske, to enjoy his happinesse in the house, and without any suspition, albeit _puccio_ kept still within doores, and watched as hee was wont to doe. upon a day as he sate in familiar conference with _puccio_, he began to speake unto him in this manner; i have many times noted, kinde friend _puccio_, that all thy desire and endeavour is, by what meanes thou mayest become very rich, wherein (me thinkes) thou takest too wide a course, when there is a much neere and shorter way, which _mighell, scotus,_ and other his associates, very diligently observed and followed, yet were never willing to instruct other men therein; whereby the misterie might be drowned in oblivion, and prosecuted by none but onely great lords, that are able to undergoe it. but because thou art mine especiall friend, and i have received from thee infinite kind favours; whereas i never intended, that any man (by me) should be acquainted with so rare a secret; if thou wilt imitate the course as i shall shew thee, i purpose to teach it thee in full perfection. _puccio_ being very earnestly desirous to understand the speediest way to so singular a mysterie, first began to entreat him (with no meane instance) to acquaint him with the rules of so rich a science; and afterward sware unto him, never to disclose it to any person, except hee gave his consent thereto; affirming beside, that it was a rarity, not easie to be comprehended by very apprehensive judgements. well (quoth _felice_) seeing thou hast made me such a sound and solemne promise, i will make it knowne unto thee. know then friend _puccio_, the philosophers do hold, that such as covet to become rich indeed, must understand how to make the stone: as i will tell thee how, but marke the manner very heedfully. i do not say, that after the stone is obtained, thou shalt be even as rich as now thou art; but thou shalt plainly perceive, that the very grosest substance, which hitherto thou hast seene, all of them shal be made pure golde, and such as afterward thou makest, shall be more certaine, then to go or come with _aqua fortis_, as now they do. most expedient is it therefore, that when a man will go diligently about this businesse, and purposeth to prosecute such a singular labour, which will and must continue for the space of nights, he must give very carefull attendance, wholly abstaining from sleepe, slumbering, or so much as nodding all that while. moreover, in some apt and convenient place of thy house, there must be a forge or furnace erected, framed in decent and formall fashion, and neere it a large table placed, ordered in such sort, as standing upright on thy feete, and leaning the reines of thy backe against it; thou must stande stedfastly in that manner every night, without the least motion or stirring, untill the breake of day appeareth, and thine eyes still uppon the furnace fixed, to keepe ever in memory, the true order which i have prescribed. so soone as the morning is seene, thou mayst (if thou wilt) walke, or rest a little upon thy bed, and afterward go about thy businesse, if thou have any. then go to dinner, attending readily till the evenings approch, preparing such things as i will readily set thee downe in writing, without which there is not any thing to bee done; and then returne to the same taske againe, not varying a jot from the course directed. before the time be fully expired, thou shalt perceive many apparant signes, that the stone is still in absolute forwardnesse, but it will bee utterly lost if thou fayle in the least of all the observances. and when the experience hath crowned thy labour, thou art sure to have the philosophers stone, and thereby shalt be able to enrich all, and worke wonders beside. _puccio_ instantly replied. now trust me sir, there is no great difficultie in this labour; neither doth it require any extraordinary length of time: but it may very easily be followed and performed, and (by your friendly favour, in helping to direct the furnace and table, according as you imagine most convenient) on sunday at night next, i will begin my task. the scholler being gone, he went to his daughter, and tolde her all the matter, and what he had determined to do: which shee immediately understood sufficiently, and what would ensue on his nightly watching in that manner, returning him answer, that whatsoever he liked and allowed of, it became not her any way to mislike. thus they continued in this kinde concordance, till sunday night came. when _puccio_ was to begin his experience, and _felice_ to set forward upon his adventure. concluded it was, that every night the scholler must come to supper, partly to bee a witnesse of his constant performance, but more especially for his owne advantage. the place which _puccio_ had chosen, for his hopefull attaining to the philosophers stone, was close to the chamber where his daughter lay, having no other separation or division, but an old ruinous tottring wall. so that, when the scholler was playing his prize, _puccio_ heard an unwonted noise in the house, which he had never observed before, neither knew the wall to have any such motion: wherefore, not daring to stirre from his standing, least all should be marrd in the very beginning, he called to his daughter, demanding, what busie labour she was about? the widdow, being much addicted to frumping, according as questions were demanded of her, and (perhaps) forgetting who spake to her, pleasantly replied: whoop sir, where are we now? are the spirits of alchimy walking in the house, that we cannot lye quietly in our beds? _puccio_ mervailing at this answer, knowing she never gave him the like before; demanded againe, what she did? the subtle wench, remembring that she had not answered as became her, said: pardon mee father, my wits were not mine owne, when you demanded such a sodaine question; and i have heard you say an hundred times, that when folke go supperles to bed, either they walke in their sleepe, or being awake, talke very idely, as (no doubt) you have discernde by me. nay daughter (quoth he) it may be, that i was in a waking dreame, and thought i heard the olde wall totter: but i see i was deceived, for now it is quiet and still enough. talke no more good father, saide she, least you stirre from your place, and hinder your labour: take no care for mee, i am able enough to have care of my selfe. to prevent any more of these nightly disturbances, they went to lodge in another part of the house, where they continued out the time of _puccioes_ paines, with equall contentment to them both, which made her divers times say to _felice_: you teach my father the cheefe grounds of alchimy, while we helpe to waste away his treasure. thus the scholler being but poore, yet well forwarded in learning, made use of _puccioes_ folly, and found benefit thereby, to keepe him out of wants, which is the bane and overthrow of numberlesse good wits. and _puccio_ dying, before the date of his limitted time, because hee failed of the philosophers stone, _isabetta_ joyned in marriage with _felice_, to make him amends for enstructing her father, by which meanes he came to be her husband. ricciardo, _surnamed the magnifico, gave a horse to_ signior francesco vergellisi, _upon condition, that (by his leave and lisence) he might speake to his wife in his presence; which he did, and shee not returning him any answere, made answer to himselfe on her behalfe, and according to his answer, so the effect followed._ the fifth novell. _wherein is described the frailety of some women, and folly of such husbands, as leave them alone to their owne disposition._ _pamphilus_ having ended the novell of _puccio_ the alchimist, the queene fixing her eye on madam _eliza_, gave order, that shee should succeede with hers next. when shee looking somewhat more austerely, then any of the rest, not in any spleen, but as it was her usuall manner, thus began. the world containeth some particular people who doe beleeve (because themselves know something) that others are ignorant in all things; who for the most part, while they intend to make a scorne of other men, upon the proofe, doe finde themselves to carry away the scorne. and therefore i account it no meane follie in them, who (upon no occasion) will tempt the power of another mans wit or experience. but because all men and women (perhaps) are not of mine opinion; i meane that you shall perceive it more apparantly, by an accident happening to a knight of _pistoia_, as you shall heare by me related. in the towne of _pistoia_, bordering upon _florence_, there lived not long since, a knight named signior _francesco_; descended of the linage or family of the _vergellisi_, a man very rich, wise, and in many things provident, but gripple, covetous, and too close handed, without respect to his worth and reputation. he being called to the office of _podesta_ in the city of _millaine_, furnished himselfe with all things (in honourable manner) beseeming such a charge; only, a comely horse (for his owne saddle) excepted, which he knew not by any meanes how to compasse, so loath he was to lay out money, albeit his credit much depended thereon. at the same time, there lived in _pistoya_ likewise, a young man, named _ricciardo_, derived of meane birth, but very wealthy, quicke witted, and of commendable person, alwayes going so neate, fine, and formall in his apparrell, that he was generally tearmed the _magnifico_, who had long time affected, yea, and closely courted, (though without any advantage or successe) the lady and wife of _signior francesco_, who was very beautifull, vertuous, and chaste. it so chanced, that this _magnifico_ had the very choysest and goodliest ambling gelding in all _tuscanie_, which he loved dearely, for his faire forme, and other good parts. upon a flying rumor throughout _pistoria_, that he daily made love to the fore-said lady: some busie body, put it into the head of _signior francesco_, that if he pleased to request the gelding, the _magnifico_ would frankly give it him, in regard of the love he bare to his wife. the base minded knight, coveting to have the horse, and yet not to part with any money, sent for the _magnifico_, desiring to buy his faire gelding of him, because he hoped to have him of free gift. the _magnifico_ hearing his request, was not a little joyfull hereof, and thus answered; sir, if you would give me all the wealth which you possesse in this world, i will not sell you my horse, rather i will bestow him on you as a gentlemanly gift; but yet upon this condition, that before you have him delivered, i may with your lisence, and in your presence speake a few words to your vertuous ladie, and so farre off in distance from you, as i may not be heard by any, but onely her selfe. _signior francesco_, wholly conducted by his base avaricious desire, and meaning to make a scorne at the _magnifico_, made answere; that he was well contented, to let him speake with her when he would, and leaving him in the great hall of the house, he went to his wives chamber, and told her, how easily he might enjoy the horse; commanding her forth-with, to come and heare what he could say to her, onely shee should abstaine, and not returne him any answer. the lady with a modest blush, much condemned this folly in him, that his covetousnesse should serve as a cloake, to cover any unfitting speeches, which her chaste eares could never endure to heare: neverthelesse, being to obey her husbands will, shee promised to doe it, and followed him downe into the house, to heare what the _magnifico_ would say. againe, he there confirmed the bargaine made with her husband, and sitting downe by her in a corner of the hall, farre enough off from any ones hearing, taking her curteously by the hand, thus he spake. worthy lady, it appeareth to me for a certainty, that you are so truly wise, as you have (no doubt) a long while since perceived, what unfained affection your beauty (farre excelling all other womens that i know) hath compelled me to beare you. setting aside those commendable qualities, and singular vertues, gloriously shining in you, and powerfull enough to make a conquest of the very stoutest courage: i held it utterly needlesse, to let you understand by words, how faithfull the love is i beare you, were it not much more fervent and constant, then ever any other man can expresse to a woman. in which condition it shall still continue, without the least blemish or impaire, so long as i enjoy life or motion; yea, and i dare assure you, that if in the future world, affection may containe the same powerfull dominion, as it doth in this; i am the man, borne to love you perpetually. whereby you may rest confidently perswaded, that you enjoy not any thing, how poore or precious soever it be, which you can so solemnely account to be your owne, and in the truest title of right, as you may my selfe, in all that i have, or for ever shall be mine. to confirme your opinion in this case, by any argument of greater power, let me tell you, that i should repute it as my fairest and most gracious fortune, if you would command me some such service, as consisteth in mine ability to performe, and in your courteous favour to accept, yea, if it were to travaile thorow the whole world, right willing am i, and obedient. in which regard, faire madame, if i be so much yours, as you heare i am, i may boldly adventure (and not without good reason) to acquaint your chaste eares with my earnest desires, for on you onely dependeth my happinesse, life and absolute comfort, and as your most humble servant, i beseech you (my dearest good, and sole hope of my soule) that rigour may dwell no longer in your gentle brest, but lady-like pitty and compassion: whereby i shal say, that as your divine beauty enflamed mine affections, even so it extended such a mercifull qualification, as exceeded all my hope, but not the halfe part of your pitty. admit (miracle of ladies) that i should die in this distresse: alas, my death would be but your dishonour; i cannot be termed mine owne murtherer, when the dart came from your eye that did it, and must remaine a witnesse of your rigour. you cannot then chuse but call to minde, and say within your owne soule: alas! what a sinne have i committed, in being so unmercifull to my _magnifico_. repentance then serves to no purpose, but you must answere for such unkinde cruelty. wherefore, to prevent so blacke a scandall to your bright beauty, beside the ceaselesse acclamations, which will dogge your walkes in the day time, and breake your quiet sleepes in the night season, with fearefull sights and gastly apparitions, hovering and haunting about your bed; let all these move you to milde mercy, and spill not life, when you may save it. so the _magnifico_ ceasing, with teares streaming from his eyes, and sighes breaking from his heart, he sate still in exspectation of the ladies answere, who made neither long or short of the matter, neither tilts not tourneying, nor many lost mornings and evenings, nor infinite other such like offices, which the _magnifico_ (for her sake) from time to time had spent in vaine, without the least shew of acceptation, or any hope at all to winne her love: moved now in this very houre, by these solemne protestations, or rather most prevailing asseverations; she began to finde that in her, which (before) she never felt, namely love. and although (to keepe her promise made to her husband) shee spake not a word: yet her heart heaving, her soule throbbing, sighes intermixing, and complexion altering, could not hide her intended answere to the _magnifico_, if promise had beene no hinderance to her will. all this while the _magnifico_ sate as mute as she, and seeing she would not give him any answere at all; he could not chuse but wonder thereat, yet at length perceived, that it was thus cunningly contrived by her husband. notwithstanding, observing well her countenance, that it was in a quite contrary temper, another kinde of fire sparkling in her eye, other humours flowing, her pulses strongly beating, her stomack rising, and sighes swelling; all these were arguments of a change, and motives to advance his hope. taking courage by this tickling perswasion, and instructing his minde with a new kinde of counsell: he would needes answere himselfe on her behalfe, and as if she had uttered the words, he spake in this manner. _magnifico_, and my friend, surely it is a long time since, when i first noted thine affection towards me, to be very great and most perfect: but now i am much more certaine thereof, by thine owne honest and gentle speeches, which content me as they ought to doe. neverthelesse, if heretofore i have seemed cruell and unkinde to thee, i would not have thee thinke, that my heart was any way guilty of my outward severity; but did evermore love thee, and held thee dearer then any man living. but yet it became me to doe so, as well in feare of others, as for the renowne of mine owne reputation. but now the time is at hand, to let thee know more clearely, whether i doe affect thee or no: as a just guerdon of thy constant love, which long thou hast, and still doest beare to me. wherefore comfort thy selfe, and dwell upon this undoubted hope, because _signior francesco_ my husband, is to be absent hence for many dayes, being chosen _podesta_ at _millaine_, as thou canst not chuse but heare, for it is common through the country. i know (for my sake) thou hast given him thy goodly ambling gelding, and so soone as hee is gone, i promise thee upon my word, and by the faithfull love i beare thee: that i will have further conference with thee, and let thee understand somewhat more of my minde. and because this is neither fitting time nor place, to discourse on matters of such serious moment; observe heereafter, as a signall, when thou seest my crimson skarfe hanging in the window of my chamber, which is upon the garden side; that evening (so soone as it is night) come to the garden gate, with wary respect, that no eye doe discover thee, and there thou shalt finde me walking, and ready to acquaint thee with other matters, according as i shall finde occasion. when the _magnifico_, in the person of the lady, had spoken thus, then hee returned her this answere. most vertuous lady, my spirits are so transported with extraordinary joy, for this your gracious and welcome answere; that my sences so fayle mee, and all my faculties quite forsake me, as i cannot give you such thankes as i would. and if i could speake equally to my desire, yet the season sutes not therewith, neither were it convenient that i should be so troublesome to you. let me therefore humbly beseech you, that the desire i have to accomplish your will (which words availe not to expresse) may remaine in your kinde consideration. and, as you have commaunded me, so will i not faile to performe it accordingly, and in more thankfull manner, then as yet i am able to let you know. now there resteth nothing elsee to doe, but, under the protection of your gracious pardon, i to give over speech, and you to attend your worthy husband. notwithstanding all that hee had spoken, yet shee replied not one word, wherefore the _magnifico_ arose, and returned to the knight, who went to meete him, saying in a loude laughter. how now man? have i not kept my promise with thee? no sir, answered the _magnifico_, for you promised i should speake with your wife, and you have made mee talke to a marble statue. this answere was greatly pleasing to the knight, who, although hee had an undoubted opinion of his wife; yet this did much more strengthen his beliefe, and hee said. now thou confessest thy gelding to bee mine? i doe, replied the _magnifico_, but if i had thought, that no better successe would have ensued on the bargaine; without your motion for the horse, i would have given him you: and i am sorie that i did not, because now you have bought my horse, and yet i have not sold him. the knight laughed heartily at this answere, and being thus provided of so faire a beast, he rode on his journey to _millaine_, and there entred into his authority of _podesta_. the lady remained now in liberty at home, considering on the _magnificoes_ words, and likewise the gelding, which (for her sake) was given to her husband. oftentimes shee saw him passe to and fro before her windowe, still looking when the flagge of defiance should be hanged forth, that hee might fight valiantly under her colours. the story saith, that among many of her much better meditations, she was heard to talke thus idely to herselfe. what doe i meane? wherefore is my youth? the olde miserable man is gone to _millaine_, and god knoweth when hee comes backe againe, ever, or never. is dignity preferred before wedlockes holy duty, and pleasures abroade, more then comforts at home? ill can age pay youths arrerages, when time is spent, and no hope sparde. actions omitted, are often times repented, but done in due season, they are sildome sorrowed for. upon these un-lady-like private consultations, whether the window shewed the signall or no; it is no matter belonging to my charge: i say, husbands are unwise, to graunt such ill advantages, and wives much worse, if they take hold of them, onely judge you the best, and so the tale is ended. ricciardo minutolo _fell in love with the wife of_ philippello fighinolfi, _and knowing her to be very jealous of her husband, gave her to understand, that he was greatly enamoured of his wife, and had appointed to meete her privately in a bathing house, on the next day following: where she hoping to take him tardie with his close compacted mistresse, found herselfe to be deceived by the said_ ricciardo. the sixth novell. _declaring, how much perseverance, and a couragious spirit is availeable in love._ no more remained to be spoken by madame _eliza_, but the cunning of the _magnifico_, being much commended by all the company: the queene commanded madame _fiammetta_, to succeede next in order with one of her novelse, who (smilingly) made answere that she would, and began thus. gracious ladies, me thinkes wee have spoken enough already, concerning our owne citie, which as it aboundeth copiously in all commodities, so is it an example also to every convenient purpose. and as madam _eliza_ hath done, by recounting occasions happening in another world, so must we now leape a little further off, even so farre as _naples_, to see how one of those saint-like dames, that nicely seemes to shun loves allurings, was guided by the good spirit to a friend of hers, and tasted of the fruite, before shee knew the flowers. a sufficient warning for you, to apprehend before hand, what may follow after; and to let you see beside, that when an error is committed, how to be discreete in keeping it from publike knowledge. in the city of _naples_, it being of great antiquity, and (perhaps) as pleasantly scituated, as any other city in all _italie_, there dwelt sometime a young gentleman, of noble parentage, and well knowne to be wealthy, named _ricciardo minutolo_, who, although hee had a gentlewoman (of excellent beauty, and worthy the very kindest affecting) to his wife; yet his gadding eye gazed elsee-where, and he became enamoured of another, which (in generall opinion) surpassed all the _neapolitane_ women elsee, in feature, favour, and the choysest perfections, shee being named madam _catulla_, wife to as gallant a young gentleman, called _philippello fighinolfi_, who most dearely he loved beyond all other, for her vertue and admired chastity. _ricciardo_ loving this madam _catulla_, and using all such meanes, whereby the grace and liking of a lady might be obtained; found it yet a matter beyond possibility, to compasse the height of his desire: so that many desperate and dangerous resolutions beleagred his braine, seeming so intricate, and unlikely to affoord any hopefull issue, as he wished for nothing more then death. and death (as yet) being deafe to all his earnest imprecations, delayed him on in lingering afflictions, and continuing still in such an extreame condition, he was advised by some of his best friends, utterly to abstaine from this fond pursuite, because his hopes were meerely in vaine, and madam _catulla_ prized nothing more precious to her in the world, then unstayned loyaltie to her husband; and yet shee lived in such extreme jealousie of him, as fearing least some bird flying in the ayre, should snatch him from her. _ricciardo_ not unacquainted with this her jealous humour, as well by credible hearing thereof, as also by daily observation; began to consider with himselfe, that it were best for him, to dissemble amorous affection in some other place, and (hence-forward) to set aside all hope, of ever enjoying the love of madam _catulla_, because he was now become the servant to another gentlewoman, pretending (in her honour) to performe many worthy actions of armes, jousts, tournaments, and all such like noble exercises, as he was wont to doe for madam _catulla_. so that almost all the people of _naples_, but especially madam _catulla_, became verily perswaded, that his former fruitlesse love to her was quite changed, and the new elected lady had all the glory of his best endeavours, persevering so long in this opinion, as now it passed absolutely for currant. thus seemed he now as a meere stranger to her, whose house before he familiarly frequented; yet (as a neighbour) gave her the dayes salutations, according as he chanced to see her, or meete her. it came to passe, that it being now the delightfull summer season, when all gentlemen and gentlewomen used to meete together (according to a custome long observed in that countrey) sporting along on the sea coast, dining and supping there very often. _ricciardo minutolo_ happened to heare, that madam _catulla_ (with a company of her friends) intended also to be present there among them, at which time, consorted with a seemely traine of his confederates, he resorted thither, and was graciously welcommed by madam _catulla_, where he pretended no willing long time of tarrying; but that _catulla_ and the other ladies were faine to entreate him, discoursing of his love to his new elected mistresse: which _minutolo_ graced with so solemne a countenance, as it ministred much more matter of conference, all coveting to know what shee was. so farre they walked, and held on this kinde of discoursing, as every lady and gentlewoman, waxing weary of too long a continued argument, began to separate her selfe with such an associate as shee best liked, and as in such walking women are wont to doe; so that madam _catulla_ having few females left with her, stayed behind with _minutolo_, who suddenly shot foorth a word, concerning her husband _philippello_, & of his loving another woman beside her selfe. she that was overmuch jealous before, became so suddenly set on fire, to know what shee was of whom _minutolo_ spake; as shee sate silent a long while, till being able to containe no longer, shee entreated _ricciardo_, even for the ladies sake, whose love he had so devoutly embraced, to resolve her certainely, in this strange alteration of her husband; whereunto thus he answered. madam, you have so straitly conjured me, by urging the remembrance of her; for whose sake i am not able to denie any thing you can demand, as i am ready therein to pleasure you. but first you must promise me, that neither you, or any other person for you, shall at any time disclose it to your husband, untill you have seene by effect, that which i have tolde you proveth to be true: and when you please, i will instruct you how your selfe shall see it. the lady was not a little joyfull, to be thus satisfied in her husbands follie, and constantly crediting his words to be true, shee sware a solemne oath, that no one alive should ever know it. so stepping a little further aside, because no listening eare should heare him, thus he beganne. lady, if i did love you now so effectually, as heretofore i have done, i should be very circumspect, in uttering any thing which i imagined might distaste you. i know not whether your husband _philippello_, were at any time offended; because i affected you, or beleeved, that i received any kindnesse from you: but whether it were so or no, i could never discerne it by any outward apparance. but now awaiting for the opportunity of time, which he conceived should affoord me the least suspition; he seekes to compasse that, which (i doubt) he feares i would have done to him, in plaine termes madam, to have his pleasure of my wife. and as by some carriages i have observed, within few dayes past, he hath solicited and pursued his purpose very secretly, by many ambassages, and other meanes, as (indeede) i have learned from her selfe, and alwayes shee hath returned in such answers, as shee received by my direction. and no longer agoe madam, then this very morning, before my comming hither, i found a woman messenger in my house, in very close conference with my wife, when growing doubtfull of that which was true indeede, i called my wife, enquiring, what the woman would have with her; and shee tolde me it was another pursuite of _philippello fighinolfi_, who (quoth shee) upon such answers as you have caused me to send him from time to time, perhaps doth gather some hope of prevailing in the ende, which maketh him still to importune me as he doth. and now he adventureth so farre, as to understand my finall intention, having thus ordered his complot, that when i please, i must meete him secretly in an house of this city, where he hath prepared a bath ready for me, and hopeth to enjoy the ende of his desire, as very earnestly he hath solicited me thereto. but if you had not commanded me, to hold him in suspence with so many frivolous answers; i would (long ere this) have sent him such a message, as should have beene little to his liking. with patience (madam) i endured all before, but now (me thinkes) he proceedeth too farre, which is not any way to be suffered; and therefore i intended to let you know it, whereby you may perceive, how well you are rewarded, for the faithfull and loyall love you beare him, and for which i was even at the doore of death. now, because you may be the surer of my speeches, not to be any lies or fables, and that you may (if you be so pleased) approve the trueth by your owne experience: i caused my wife to send him word, that shee would meete him to morrow, at the bathing-house appointed, about the houre of noone-day, when people repose themselves, in regard of the heates violence; with which answere the woman returned very jocondly. let me now tell you lady, i hope you have better opinion of my wit, then any meaning in me, to send my wife thither; i rather did it to this ende, that having acquainted you with his treacherous intent, you should supply my wives place, by saving both his reputation and your owne, and frustrating his unkind purpose to me. moreover, upon the view of his owne delusion, wrought by my wife in meere love to you, he shall see his foule shame, and your most noble care, to keepe the rites of marriage betweene you still unstained. madame _catulla_, having heard this long and unpleasing report; without any consideration, either what he was that tolde the tale, or what a treason he intended against her: immediatly (as jealous persons use to doe) she gave faith to his forgerie, and began to discourse many things to him, which imagination had often misguided her in, against her honest minded husband, and enflamed with rage, suddenly replied; that shee would doe according as he had advised her, as being a matter of no difficulty. but if he came, she would so shame and dishonour him, as no woman whatsoever should better schoole him. _ricciardo_ highly pleased herewith; & being perswaded, that his purpose would take the full effect: confirmed the lady in her determination with many words more; yet putting her in memory, to keepe her faithfull promise made, without revealing the matter to any living person, as shee had sworne upon her faith. on the morrow morning, _ricciardo_ went to an auncient woman of his acquaintance, who was the mistresse of a bathing-house, and there where he had appointed madame _catulla_, that the bath should be prepared for her, giving her to understand the whole businesse, and desiring her to be favourable therein to him. the woman, who had beene much beholding to him in other matters, promised very willingly to fulfill his request, concluding with him, both what should be done and said. she had in her house a very darke chamber, without any window to affoord it the least light, which chamber shee had made ready, according to _ricciardoes_ direction, with a rich bed therein, so soft and delicate as possible could be, wherein he entred so soone as he had dined, to attend the arrivall of madame _catulla_. on the same day, as she had heard the speeches of _ricciardo_, and gave more credit to them then became her; shee returned home to her house in wonderfull impatience. and _philippello_ her husband came home discontentedly too, whose head being busied about some worldly affaires, perhaps he looked not so pleasantly, neither used her so kindly, as he was wont to doe. which _catulla_ perceiving, shee was ten times more suspicious then before, saying to herselfe. now apparant trueth doth disclose it selfe, my husbands head is troubled now with nothing elsee, but _ricciardoes_ wife, with whom (to morrow) he purposeth his meeting; wherein he shall be disappointed, if i live; taking no rest at all the whole night, for thinking how to handle her husband. what shall i say more? on the morrow, at the houre of mid-day, accompanied onely with her chamber-mayde, and without any other alteration in opinion; shee went to the house where the bath was promised; and meeting there with the olde woman, demaunded of her, if _philippello_ were come thither as yet or no? the woman, being well instructed by _ricciardo_, answered: are you shee that should meete him heere. yes, replied _catulla_. goe in then to him (quoth the woman) for he is not farre off before you. madame _catulla_, who went to seeke that which she would not finde, being brought vailed into the darke chamber where _ricciardo_ was, entred into the bath, hoping to finde none other there but her husband, and the custome of the countrey, never disallowed such meetings of men with their wives, but held them to be good and commendable. in a counterfeit voyce he bad her welcome, and she, not seeming to be any other then she was indeed, entertained his embracings in as loving manner; yet not daring to speake, least he should know her, but suffered him to proceede in his owne error. let passe the wanton follies passing betweene them, and come to madame _catulla_, who finding it a fit and convenient time, to vent forth the tempest of her spleene, began in this manner. alas! how mighty are the misfortunes of women, and how ill requited is the loyall love, of many wives to their husbands? i, a poore miserable lady, who, for the space of eight yeares now fully compleated, have loved thee more dearely then mine owne life, finde now (to my hearts endlesse griefe) how thou wastest and consumest thy desires, to delight them with a strange woman, like a most vile and wicked man as thou art. with whom doest thou now imagine thy selfe to be? thou art with her, whom thou hast long time deluded by false blandishments, feigning to affect her, when thou doatest in thy desires elsee-where. i am thine owne _catulla_, and not the wife of _ricciardo_, trayterous and unfaithfull man, as thou art. i am sure thou knowest my voyce, and i thinke it a thousand yeares, untill wee may see each other in the light, to doe thee such dishonour as thou justly deserveth, dogged, disdainefull, and villainous wretch. by conceiving to have another woman in thy wanton embraces, thou hast declared more joviall disposition, and demonstrations of farre greater kindnesse, then domesticke familiarity. at home thou lookest sower, sullen or surly, often froward, and sildome well pleased. but the best is, whereas thou intendest this husbandrie for another mans ground, thou hast (against thy will) bestowed it on thine owne, and the water hath runne a contrary course, quite from the current where thou meantst it. what answere canst thou make, devill, and no man? what, have my words smitten thee dumbe? thou mayest (with shame enough) hold thy peace, for with the face of a man, and love of an husband to his wife, thou art not able to make any answere. _ricciardo_ durst not speake one word, but still expressed his affable behaviour towards her, bestowing infinite embraces and kisses on her: which so much the more augmented her rage and anger, continuing on her chiding thus. if by these flatteries and idle follies, thou hopest to comfort or pacifie me, thou runnest quite byas from thy reckoning: for i shall never imagine my selfe halfe satisfied, untill in the presence of my parents, friends, and neighbours, i have revealed thy base behaviour. tell mee, treacherous man, am not i as faire, as the wife of _ricciardo_? am i not as good a gentlewoman borne, as shee is? what canst thou more respect in her, then is in mee? villaine, monster, why doest thou not answere mee? i will send to _ricciardo_, who loveth mee beyond all other women in _naples_, and yet could never vaunt, that i gave him so much as a friendly looke: he shall know, what a dishonour thou hadst intended towards him; which both he and his friends will revenge soundly upon thee. the exclamations of the lady were so tedious and irksome, that _ricciardo_ perceiving, if she continued longer in these complaints, worse would ensue thereon, then could be easily remedied: resolved to make himselfe knowne to her, to reclaime her out of this violent extasie, and holding her somewhat strictly, to prevent her escaping from him, he said. madam, afflict your selfe no further, for, what i could not obtaine by simply loving you, subtilty hath better taught me, and i am your _ricciardo_, which she hearing, and perfectly knowing him by his voyce; shee would have leapt out of the bath, but shee could not, and to avoyde her crying out, he layde his hand on her mouth, saying. lady, what is done, cannot now be undone, albeit you cried out all your lifetime. if you exclaime, or make this knowne openly by any meanes; two unavoydable dangers must needes ensue thereon. the one (which you ought more carefully to respect) is the wounding of your good renowne and honour, because, when you shall say, that by treacherie i drew you hither: i will boldly maintaine the contrary, avouching, that having corrupted you with gold, and not giving you so much as covetously you desired; you grew offended, and thereon made the out-cry, and you are not to learne, that the world is more easily induced to beleeve the worst, then any goodnesse, be it never so manifest. next unto this, mortall hatred must arise betweene your husband and me, and (perhaps) i shall as soone kill him, as he mee; whereby you can hardly live in any true contentment after. wherefore, joy of my life, doe not in one moment, both shame your selfe, and cause such perill betweene your husband and me: for you are not the first, neither can be the last, that shall be deceived. i have not beguiled you, to take any honour from you, but onely declared, the faithfull affection i beare you, and so shall doe for ever, as being your bounden and most obedient servant; and as it is a long time agoe, since i dedicated my selfe and all mine to your service, so hence-forth must i remaine for ever. you are wise enough (i know) in all other things; then shew your selfe not to be silly or simple in this. _ricciardo_ uttered these words, teares streaming aboundantly downe his cheekes, and madame _catulla_ (all the while) likewise showred forth her sorrowes equally to his, now, although she was exceedingly troubled in minde, and saw what her owne jealous folly had now brought her to, a shame beyond all other whatsoever: in the midst of her tormenting passions, she considered on the words of _ricciardo_, found good reason in them, in regard of the unavoydable evils, whereupon shee thus spake. _ricciardo_, i know not how to beare the horrible injurie, and notorious treason used by thee against me, grace and goodnesse having so forsaken me, to let me fall in so foule a manner. nor becommeth it me, to make any noyse or out-cry heere, whereto simplicity, or rather devillish jealousie, did conduct me. but certaine i am of one thing, that i shall never see any one joyfull day, till (by one meanes or other) i be revenged on thee. thou hast glutted thy desire with my disgrace, let me therefore goe from thee, never more to looke upon my wronged husband, or let any honest woman ever see my face. _ricciardo_ perceiving the extremity of her perplexed minde, used all manly and milde perswasions, which possibly he could devise to doe, to turne the torrent of this high tide, to a calmer course; as by outward shew shee made apparance of, untill (in frightfull feares shunning every one shee met withall, as arguments of her guiltinesse) shee recovered her owne house, where remorse so tortured her distressed soule, that shee fell into so fierce a melancholy, as never left her till shee died. upon the report whereof, _ricciardo_ becomming likewise a widdower, and grieving extraordinarily for his haynous transgression, penitently betooke himselfe to live in a wildernesse, where (not long after) he ended his dayes. thebaldo elisei, _having received an unkinde repulse by his beloved, departed from florence, and returning thither againe (a long while after) in the habite of a pilgrime; he spake with her, and made his wrongs knowne unto her. he delivered her father from the danger of death, because it was proved, that he had slaine_ thebaldo: _he made peace with his brethren, and in the ende, wisely enjoyed his hearts desire._ the seaventh novell. _wherein is signified the power of love, and the diversity of dangers, whereinto men may daily fall._ so ceased _fiammetta_ her discourse, being generally commended, when the queene, to prevent the losse of time, commanded _Æmillia_ to follow next, who thus began. it liketh me best (gracious ladies) to returne home againe to our owne city, which it pleased the former two discoursers to part from: and there i will shew you, how a citizen of ours, recovered the kindnesse of his love, after he had lost it. sometime there dwelt in _florence_ a young gentleman, named _thebaldo elisei_, descended of a noble house, who became earnestly enamored of a widdow, called _hermelina_, the daughter to _aldobrandino palermini_: well deserving, for his vertues and commendable qualities, to enjoy of her whatsoever he could desire. secretly they were espoused together, but fortune, the enemy to lovers felicities, opposed her malice against them, in depriving _thebaldo_ of those deare delights, which sometime he held in free possession, and making him as a stranger to her gracious favours. now grew shee contemptibly to despise him, not onely denying to heare any message sent from him, but scorning also to vouchsafe so much as a sight of him, causing in him extreme griefe and melancholy, yet concealing all her unkindnesse so wisely to himselfe, as no one could understand the reason of his sadnesse. after he had laboured by all hopefull courses, to obtaine that favour of her, which he had formerly lost, without any offence in him, as his innocent soule truly witnessed with him, and saw that all his further endeavours were fruitlesse and in vaine; he concluded to retreate himselfe from the world, and not to be any longer irkesome in her eye, that was the onely occasion of his unhappinesse. hereupon, storing himselfe with such summes of money, as suddenly he could collect together, secretly he departed from _florence_, without speaking any word to his friends or kindred; except one kind companion of his, whom he acquainted with most of his secrets, and so travelled to _ancona_, where he termed himselfe by the name of _sandolescio_. repairing to a wealthy merchant there, he placed himselfe as his servant, and went in a ship of his with him to _cyprus_; his actions and behaviour proved so pleasing to the merchant, as not onely he allowed him very sufficient wages, but also grew into such association with him; as he gave the most of his affaires into his hands, which he guided with such honest and discreete care, that he himselfe (in few yeeres compasse) proved to be a rich merchant, and of famous report. while matters went on in this successefull manner, although he could not chuse, but still he remembred his cruell mistresse, and was very desperately transported for her love, as coveting (above all things elsee) to see her once more; yet was he of such powerfull constancy, as whole yeers together, he vanquished all those fierce conflicts. but on a day it chanced he heard a song sung in _cyprus_, which he himselfe had formerly made, in honour of the love he bare to his mistresse, and what delight he conceived, by being daily in her presence; whereby he gathered, that it was impossible for him to forget her, and proceeded on so desirously, as he could not live, except he had a sight of her once more, and therefore determined on his returne to _florence_. having set all his affaires in due order, accompanied with a servant of his onely, he passed to _ancona_, where when he was arrived, he sent his merchandises to _florence_, in name of the merchant of _ancona_, who was his especiall friend and partner; travayling himselfe alone with his servant, in the habite of a pilgrime, as if he had beene newly returned from _jerusalem_. being come to _florence_, he went to an inne kept by two bretheren, neere neighbours to the dwelling of his mistresse, and the first thing he did, was passing by her doore, to get a sight of her if he were so happie. but he found the windowes, doores, and all parts of the house fast shut up, whereby he suspected her to be dead, or elsee to be changed from her dwelling: wherefore (much perplexed in minde) he went on to the two brothers inne, finding foure persons standing at the gate, attired in mourning, whereat he marvelled not a little; knowing himselfe to be so transfigured, both in body and habite, farre from the manner of common use at his parting thence, as it was a difficult matter to know him: he stept boldly to a shooe-makers shop neere adjoining, and demanded the reason of their wearing mourning. the shoo-maker made answer thus; sir, those men are clad in mourning, because a brother of theirs, being named _thebaldo_ (who hath beene absent hence a long while) about some fifteene dayes since was slaine. and they having heard, by proofe made in the court of justice, that one _aldobrandino palermini_ (who is kept close prisoner) was the murtherer of him, as he came in a disguised habite to his daughter, of whom he was most affectionately enamoured; cannot chuse, but let the world know by their outward habites, the inward affliction of their hearts, for a deede so dishonourably committed. _thebaldo_ wondered greatly hereat, imagining, that some man belike resembling him in shape, might be slaine in this manner, and by _aldobrandino_, for whose misfortune he grieved marvellously. as concerning his mistresse, he understood that shee was living, and in good health; and night drawing on apace, he went to his lodging, with infinite molestations in his minde, where after supper, he was lodged in a corne-loft with his man. now by reason of many disturbing imaginations, which incessantly wheeled about his braine, his bed also being none of the best, and his supper (perhaps) somewhat of the coursest; a great part of the night was spent, yet could he not close his eyes together. but lying still broade awake, about the dead time of night, he heard the treading of divers persons over his head, who discended downe a paire of stayres by his chamber, into the lower parts of the house, carrying a light with them, which he discerned by the chinkes and crannies in the wall. stepping softly out of his bed, to see what the meaning hereof might be, he espied a faire young woman, who carried the light in her hand, and three men in her company, descending downe the stayres together, one of them speaking thus to the young woman. now we may boldly warrant our safety, because we have heard it assuredly, that the death of _thebaldo elisei_, hath beene sufficiently approved by the brethren, against _aldobrandino palermini_, and he hath confessed the fact; whereupon the sentence is already set downe in writing. but yet it behoveth us notwithstanding, to conceale it very secretly, because if ever hereafter it should be knowne, that we are they who murthered him, we shall be in the same danger, as now _aldobrandino_ is. when _thebaldo_ had heard these words, hee began to consider with himselfe, how many and great the dangers are, wherewith mens minds may daily be molested. first, he thought on his owne brethren in their sorrow, and buried a stranger in steed of him, accusing afterward (by false opinion, and upon the testimony of as false witnesses) a man most innocent, making him ready for the stroke of death. next, he made a strict observation in his soule, concerning the blinded severity of law, and the ministers thereto belonging, who pretending a diligent and carefull inquisition for trueth, doe oftentimes (by their tortures and torments) heare lies avouched (onely for ease of paine) in the place of a true confession, yet thinking themselves (by doing so) to be the ministers of god and justice, whereas indeede they are the divelse executioners of his wickednesse. lastly, converting his thoughts to _aldobrandino_, the imagined murtherer of a man yet living, infinite cares beleagured his soule, in devising what might best be done for his deliverance. so soone as he was risen in the morning, leaving his servant behinde him in his lodging, he went (when he thought it fit time) all alone toward the house of his mistresse, where finding by good fortune the gate open, he entred into a small parlour beneath, and where he saw his mistresse sitting on the ground, wringing her hands, and wofully weeping, which (in meere compassion) moved him to weepe likewise; and going somewhat neere her, he saide. madam, torment your selfe no more, for your peace is not farre off from you. the gentlewoman hearing him say so, lifted up her head, and in teares spake thus. good man, thou seemest to me to be a pilgrim stranger; what doest thou know, either concerning my peace, or mine affliction? madam (replied the pilgrime) i am of _constantinople_, and (doubtlesse) am conducted hither by the hand of heaven, to convert your teares into rejoycing, and to deliver your father from death. how is this? answered shee: if thou be of _constantinople_, and art but now arrived here; doest thou know who we are, either i, or my father? the pilgrime discoursed to her, even from one end to the other, the history of her husbands sad disasters, telling her, how many yeeres since shee was espoused to him, and many other important matters, which wel shee knew, and was greatly amazed thereat, thinking him verily to be a prophet, and kneeling at his feete, entreated him very earnestly, that if hee were come to deliver her father _aldobrandino_ from death, to doe it speedily, because the time was very short. the pilgrime appearing to be a man of great holinesse, saide. rise up madam, refraine from weeping, and observe attentively what i shall say; yet with this caution, that you never reveale it to any person whatsoever. this tribulation whereinto you are falne, (as by revelation i am faithfully informed) is for a grievous sinne by you heretofore committed, whereof divine mercy is willing to purge you, and to make a perfect amends by a sensible feeling of this affliction; as seeking your sound and absolute recovery, least you fall into farre greater danger then before. good man (quoth shee) i am burthened with many sinnes, and doe not know for which any amends should be made by me, any one sooner then another: wherefore if you have intelligence thereof, for charities sake tell it me, and i will doe so much as lieth in me, to make a full satisfaction for it. madam, answered the pilgrime; i know well enough what it is, and will demand it no more of you, to winne any further knowledge thereof, then i have already: but because in revealing it yourselfe, it may touch you with the more true compunction of soule; let us goe to the point indeede, and tell me, doe you remember, that at any time you were married to an husband, or no? at the hearing of these words, shee breathed foorth a very vehement sigh, and was stricken with admiration at this question, beleeving that not any one had knowledge thereof. howbeit, since the day of the supposed _thebaldoes_ buriall, such a rumour ran abroade, by meanes of some speeches, rashly dispersed by a friend of _thebaldoes_, who (indeede) knew it; whereupon shee returned him this answere. it appeareth to me (good man) that divine ordinativation hath revealed unto you all the secrets of men; and therefore i am determined, not to conceale any of mine from you. true it is, that in my younger yeeres, being left a widow, i entirely affected an unfortunate young gentleman, who (in secret) was my husband, and whose death is imposed on my father. the death of him i have the more bemoaned, because (in reason) it did neerely concerne me, by shewing my selfe so savage and rigorous to him before his departure: neverthelesse, let me assure you sir, that neither his parting, long absence from me, or his untimely death, never had the power to bereave my heart of his remembrance. madame, saide the pilgrime, the unfortunate young gentleman that is slaine, did never love you; but sure i am, that _thebaldo elisei_ loved you dearely. but tell me, what was the occasion whereby you conceived such hatred against him? did he at any time offend you? no trulie sir, quoth shee; but the reason of my anger towards him, was by the wordes and threatnings of a religious father, to whom once i revealed (under confession) how faithfully i affected him, and what private familiarity had passed betweene us. when instantly he used such dreadfull threatnings to me, and which (even yet) doe afflict my soule, that if i did not abstaine, and utterly refuse him, the divell would fetch me quicke to hell, and cast me into the bottome of his quenchlesse and everlasting fire. these menaces were so prevailing with me, as i refused all further conversation with _thebaldo_, in which regard, i would receive neither letters or messages from him. howbeit, i am perswaded, that if he had continued here still, and not departed hence in such desperate manner as he did, seeing him melt and consume daily away, even as snowe by power of the sunne-beames: my austere deliberation had beene long agoe quite altered, because not at any time (since then) life hath allowed me one merry day, neither did i, or ever can love any man like unto him. at these wordes the pilgrime sighed, and then proceeded on againe thus. surely madam, this one onely sin, may justly torment you, because i know for a certainty, that _thebaldo_ never offered you any injury, since the day he first became enamoured of you; and what grace or favour you affoorded him, was your owne voluntary gift, and (as he tooke it) no more then in modesty might well become you; for he loving you first, you had beene most cruell and unkinde, if you should not have requited him with the like affection. if then he continued so just and loyall to you, as (of mine owne knowledge) i am able to say he did; what should move you to repulse him so rudely? such matters ought well to be considered on before hand; for if you did imagine, that you should repente it as an action ill done, yet you could not doe it, because as he became yours, so were you likewise onely his; and he being yours, you might dispose of him at your pleasure, as being truely obliged to none but you. how could you then with-draw your selfe from him, being onely his, and not commit most manifest theft, a farre unfitting thing for you to doe, except you had gone with his consent? now madam, let me further give you to understand, that i am a religious person, and a pilgrime, and therefore am well acquainted with all the courses of their dealing; if therefore i speake somewhat more amply of them, and for your good, it cannot be so unseeming for me to doe it, as it would appeare ugly in another. in which respect, i will speake the more freely to you, to the ende, that you may take better knowledge of them, then (as it seemeth) hitherto you have done. in former passed times such as professed religion, were learned and most holy persons; but our religious professours now adayes, and such as covet to be so esteemed; have no matter at all of religion in them, but onely the outward shew & habite. which yet is no true badge of religion neither, because it was ordained by religious institutions, that their garments should be made of narrow, plaine, and coursest spun cloth, to make a publike manifestation to the world, that (in meere devotion, and religious disposition) by wrapping their bodies in such base clothing, they condemned and despised all temporall occasions. but now adayes they make them large, deepe, glistering, and of the finest cloth or stuffes to be gotten, reducing those habites to so proude and pontificall a forme, that they walke peacock-like rustling, and strouting with them in the churches; yea, and in open publike places, as if they were ordinary secular persons, to have their pride more notoriously observed. and as the angler bestoweth his best cunning, with one line and baite to catch many fishes at one strike; even so do these counterfeited habite-mongers, by their dissembling and crafty dealing, beguile many credulous widowes, simple women, yea, and men of weake capacity, to credit whatsoever they doe or say, and herein they doe most of all excercise themselves. and to the end, that my speeches may not savour of any untruth against them; these men which i speake of, have not any habite at all of religious men, but onely the colour of their garments, and whereas they in times past, desired nothing more then the salvation of mens soules; these fresher witted fellowes, covet after women & wealth, and employ all their paines by their whispering confessions, and figures of painted feareful examples, to affright and terrifie unsetled and weake consciences, by horrible and blasphemous speeches; yet adding a perswasion withall, that their sinnes may be purged by almes-deedes and masses. to the end, that such as credit them in these their dayly courses, being guided more by apparance of devotion, then any true compunction of heart, to escape severe penances by them enjoyned: may some of them bring bread, others wine, others coyne, all of them matter of commoditie and benefit, and simply say, these gifts are for the soules of their good friends deceased. i make not any doubt, but almes-deedes and prayers, are very mighty, and prevailing meanes, to appease heavens anger for some sinnes committed; but if such as bestow them, did either see or know, to whom they give them: they would more warily keepe them, or elsee cast them before swine, in regard they are altogether so unworthy of them. but come we now to the case of your ghostly father, crying out in your eare, that secret mariage was a most greevous sinne: is not the breach thereof farre greater. familiar conversation betweene man and woman, is a concession meerely naturall: but to rob, kill, or banish anyone, proceedeth from the mindes malignity. that you did rob _thebaldo_, your selfe hath already sufficiently witnessed, by taking that from him, which with free consent in mariage you gave him. next i must say, that by all the power remaining in you, you kild him, because you would not permit him to remaine with you, declaring your selfe in the very height of cruelty, that hee might destroy his life by his owne hands. in which case the law requireth, that whosoever is the occasion of an ill act committed, hee or she is as deepe in the fault, as the party that did it. now concerning his banishment, and wandring seaven yeares in exile thorow the world; you cannot denie, but that you were the onely occasion thereof. in all which three severall actions, farre more capitally have you offended; then by contracting of mariage in such clandestine manner. but let us see, whether _thebaldo_ deserved all these severall castigations, or not. in trueth he did not, your selfe have confessed (beside that which i know) that hee loved you more dearely then himselfe, and nothing could be more honoured, magnified and exalted, then dayly you were by him, above all other women whatsoever. when hee came in any place, where honestly, and without suspition hee might speake to you: all his honour, and all his liberty, lay wholly committed into your power. was he not a noble young gentleman? was hee (among all those parts that most adorne a man, and appertaine to the very choycest respect) inferiour to any one of best merit in your citie? i know that you cannot make deniall to any of these demands. how could you then by the perswasion of a beast, a foole, a villaine, yea, a vagabond, envying both his happinesse and yours, enter into so cruell a minde against him? i know not what error misguideth women, in scorning and despising their husbands: but if they entred into a better consideration, understanding truly what they are, and what nobility of nature god hath endued man withall, farre above all other creatures; it would bee their highest title of glory, when they are are so preciously esteemed of them, so dearely affected by them, and so gladly embraced in all their best abilities. this is so great a sinne, as the divine justice (which in an equal ballance bringeth all operations to their full effect) did purpose not to leave unpunished; but, as you enforced against all reason, to take away _thebaldo_ from your selfe: even so your father _aldobrandino_, without any occasion given by _thebaldo_, is in perill of his life, and you a partaker of his tribulation. out of which if you desire to be delivered, it is very convenient that you promise one thing which i shall tell you, and may much better be by you performed. namely, that if _thebaldo_ doe at any time returne from his long banishment, you shall restore him to your love, grace, and good acceptation; accounting him in the selfe same degree of favour and private entertainement, as he was at the first, before your wicked ghostly father so hellishly incensed you against him. when the pilgrime had finished his speeches, the gentlewoman, who had listened to them very attentively (because all the alleaged reasons appeared to be plainely true) became verily perswaded, that all these afflictions had falne on her and her father, for the ingratefull offence by her committed, and therefore thus replied. worthy man, and the friend to goodnesse, i know undoubtedly, that the words which you have spoken are true, and also i understand by your demonstration, what manner of people some of those religious persons are, whom heretofore i have reputed to be saints, but find them now to be far otherwise. and to speake truly, i perceive the fault to be great and grievous, wherein i have offended against _thebaldo_, and would (if i could) willingly make amends, even in such manner as you have advised. but how is it possible to be done? _thebaldo_ being dead, can be no more recalled to this life; and therefore, i know not what promise i should make, in a matter which is not to be performed. whereto, the pilgrime without any longer pausing, thus answered. madam, by such revelations as have beene shewne to me, i know for a certainety, that _thebaldo_ is not dead, but living, in health, and in good estate; if he had the fruition of your grace and favour. take heede what you say sir (quoth the gentlewoman) for i saw him lie slaine before my doore, his body having received many wounds, which i folded in mine armes, and washed his face with my brinish teares; whereby (perhaps) the scandall arose, that flew abroade to my disgrace. beleeve me madam, (replied the pilgrime) say what you will, i dare assure you that _thebaldo_ is living, and if you dare make promise, concerning what hath beene formerly requested, and keepe it inviolably; i make no doubt, but you your selfe shall shortly see him. i promise it (quoth shee) and binde my selfe thereto by a sacred oath, to keepe it faithfully: for never could any thing happen, to yeeld me the like contentment, as to see my father free from danger, and _thebaldo_ living. at this instant _thebaldo_ thought it to be a very apt and convenient time to disclose himselfe, and to comfort the lady, with an assured signall of hope, for the deliverance of her father, wherefore he saide. lady, to the ende that i may comfort you infallibly, in this dangerous perill of your fathers life; i am to make knowne an especiall secret to you, which you are to keepe carefully (as you tender your owne life) from ever being revealed to the world. they were then in a place of sufficient privacy, and alone by themselves, because shee reposed great confidence in the pilgrimes sanctity of life, as thinking him none other, then as he seemed to be. _thebaldo_ tooke out of his purse a ring, which shee gave him, the last night of their conversing together, and he had kept with no meane care, and shewing it to her, he saide. doe you know this ring madam? so soone as shee saw it, immediately shee knew it, and answered. yes sir, i know the ring, and confesse that heretofore i gave it unto _thebaldo_. hereupon the pilgrime stood up, and suddenly putting off his poore linnen frocke, as also the hood from his head; using then his _florentine_ tongue, he saide. then tell me madam, doe you not know me? when shee had advisedly beheld him, and knew him indeede to be _thebaldo_; she was stricken into a wonderfull astonishment, being as fearefull of him, as shee was of the dead body, which shee saw lying in the streete. and i dare assure you, that shee durst not goe neere him, to respect him, as _thebaldo_ so lately come from _cyprus_: but (in terror) fled away from him; as if _thebaldo_ had beene newly risen out of his grave, and came thither purposely to affright her; wherefore he saide. be not afraide madam, i am your _thebaldo_, in health, alive, and never as yet died, neither have i received any wounds to kill mee, as you and my bretheren have formerly imagined. some better assurance getting possession of her soule, as knowing him perfectly by his voyce, and looking more stedfastly on his face, which constantly avouched him to be _thebaldo_; the teares trickling amaine downe her faire cheekes, shee ran to embrace him, casting her armes about his necke, and kissing him a thousand times, saying; _thebaldo_, my true and faithfull husband, nothing in the world can be so welcome to me. _thebaldo_ having most kindly kissed and embraced her, said; sweete wife, time will not now allow us those ceremonious curtesies, which (indeede) so long a separation doe justly challenge; but i must about a more weightie businesse, to have your father safe and soundly delivered, which i hope to doe before to morrow at night, when you shall heare tydings to your better contentment. and questionlesse, if i speede no worse then my good hope perswadeth me, i will see you againe to night, and acquaint you at better leysure, in such things as i cannot doe now at this present. so putting on his pilgrimes habite againe, kissing her once more, and comforting her with future good successe, he departed from her, going to the prison where _aldobrandino_ lay, whom he found more pensive, as being in hourely expectation of death, then any hope he had to be freed from it. being brought neerer to him by the prisoners favour, as seeming to be a man, come onely to comfort him; sitting downe by him, thus he began. _aldobrandino_, i am a friend of thine, whom heaven hath sent to doe thee good, in meere pitty and compassion of thine innocency. and therefore, if thou wilt grant me one small request, which i am earnestly to crave at thy hands; thou shalt heare (without any failing) before to morrow at night, the sentence of thy free absolution, whereas now thou expectest nothing but death; whereunto _aldobrandino_ thus answered. friendly man, seeing thou art so carefull of my safety (although i know thee not, neither doe remember that ever i saw thee till now) thou must needs (as it appeareth no lesse) be some especiall kind friend of mine. and to tell thee the trueth, i never committed the sinfull deede, for which i am condemned to death. most true it is, i have other heynous and grievous sinnes, which (undoubtedly) have throwne this heavy judgement upon me, and therefore i am the more willing to undergoe it. neverthelesse, let me thus farre assure thee, that i would gladly, not onely promise something, which might to the glory of god, if he were pleased in this case to take mercy on me; but also would as willingly performe and accomplish it. wherefore, demand whatsoever thou pleasest of me, for unfainedly (if i escape with life) i will truly keepe promise with thee. sir, replied the pilgrime, i desire nor demand any thing of you, but that you wold pardon the foure brethren of _thebaldo_, who have brought you to this hard extremity, as thinking you to be guilty of their brothers death, and that you would also accept them as your brethren and friends, upon their craving pardon for what they have done. sir, answered _aldobrandino_, no man knoweth how sweete revenge is, nor with what heate it is to be desired, but onely the man who hath been wronged. notwithstanding, not to hinder my hope, which onely aymeth at heaven; i freelie forgive them, and henceforth pardon them for ever; intending moreover, that if mercy give me life, and cleere me from this bloody imputation, to love and respect them so long as i shall live. this answer was most pleasing to the pilgrime, and without any further multiplication of speeches, he entreated him to be of good comfort, for he feared not but before the time prefixed, he should heare certaine tydings of his deliverance. at his departing from him, he went directly to the _signoria_, and prevailed so farre, that he spake privately with a knight, who was then one of the states chiefest lords, to whom he saide. sir, a man ought to bestow his best paines and diligence, that the truth of things should be apparantly knowne; especially, such men as hold the place and office as you doe: to the ende, that those persons which have committed no foule offence, should not be punished, but onely the guilty and haynous transgressors. and because it will be no meane honour to you, to lay the blame where it worthily deserveth; i am come hither purposely, to informe you in a case of most weighty importance. it is not unknowne to you, with what rigour the state hath proceeded against _aldobrandino palermini_, and you thinke verily he is the man that hath slaine _thebaldo elisei_, whereupon your law hath condemned him to dye. i dare assure you sir, that a very unjust course hath beene taken in this case, because _aldobrandino_ is falsly accused, as you your selfe will confesse before midnight, when they are delivered into your power, that were the murderers of the man. the honest knight, who was very sorrowfull for _aldobrandino_, gladly gave attention to the pilgrime, and having conferred on many matters, appertaining to the fact committed: the two brethren, who were _thebaldoes_ hostes, and their chamber-mayd, upon good advise given, were apprehended in their first sleepe, without any resistance made in their defence. but when the tortures were sent for, to understand truely how the case went; they would not endure any paine at all, but each aside by himselfe, and then altogether, confessed openly, that they did the deede, yet not knowing him to bee _thebaldo elisei_. and when it was demanded of them, upon what occasion they did so foule an act. they answered, that they were so hatefull against the mans life, because he would luxuriously have abused one of their wives, when they both were absent from their owne home. when the pilgrime had heard this their voluntary confession, hee tooke his leave of the knight, returning secretly to the house of madame _hermelina_, and there, because all her people were in their beds, she carefull awaited his returne, to heare some glad tydings of her father, and to make a further reconciliation betweene her and _thebaldo_, when, sitting downe by her, hee said. deare love, be of good cheare, for (upon my word) to morrow you shall have your father home safe, well, and delivered from all further danger: and to confirme her the more confidently in his words, hee declared at large the whole cariage of the businesse. _hermelina_ being wondrously joyfull, for two such suddaine and succesfull accidents to enjoy her husband alive and in health, and also to have her father freed from so great a danger; kissed and embraced him most affectionately, welcomming him lovingly into her bed, whereto so long time he had beene a stranger. no sooner did bright day appeare, but _thebaldo_ arose, having acquainted her with such matters as were to be done, and once more earnestly desiring her, to conceale (as yet) these occurrences to her selfe. so, in his pilgrimes habite, he departed from her house, to awaite convenient opportunity, for attending on the businesse belonging to _aldobrandino_. at the usuall houre appointed, the lords were all set in the _signioria_, and had received full information, concerning the offence imputed to _aldobrandino_: setting him at liberty by publique consent, and sentencing the other malefactors with death, who (within a fewe dayes after) were beheaded in the place where the murther was committed. thus _aldobrandino_ being released, to his exceeding comfort, and no small joy of his daughters, kindred and friends, all knowing perfectly, that this had happened by the pilgrimes meanes: they conducted him home to _aldobrandinoes_ house, where they desired him to continue so long as himselfe pleased, using him with most honourable and gracious respect; but especially _hermelina_, who knew (better then the rest) on whom shee bestowed her liberall favours, yet concealing all closely to her selfe. after two or three dayes were over-past, in these complementall entercoursings of kindnesse, _thebaldo_ began to consider, that it was high time for reconciliation, to be solemnely past betweene his brethren and _aldobrandino_. for, they were not a little amazed at his strange deliverance, and went likewise continually armed, as standing in feare of _aldobrandino_ and his friends; which made him the more earnest, for accomplishment of the promise formerly made unto him. _aldobrandino_ lovingly replied, that he was ready to make good his word. whereupon, the pilgrime provided a goodly banquet, whereat he purposed to have present, _aldobrandino_, his daughter, kindred, and their wives. but first, himselfe would goe in person, to invite them in peace to his banquet, to performe this desired pacification, and conferred with his brethren, using many pregnant and forcible arguments to them, such as are requisite in the like discordant cases. in the end, his reasons were so wise, and prevailing with them, that they willingly condiscended, and thought it no disparagement to them, for the recoverie of _aldobrandinoes_ kindnesse againe, to crave pardon for their great error committed. on the morrow following, about the houre of dinner time, the foure brethren of _thebaldo_, attired in their mourning garments, with their wives and friends, came first to the house of _aldobrandino_, who purposely attended for them, and having layd downe their weapons on the ground: in the presence of all such, as _aldobrandino_ had invited as his witnesses, they offered themselves to his mercy, and humbly required pardon of him, for the matter wherein they had offended him. _aldobrandino_, shedding teares, most lovingly embraced them, and (to bee briefe) pardon whatsoever injuries he had received. after this, the sisters and wives, all clad in mourning, courteously submitted themselves, and were graciously welcommed by madame _hermelina_, as also divers other gentlewomen there present with her. being all seated at the tables, which were furnished with such rarities as could be wished for; all things elsee deserved their due commendation, but onely sad silence, occasioned by the fresh remembrance of sorrow, appearing in the habites of _thebaldoes_ friends and kindred, which the pilgrime himselfe plainely perceived, to be the onely disgrace to him and his feast. wherefore, as before hee had resolved, when time served to purge away this melancholly; hee arose from the table, when some (as yet) had scarce begun to eate, and thus spake. gracious company, there is no defect in this banquet, or more debarres it of the honour it might elsee have, but onely the presence of _thebaldo_, who having beene continually in your company, it seemes you are not willing to take knowledge of him, and therefore i meane my selfe to shew him. so, uncasing himselfe out of his pilgrimes clothes, and standing in his hose and doublet: to their no little admiration, they all knew him, yet doubted (a good while) whether it were he or no. which hee perceiving, hee repeated his bretherens and absent kindreds names, and what occurrences had happened betweene them from time to time, beside the relation of his owne passed fortunes, inciting teares in the eyes of his brethren, and all elsee there present, every one hugging and embracing him, yea, many beside, who were no kin at all to him, _hermelina_ onely excepted, which when _aldobrandino_ saw, he said unto her. how now _hermelina_? why doest thou not welcome home _thebaldo_, so kindely as all here elsee have done? she making a modest courtesie to her father, and answering so loude as every one might heare her, said. there is not any in this assembly, that more willingly would give him all expression of a joyfull welcom home, and thankfull gratitude for such especiall favours received, then in my heart i could afford to do: but only in regard of those infamous speeches, noysed out against me, on the day when wee wept for him, who was supposed to be _thebaldo_, which slander was to my great discredit. goe on boldly, replied _aldobrandino_, doest thou thinke that i regard any such praters? in the procuring of my deliverance, hee hath approved them to be manifest liers, albeit i my selfe did never credit them. goe then i command thee, and let me see thee both kisse and embrace him. she who desired nothing more, shewed her selfe not slothfull in obeying her father, to do but her duty to her husband. wherefore, being risen; as all the rest had done, but yet in farre more effectual manner, she declared her unfeigned love to _thebaldo_. these bountifull favours of _aldobrandino_, were joyfully accepted by _thebaldoes_ brethren, as also every one elsee there present in company; so that all former rancour and hatred, which had caused heavy variances betweene them, was now converted to mutuall kindnesse, and solemne friendship on every side. when the feasting dayes were finished, the garments of sad mourning were quite layde aside, and those, becomming so generall a joy, put on, to make their hearts and habites suteable. now, concerning the man slaine, and supposed to be _thebaldo_, hee was one, that in all parts of body, and truenesse of complexion so neerely resembled him, as _thebaldoes_ owne brethren could not distinguish the one from the other: but hee was of _lunigiana_, named _fatinolo_, and not _thebaldo_, whom the two brethren inne-keepers maliced, about some idle suspition conceived, and having slaine him, layde his body at the doore of _aldobrandino_, where, by the reason of _thebaldoes_ absence, it was generally reputed to be he, and _aldobrandino_ charged to doe the deede, by vehement perswasion of the brethren, knowing what love had passed betweene him and his daughter _hermelina_. but happy was the pilgrimes returne, first to heare those words in the inne, the meanes to bring the murther to light; and then the discreete cariage of the pilgrime, untill hee plainely approved himselfe, to be truly _thebaldo_. ferando, _by drinking a certaine kinde of powder, was buried for dead. and by the abbot, who was enamoured of his wife, was taken out of his grave, and put into a darke prison, where they made him beleeve, that hee was in purgatorie. afterward, when time came that hee should bee raised to life againe; hee was made to keepe a childe, which the abbot had got by his wife._ the eight novell. _wherein is displayed, the apparant folly of jealousie: and the subtilty of some religious carnall minded men, to beguile silly and simple maried men._ when the long discourse of madame _Æmilia_ was ended, not displeasing to any, in regard of the length, but rather held too short, because no exceptions could be taken against it, comparing the raritie of the accidents, and changes together: the queene turned to madame _lauretta_, giving her such a manifest signe, as she knew, that it was her turne to follow next, and therefore shee tooke occasion to begin thus. faire ladies, i intend to tell you a tale of trueth, which (perhaps) in your opinions, will seeme to sound like a lye: and yet i heard by the very last relation, that a dead man was wept and mournd for, in sted of another being then alive. in which respect, i am now to let you know, how a living man was buried for dead, and being raised againe, yet not as living, himselfe, and divers more beside, did beleeve that he came forth of his grave, and adored him as a saint, who was the occasion thereof, and who (as a bad man) deserved justly to be condemned. in _tuscanie_ there was sometime an abby, seated, as now we see commonly they are, in a place not much frequented with people, and thereof a monke was abbot, very holy and curious in all things elsee, save onely a wanton appetite to women: which yet hee kept so cleanly to himselfe, that though some did suspect it, yet it was knowne to very few. it came to passe, that a rich country franklin, named _ferando_, dwelt as a neere neighbour to the said abby, hee being a man materiall, of simple and grosse understanding, yet he fell into great familiarity with the abbot; who made use of this friendly conversation to no other end, but for divers times of recreation; when he delighted to smile at his silly and sottish behaviour. upon this his private frequentation with the abbot, at last he observed, that _ferando_ had a very beautifull woman to his wife, with whom he grew so deepely in love, as hee had no other meditations either by day or night, but how to become acceptable in her favour. neverthelesse, he concealed his amorous passions privately to himselfe, and could plainely perceive, that although ferando (in all things elsee) was meerely a simple fellow, and more like an idiot, then of any sensible apprehension: yet was he wise enough in loving his wife, keeping her carefully out of all company, as one (indeede) very jealous, least any should kisse her, but onely himselfe, which drove the abbot into despaire, for ever attaining the issue of his desire. yet being subtill, crafty, and cautelous, he wrought so on the flexible nature of _ferando_, that hee brought his wife with him divers dayes to the monasterie; where they walked in the goodly garden, discoursing on the beatitudes of eternall life, as also the most holy deedes of men and women, long since departed out of this life, in mervailous civill and modest manner. yet all these were but traines to a further intention, for the abbot must needes bee her ghostly father, and shee come to be confessed by him; which the foole _ferando_ tooke as an especiall favour, and therefore he gave his consent the sooner. at the appointed time, when the woman came to confession to the abbot, and was on her knees before him, to his no small contentment, before she would say any thing elsee, thus she began: sacred father, if god had not given me such an husband as i have, or elsee had bestowed on me none at all; i might have beene so happy, by the meanes of your holy doctrine, very easily to have entred into the way, whereof you spake the other day, which leadeth to eternall life. but when i consider with my selfe, what manner of man _ferando_ is, and thinke upon his folly withall; i may well terme my selfe to be a widdow, although i am a maried wife, because while he liveth, i cannot have any other husband. and yet (as sottish as you see him) he is (without any occasion given him) so extreamely jealous of me; as i am not able to live with him, but onely in continuall tribulation & hearts griefe. in which respect, before i enter into confession, i most humbly beseech you, that you would vouchsafe (in this distresse) to assist me with your fatherly advise and counsell, because, if thereby i cannot attaine to a more pleasing kinde of happinesse; neither confession, or any thing elsee, is able to doe me any good at all. these words were not a little welcome to my lord abbot, because (thereby) he halfe assured himselfe, that fortune had laid open the path to his hoped pleasures, whereupon he said. deare daughter, i make no question to the contrary, but it must needes be an exceeding infelicity, to so faire and goodly a young woman as you are, to be plagued with so sottish an husband, brain-sick, and without the use of common understanding; but yet subject to a more hellish affliction then all these, namely jealousie, and therefore you being in this wofull manner tormented, your tribulations are not only so much the more credited, but also as amply grieved for, & pittied. in which heavy and irksome perturbations, i see not any meanes of remedy, but onely one, being a kinde of physicke (beyond all other) to cure him of his foolish jealousie; which medicine is very familiar to me, because i know best how to compound it, alwayes provided, that you can be of so strong a capacity, as to be secret in what i shall say unto you. good father (answered the woman) never make you any doubt thereof, for i would rather endure death it selfe, then disclose any thing which you enjoyne me to keepe secret: wherefore, i beseech you sir to tell me, how, and by what meanes it may be done. if (quoth the abbot) you desire to have him perfectly cured, of a disease so dangerous and offensive, of necessity he must be sent into purgatory. how may that be done, saide the woman, he being alive? he must needs die, answered the abbot, for his more speedy passage thither; and when he hath endured so much punishment, as may expiate the quality of his jealousie, we have certaine devoute and zealous prayers, whereby to bring him backe againe to life, in as able manner as ever he was. why then, replyed the woman, i must remaine in the state of a widdow? very true, saide the abbot, for a certaine time, in all which space, you may not (by any meanes) marrie againe, because the heavens will therewith be highly offended: but _ferando_ being returned to life againe, you must repossesse him as your husband, but never to be jealous any more. alas sir (quoth the woman) so that he may be cured of his wicked jealousie, and i no longer live in such an hellish imprisonment, doe as you please. now was the abbot (well neere) on the highest step of his hope, making her constant promise, to accomplish it: but (quoth he) what shall be my recompence when i have done it? father, saide shee, whatsoever you please to aske, if it remaine within the compasse of my power: but you being such a vertuous and sanctified man, and i a woman of so meane worth or merit; what sufficient recompence can i be able to make you? whereunto the abbot thus replyed. faire woman, you are able to doe as much for me, as i am for you, because as i doe dispose my selfe, to performe a matter for your comfort and consolation, even so ought you to be as mindfull of me, in any action concerning my life and welfare. in any such matter sir (quoth shee) depending on your benefit so strictly, you may safely presume to command me. you must then (saide the abbot) grant me your love, and the kinde embracing of your person; because so violent are mine affections, as i pine and consume away daily, till i enjoy the fruition of my desires, and none can help me therein but you. when the woman heard these words, as one confounded with much amazement, this shee replied. alas, holy father! what a strange motion have you made to me? i beleeved very faithfully, that you were no lesse then a saint, and is it convenient, that when silly women come to aske counsell of such sanctified men, they should returne them such unfitting answeres? be not amazed good woman, saide the abbot, at the motion which i have made unto you, because holinesse is not thereby impaired a jot in me; for it is the inhabitant of the soule, the other is an imperfection attending on the body: but be it whatsoever, your beauty hath so powerfully prevailed on me, that entire love hath compelled me to let you know it. and more may you boast of your beauty, then any that ever i beheld before, considering, it is so pleasing to a sanctified man, that it can draw him from divine contemplations, to regard a matter of so humble an equalitie. let me tell you moreover, woorthy woman, that you see me reverenced here as lord abbot, yet am i but as other men are, and in regard i am neither aged, nor misshapen, me thinkes the motion i have made, should be the lesse offensive to you, and therefore the sooner granted. for, all the while as _ferando_ remaineth in purgatory, doe you but imagine him to be present with you, and your perswasion will the more absolutely be confirmed. no man can, or shall be privy to our close meetings, for i carrie the same holy opinion among all men, as you your selfe conceived of me, and none dare be so saucie, as to call in question whatsoever i doe or say, because my wordes are oracles, and mine actions more then halfe miracles; doe you not then refuse so gracious an offer. enow there are, who would gladly enjoy that, which is francke and freely presented to you, and which (if you be a wise woman) is meerely impossible for you to refuse. richly am i possessed of gold and jewelse, which shall be all yours, if you please in favour to be mine; wherein i will not be gaine-saide, except your selfe doe denie me. the woman having her eyes fixed on the ground, knew not wel how shee should denie him; and yet in plaine words, to say shee consented, shee held it to be over-base and immodest, and ill agreeing with her former reputation: when the abbot had well noted this attention in her, and how silent shee stood without returning any answer; he accounted the conquest to be more then halfe his owne: so that continuing on his formall perswasions, hee never ceased, but allured her still to beleeve whatsoever he saide. and shee much ashamed of his importunity, but more of her owne flexible yeelding weakenesse, made answer, that shee would willingly accomplish his request; which yet shee did not absolutelie grant, untill _ferando_ were first sent into purgatory. and till then (quoth the abbot) i will not urge any more, because i purpose his speedy sending thither: but yet, so farre lend me your assistance, that either to morrow, or elsee the next day, he may come hither once more to converse with me. so putting a faire gold ring on her finger, they parted till their next meeting. not a little joyfull was the woman of so rich a gift, hoping to enjoy a great many more of them, and returning home to her neighbours, acquainted them with wonderfull matters, all concerning the sanctimonious life of the abbot, a meere miracle of men, and worthy to be truely termed a saint. within two dayes after, _ferando_ went to the abbye againe, and so soone as the abbot espyed him, hee presently prepared for his sending of him into purgatorie. he never was without a certaine kinde of drugge, which being beaten into powder, would worke so powerfully upon the braine, and all the other vitall sences, as to entrance them with a deadly sleepe, and deprive them of all motion, either in the pulses, or any other part elsee, even as if the body were dead indeede; in which operation it would so hold and continue, according to the quantity given and drunke, as it pleased the abbot to order the matter. this powder or drugge, was sent him by a great prince of the east, and therewith he wrought wonders upon his novices, sending them into purgatory when he pleased, and by such punishments as he inflicted on them there, made them (like credulous asses) beleeve whatsoever himselfe listed. so much of this powder had the abbot provided, as should suffice for three dayes entrauncing, and having compounded it with a very pleasant wine, calling _ferando_ into his chamber, there gave it him to drinke, and afterward walked with him about the cloyster, in very friendly conference together, the silly sot never dreaming on the treachery intended against him. many monkes beside were recreating themselves in the cloyster, most of them delighting to behold the follies of _ferando_, on whom the potion beganne so to worke, that he slept in walking, nodding and reeling as hee went, till at the last hee fell downe, as if he had beene dead. the abbot pretending great admiration at this accident, called his monkes about him, all labouring by rubbing his temples, throwing cold water and vinegar in his face, to revive him againe; alleaging that some fume or vapour in the stomacke, had thus over-awed his understanding faculties, and quite deprived him of life indeede. at length, when by tasting the pulse, and all their best employed paines, they saw that their labour was spent in vaine; the abbot used such perswasions to the monkes, that they all beleeved him to be dead: whereupon they sent for his wife and friends, who crediting as much as the rest did, were very sad and sorrowfull for him. the abbot (cloathed as he was) laide him in a hollow vault under a tombe, such as there are used in stead of graves; his wife returning home againe to her house, with a young sonne which shee had by her husband, protesting to keepe still within her house, and never more to be seene in any company, but onely to attend her young sonne, and be very carefull of such wealth as her husband had left unto her. from the city of _bologna_, that very instant day, a well staide and governed monke there arrived, who was a neere kinsman to the abbot, and one whom he might securely trust. in the dead time of the night, the abbot and this monke arose, and taking _ferando_ out of the vault, carried him into a darke dungeon or prison, which he termed by the name of purgatory, and where hee used to discipline his monkes, when they had committed any notorious offence, deserving to be punished in purgatory. there they tooke off his usuall wearing garments, and cloathed him in the habite of a monke, even as if he had beene one of the house; and laying him on a bundle of straw, so left him untill his sences should be restored againe. on the day following, late in the evening, the abbot, accompanied with his trusty monke, (by way of visitation) went to see and comfort the supposed widow; finding her attired in blacke, very sad and pensive, which by his wonted perswasions, indifferently he appeased; challenging the benefit of her promise. shee being thus alone, not hindered by her husbands jealousie, and espying another goodly gold ring on his finger, how frailety and folly over-ruled her, i know not, shee was a weake woman, he a divelish deluding man; and the strongest holdes by over-long battery and besieging, must needes yeeld at the last, as i feare shee did: for very often afterward, the abbot used in this manner to visit her, and the simple ignorant countrey people, carrying no such ill opinion of the holy abbot, and having seene _ferando_ lying for dead in the vault, and also in the habite of a monke; were verily perswaded, that when they saw the abbot passe by to and fro, but most commonly in the night season, it was the ghost of _ferando_, who walked in this manner after his death, as a just pennance for his jealousie. when _ferandoes_ sences were recovered againe, and he found himselfe to be in such a darkesome place; not knowing where he was, he beganne to crie and make a noyse. when presently the monke of _bologna_ (according as the abbot had tutured him) stept into the dungeon, carrying a little waxe candle in the one hand, and a smarting whip in the other, going to _ferando_, he stript off his cloathes, and began to lash him very soundly. _ferando_ roaring and crying, could say nothing elsee, but, where am i? the monke (with a dreadfull voyce) replyed: thou art in purgatory. how? saide _ferando_; what? am i dead? thou art dead (quoth the monke) and began to lash him lustily againe. poore _ferando_, crying out for his wife and little sonne, demanded a number of idle questions, whereto the monke still fitted him with as fantasticke answers. within a while after, he set both foode and wine before him, which when _ferando_ sawe, he saide; how is this? doe dead men eate and drinke? yes, replyed the monke, and this foode which here thou seest, thy wife brought hither to their church this morning, to have masses devoutly sung for thy soule; and as to other, so must it be set before thee, for such is the command of the patrone of this place. _ferando_ having lyen entranced three dayes and three nights, felt his stomacke well prepared to eate, and feeding very heartily, still saide; o my good wife, o my loving wife, long mayest thou live for this extraordinary kindnesse. i promise thee (sweete heart) while i was alive, i cannot remember, that ever any foode and wine was halfe so pleasing to me. o my deare wife; o my hony wife. canst thou (quoth the monke) prayse and commend her now, using her so villainously in thy life time? then did he whip him more fiercely then before, when _ferando_ holding up his hands, as craving for mercy, demanded wherefore he was so severely punished? i am so commanded (quoth the monke) by supreme power, and twice every day must thou be thus disciplinde. upon what occasion? replyed _ferando_. because (quoth the monke) thou wast most notoriously jealous of thy wife, shee being the very kindest woman to thee, as all the countrey containeth not her equall. it is too true, answered _ferando_, i was over-much jealous of her indeede: but had i knowne, that jealousie was such a hatefull sinne against heaven, i never would have offended therein. now (quoth the monke) thou canst confesse thine owne wilfull follie, but this should have beene thought on before, and whilest thou wast living in the world. but if the fates vouchsafe to favour thee so much, as hereafter to send thee to the world once more; remember thy punishment here in purgatory, and sinne no more in that foule sinne of jealousie. i pray you sir tell me, replyed _ferando_, after men are dead, and put into purgatory, is there any hope of their ever visiting the world any more? yes, saide the monke, if the fury of the fates be once appeased. o that i knew (quoth _ferando_) by what meanes they would be appeased, and let me visite the world once againe: i would be the best husband that ever lived, and never more be jealous, never wrong so good a wife, nor ever use one unkind word against her. in the meane while, and till their anger may be qualified; when next my wife doth send me foode, i pray you worke so much, that some candles may be sent me also, because i live here in uncomfortable darknesse; and what should i doe with foode, if i have no light. shee sends lights enow, answered the monke, but they are burnt out on the altar in masse-time, and thou canst have none other here, but such as i must bring my selfe; neither are they allowed, but onely for the time of thy feeding and correcting. _ferando_ breathing foorth a vehement sigh, desired to know what he was, being thus appointed to punish him in purgatory? i am (quoth the monke) a dead man, as thou art, borne in _sardignia_, where i served a very jealous master; and because i soothed him in his jealousie, i had this pennance imposed on me, to serve thee here in purgatory with meate and drinke, and (twice every day) to discipline thy body, untill the fates have otherwise determined both for thee and me. why? saide _ferando_, are any other persons here, beside you and i? many thousands, replyed the monke, whom thou canst neither heare nor see, no more then they are able to doe the like by us. but how farre, saide _ferando_, is purgatory distant from our native countries? about some fifty thousand leagues, answered the monke; but yet passable in a moment, whensoever the offended fates are pleased: and many masses are daily saide for thy soule, at the earnest entreaty of thy wife, in hope of thy conversion; and becomming a new man, hating to be jealous any more hereafter. in these and such like speeches, as thus they beguiled the time, so did they observe it for a dayly course, sometime discipling, other whiles eating and drinking, for the space of ten whole moneths together: in the which time, the abbot sildome failed to visite _ferandoes_ wife, without the least suspition in any of the neighbours, by reason of their setled opinion, concerning the nightly walking of _ferandoes_ ghost. but, as all pleasures cannot bee exempted from some following paine or other, so it came to passe, that _ferandoes_ wife proved to be conceived with childe, and the time was drawing on for her deliverance. now began the abbot to consider, that _ferandoes_ folly was sufficiently chastised, and hee had beene long enough in purgatory: wherefore, the better to countenance all passed inconveniences, it was now thought high time, that _ferando_ should be sent to the world againe, and set free from the paines of purgatory, as having payed for his jealousie dearely, to teach him better wisedome hereafter. late in the dead time of the night the abbot himselfe entred into the darke dungeon, and in an hollow counterfeited voyce, called to _ferando_, saying. comfort thy selfe _ferando_, for the fates are now pleased, that thou shalt bee released out of purgatory, and sent to live in the world againe. thou didst leave thy wife newly conceived with childe, and this very morning she is delivered of a goodly sonne, whom thou shalt cause to be named _bennet_: because, by the incessant prayers of the holy abbot, thine owne loving wife, and for sweet saint _bennets_ sake, this grace and favour is afforded thee. _ferando_ hearing this, was exceeding joyfull, and returned this answere: for ever honoured be the fates, the holy lord abbot, blessed saint _bennet_, and my most dearely beloved wife, whom i will faithfully love for ever, and never more offend her by any jealousie in me. when the next foode was sent to _ferando_, so much of the powder was mingled with the wine, as would serve onely for foure houres entrauncing, in which time, they clothed him in his owne wearing apparell againe, the abbot himselfe in person, and his honest trusty monke of _bologna_, conveying and laying him in the same vault under the tombe, where at the first they gave him buriall. the next morning following, about the breake of day, _ferando_ recovered his sences, and thorow divers chinkes and crannies of the tombe, descried day-light, which hee had not seene in tenne moneths space before. perceiving then plainely, that he was alive, he cried out aloude, saying: open, open, and let mee forth of purgatory, for i have beene heere long enough in conscience. thrusting up his head against the cover of the tombe, which was not of any great strength, neither well closed together; hee put it quite off the tombe, and so got forth upon his feete: at which instant time, the monks having ended their morning mattins, and hearing the noyse, ran in hast thither, and knowing the voyce of _ferando_, saw that he was come forth of the monument. some of them were ancient signiors of the house, and yet but meere novices (as all the rest were) in these cunning and politique stratagems of the lord abbot, when hee intended to punish any one in purgatory, and therefore, being affrighted, and amazed at this rare accident; they fled away from him running to the abbot, who making a shew to them, as if he were but new come forth of his oratory, in a kinde of pacifying speeches, saide; peace my deare sonnes, bee not affraide, but fetch the crosse and holy-water hither; then follow me, and i will shew you, what miracle the fates have pleased to shew in our convent, therefore be silent, and make no more noise; all which was performed according to his command. _ferando_ looking leane and pale, as one, that in so long time hadde not seene the light of heaven, and endured such strict discipline twice everie day: stood in a gastly amazement by the tombes side, as not daring to adventure any further, or knowing perfectly, whether he was (as yet) truly alive, or no. but when he saw the monkes and abbot comming, with their lighted torches, and singing in a solemne manner of procession, he humbled himselfe at the abbots feete, saying. holy father, by your zealous prayers (as hath bin miraculously revealed to me) and the prayers of blessed s. _bennet_; as also of my honest, deare, and loving wife, i have bin delivered from the paines of purgatory, and brought againe to live in this world; for which unspeakable grace and favour, most humbly i thank the well-pleased fates, s. _bennet_, your father-hood, and my kinde wife, and will remember all your loves to me for ever. blessed be the fates, answered the abbot, for working so great a wonder heere in our monastery. go then my good son, seeing the fates have bin so gracious to thee; go (i say) home to thine owne house, and comfort thy kind wife, who ever since thy departure out of this life, hath lived in continuall mourning, love, cherish, and make much of her, never afflicting her henceforth with causlesse jealousie. no i warrant you good father, replyed _ferando_; i have bin well whipt in purgatory for such folly, and therefore i might be called a starke foole, if i should that way offend any more, either my loving wife, or any other. the abbot causing _miserere_ to be devoutly sung, sprinkling _ferando_ well with holy-water, and placing a lighted taper in his hand, sent him home so to his owne dwelling village: where when the neighbours beheld him, as people halfe frighted out of their wits, they fledde away from him, so scared and terrified, as if they had seene some dreadfull sight, or gastly apparition; his wife being as fearfull of him, as any of the rest. he called to them kindly by their severall names, telling them, that hee was newly risen out of his grave, and was a man as he had bin before. then they began to touch and feele him, growing into more certaine assurance of him, perceiving him to be a living man indeede: whereupon, they demanded many questions of him; and he, as if he were become farre wiser then before, tolde them tydings, from their long deceased kindred and friends, as if he had met with them all in purgatory, reporting a thousand lyes and fables to them, which (neverthelesse) they beleeved. then he told them what the miraculous voice had said unto him, concerning the birth of another young sonne, whom (according as he was commanded) he caused to be named _bennet ferando_. thus his returne to life againe, and the daily wonders reported by him, caused no meane admiration in the people, with much commendation of the abbots holynesse, and _ferandoes_ happy curing of his jealousie. juliet of narbona, _cured the king of france of a daungerous fistula, in recompence whereof, she requested to enjoy as her husband in marriage,_ bertrand _the count of_ roussillion. _hee having married her against his will, as utterly despising her, went to florence, where he made love to a young gentlewoman._ juliet, _by a queint and cunning policy, compassed the meanes (insted of his chosen new friend) to lye with her owne husband, by whom shee conceived, and had two sonnes; which being afterward made knowne unto count_ bertrand, _he accepted her into his favour again, and loved her as his loyall and honourable wife._ the ninth novell. _commending the good judgement and understanding in ladies or gentlewomen, that are of a quicke and apprehensive spirit._ now there remained no more (to preserve the priviledge granted to _dioneus_ uninfringed) but the queene onely, to declare her novell. wherefore, when the discourse of madam _lauretta_ was ended, without attending any motion to bee made for her next succeeding, with a gracious and pleasing disposition, thus she began to speake. who shall tell any tale heereafter, to carry any hope or expectation of liking, having heard the rare and wittie discourse of madame _lauretta_? beleeve me, it was verie advantageable to us all, that she was not this dayes first beginner, because few or none would have had any courage to follow after her, & therefore the rest yet remaining, are the more to be feared and suspected. neverthelesse, to avoid the breach of order, and to claime no priviledge by my place, of not performing what i ought to do: prove as it may, a tale you must have, and thus i proceed. there lived sometime in the kingdom of _france_, a gentleman named _isnarde_, being the count of _roussillion_, who because hee was continually weake, crazie and sickly, kept a physitian daily in his house, who was called master _gerard_ of _narbona_. count _isnarde_ had one onely sonne, very young in yeares, yet of towardly hope, faire, comely, and of pleasing person, named _bertrand_; with whom, many other children of his age, had their education: and among them, a daughter of the fore-named physitian, called _juliet_; who, even in these tender yeares, fixed her affection upon yong _bertrand_, with such an earnest and intimate resolution, as was most admirable in so yong a maiden, and more then many times is noted in yeares of greater discretion. old count _isnard_ dying, yong _bertrand_ fell as a ward to the king, and being sent to _paris_, remained there under his royall custodie and protection, to the no little discomfort of yong _juliet_, who became greevously afflicted in minde, because shee had lost the company of _bertrand_. within some few yeeres after, the physitian her father also dyed, and then her desires grew wholly addicted, to visite _paris_ her selfe in person, onely because she would see the yong count, awaiting but time & opportunitie, to fit her stolne journey thither. but her kindred and friends, to whose care and trust she was committed, in regard of her rich dowrie, and being left as a fatherlesse orphane: were so circumspect of her walks and daily behaviour, as she could not compasse any meanes of escaping. her yeeres made her now almost fit for marriage, which so much more encreased her love to the count, making refusall of many woorthie husbands, and laboured by the motions of her friends and kindred, yet all denyed, they not knowing any reason for her refusalles. by this time the count was become a gallant goodly gentleman, and able to make election of a wife, whereby her affections were the more violently enflamed, as fearing least some other should be preferred before her, & so her hopes be utterly disappointed. it was noysed abroad by common report, that the king of _france_ was in a very dangerous condition, by reason of a strange swelling on his stomacke, which failing of apt and convenient curing, became a fistula, afflicting him daily with extraordinary paine and anguish, no chirurgeon or physitian being found, that could minister any hope of healing, but rather encreased the greefe, and drove it to more vehement extreamitie, compelling the king, as dispairing utterly of all helpe, to give over any further counsell or advice. heereof faire _juliet_ was wondrously joyful, as hoping that this accident would prove the meanes, not only of hir journey to _paris_, but if the disease were no more then shee imagined; shee could easily cure it, and thereby compasse count _bertrand_ to be her husband. heereupon, quickning up her wits, with remembrance of those rules of art, which (by long practise and experience) she had learned of her skilfull father, shee compounded certaine hearbes together, such as she knew fitting for that kinde of infirmity, and having reduced hir compound into a powder, away she rode forthwith to paris. being there arrived, all other serious matters set aside, first shee must needs have a sight of count _bertrand_, as being the onely saint that caused her pilgrimage. next she made meanes for her accesse to the king, humbly entreating his majesty, to vouchsafe her the sight of his fistula. when the king saw her, her modest lookes did plainly deliver, that she was a faire, comely, and discreete young gentlewoman; wherefore, hee would no longer hide it, but layed it open to her view. when shee had seene and felt it, presently she put the king in comfort; affirming, that she knew her selfe able to cure his fistula, saying: sir, if your highnesse will referre the matter to me, without any perill of life, or any the least paine to your person, i hope (by the helpe of heaven) to make you whole and sound within eight dayes space. the king hearing her words, beganne merrily to smile at her, saying: how is it possible for thee, being a yong maiden, to do that which the best physitians in europe, are not able to performe? i commend thy kindnesse, and will not remaine unthankefull for thy forward willingnesse: but i am fully determined, to use no more counsell, or to make any further triall of physicke or chirurgery. whereto faire _juliet_ thus replied: great king, let not my skill and experience be despised, because i am young, and a maiden; for my profession is not physicke, neither do i undertake the ministering thereof, as depending on mine owne knowledge; but by the gracious assistance of heaven, & some rules of skilfull observation, which i learned of reverend _gerard_ of _narbona_, who was my worthy father, and a physitian of no meane fame, all the while he lived. at the hearing of these words, the king began somewhat to admire at her gracious carriage, and saide within himselfe. what know i, whether this virgin is sent to me by the direction of heaven, or no? why should i disdaine to make proofe of her skill? her promise is, to cure mee in a small times compasse, and without any paine or affliction to me: she shall not come so farre, to returne againe with the losse of her labour, i am resolved to try her cunning, and thereon saide. faire virgin, if you cause me to breake my setled determination, and faile of curing mee, what can you expect to follow thereon? whatsoever great king (quoth she) shall please you. let me bee strongly guarded, yet not hindred, when i am to prosecute the businesse: and then if i doe not perfectly heale you within eight daies, let a good fire be made, and therein consume my bodie unto ashes. but if i accomplish the cure, and set your highnesse free from all further greevance, what recompence then shall remaine to me? much did the king commend the confident perswasion which she had of her owne power, and presently replyed. faire beauty (quoth he) in regard that thou art a maide and unmarried, if thou keepe promise, and i finde my selfe to be fully cured: i will match thee with some such gentleman in marriage, as shal be of honourable and worthy reputation, with a sufficient dowry beside. my gracious soveraigne saide she, willing am i, and most heartily thankful withall, that your highnesse shal bestow me in marriage: but i desire then, to have such a husband, as i shal desire or demand by your gracious favour, without presuming to crave any of your sonnes, kindred, or alliance, or appertaining unto your royall blood. whereto the king gladly granted. young _juliet_ began to minister her physicke, and within fewer dayes then her limited time, the king was sound and perfectly cured; which when he perceyved, hee sayd unto her. trust me vertuous mayde, most woorthily hast thou wonne a husband, name him, and thou shalt have him. royall king (quoth she) then have i won the count _bertrand_ of _roussillion_, whom i have most entirely loved from mine infancy, and cannot (in my soule) affect any other. very loath was the king to grant her the young count, but in regard of his solemne passed promise, and his royal word engaged, which he would not by any meanes breake; he commanded, that the count should be sent for, and spake thus to him. noble count, it is not unknowne to us, that you are a gentleman of great honour, and it is our royall pleasure, to discharge your wardship, that you may repaire home to your owne house, there to settle your affaires in such order, as you may be the readier to enjoy a wife, which we intend to bestow upon you. the count returned his highnesse most humble thankes, desiring to know of whence, and what shee was? it is this gentlewoman, answered the king, who (by the helpe of heaven) hath beene the meanes to save my life. well did the count know her, as having very often before seene her; and although shee was very faire and amiable, yet in regard of her meane birth, which he held as a disparagement to his nobility in bloud; he made a scorne of her, and spake thus to the king. would your highnesse give me a quacksalver to my wife, one that deales in drugges and physicarie? i hope i am able to bestow my selfe much better then so. why? quoth the king, wouldst thou have us breake our faith; which for the recovery of our health, wee have given to this vertuous virgin, and shee will have no other reward, but onely count _bertrand_ to be her husband? sir, replied the count, you may dispossesse me of all that is mine, because i am your ward and subject, and any where elsee you may bestow me: but pardon me to tell you, that this marriage cannot be made with any liking or allowance of mine, neither will i ever give consent thereto. sir, saide the king, it is our will that it shall be so, vertuous she is, faire and wise; she loveth thee most affectionately, and with her mayest thou leade a more noble life, then with the greatest lady in our kingdome. silent, and discontented stoode the count, but the king commaunded preparation for the marriage; and when the appointed time was come, the count (albeit against his will) received his wife at the kings hand; she loving him deerely as her owne life. when all was done, the count requested of the king, that what elsee remained for further solemnization of the marriage, it might be performed in his owne countrey, reserving to himselfe what elsee he intended. being mounted on horseback, and humbly taking their leave of the king, the count would not ride home to his owne dwelling, but into _tuscany_, where he heard of a warre betweene the _florentines_ and the _senesi_, purposing to take part with the _florentines_, to whom he was willingly and honourably welcommed, being created captain of a worthy company, and continuing there a long while in service. the poore forsaken new married countesse, could scarsely be pleased with such dishonourable unkindnes, yet governing her impatience with no meane discretion, and hoping by her vertuous carriage, to compasse the meanes of his recall: home she rode to _roussillion_, where all the people received her very lovingly. now, by reason of the counts so long absence, all things were there farre out of order; mutinies, quarrelse, and civill dissentions, having procured many dissolute irruptions, to the expence of much blood in many places. but shee, like a jolly stirring lady, very wise and provident in such disturbances, reduced all occasions to such civility againe, that the people admired her rare behaviour, and condemned the count for his unkindnesse towards her. after that the whole countrey of _roussillion_ (by the policy and wisedome of this worthy lady was fully re-established) in their ancient liberties; she made choise of two discreet knights, whom she sent to the count her husband, to let him understand, that if in displeasure to her, hee was thus become a stranger to his owne countrey: upon the return of his answer, to give him contentment, shee would depart thence, and by no meanes disturbe him. roughly and churlishly he replied; let her doe as she list, for i have no determination to dwel with her, or neere where she is. tell her from me, when she shall have this ring, which you behold heere on my finger, and a sonne in her armes begotten by me; then will i come live with her, and be her love. the ring he made most precious and deere account of, and never tooke it off from his finger, in regard of an especial vertue and property, which he well knew to be remaining in it. and these two knights, hearing the impossibility of these two strict conditions, with no other favour elsee to be derived from him; sorrowfully returned backe to their ladie, and acquainted her with this unkinde answer, as also his unalterable determination, which wel you may conceive, must needs be verie unwelcome to her. after she had an indifferent while considered with her selfe, her resolution became so undauntable; that she would adventure to practise such meanes, whereby to compasse those two apparant impossibilities, and so to enjoy the love of her husband. having absolutely concluded what was to be done, she assembled all the cheefest men of the country, revealing unto them (in mournfull manner) what an attempt she had made already, in hope of recovering her husbands favour, and what a rude answer was thereon returned. in the end, she told them, that it did not sute with her unworthinesse, to make the count live as an exile from his owne inheritance, upon no other inducement, but only in regard of her: wherefore, she had determined betweene heaven and her soule, to spend the remainder of her dayes in pilgrimages and prayers, for preservation of the counts soule and her owne; earnestly desiring them, to undertake the charge and government of the countrey, and signifying unto the count, how she had forsaken his house, and purposed to wander so far thence, that never would she visite _roussillion_ any more. in the deliverie of these words, the lords and gentlemen wept and sighed extraordinarily, using many earnest imprecations to alter this resolve in her, but all was in vaine. having taken her sad and sorrowfull farewell of them all, accompanied onely with her maide, and one of her kinsmen, away she went, attired in a pilgrims habite, yet well furnished with money and precious jewelse, to avoide all wants which might befall her in travaile; not acquainting any one whether she went. in no place stayed she, untill she was arrived at florence, where happening into a poore widdowes house, like a poore pilgrim, she seemed well contented therewith. and desiring to heare some tydings of the count, the next day she saw him passe by the house on horse-backe, with his company. now, albeit shee knew him well enough, yet she demanded of the good old widdow, what gentleman he was? she made answer, that he was a stranger there, yet a nobleman, called count _bertrand_ of _roussillion_, a verie courteous knight, beloved and much respected in the city. moreover, that he was farre in love with a neighbour of hers, a yong gentlewoman, but verie poore and meane in substance, yet of honest life, vertuous, and never taxed with any evill report: onely her povertie was the maine imbarment of her marriage, dwelling in house with her mother, who was a wise, honest, and worthy lady. the countesse having wel observed her words, and considered thereon from point to point; debated soberly with her owne thoughts, in such a doubtfull case what was best to be done. when she had understood which was the house, the ancient ladies name, and likewise her daughters, to whom her husband was now so affectionately devoted; she made choise of a fit and convenient time, when (in her pilgrims habit), secretly she went to the house. there she found the mother and daughter in poore condition, and with as poore a family: whom after she had ceremoniously saluted, she told the old lady, that shee requested but a little conference with her. the ladie arose, and giving her courteous entertainment, they went together into a withdrawing chamber, where being both set downe, the countesse began in this manner. madame, in my poore opinion, you are not free from the frownes of fortune, no more then i my selfe am: but if you were so well pleased, there is no one that can comfort both our calamities in such manner, as you are able to do. and beleeve me answered the lady, there is nothing in the world that can bee so welcome to mee, as honest comfort. the countesse proceeding on in her former speeches said: i have now need (good madame) both of your trust and fidelity, whereon if i should rely, and you faile me, it will be your owne undooing as well as mine. speake then boldly, replied the olde ladie, and remaine constantly assured, that you shall no way be deceived by me. heereupon, the countesse declared the whole course of her love, from the verie originall to the instant, revealing also what she was, and the occasion of her comming thither, relating every thing so perfectly, that the ladie verily beleeved her, by some reports which she had formerly heard, and which mooved her the more to compassion. now, when all circumstances were at full discovered, thus spake the countesse. among my other miseries and misfortunes, which hath halfe broken my heart in the meere repetition, beside the sad and afflicting sufferance; two things there are, which if i cannot compasse to have, all hope is quite frustrate for ever, of gaining the grace of my lord and husband. yet those two things may i obtaine by your helpe, if all be true which i have heard, and you can therein best resolve mee. since my comming to this city, it hath credibly bene told me, that the count my husband, is deeply in love with your daughter. if the count (quoth the ladie) love my daughter, and have a wife of his owne, he must thinke, and so shall surely finde it, that his greatnesse is no priviledge for him, whereby to worke dishonour upon her poverty. but indeed, some apparances there are, and such a matter as you speake of, may be so presumed; yet so farre from a very thought of entertaining in her or me; as whatsoever i am able to do, to yeeld you any comfort and content, you shall find me therein both willing and ready: for i prize my daughters spotles poverty as at high a rate, as he can do the pride of his honour. madam, quoth the countesse, most heartily i thanke you. but before i presume any further on your kindnesse, let me first tell you, what faithfully i intend to do for you, if i can bring my purpose to effect. i see that your daughter is beautifull, and of sufficient yeares for mariage; and is debarred thereof (as i have heard) onely by lack of a competent dowry. wherefore madame, in recompence of the favour i expect from you, i will enrich her with so much ready money as you shall thinke sufficient to match her in the degree of honour. poverty made the poore lady, very well to like of such a bountifull offer, and having a noble heart she said: great countesse say, wherein am i able to do you any service, as can deserve such a gracious offer? if the action bee honest, without blame or scandall to my poore, yet undejected reputation, gladly i will do it; and it being accomplished, let the requitall rest in your owne noble nature. observe me then madam, replyed the countesse. it is most convenient for my purpose, that by some trusty and faithfull messenger, you should advertise the count my husband, that your daughter is, and shall be at his command: but because she may remain absolutely assured, that his love is constant to her, and above all other: shee must entreate him, to send her (as a testimony thereof) the ring which he weareth upon his little finger, albeit she hath heard, that he loveth it dearly. if he send the ring, you shal give it me, & afterward send him word, that your daughter is readie to accomplish his pleasure; but, for the more safety and secrecie, he must repaire hither to your house, where i being in bed insted of your daughter, faire fortune may so favour mee, that (unknowne to him) i may conceive with childe. uppon which good successe, when time shall serve, having the ring on my finger, and a child in my armes begotten by him, his love and liking may bee recovered, and (by your meanes) i continue with my husband, as everie vertuous wife ought to doe. the good old ladie imagined, that this was a matter somewhat difficult, and might lay a blamefull imputation on her daughter: neverthelesse, considering, what an honest office it was in her, to bee the meanes, whereby so worthy a countesse should recover an unkinde husband, led altogether by lust, and not a jot of cordiall love; she knew the intent to be honest, the countesse vertuous, and her promise religious, and therefore undertooke to effect it. within few dayes after, verie ingeniously, and according to the instructed order, the ring was obtained, albeit much against the counts will; and the countesse, in sted of the ladies vertuous daughter, was embraced by him in bed: the houre proving so auspicious, and _juno_ being lady of the ascendent, conjoyned with the witty _mercury_, she conceived of two goodly sonnes, and her deliverance agreed correspondently with the just time. thus the old lady, not at this time only, but at many other meetings beside; gave the countesse free possession of her husbands pleasures, yet alwayes in such darke and concealed secrecie, as it was never suspected, nor knowne by any but themselves, the count lying with his owne wife, and disappointed of her whom he more deerely loved. alwayes at his uprising in the mornings (which usually was before the breake of day, for preventing the least scruple of suspition) many familiar conferences passed betweene them, with the gifts of divers faire and costly jewelse; all which the countesse carefully kept, and perceiving assuredly, that shee was conceived with childe, she would no longer bee troublesome to the good old lady; but calling her aside, spake thus to her. madam, i must needs give thankes to heaven and you, because my desires are amply accomplished, and both time and your deserts doe justly challenge, that i should accordingly quite you before my departure. it remaineth nowe in your owne power, to make what demand you please of me, which yet i will not give you by way of reward, because that would seeme to bee base and mercenary: but onely whatsoever you shall receive of me, is in honourable recompence of faire & vertuous deservings, such as any honest and well-minded lady in the like distresse, may with good credit allow, and yet no prejudice to her reputation. although poverty might well have tutored the ladies tongue, to demand a liberall recompence for her paines; yet she requested but an pounds, as a friendly helpe towards her daughters marriage, and that with a bashfull blushing was uttered too; yet the countesse gave hir five hundred pounds, beside so many rich and costly jewelse, as amounted to a farre greater summe. so she returned to her wonted lodging, at the aged widdowes house, where first she was entertained at her comming to _florence_; and the good old lady, to avoide the counts repairing to her house any more, departed thence sodainly with her daughter, to divers friends of hers that dwelt in the country, whereat the count was much discontented; albeit afterward, he did never heare any more tidings of hir or her daughter, who was worthily married, to her mothers great comfort. not long after, count _bertrand_ was re-called home by his people: and he having heard of his wives absence, went to _roussillion_ so much the more willingly. and the countesse knowing her husbands departure from _florence_, as also his safe arrivall at his owne dwelling, remained still in _florence_, untill the time of her deliverance, which was of two goodly sonnes, lively resembling the lookes of their father, and all the perfect lineaments of his body. perswade your selves, she was not a little carefull of their nursing; and when she saw the time answerable to her determination, she tooke her journey (unknowne to any) and arrived with them at _montpellier_, where shee rested her selfe for divers dayes, after so long and wearisome a journey. upon the day of all saints, the count kept a solemne festivall, for the assembly of his lords, knights, ladies, and gentlewomen: uppon which joviall day of generall rejoycing, the countesse attired in her wonted pilgrimes weed, repaired thither, entering into the great hall, where the tables were readily covered for dinner. preassing thorough the throng of people, with her two children in her armes, she presumed unto the place where the count sate, & falling on her knees before him, the teares trickling abundantly downe her cheekes, thus she spake. worthy lord, i am thy poor, despised, and unfortunate wife; who, that thou mightst returne home, and not bee an exile from thine owne abiding, have thus long gone begging through the world. yet now at length, i hope thou wilt be so honourably-minded, as to performe thine own too strict imposed conditions, made to the two knights which i sent unto thee, and which (by thy command) i was enjoyned to do. behold here in mine armes, not onely one sonne by thee begotten, but two twins, and thy ring beside. high time is it now, if men of honour respect their promises, that after so long and tedious travell, i should at last bee welcommed as thy true wife. the counte hearing this, stoode as confounded with admiration; for full well he knew the ring: and both the children were so perfectly like him, as he was confirmed to be their father by generall judgement. upon his urging by what possible meanes this could be broght to passe: the countesse in presence of the whole assembly, and unto her eternall commendation, related the whole history, even in such manner as you have formerly heard it. moreover, she reported the private speeches in bed, uttered betweene himselfe and her, being witnessed more apparantly, by the costly jewelse there openly shewn. all which infallible proofes, proclaiming his shame, and her most noble carriage to her husband; hee confessed, that she had told nothing but the truth in every point which she had reported. commending her admirable constancy, excellency of wit, & sprightly courage, in making such a bold adventure; hee kissed the two sweete boyes, and to keepe his promise, whereto he was earnestly importuned, by all his best esteemed friends there present, especially the honourable ladies, who would have no deniall, but by forgetting his former harsh and uncivill carriage towardes her, to accept her for ever as his lawfull wife: folding her in his armes, and sweetly kissing her divers times together, he bad her welcome to him, as his vertuous, loyall, & most loving wife, and so (for ever after) he would acknowledge her. well knew he that she had store of better beseeming garments in the house, and therefore requested the ladies to walke with her to her chamber, to uncase her of those pilgrimes weeds, and cloath her in her owne more sumptuous garments, even those which she wore on her wedding day, because that was not the day of his contentment, but onely this: for now he confessed her to be his wife indeede, and now he would give the king thanks for her, and now was count _bertrand_ truly married to the faire _juliet_ of _narbona_. _the wonderfull and chaste resolved continency of faire serictha, daughter to siwalde king of denmark, who being sought and sued unto by many worthy persons, that did affect her dearly, would not looke any man in the face, untill such time as she was married._ the tenth novell. _a very singular and worthy president, for all yong ladies and gentlewomen: not rashly to bestow themselves in mariage, without the knowledge and consent of their parents and friends._ _dioneus_ having diligently listened to the queens singular discourse, so soone as she had concluded, and none now remaining but himselfe, to give a full period unto that dayes pleasure: without longer trifling the time, or expecting any command from the queene, thus he began. gracious ladies, i know that you do now expect from me, some such queint tale, as shall be suteable to my merry disposition; rather savouring of wantonnesse, then any discreet and sober wisedom; and such a purpose indeed, i once had entertained. but having well observed all your severall relations, grounded on grave & worthy examples, especially the last, so notably delivered by the queene: i cannot but commend faire _juliet_ of _narbona_, in perfourming two such strange impossibilities, and conquering the unkindnesse of so cruel a husband. if my tale come short of the precedent excellency, or give not such content as you (perhaps) expect; accept my good will, and let me stand engaged for a better heereafter. the annales of _denmarke_ do make mention, that the king of the said country, who was first set downe as prince, contrary to the ancient custom and lawes observed among the _danes_, namely _hunguinus_; had a son called _siwalde_, who succeeded him in the estates and kingdome, belonging to his famous predecessors. that age, and the court of that royall prince, was verie highly renowned, by the honour of faire _serictha_, daughter to the sayde _siwalde_; who beside her generall repute, of being a myracle of nature, in perfection of beautie, and most compleate in all that the heart of man could desire to note, in a body full of grace, gentlenesse, and whatsoever elsee, to attract the eyes of everie one to beholde her: was also so chaste, modest, and bashfull, as it was meerely impossible, to prevaile so farre with her, that any man should come to speake with her. for, in those dayes, marriages were pursued and sought by valour, and by the onely opinion, which stoute warriours conceived, of the vertuous qualities of a ladie. notwithstanding, never could any man make his vaunt, that she had given him so much as a looke, or ever any one attained to the favour, to whisper a word in her eare. because both the custome and will of parents then (very respectively kept in those northerne parts of the world) of hearing such speak, as desired their daughters in marriage; grew from offering them some worthy services; and thereby compassed meanes, to yeeld their contentation, by some gracious and kinde answers. but she, who was farre off from the desire of any such follies, referring her selfe wholly to the will and disposition of the king her lord and father; was so contrary, to give any living man an answer, that her eye never looked on any one speaking to her, appearing as sparing in vouchsafing a glance, as her heart was free from a thought of affection. for, she had no other imagination, but that maides, both in their choise & will, ought to have any other disposition, but such as should bee pleasing to their parents, either to graunt, or denie, according as they were guided by their grave judgement. in like manner, so well had shee brideled her sensuall appetites, with the curbe of reason, wisedome, and providence; setting such a severe and constant restraint, on the twinkling or motions of her eyes, in absolute obedience to her father; as never was she seene to turne her head aside, to lend one looke on any man of her age. a worthy sight it was, to behold knights errant, passing, repassing to _denmarke_, and backe againe, labouring to conquer those setled eyes, to win the least signe of grace and favour, from her whom they so dutiously pursued, to steale but a silly glimpse or glance, and would have thought it a kind of honourable theft. but this immovable rock of beauty, although she knew the disseignes of them which thus frequented the court of the king her father, and could not pretend ignorance of their endeavour, ayming onely at obtaining her in mariage: yet did she not lend any look of her eye, yeelding the least signall of the hearts motion, in affecting any thing whatsoever, but what it pleased her father she should do. _serictha_ living in this strange and unusuall manner, it mooved manie princes and great lords, to come and court her, contending both by signes and words, to change her from this severe constancie, and make knowne (if possible it might be) whether a woman would or could be so resolute, as to use no respect at all towards them, coming from so manie strange countries, to honour her in the courts of the king her father. but in these dayes of ours, if such a number of gallant spirits should come, to aske but one looke of some of our beauties; i am halfe affraide, that they should finde the eyes of many of our dainty darlings, not so sparing of their glances, as those of _serictha_ were. considering, that our courtiers of these times, are this way emulous one of another, and women are so forward in offering themselves, that they performe the office of suters, as fearing lest they should not be solicited, yea, though it bee in honest manner. the king, who knew well enough, that a daughter was a treasure of some danger to keepe, and growing doubtfull withall least (in the end) this so obstinate severity would be shaken, if once it came to passe, that his daughter should feele the piercing apprehensions of love, & whereof (as yet) she never had any experience; he determined to use some remedy for this great concourse of lovers, and strange kinde of carriage in the princesse his daughter. for, hee apparantly perceived, that such excelling beauty as was in _serictha_, with those good and commendable customes, and other ornaments of his daughters mind, could never attaine to such an height of perfection; but yet there would be found some men, so wittily accute and ingenious, as to convert and humour a maid, according to their will, and make a mockery of them, who were (before) of most high esteeme. beside, among so great a troope of lords, as daily made tender of their amorous service, some one or other would prove so happy, as (at the last) she should be his mistresse. and therefore forbearing what otherwhise he had intended, as a finall conclusion of all such follies: calling his daughter alone to himselfe in his chamber, and standing cleere from all other attention, hee used to her this, or the like language. i know not faire daughter, what reason may move you to shew your selfe so disdainfull towards so many noble and worthy men, as come to visite you, and honour my court with their presence, offering me their love and loyall service, under this onely pretence (as i perceive) of obtaining you, and compassing the happinesse (as it appeareth in plaine strife among them) one day to winne the prize, you being the maine issue of all their hope. if it be bashfull modesty, which (indeede) ought to attend on all virgins of your yeares, and so veyles your eyes, as (with honour) you cannot looke on any thing, but what is your owne, or may not justly vouchsafe to see; i commend your maidenly continencie, which yet neverthelesse, i would not have to bee so severe; as (at length) your youth falling into mislike thereof, it maybe the occasion of some great misfortune, either to you, or me, or elsee to us both together: considering what rapes are ordinarily committed in these quarters, and of ladies equall every way to your selfe; which happening, would presently be the cause of my death. if it be in regard of some vow which you have consecrated to virginity, and to some one of our gods: i seeke not therein to hinder your disseignes, neither will bereave the celestiall powers, of whatsoever appertaineth to them. albeit i could wish, that it should bee kept in a place more straited, and separate from the resort of men; to the end, that so bright a beauty as yours is, should cause no discords among amorous suters, neither my court prove a campe destinied unto the conclusion of such quarrelse, or you be the occasion of ruining so many, whose service would beseeme a much more needfull place, then to dye heere by fond and foolish opinion of enjoying a vaine pleasure, yet remaining in the power of another bodie to grant. if therefore i shall perceive, that these behaviours in you do proceede from pride, or contempt of them, who endeavour to do you both honour and service, and in sted of granting them a gracious looke, in arrogancie you keepe from them, making them enemies to your folly and my sufferance: i sweare to you by our greatest god, that i will take such due order, as shall make you feele the hand of an offended father, and teach you (hencefoorth) to bee much more affable. wherefore deere daughter, you shall do me a singular pleasure, freely to acquaint me with your minde, and the reasons of your so stricte severity: promising you, upon the word and faith of a king, nay more, of a loving and kinde father, that if i finde the cause to bee just and reasonable, i will desist so farre from hindering your intent, as you shal rather perceive my fatherly furtherance, and rest truly resolved of my help and favour. wherefore faire daughter, neither blush or dismay, or feare to let me understand your will; for evidently i see, that meere virgin shame hath made a rapture of your soule, beeing nothing elsee but those true splendours of vertue derived from your auncestors, and shining in you most gloriously, gracing you with a much richer embellishing, then those beauties bestowed on you by nature. speake therefore boldly to your father, because there is no law to prohibit your speech to him: for when he commandeth, he ought to bee obeyed: promising uppon mine oath once againe, that if your reasons are such as they ought to be, i will not faile to accommodate your fancy. the wise and vertuous princesse, hearing the king to alledge such gracious reasons, and to lay so kinde a command on her; making him most lowe and humble reverence, in signe of dutifull accepting such favour, thus she answered. royall lord and father, seeing that in your princely court, i have gathered whatsoever may be termed vertuous in me, & you being the principall instructer of my life, from whom i have learned those lessons, how maides (of my age) ought to governe and maintaine themselves: you shall apparently perceive, that neither gazing lookes, which i ought not to yeelde without your consent, nor pride or arrogancie, never taught me by you, or the queene my most honourable lady and mother, are any occasion of my cariage towards them, which come to make ostentation of their folly in your court, as if a meere look of _serictha_, were sufficient to yeeld assurance effectually of their desires victory. nothing (my most royall lord and father) induceth mee to this kinde of behaviour, but onely due respect of your honour & mine owne: and to the end it may not be thought, that i belye my selfe, in not eying the affectionate offers of amorous pursuers, or have any other private reserved meaning, then what may best please king _siwalde_ my father: let it suffice sir, that it remaineth in your power onely, to make an apt election and choice for me; for i neither ought, nor will allowe the acceptance of any suters kindnesse, so much as by a looke (much lesse then by words) untill your highnesse shall nominate the man, to be a meete husband for _serictha_. it is onely you then (my lord) that beares the true life-blood of our ancestors. it is the untainted life of the queene my mother, that sets a chaste and strict restraint on mine eyes, from estranging my heart, to the idle amorous enticements of young giddy-headed gentlemen, and have sealed up my soule with an absolute determination, rather to make choise of death, then any way to alter this my warrantable severity. you being a wise king, and the worthie father of _serictha_, it is in you to mediate, counsell, and effect, what best shall beseeme the desseignes of your daughter: because it is the vertue of children, yea, and their eternall glory and renowne, to illustrate the lives and memories of their parents. it consisteth in you, either to grant honest license to such lords as desire me, or to oppose them with such discreete conditions, as both your selfe may sit free from any further afflicting, and they rest defeated of dangerous dissentions, according as you foresee what may ensue. which yet (neverthelesse) i hold as a matter impossible, if their discord should be grounded on the sole apprehension of their soules: and the onely prevention thereof, is, not to yeeld any signe, glance of the eie, or so much as a word more to one man then another: for, such is the setled disposition of your daughters soule, and which shee humbly entreateth, may so be still suffered. many meanes there are, whereby to winne the grace of the greatest king, by employing their paines in worthy occasions, answerable unto their yeeres and vertue, if any such sparkes of honour doe shine in their soules; rather then by gaining heere any matter of so meane moment, by endeavouring to shake the simplicity of a bashfull maide: let them cleare the kings high-wayes of theeves, who make the passages difficult: or let them expell pirates from off the seas, which make our _danish_ coasts every way inaccessible. these are such noble meanes to merit, as may throw deserved recompence uppon them, and much more worthily, then making idols of ladies lookes, or gazing for babies in their wanton eyes. so may you bestowe on them what is your owne, granting _serictha_ to behold none, but him who you shall please to give her: for otherwise, you know her absolute resolve, never to looke any living man in the face, but onely you my gracious lord and father. the king hearing this wise and modest answer of his daughter, could not choose but commend her in his heart; and smiling at the counsell which she gave him, returned her this answer. understand me wel, faire daughter; neither am i minded to breake your determination wholly, nor yet to governe my selfe according to your fancie. i stand indifferently contented, that untill i have otherwise purposed, you shall continue the nature of your ancient custome: yet conditionally, that when i command an alteration of your carriage, you faile not therein to declare your obedience. what elsee remaineth beside, for so silly a thing as a woman is, and for the private pleasing of so many great princes and lords, i will not endanger any of their lives; because their parents and friends (being sensible of such losses) may seeke revenge, perhaps to their owne ruine, and some following scourge to my indiscretion. for i consider (daughter) that i have neighbours who scarsely love me, and of whom (in time) i may right my selfe, having received (by their meanes) great wrongs & injuries. also i make no doubt, but to manage your love-sute with discretion, and set such a pleasing proceeding betweene them, as neyther shall beget any hatred in them towards me, nor yet offend them in their affections pursuite, till fortune may smile so favourably upon some one man, to reach the height of both our wished desires. _siwalde_ was thus determinately resolved, to let his daughter live at her owne discretion, without any alteration of her continued severitie, perceiving day by day, that many came still to request her in mariage; & he could not give her to them all, nor make his choise of any one, least all the rest should become his enemies, and fall in quarrell one with another. onely this therefore was his ordination, that among such a number of amorous suters, he onely should weare the lawrell wreath of victory, who could obtaine such favour of _serictha_, as but to looke him in the face. this condition seemed to bee of no meane difficulty, yea, and so impossible, that many gave over their amorous enterprize: whereof _serictha_ was wondrouslie joyfull, seeing her selfe eased of such tedious importunitie, dulling her eares with their proffered services, and foppish allegations of fantasticke servitude: such as ydle-headed lovers do use to protest before their mistresses, wherein they may beleeve them, if they list. among all them that were thus forward in their heate of affection, there was a young _danish_ lord, named _ocharus_, the sonne of a pirate, called _hebonius_, the same man, who having stolne the sister unto king _hunguinus_, and sister to _siwalde_, & affiancing himselfe to her, was slaine by king _haldune_, and by thus killing him, enjoyed both the lady, and the kingdome of the _gothes_ also, as her inheritance. this _ocharus_, relying much on his comelinesse of person, wealth, power, and valour, but (above all the rest) on his excellent and eloquent speaking; bestowed his best endeavour to obtaine _serictha_, notwithstanding the contemptible carriage of the rest towards him; whereupon prevailing for his accesse to the princesse, and admitted to speake, as all the other did, he reasoned with her in this manner. whence may it proceede, madam, that you being the fairest and wisest princesse living at this day in all the northerne parts, should make so small account of your selfe, as to denie that, which with honour you may yeeld to them, as seeke to doe you most humble service; and forgetting the rank you hold, doe refuse to deigne them recompence in any manner whatsoever, seeking onely to enjoy you in honourable marriage? perhaps you are of opinion, that the gods should become slaves to your beauty, in which respect, men are utterly unworthy to crave any such acquaintance of you. if it be so, i confesse my selfe conquered: but if the gods seeke no such association with women, and since they forsooke the world, they left this legacy to us men; i thinke you covet after none, but such as are extracted of their blood, or may make vaunt of their neere kindred and alliance to them. i know that many have wished, and doe desire you: i know also, that as many have requested you of the king your father, but the choyce remaineth in your power, and you being ordained the judge, to distinguish the merit of all your sutors; me thinkes you doe wrong to the office of a judge; in not regarding the parties which are in suite, to sentence the desert of the best and bravest, and so to delay them with no more lingering. i cannot thinke madam, that you are so farre out of your selfe, and so chill cold in your affection, but desire of occasions, equall to your vertue and singular beauty, doe sometime touch you feelingly, and make you to wish for such a man, answerable to the greatnesse of your excellency. and if it should be otherwise (as i imagine it to be impossible) yet you ought to breake such an obstinate designe, onely to satisfie the king your father, who can desire nothing more, then to have a sonne in law, to revenge him on the tyrant of _swetia_; who, as you well know, was sometime the murtherer of your grand-father _hunguinus_, and also of his father. if you please to vouchsafe me so much grace and favour, as to make me the man, whom your heart hath chosen to be your husband; i sweare unto you by the honour of a souldier, that i will undergoe such service, as the king shall be revenged, you royally satisfied, and my selfe advanced to no meane happinesse, by being the onely fortunate man of the world. gentle princesse, the most beautifull daughter to a king, open that indurate heart, and so soften it, that the sweete impressions of love may be engraven therein; see there the loyall pursuite of your _ocharus_, who, to save his life, cannot so much as winne one looke from his divine mistresse. this nicenesse is almost meerely barbarous, that i, wishing to adventure my life prodigally in your service, you are so cruell, as not to deigne recompence to this duty of mine, with the least signe of kindnesse that can be imagined. faire _serictha_, if you desire the death of your friendly servant _ocharus_, there are many other meanes whereby to performe it, without consuming him in so small a fire, and suffering him there to languish without any answere. if you will not looke upon me; if my face be so unworthy, that one beame of your bright sunnes may not shine upon it: if a word of your mouth be too precious for me; make a signe with your hand, either of my happinesse or disaster. if your hand be envious of mine ease, let one of your women be shee, to pronounce the sentence of life or death; because, if my life be hatefull to you, this hand of mine may satisfie your will, and sacrifice it to the rigour of your disdaine. but if (as i am rather perswaded) the ruine of your servants be against your more mercifull wishes; deale so that i may perceive it, and expresse what compassion you have of your _ocharus_, who coveteth nothing more, then your daily hearts ease and contentment, with a priviledge of honour above other ladies. all this discourse was heard by _serictha_, but so little was shee moved therewith, as shee was farre enough off from returning him any answer, neither did any of the gentlewomen attending on her, ever heare her use the very least word to any of her amorous sollicitors, nor did shee know any one of them, but by speech onely, which drove them all into an utter despaire, perceiving no possible meanes whereby to conquer her. the histories of the northerne countries doe declare, that in those times, the rapes of women were not much respected; and such as pursued any lady or gentlewoman with love, were verily perswaded, that they never made sufficient proofe of their amourous passions, if they undertooke not all cunning stratagems, with adventure of their lives to all perils whatsoever, for the rape or stealth of them, whom they purposed to enjoy in marriage. as we reade in the _gothes_ history of _gramo_, sonne to the king of _denmarke_, who being impatiently amourous of the daughter to the king of the _gothes_, and winning the love of the lady, stole her away, before her parents or friends had any notice thereof; by meanes of which rape, there followed a most bloody warre betweene the _gothes_ and the _danes_. in recompence of which injury, _sibdagerus_, king of _norway_, being chosen chiefe commander of the _swetians_ & _gothes_, entred powerfully into _denmarke_, where first he violated the sister to king _gramo_, and led away her daughter, whom in the like manner he made his spouse, as the _dane_ had done the daughter of _sigtruge_, prince of the _gothes_. i induce these briefe narrations, onely to shew, that while _ocharus_ made honest and affable meanes, to win respect from _serictha_, and used all honourable services to her, as the daughter of so great a prince worthily deserved: some there were, not halfe so conscientious as he, especially one of the amourous sutors, who being weary of the strange carriages of _serictha_, dissembling to prosecute his purpose no further; prevailed so farre, that he corrupted one of her governesses, for secretly training her to such a place, where the ravisher should lie in ambush to carry her away, so to enjoy her by pollicy, seeing all other meanes failed for to compasse his desire. behold to what a kind of foolish rage, which giddy headed dullards doe terme a naturall passion, they are led, who, being guided more by sensuality, then reason or discretion, follow the braine-sicke motions of their rash apprehensions. he which pursueth, and protesteth to love a lady for her gentillity and vertue; knoweth not how to measure what love is, neither seeth or conceiveth, how farre the permission of his owne endeavour extendeth. moreover, you may observe, that never any age was so grosse, or men so simple, but even almost from the beginning, avarice did hood-winke the hearts of men, and that (with gold) the very strongest fortification in the world hath beene broken, yea, and the best bard gates laide wide open. _serictha_, who shunned the light of all men, and never distrusted them which kept about her; shee who never knew (except some naturall sparke gave light to her understanding) what belonged to the embracements of men, must now (without dreaming thereon) fall as foode to the insatiable appetite of a wretch, who compassed this surprisall of her, to glory in his owne lewdnesse, and make a mocke of the princesses setled constancy. shee, good lady, following the councell of her trayterous guide, went abroade on walking, but weakely accompanied, as one that admitted no men to attend her, which shee might have repented very dearely, if heaven had not succoured her innocency, by the helpe of him, who wished her as well as the ravisher, though their desires were quite contrary; the one to enjoy her by violence, but the other affecting rather to die, then doe the least act which might displease her. no sooner was _serictha_ arrived at the destined place, where her false governesse was to deliver her; but behold a second _paris_ came, and seized on her, hurrying her in haste away, before any helpe could possibly rescue her; the place being farre off from any dwelling. now the ravisher durst not convey her to his owne abiding, to enjoy the benefit of his purchase; but haled her into a small thicket of trees, where, although shee knew the evident perill, whereinto her severe continency had now throwne her: yet notwithstanding, shee would not lift up her eyes, to see what he was that had thus stolne her, so firmely shee dwelt upon grounded deliberation, and such was the vigor of her chaste resolve. and albeit shee knew a wickednesse (worse then death) preparing for her, who had no other glory then in her vertue, and desire to live contentedly; yet was shee no more astouned thereat, then if hee had led her to the palace of the king her father: perswading herselfe, that violence done to the body, is no prejudice to honour, when the mind is free and cleere from consent. as thus this robber of beauty was preparing to massacre the modesty of the faire princesse, shee resisted him with all her power, yea, and defended her selfe so worthily, that he could not get one looke of her eye, one kisse of her cheeke, nor any advantage whatsoever, crying out shrilly, and strugling against him strongly: her outcryes were heard by one, who little imagined that shee was so neere, whom he loved more dearely then his owne life, namely, _ocharus_; who was walking accidentally alone in this wood, devising by what meanes hee might winne grace from his sterne mistresse. no sooner tooke he knowledge of her, and saw her (in the armes of another) to be ravished; but he cryed out to the thiefe, saying; hand off villaine, let not such a slave as thou, prophane with an unreverend touch the sacred honour of so chaste a princesse, who deserveth to be more royally respected, then thus rudely hurried: hand off i say, or elsee i sweare by her divine perfections, whom i esteeme above all creatures in this world, to make thee die more miserably, then ever any man as yet did. whosoever had seene a lyon or an ounce rouse himselfe, chafing when any one adventureth to rob him of his prey; and then with fierce eyes, mounted creasts, writhed tayles, and sharpened pawes, make against him that durst to molest him. in the like manner did the ravisher shew himselfe, and one while snarling, another while bristling the darted disdainefull lookes at _ocharus_, and spake to him in this manner. vile and base sea-thiefe, as thou art, welcome to thy deserved wages, and just repayment for thy proud presuming. it glads my heart not a little, to meete thee here, where thou shalt soone perceive what good will i beare thee, and whether thou be worthy or no to enjoy the honour of this lady, now in mine owne absolute possession. it will also encrease her more ample perswasion of my worth, and pleade my merit more effectually in her favour; when shee shall see what a powerfull arme i have, to punish this proud insolence of a pirate. this harsh language was so distastfull to _ocharus_, that like a bull, made angry by the teeth of some mastive dogge, or pricked by the point of a weapon, he ran upon his enemy, and was so roughly welcommed by him, as it could not easilly be judged which of them had the better advantage. but in the end fortune favoured most the honest man, and _ocharus_ having overthrowne the robber, hee smote the head of him quite from his shoulders, which he presented to her, whom he had delivered out of so great a peril, and thus he spake. you may now behold madam, whether _ocharus_ be a true lover of _sericthaes_ vertues, or no, and your knowledge fully resolved, at what end his affection aimeth; as also, how farre his honest desert extendeth, for you both to love him, and to recompence the loyall respect he hath used towards you. never looke on the villaines face, who strove to shame the king your fathers court, by violation of theevery, the chastest princesse on the earth; but regard _ocharus_, who is readie to sacrifice himselfe, if you take as much pleasure in his ruine, as (he thinketh) hee hath given you contentment, by delivering you from this traytor. doth it not appeare unto you madam, that i have as yet done enough, whereby to be thought a worthy husband, for the royall daughter of _denmarke_? have i not satisfied the kings owne ordinance, by delivering his daughter, as already i have done? will _serictha_ be so constant in her cruelty, as not to turne her eye towards him, who exposed his life, to no meane perill and daunger, onely in the defence of her chastity? then i plainely perceive, that the wages of my devoire, is ranked amongest those precedent services, which i have performed for so hurtfull a beautie. yet gentle princesse, let me tell you, my carriage hath bin of more importance, then all the others can be, and my merit no way to be compared with theirs; at least, if you pleased to make account of him, who is an unfeigned lover of your modesty, and devoutly honoureth your vertuous behaviour. and yet madame, shall i have none other answere from you, but your perpetuall silence? can you continue so obstinate in your opinion, in making your selfe still as strange to your _ocharus_, as to the rest, who have no other affection, but onely to the bare outside of beauty? why then, royall ladie, seeing (at this instant time) all my labour is but lost, and your heart seemeth much more hardned, in acknowledging any of my honest services: at least yet let me bee so happy, as to conduct you backe to the palace, and restore you to that sacred safetie, which will be my soules best comfort to behold. no outward signe of kinde acceptation, did any way expresse itselfe in her, but rather as fearing, lest the commodiousnesse of the place shold incite this young lord, to forget all honest respect, and imitate the other in like basenesse. but he, who rather wished a thousand deathes, then any way to displease his mistresse, as if hee were halfe doubtfull of her suspition, made offer of guiding her backe to the place, from whence shee had before bene stolne, where she found her company still staying, as not daring to stirre thence, to let the king know his daughters ill fortune; but when they saw her returne, and in the company of so worthie a knight, they grew resolved, that no violence had bene done unto her. the princesse, sharpely rebuking her women, for leaving her so basely as they had done, gave charge to one of them (because she would not seeme altogether negligent & discourteous) that she being gone thence, she should not faile to thanke _ocharus_, for the honest and faithfull service he had done unto her, which she would continually remember, and recompence as it lay in her power. neverthelesse, shee advised him withall, not to hope of any more advantage thereby, then reason should require. for, if it were the will of the gods, that she should be his wife, neither she or any other could let or hinder it: but if her destiny reserved her for another, all his services would availe to no purpose, but rather to make her the more rigorous towards him. this gracious answer, thus given him by her gentlewoman, although it gave some small contentment to the poore languishing lover: yet hee saw no assured signe whereon to settle his resolve, but his hopes vanished away in smoake, as fast as opinion bred them in his braine. and gladly he would have given over all further amorous solicitings, but by some private perswasions of her message sent him, which in time might so advance his services done for her sake, as would derive far greater favours from her. whereupon, he omitted no time or place, but as occasion gave him any gracious permission, still plied her memorie, with his manly rescuing her from the ravisher, sufficient to pleade his merite to her father, and that (in equity) she ought to bee his wife, by right both of honour and armes; no man being able to deserve her, as he had done. so long he pursued her in this manner, that his speeches seemed hatefull to her, and devising how to be free from his daily importunities, at length, in the habite of a poore chamber-maide, she secretly departed out of the court, wandering into the solitary parts of the country; where she entered into service, and had the charge of keeping sheepe. it may seeme strange, that a kings onely daughter should stray in such sort, and despising courtly life, betake herselfe to paines and servility: but such was her resolution, and women delighting altogether in extremes, spare no attempts to compasse their owne wils. all the court was in an uprore for the ladies losse, the father in no meane affliction, the lovers well-nere beside their wits, and every one elsee most greevously tormented, that a lady of such worth should so sodainly be gone, and all pursuit made after her, gaine no knowledge of her. in this high tide of sorrow and disaster, what shall we say of the gentle lord _ocharus_? what judgement can sound the depth of his wofull extreamity? fearing least some other theefe had now made a second stealth of his divine goddesse; he must needs follow her againe, seeking quite throughout the world, never more returning backe to the court, nor to the place of his owne abiding, untill hee heard tidings of his mistresse, or ended his dayes in the search of her. no village, town, cottage, castle, or any place elsee of note or name, did hee leave unsought, but diligently he searched for _serictha_; striving to get knowledge, under what habit she lived thus concealed, but all his labour was to no effect: which made him leave the places so much frequented, and visite the solitary desert shades, entering into all caves and rusticke habitations, whereon hee could fasten his eye, to seeke for the lost treasure of his soule. on a day, as hee wandred along in a spacious valley, seated betweene two pleasant hilles, taking delight to heare the gentle murmure of the rivers, running by the sides of two neighbouring rockes, planted with all kinde of trees, and very thickely spred with mosse: hee espied a flocke of sheepe feeding on the grasse, and not farre off from them sate a maide spinning on her distaffe; who having got a sight of him, presently covered her face with a veile. love, who sate as sentinell both in the heart and eye of the gentle _norwegian_ lord, as quickly discovered the subtilty of the faire shephearddesse, enstructing the soule of _ocharus_, that thus she hid her face, as coveting not to be knowne: whereupon he gathered, that doubtlesse this was shee, for whom he hadde sought with such tedious travaile, and therefore going directly unto her, thus hee spake. gentle princesse; wherefore do you thus hide your selfe from mee? why do you haunt these retreats and desolate abodes, having power to command over infinite men, that cannot live but by your presence? what hath moved you madame, to flye from company, to dwel among desert rockes, and serve as a slave, to such as are no way worthy of your service? why do you forsake a potent king, whose onely daughter and hope you are; leaving your countrey and royall traine of ladies, and so farre abasing your selfe, to live in the dejected state of a servant, and to some rusticke clowne or peazant? what reason have you, to despise so many worthy lords, that dearely love and honour you, but (above them all) your poore slave _ocharus_, who hath made no spare of his owne life, for the safety of yours, and also for the defence of your honour? royal maid, i am the same man that delivered you from the villaine, who would have violated your faire chastity; and since then, have not spared any payne or travell in your search: for whose losse, king _siwalde_ is in extreme anguish, the _danes_ in mourning habites, and _ocharus_ even at the doore of death, being no way able to endure your absence. are you of the minde, worthy madame, that i have not hitherto deserved so much as one good looke or glance of your eye, in recompence of so many good & loyall services? if alas! i am neither ravisher, nor demander of any unjust requests, or elsee incivill in my motions: i may merit one regard of my mistresse. i require onely so silly a favour, that her eyes may pay me the wages for all which i have hitherto done in her service. what would you do madam, if i were an importunate solicitor, and requested farre greater matters of you, in just recompence of my labours? i do not desire, that you should embrace me. i am not so bold, as to request a kisse of _sericthaes_, more then immortall lips. nor doe i covet, that she should any otherwise entreate mee, then with such severity as beseemeth so great a princesse. i aske no more, but onely to elevate your chaste eyes, and grace me with one little looke, as being the man, who for his vertue and loyall affection, hath deserved more then that favour, yea, a much greater and excellent recompence. can you then be so cruell, as to denie me so small a thing, without regarde of the maine debt, wherein you stand engaged to your _ocharus_? the princesse perceiving that it availed nothing to conceale hir selfe, being by him so apparantly discovered; began now to speake (which she had never done before, either to him, or any other of her amorous suters) answering him in this manner. lord _ocharus_, it might suffice you, that your importunity made me forsake my fathers court, and causeth me to live in this abased condition, which i purpose to prosecute all my life time; or so long (at the least) as you, and such as you are, pursue me so fondly as you have presumed to do. for i am resolved, never to favour you any otherwise, then hitherto i have done; desiring you therefore, that _serictha_ wanting an interpreter to tell you her will, you would now receive it from her owne mouth, determining sooner to dye, then alter a jot of her intended purpose. _ocharus_ hearing this unwelcome answer, was even upon the point to have slaine himselfe: but yet, not to lose the name of a valiant man, or to be thought of an effeminate or cowardly spirite, that a woman should force him to an acte, so farre unfitting for a man of his ranke; hee tooke his leave of her, solemnly promising, not to forget her further pursuite, but at all times to obey her so long as he lived, although her commaund was very hard for him to endure. so hee departed thence, not unto the court, she being not there, that had the power to enjoyne his presence: but home to his owne house, where he was no sooner arrived, but he began to waxe wearie of his former folly; accusing himselfe of great indiscretion, for spending so much time in vaine, and in her service, who utterly despised him, and all his endeavours which he undertooke. he began to accuse her of great ingratitude, laying over-much respect uppon her vertue, to have no feeling at all of his loyall sufferings; but meerely made a mockery of his martyrdome. heereupon, he concluded to give over all further affection, to languish no longer for her sake, that hated him and all his actions. while he continued in these melancholly passions, the princesse, who all this while had persisted in such strict severity, as astonished the courages of her stoutest servants; considering (more deliberately) on the sincere affection of _ocharus_, and that vertue onely made him the friend to her modesty, and not wanton or lascivious appetite; she felt a willing readinesse in her soule, to gratifie him in some worthy manner, and to recompence some part of his travailes. which to effect, she resolved to follow him (in some counterfeite habite) even to the place of his own abiding, to try, if easily he could take knowledge of her, whom so lately he saw in the garments of a shephearddesse. being thus minded, shee went to her mistresse whom she served, and who had likewise seen lord _ocharus_ (of whom she had perfect knowledge) when hee conferred with the shephearddesse, and enquiring the cause, why hee resorted in that manner to her; _serictha_ returned her this answer. mistresse, i make no doubt, but you will be somewhat amazed, and (perhaps) can hardly credit when you heare, that she who now serveth you in the poore degree of shephearddesse, is the onely daughter to _siwalde_ king of the _danes_: for whose love, so many great lords have continually laboured; and that i onely attracted hither _ocharus_, the noble sonne of valiant _hebonius_, to wander in these solitary deserts, to finde out her that fled from him, and helde him in as high disdaine, as i did all the rest of his fellow rivals. but if my words may not heerein sufficiently assure you, i would advise you, to send where _ocharus_ dwelleth, & there make further enquiry of him, to the end that you may not imagine me a lyar. if my speeches do otherwise prevaile with you, and you remain assured, that i am she, whom your noble neighbour so deerely affecteth, albeit i never made any account at all of him: then i do earnestly intreat you, so much to stand my friend, as to provide some convenient means for me, whereby i may passe unknowne to the castle of _ocharus_, to revenge my selfe on his civill honesty, & smile at him hereafter, if he prove not so cleerely sighted, as to know her being neere him, whom he vaunteth to love above all women elsee. the good countrey-woman hearing these wordes, and perceyving that she had the princesse in her house, of whose speeches she made not any doubt, in regard of her stout countenance, gravity, and faire demeanour, began to rellish something in her minde, farre differing from matter of common understanding, and therefore roundly replied in this kind of language. madam (for servant i may no longer call you) i make no question to the contrary, but that you are derived of high birth; having observed your behaviour, and womanly carriage. and so much the more i remaine assured thereof, having seene such great honour done unto you, by the noble lord, and worthy warriour _ocharus_: wherefore, it lieth not in my power, to impeach your desseignes, much lesse to talke of your longer service, because you are the princesse _serictha_, whom i am to performe all humble dutie unto, as being one of your meanest subjects. and although you were not shee, yet would i not presume any way to offend you, in regarde of the true and vertuous love, which that good knight _ocharus_ seemeth to beare you. if my company bee needefull for you, i beseech you to accept it: if not, take whatsoever is mine, which may any way sted you; for, to make you passe unknowne, i can and will provide sufficiently, even to your own contentment, and in such strange manner, as _ocharus_ (were he never so cleerely sighted) shal be deceived, you being attired in those fashion garments, which heere in these parts are usually worne. _serictha_ being wonderously joyfull at her answer, suffred hir to paint, or rather soile her faire face, with the juice of divers hearbes and rootes, and cloathed her in such an habite as those women use to weare that live in the mountaines of _norway_, upon the sea-coast fronting _great-britain_. being thus disguised, confidently she went, to beguile the eie of her dearest friend, and so to returne backe againe from him, having affoorded him such a secret favour, in requitall of his honourable services; delivering her out of so great a danger, and comming to visite her in so solitarie a life. nor would she have the womans company any further, then till she came within the sight of _ocharus_ his castle; where when she was arrived (he being then absent) the mother unto the noble gentleman, gave her courteous welcom; and, notwithstanding her grosse & homely outward appearance, yet she collected by her countenance, that there was a matter of much more worth in her, then to bee a woman of base breeding. when _ocharus_ was returned home, he received advertisement by his mother, concerning the arrivall of this stranger, when as sodainely his soule halfe perswaded him, of some kinde courtesie to proceede from his sweet rebell, pretending now some feigned excuse, in recompence of all his travailes, and passed honest offices. observing all her actions and gestures, her wonted rigour never bending one jot, or gave way to her eye to looke upon any man; he grew the better assured, that she was the daughter to king _siwalde_. yet feigning to take no knowledge thereof, he bethought himselfe of a queint policy, whereby to make triall, whether secret kindnesse had conducted this lady thither, or no, to conclude his torments, and give a final end to his greevous afflictions. upon a watch-word given to his mother, he pretended, and so caused it to be noised through the house, that he was to marry a very honourable lady; which the constant and chaste maide verily beleeved; and therefore gave the more diligent attendance (as a new-come servant) to see all things in due decency, as no one could expresse herselfe more ready, because she esteemed him above all other men. yet such was the obstinate opinion she concerned of her owne precisenesse, as she would rather suffer all the flames of love, then expresse the least shew of desire to any man living. neverthelesse, she was inwardly offended, that any other should have the honour, to make her vaunt of enjoying _ocharus_; whom (indeed) she coveted, and thought him only worthy in her heart, to be son in law to the king of _denmarke_. now, as the mother was very seriously busied in preparing the castle, for receiving the pretended bride; shee employed her new mayde (_serictha_ i meane) as busily as any of the rest. in the meane while, _ocharus_ was laid upon a bed, well noting all her carriage and behaviour, shee having a lighted candle in her hand, without any candlesticke to hold it in. as all the servants (both men and maids) were running hastily from place to place, to cary such occasions as they were commanded, the candle was consumed so neere to _sericthaes_ fingers, that it burned hir hand. she, not to faile a jote in her height of mind, and to declare that her corage was invincible; was so farre off from casting away the small snuffe which offended her, that she rather graspt it the more strongly, even to the enflaming of her owne flesh, which gave light to the rest about their businesse. a matter (almost) as marvellous, as the acte of the noble _romane_, who gave his hand to be burned, in presence of the _tuscane_ king, that had besiedged _rome_. thus this lady would needs make it apparantly knowne, by this generous acte of hers, that her heart could not be enflamed or conquered, by all the fires of concupiscence, in suffering so stoutly and couragiously, the burning of this materiall fire. _ocharus_, who (as we have already saide) observed every thing that _serictha_ did; perceiving that she spake not one worde, albeit her hand burned in such fierce manner, was much astonished at her sprightly mind. and as he was about to advise her, to hurle away the fire so much offending her; curiositie (meerely naturall unto women) made the ladie lift uppe her eyes, to see (by stealth) whether her friend had noted her invincible constancy, or no. heereby _ocharus_ won the honour of his long expected victory; and leaping from off the bed, hee ranne to embrace her, not with any such feare as he had formerly used, in not daring so much as to touch her: but boldly now clasping his armes about her, he said. at this instant madam, the king your fathers decree is fully accomplished, for i am the first man that ever you lookt in the face, & you are onely mine, without making any longer resistance. you are the princely lady and wife, by me so constantly loved and desired, whom i have followed with such painefull travelse, exposing my life to infinite perils in your service: you have seene and lookt on him, who never craved any thing of you, but onely this favour, whereof you cannot bereave me againe, because the gods themselves, at such time as i least expected it, have bestowne it on me, as my deserved recompence, and worthy reward. in the delivery of these words, he kissed and embraced her a thousand times, shee not using any great resistance against him, but onely as somewhat offended with her selfe, either for being so rash in looking on him, or elsee for delaying his due merit so long; or rather, because with her good will shee had falne into the transgression. shee declared no violent or contending motion, as loath to continue so long in his armes; but rather, evident signes of hearty contentment, yet in very bashfull and modest manner, willing enough to accept his loving kindnesse, yet not wandring from her wonted chaste carriage. he being favourably excused, for the outward expression of his amourous behaviour to her, and certified withall, that since the time of freeing her from the wretch, who sought the violating of her chastity, shee had entirely respected him, (albeit, to shun suspition of lightnesse, and to win more assurance, of what shee credited sufficiently already, shee continued her stiffe opinion against him) yet alwayes this resolution was set downe in her soule, never (with her will) to have any other husband but _ocharus_, who (above all other) had best deserved her, by his generosity, vertue, manly courage, and valiancy; whereof he might the better assure himselfe, because (of her owne voluntary disposition) shee followed to find him out, not for any other occasion, but to revenge her selfe (by this honest office) for all that he had done or undertaken, to winne the grace and love of the king of _denmarkes_ daughter, to whom he presented such dutifull service. _ocharus_, who would not loose this happinesse, to be made king of all the northerne ilands, with more then a thankfull heart, accepted all her gracious excuses. and being desirous to waste no longer time in vaine, lest fortune should raise some new stratagem against him, to dispossesse him of so faire a felicity; left off his counterfeit intended marriage, and effected this in good earnest, and was wedded to his most esteemed _serictha_. not long had these lovers lived in the lawfull and sacred rites of marriage, but king _siwalde_ was advertised, that his daughter had given her consent to _ocharus_, and received him as her noble husband. the party was not a jot displeasing to him, hee thought him to be a worthy son in law, and the condition did sufficiently excuse the match; onely herein lay the error and offence, that the marriage was sollemnized without his knowledge and consent, he being not called thereto, or so much as acquainting him therewith, which made him condemne _ocharus_ of overbold arrogancy, he being such a great and powerfull king, to be so lightly respected by his subject, and especially in the marriage of his daughter. but _serictha_, who was now metamorphosed from a maide to a wife, and had lyen a few nights by the side of a soldiour, was become much more valiant and adventurous then she was before. she took the matter in hand, went to her father, who welcommed her most lovingly, and so pleasing were her speeches, carried with such wit and womanly discretion, that nothing wanted to approve what she had done. matters which he had never knowne, or so much as heard of, were now openly revealed, how _ocharus_ had delivered her from the ravisher, what worthie respect he then used towards her, and what honour he extended to her in the deserts, where she tended her flocke as a shephearddesse, with manie other honourable actions beside: that the kings anger became mildely qualified, and so farre he entred into affection, that he would not do any thing thence-forward, without the counsell and advise of his sonne in law, whom so highly he esteemed, and liked so respectively of him, and his race; that his queene dying, hee married with the sister to _ocharus_, going hand in band with the gentle and modest princesse _serictha_. this novell of _dioneus_, was commended by all the company, and so much the rather, because it was free from all folly and obscennesse. and the queene perceiving, that as the tale was ended, so her dignitie must now be expired: she tooke the crowne of laurell from off her head, & graciously placed it on the head of _philostratus_, saying; the worthy discourse of _dioneus_, being out of his wonted wanton element, causeth mee (at the resignation of mine authority) to make choise of him as our next commander, who is best able to order and enstruct us all; and so i yeeld both my place and honour to _philostratus_, i hope with the good liking of all our assistants: as plainly appeareth by their instant carriage towards him, with all their heartiest love and sufferages. whereupon _philostratus_, beginning to consider on the charge committed to his care, called the maister of the houshold, to knowe in what estate all matters were, because where any defect appeared, everie thing might be the sooner remedied, for the better satisfaction of the company, during the time of his authority. then returning backe to the assembly, thus he began. lovely ladies, i would have you to knowe, that since the time of ability in me, to distinguish betweene good and evill, i have alwayes bene subject (perhaps by the meanes of some beautie heere among us) to the proud and imperious dominion of love, with expression of all duty, humility, and most intimate desire to please: yet all hath prooved to no purpose, but still i have bin rejected for some other, whereby my condition hath falne from ill to worse, and so still it is likely, even to the houre of my death. in which respect, it best pleaseth me, that our conferences to morrow, shal extend to no other argument, but only such cases as are most conformable to my calamity, namely of such, whose love hath had unhappy ending, because i await no other issue of mine; nor willingly would i be called by any other name, but onely, the miserable and unfortunate lover. having thus spoken, he arose againe; granting leave to the rest, to recreate themselves till supper time. the garden was very faire and spacious, affoording large limits for their severall walkes; the sun being already so low descended, that it could not be offensive to anyone, the connies, kids, and young hindes skipping every where about them, to their no meane pleasure and contentment. _dioneus_ & _fiammetta_, sate singing together, of _messire guiglielmo_ and the lady of _vertue. philomena_ and _pamphilus_ playing at the chesse, all sporting themselves as best they pleased. but the houre of supper being come, and the tables covered about the faire fountaine, they sate downe and supt in most loving manner. then _philostratus_, not to swerve from the course which had beene observed by the queenes before him, so soone as the tables were taken away, gave command, that madam _lauretta_ should beginne the dance, and likewise to sing a song. my gracious lord (quoth shee) i can skill of no other songs, but onely a peece of mine owne, which i have already learned by heart, & may well beseeme this faire assembly: if you please to allow of that, i am ready to performe it with all obedience. lady, replyed the king, you your selfe being so faire and lovely, so needs must be whatsoever commeth from you, therefore let us heare such as you have. madam _lauretta_, giving enstruction to the chorus, prepared, and began in this manner. _the song. no soule so comfortlesse, hath more cause to expresse, like woe and heavinesse, as i poore amorous maide. he that did forme the heavens and every starre, made me as best him pleased, lovely and gracious, no element at jarre, or elsee in gentle breasts to moove sterne warre, but to have strifes appeased where beauties eye should make the deepest scarre. and yet when all things are confest, never was any soule distrest, like mine poore amorous maide. no soule so comfortlesse, &c. there was a time, when once i was helde deare, blest were those happy dayes: numberlesse love-suites whispred in mine eare, all of faire hope, but none of desperate feare; and all sung beauties praise. why should blacke clowdes obscure so bright a cleare? and why should others swimme in joy, and no heart drowned in annoy, like mine poore amorous maide? no soule so comfortlesse, &c. well may i curse that sad and dismall day, when in unkinde exchange; another beauty did my hopes betray, and stole my dearest love from me away: which i thought very strange, considering vowes were past, and what elsee may assure a loyall maidens trust, never was lover so unjust, like mine poore amorous maide. no soule so comfortlesse, &c. come then kinde death, and finish all my woes, thy helpe is now the best. come lovely nymphes, lend hands mine eyes to close, and let him wander wheresoere he goes, vaunting of mine unrest; beguiling others by his treacherous showes, grave on my monument, no true love was worse spent, then mine poore amorous maide. no soule so comfortlesse, &c._ so did madam _lauretta_ finish her song, which beeing well observed of them all, was understood by some in divers kinds: some alluding it one way, & others according to their own apprehensions, but all consenting, that both it was an excellent ditty, well devised, and most sweetly sung. afterward, lighted torches being brought, because the stars had already richly spangled all the heavens, and the fit houre of rest approaching: the king commanded them all to their chambers, where wee meane to leave them untill the next morning. _the end of the third day._ the fourth day. _wherein all the severall discourses, are under the government of honourable_ philostratus: _and concerning such persons, whose loves have had successelesse ending._ the induction unto the ensuing novelles. most worthy ladies, i have alwayes heard, as well by the sayings of the judicious, as also by mine owne observation and reading, that the impetuous and violent windes of envy, do sildome blow turbulently; but on the highest towers and tops of the trees most eminently advanced. yet (in mine opinion) i have found my selfe much deceived; because, by striving with my very uttermost endeavour, to shunne the outrage of those implacable winds; i have laboured to go, not onely by plaine and even pathes, but likewise through the deepest vallies. as very easily may be seene and observed in the reading of these few small novelse, which i have written not only in our vulgar _florentine_ prose, without any ambitious title: but also in a most humble stile, so low and gentle as possibly i could. and although i have bene rudely shaken, yea, almost halfe unrooted, by the extreame agitation of those blustering winds, and torne in peeces by that base back-biter, envy: yet have i not (for all that) discontinued, or broken any part of mine intended enterprize. wherefore, i can sufficiently witnesse (by mine owne comprehension) the saying so much observed by the wise, to bee most true; that nothing is without envy in this world, but misery onely. among variety of opinions, faire ladies; some, seeing these novelties, spared not to say; that i have bene over-pleasing to you, and wandered too farre from mine owne respect, imbasing my credit and repute, by delighting my selfe too curiously, for the fitting of your humours, and have extolled your worth too much, with addition of worse speeches then i meane to utter. others, seeming to expresse more maturity of judgment, have likewise said, that it was very unsuteable for my yeares, to meddle with womens wanton pleasures, or contend to delight you by the verie least of my labours. many more, making shew of affecting my good fame and esteeme, say; i had done much more wisely, to have kept mee with the muses at _parnassus_, then to confound my studies with such effeminate follies. some other beside, speaking more despightfully then discreetly, saide; i had declared more humanity, in seeking means for mine owne maintenance, and wherewith to support my continuall necessities, then to glut the worlde with gulleries, and feede my hopes with nothing but winde. and others, to calumniate my travailes, would make you beleeve, that such matters as i have spoken of, are meerly disguised by me, and figured in a quite contrary nature, quite from the course as they are related. whereby you may perceive (vertuous ladies) how while i labour in your service, i am agitated and molested with these blusterings, and bitten even to the bare bones, by the sharpe and venomous teeth of envy; all which (as heaven best knoweth) i gladly endure, and with good courage. now, albeit it belongeth onely to you, to defend me in this desperate extremity; yet, notwithstanding all their utmost malice, i will make no spare of my best abilities, and, without answering them any otherwise then is fitting, will quietly keepe their slanders from mine eares, with some sleight reply, yet not deserving to be dreamt on. for i apparantly perceive, that (having not already attained to the third part of my pains) they are growne to so great a number, and presume very farre uppon my patience: they may encrease, except they be repulsed in the beginning, to such an infinitie before i can reach to the end, as with their verie least paines taking, they will sinke me to the bottomlesse depth, if your sacred forces (which are great indeede) may not serve for me in their resistance. but before i come to answer any one of them, i will relate a tale in mine owne favour; yet not a whole tale, because it shall not appeare, that i purpose to mingle mine, among those which are to proceed from a company so commendable. onely i will report a parcell thereof, to the end, that what remaineth untold, may sufficiently expresse, it is not to be numbred among the rest to come. by way then of familiar discourse, and speaking to my malicious detractors, i say, that a long while since, there lived in our city, a citizen who was named _philippo balduccio_, a man but of meane condition, yet verie wealthy, well qualified, and expert in many things appertaining unto his calling. he had a wife whom he loved most intirely, as she did him, leading together a sweet and peaceable life, studying on nothing more, then how to please each other mutually. it came to passe, that as all flesh must, the good woman left this wretched life for a better, leaving one onely sonne to her husband, about the age of two yeares. the husband remained so disconsolate for the losse of his kinde wife, as no man possibly could be more sorrowfull, because he had lost the onely jewell of his joy. and being thus divided from the company which he most esteemed: he determined also to separate himselfe from the world, addicting al his endeavours to the service of god; and applying his yong sonne likewise, to the same holy exercises. having given away all his goods for gods sake, he departed to the mountaine _asinaio_, where he made him a small cell, and lived there with his little sonne, onely upon charitable almes, in abstinence and prayer, forbearing to speak of any worldly occasions, or letting the lad see any vaine sight: but conferred with him continually, on the glories of eternall life, of god and his saints, and teaching him nothing elsee but devout prayers, leading this kinde of life for many yeares together, not permitting him ever to goe forth of the cell, or shewing him any other but himselfe. the good old man used divers times to go to _florence_, where having received (according to his opportunities) the almes of divers well disposed people, he returned backe againe to his hermitage. it fortuned, that the boy being now about eighteene yeeres olde, and his father growne very aged; he demanded of him one day, whether hee went? wherein the old man truly resolved him: whereuppon, the youth thus spake unto him. father, you are now growne very aged, and hardly can endure such painfull travell: why do you not let me go to _florence_, that by making me knowne to your well disposed friends, such as are devoutly addicted both to god, and you; i, who am young, and better able to endure travaile then you are, may go thither to supply our necessities, and you take your ease in the mean while? the aged man, perceiving the great growth of his sonne, and thinking him to be so well instructed in gods service, as no wordly vanities could easily allure him from it; did not dislike the lads honest motion, but when he went next to _florence_, tooke him thither along with him. when he was there, and had seene the goodly palaces, houses, and churches, with all other sights to be seene in so populous a cittie: hee began greatly to wonder at them, as one that had never seene them before, at least within the compasse of his remembrance; demanding many things of his father, both what they were, and how they were named: wherein the old man still resolved him. the answers seemed to content him highly, and caused him to proceede on in further questionings, according still as they found fresh occasions: till at the last, they met with a troope of very beautifull women, going on in seemely manner together, as returning backe from a wedding. no sooner did the youth behold them, but he demanded of his father, what things they were; whereto the olde man replyed thus. sonne, cast downe thy lookes unto the ground, and do not seeme to see them at all, because they are bad things to behold. bad things father? answered the lad: how do you call them? the good olde man, not to quicken any concupiscible appetite in the young boy, or any inclinable desire to ought but goodnesse; would not terme them by their proper name of women, but tolde him that they were called young gozlings. heere grew a matter of no meane mervaile, that hee who had never seene any women before now; appeared not to respect the faire churches, palaces, goodly horses, golde, silver, or any thing elsee which he had seene; but, as fixing his affection onely upon this sight, sodainly said to the old man. good father, do so much for me, as to let me have one of these gozlings. alas sonne (replyed the father) holde thy peace i pray thee, and do not desire any such naughty things. then by way of demand, he thus proceeded, saying. father, are these naughty things made of themselves? yes sonne, answered the old man. i know not father (quoth the lad) what you meane by naughtinesse, nor why these goodly things should be so badly termed; but in my judgement, i have not seene any thing so faire and pleasing in mine eye, as these are, who excell those painted angelse, which heere in the churches you have shewn me. and therefore father, if either you love me, or have any care of me, let mee have one of these gozlings home to our cell, where we can make means sufficient for her feeding. i will not (said the father) be so much thine enemy, because neither thou, or i, can rightly skill of their feeding. perceiving presently, that nature had farre greater power then his sonnes capacity and understanding; which made him repent, for fondly bringing his sonne to _florence_. having gone so farre in this fragment of a tale, i am content to pause heere, and will returne againe to them of whom i spake before; i meane my envious depravers: such as have saide (faire ladies) that i am double blame-worthy, in seeking to please you, and that you are also over-pleasing to me; which freely i confesse before all the world, that you are singularly pleasing to me, and i have stroven how to please you effectually. i would demand of them (if they seeme so much amazed heereat,) considering, i never knew what belonged to true love kisses, amorous embraces, and their delectable fruition, so often received from your graces; but onely that i have seene, and do yet daily behold, your commendable conditions, admired beauties, noble adornments by nature, and (above all the rest) your womenly and honest conversation. if hee that was nourished, bred, and educated, on a savage solitary mountain, within the confines of a poore small cell, having no other company then his father: if such a one, i say, uppon the very first sight of your sexe, could so constantly confesse, that women were onely worthy of affection, and the object which (above all things elsee) he most desired; why should these contumelious spirits so murmure against me, teare my credite with their teeth, and wound my reputation to the death, because your vertues are pleasing to mee, and i endeavour likewise to please you with my utmost paines? never had the auspitious heavens allowed me life, but onely to love you; and from my very infancie, mine intentions have alwaies bene that way bent: feeling what vertue flowed from your faire eies, understanding the mellifluous accents of your speech, whereto the enkindled flames of your sighes gave no meane grace. but remembring especially, that nothing could so please an hermite, as your divine perfections, an unnurtured lad, without understanding, and little differing from a meere brutish beast: undoubtedly, whosoever loveth not women, and desireth to be affected of them againe; may well be ranked among these women-haters, speaking out of cankred spleene, and utterly ignorant of the sacred power (as also the vertue) of naturall affection, whereof they seeming so carelesse, the like am i of their depraving. concerning them that touch me with mine age; do not they know, that although leeks have white heads, yet the blades of them are alwaies greene? but referring them to their flouts and taunts, i answer, that i shal never hold it any disparagement to mee, so long as my life endureth, to delight my selfe with those exercises, which _guido cavalconti_, and _dante alighieri_, already aged, as also _messer cino de pistoia_, older then either of them both, held to be their chiefest honour. and were it not a wandering too farre from our present argument, i would alledge histories to approove my words, full of very ancient and famous men, who in the ripest maturity of all their time, were carefully studious for the contenting of women, albeit these cock-braines neither know the way how to do it, nor are so wise as to learne it. now, for my dwelling at _parnassus_ with the muses, i confesse their counsell to be very good: but wee cannot alwayes continue with them, nor they with us. and yet neverthelesse, when any man departeth from them, they delighting themselves, to see such things as may bee thought like them, do not therein deserve to be blamed. wee finde it recorded, that the muses were women, and albeit women cannot equall the performance of the muses; yet in their very prime aspect, they have a lively resemblance with the muses: so that, if women were pleasing for nothing elsee, yet they ought to be generally pleasing in that respect. beside all this, women have bin the occasion of my composing a thousand verses, whereas the muses never caused me to make so much as one. verie true it is, that they gave me good assistance, and taught me how i shold compose them, yea, and directed me in writing of these novelse. and how basely soever they judge of my studies, yet have the muses never scorned to dwell with me, perhaps for the respective service, and honourable resemblance of those ladies with themselves, whose vertues i have not spared to commend by them. wherefore, in the composition of these varieties, i have not strayed so farre from _parnassus_, nor the muses; as in their silly conjectures they imagine. but what shall i say to them, who take so great compassion on my povertie, as they advise me to get something, whereon to make my living? assuredly, i know not what to say in this case, except by due consideration made with my selfe, how they would answer mee, if necessitie should drive me to crave kindnesse of them; questionles, they would then say: goe, seeke comfort among thy fables and follies. yet i would have them know, that poore poets have alwayes found more among their fables & fictions; then many rich men ever could do, by ransacking all their bags of treasure. beside, many other might be spoken of, who made their age and times to flourish, meerely by their inventions and fables: whereas on the contrary, a great number of other busier braines, seeking to gaine more then would serve them to live on; have utterly runne uppon their owne ruine, and overthrowne themselves for ever. what should i say more? to such men, as are either so suspitious of their owne charitie, or of my necessity, whensoever it shall happen: i can answere (i thanke my god for it) with the apostle; i know how to abounde, & how to abate, yea, how to endure both prosperity and want; and therefore, let no man be more carefull of me, then i am of my selfe. for them that are so inquisitive into my discourses, to have a further construction of them, then agrees with my meaning, or their own good manners, taxing me with writing one thing, but intending another; i could wish, that their wisedom would extend so farre, as but to compare them with their originals, to finde them a jot discordant from my writing; and then i would freely confesse, that they had some reason to reprehend me, and i should endeavour to make them amends. but untill they can touch me with any thing elsee, but words onely; i must let them wander in their owne giddy opinions, and followe the course projected to my selfe, saying of them, as they do of me. thus holding them all sufficiently answered for this time, i say (most worthy ladies) that by heavens assistance and yours, whereto i onely leane: i will proceede on, armed with patience; and turning my backe against these impetuous windes, let them breath till they burst, because i see nothing can happen to harme me, but onely the venting of their malice. for the roughest blastes, do but raise the smallest dust from off the ground, driving it from one place to another; or, carrying it up to the aire, many times it falleth downe againe on mens heads, yea, upon the crownes of emperors and kings, and sometimes on the highest palaces and tops of towers; from whence, if it chance to descend again by contrarie blasts, it can light no lower, then whence it came at the first. and therefore, if ever i strove to please you with my uttermost abilities in any thing, surely i must now contend to expresse it more then ever. for, i know right well, that no man can say with reason, except some such as my selfe, who love and honour you, that we do any otherwise then as nature hath commanded us; and to resist her lawes, requires a greater and more powerfull strength then ours: and the contenders against her supreame priviledges, have either laboured meerely in vaine, or elsee incurred their owne bane. which strength, i freely confesse my selfe not to have, neither covet to be possessed of it in this case: but if i had it, i wold rather lend it to some other, then any way to use it on mine own behalfe. wherefore, i would advise them that thus checke and controule mee, to give over, and be silent; and if their cold humours cannot learne to love, let them live still in their frostie complexion, delighting themselves in their corrupted appetites: suffering me to enjoy mine owne, for the little while i have to live; and this is all the kindnesse i require of them. but now it is time (bright beauties) to returne whence we parted, and to follow our former order begun, because it may seeme we have wandered too farre. by this time the sun had chased the starre-light from the heavens, and the shadie moisture from the ground, when _philostratus_ the king being risen, all the company arose likewise. when being come into the goodly garden, they spent the time in varietie of sports, dining where they had supt the night before. and after that the sun was at his highest, and they had refreshed their spirits with a little slumbering, they sate downe (according to custome) about the faire fountaine. and then the king commanded madam _fiammetta_, that she should give beginning to the dayes novelse: when she, without any longer delaying, began in this gracious manner. tancrede, _prince of_ salerne, _caused the amorous friend of his daughter to be slaine, and sent her his heart in a cup of gold: which afterward she steeped in an impoysoned water, and then drinking it so dyed._ the first novell. _wherein is declared the power of love, and their cruelty justly reprehended, who imagine to make the vigour thereof cease, by abusing or killing one of the lovers._ our king (most noble and vertuous ladies) hath this day given us a subject, very rough and stearne to discourse on, and so much the rather, if we consider, that we are come hither to be merry & pleasant, where sad tragicall reports are no way suteable, especially, by reviving the teares of others, to bedew our owne cheekes withall. nor can any such argument be spoken of, without moving compassion both in the reporters, and hearers. but (perhaps) it was his highnesse pleasure, to moderate the delights which we have already had. or whatsoever elsee hath provoked him thereto, seeing it is not lawfull for mee, to alter or contradict his appointment; i will recount an accident very pittiful, or rather most unfortunate, and well worthy to bee graced with our teares. _tancrede_, prince of _salerne_ (which city, before the consulles of _rome_ held dominion in that part of _italy_, stoode free, and thence (perchance) tooke the moderne title of a principality) was a very humane lord, and of ingenious nature; if, in his elder yeares, he had not soiled his hands in the blood of lovers, especially one of them, being both neere and deere unto him. so it fortuned, that during the whole life time of this prince, he had but one onely daughter (albeit it had bene much better, if he had had none at all) whom he so choisely loved and esteemed, as never was any childe more deerely affected of a father: and so farre extended his over-curious respect of her, as he would sildome admit her to be foorth of his sight; neither would he suffer her to marry, although she had outstept (by divers yeares) the age meete for marriage. neverthelesse, at length, he matched her with the sonne to the duke of _capua_, who lived no long while with her; but left her in a widdowed estate, and then shee returned home to her father againe. this lady, had all the most absolute perfections, both of favour and feature, as could be wished in any woman, yong, queintly disposed, and of admirable understanding, more (perhappes) then was requisite in so weake a bodie. continuing thus in court with the king her father, who loved her beyond all his future hopes; like a lady of great and glorious magnificence, she lived in all delights & pleasure. she well perceiving, that her father thus exceeding in his affection to her, had no mind at all of re-marrying her, and holding it most immodest in her, to solicite him with any such suite: concluded in her mindes private consultations, to make choise of some one especiall friend or favourite (if fortune would prove so furtherous to her) whom she might acquaint secretly, with her sober, honest, and familiar purposes. her fathers court beeing much frequented, with plentifull accesse of brave gentlemen, and others of inferiour quality, as commonly the courts of kings & princes are, whose carriage and demeanour she very heedfully observed. there was a yong gentleman among all the rest, a servant to her father, and named _guiscardo_, a man not derived from any great descent by bloode, yet much more noble by vertue and commendable behaviour, then appeared in any of the other, none pleased her opinion, like as he did; so that by often noting his parts and perfections, her affection being but a glowing sparke at the first, grewe like a bavin to take flame, yet kept so closely as possibly she could; as ladies are warie enough in their love. the yong gentleman, though poore, being neither blocke nor dullard, perceived what he made no outward shew of, and understood himselfe so sufficiently, that holding it no meane happinesse to bee affected by her, he thought it very base and cowardly in him, if he should not expresse the like to her againe. so loving mutually (yet secretly) in this manner, and shee coveting nothing more, then to have private conference with him, yet not daring to trust anyone with so important a matter; at length she devised a new cunning stratageme, to compasse her longing desire, and acquaint him with her private purpose, which proved to bee in this manner. shee wrote a letter, concerning what was the next day to be done, for their secret meeting together; and conveying it within the joynt of an hollow cane, in jesting manner threw it to _guiscardo_, saying; let your man make use of this, insted of a paire of bellowes, when he meaneth to make fire in your chamber. _guiscardo_ taking up the cane, and considering with himselfe, that neither was it given, or the wordes thus spoken, but doubtlesse on some important occasion: went unto his lodging with the cane, where viewing it respectively, he found it to be cleft, and opening it with his knife, found there the written letter enclosed. after he had reade it, and well considered on the service therein concerned; he was the most joyfull man of the world, and began to contrive his aptest meanes, for meeting with his gracious mistresse, and according as she had given him direction. in a corner of the kings palace, it being seated on a rising hill, a cave had long beene made in the body of the same hill, which received no light into it, but by a small spiracle or vent-loope, made out ingeniously on the hills side. and because it hadde not in long time bene frequented, by the accesse of any body, that vent-light was over-growne with briars and bushes, which almost engirt it round about. no one could descend into this cave or vault, but only by a secret paire of staires, answering to a lower chamber of the palace, and very neere to the princesses lodging, as beeing altogether at her command, by meanes of a strong barred and defensible doore, whereby to mount or descend at her pleasure. and both the cave it selfe, as also the degrees conducting downe into it, were now so quite worne out of memory (in regard it had not bene visited by any one in long time before) as no man remembred that there was any such thing. but love, from whose bright discerning eies, nothing can be so closely concealed, but at the length it commeth to light: had made this amorous lady mindefull thereof, and because she would not bee discovered in her intention, many dayes together, her soule became perplexed; by what meanes that strong doore might best be opened, before shee could compasse to performe it. but after that she had found out the way, and gone downe her selfe alone into the cave; observing the loope-light, & had made it commodious for her purpose, shee gave knowledge thereof to _guiscardo_, to have him devise an apt course for his descent, acquainting him truly with the height, and how farre it was distant from the ground within. after he had found the souspirall in the hills side, and given it a larger entrance for his safer passage; he provided a ladder of cords, with steppes sufficient for his descending and ascending, as also a wearing sute made of leather, to keepe his skinne unscratched of the thornes, and to avoide all suspition of his resorting thither. in this manner went he to the saide loope-hole the night following, and having fastened the one end of his corded ladder, to the strong stumpe of a tree being closely by it; by meanes of the saide ladder, he descended downe into the cave, and there attended the comming of his lady. she, on the morrow morning, pretending to her waiting woman, that she was scarsly well, and therefore would not be diseased the most part of that day; commanded them to leave her alone in her chamber, and not to returne untill she called for them, locking the doore her selfe for better security. then opened she the doore of the cave, and going downe the staires, found there her amorous friend _guiscardo_, whom she saluting with a chaste and modest kisse; caused him to ascend up the stayres with her into her chamber. this long desired, and now obtained meeting, caused the two deerely affecting lovers, in kinde discourse of amorous argument (without incivill or rude demeanour) to spend there the most part of that day, to their hearts joy and mutuall contentment. and having concluded on their often meeting there, in this cunning & concealed sort; _guiscardo_ went downe into the cave againe, the princesse making the doore fast after him, and then went forth among her women. so in the night season, _guiscardo_ ascended uppe againe by his ladder of cords, and covering the loope-hole with brambles and bushes, returned (unseene of any) to his owne lodging: the cave being afterward guilty of their often meeting there in this manner. but fortune, who hath alwayes bin a fatall enemy to lovers stolne felicities, became envious of their thus secret meeting, and overthrew (in an instant) all their poore happinesse, by an accident most spightfull and malicious. the king had used divers dayes before, after dinner time, to resort all alone to his daughters chamber, there conversing with her in most loving manner. one unhappy day amongst the rest, when the princesse, being named _ghismonda_, was sporting in her privat garden among her ladies, the king (at his wonted time) went to his daughters chamber, being neither heard or seene by any. nor would he have his daughter called from her pleasure, but finding the windowes fast shut, and the curtaines close drawne about the bed; he sate downe in a chaire behind it, and leaning his head upon the bed; his body being covered with the curtaine, as if he hid himselfe purposely; hee mused on so many matters, untill at last he fell fast asleepe. it hath bin observed as an ancient adage, that when disasters are ordained to any one, commonly they prove to be inevitable, as poore _ghismonda_ could witnesse too well. for, while the king thus slept, shee having (unluckily) appointed another meeting with _guiscardo_, left hir gentlewomen in the garden, and stealing softly into her chamber, having made all fast and sure, for being descried by any person: opened the doore to _guiscardo_, who stood there ready on the staire-head, awaiting his entrance; and they sitting downe on the bed side (according as they were wont to do) began their usuall kinde conference againe, with sighes and loving kisses mingled among them. it chanced that the king awaked, & both hearing and seeing this familiarity of _guiscardo_ with his daughter, he became extreamly confounded with greefe thereat. once he intended, to cry out for helpe, to have them both there apprehended; but he helde it a part of greater wisedome, to sit silent still, and (if hee could) to keepe himselfe so closely concealed: to the end, that he might the more secretly, and with far less disgrace to himselfe, performe what hee had rashly intended to do. the poore discovered lovers, having ended their amorous interparlance, without suspition of the kings being so neer in person, or any else, to betray their over-confident trust; _guiscardo_ descended againe into the cave, and she leaving the chamber, returned to her women in the garden; all which _tancrede_ too well observed, and in a rapture of fury, departed (unseene) into his owne lodging. the same night, about the houre of mens first sleepe, and according as he had given order; _guiscardo_ was apprehended, even as he was comming forth of the loope-hole, & in his homely leather habite. very closely was he brought before the king, whose heart was swolne so great with greefe, as hardly was hee able to speake: notwithstanding, at the last he began thus. _guiscardo_, the love & respect i have used towards thee, hath not deserved the shameful wrong which thou hast requited me withall, and as i have seene with mine owne eyes this day. whereto _guiscardo_ could answer nothing elsee, but onely this: alas my lord! love is able to do much more, then either you, or i. whereupon, _tancrede_ commanded, that he should bee secretly well guarded, in a neere adjoining chamber, and on the next day, _ghismonda_ having (as yet) heard nothing heereof, the kings braine being infinitely busied and troubled, after dinner, and as he often had used to do: he went to his daughters chamber, where calling for her, and shutting the doores closely to them, the teares trickling downe his aged white beard, thus he spake to her. _ghismonda_, i was once grounded in a setled perswasion, that i truely knew thy vertue, and honest integrity of life; and this beleefe could never have bene altred in mee, by any sinister reports whatsoever, had not mine eyes seene, and mine eares heard the contrary. nor did i so much as conceive a thought either of thine affection, or private conversing with any man, but onely he that was to be thy husband. but now, i my selfe being able to avouch thy folly, imagine what an heart-breake this will be to me, so long as life remaineth in this poore, weak, and aged body. yet, if needs thou must have yeelded to this wanton weakenesse, i would thou hadst made choise of a man, answerable to thy birth & nobility: whereas on the contrary, among so many worthy spirits as resort to my court, thou likest best to converse with that silly yong man _guiscardo_, one of very meane and base descent, and by mee (even for gods sake) from his very youngest yeares, brought uppe to this instant in my court; wherein thou hast given me much affliction of minde, and so overthrowne my senses, as i cannot wel imagine how i should deale with thee. for him, whom i have this night caused to be surprized, even as he came forth of your close contrived conveyance, and detaine as my prisoner, i have resolved how to proceed with him: but concerning thy selfe, mine oppressions are so many and violent, as i know not what to say of thee. one way, thou hast meerly murthered the unfeigned affection i bare thee, as never any father could expresse more to his child: and then againe, thou hast kindled a most just indignation in me, by thine immodest and wilfull folly, and whereas nature pleadeth pardon for the one, yet justice standeth up against the other, and urgeth cruell severity against thee: neverthelesse, before i will determine upon any resolution, i come purposely first to heare thee speake, and what thou canst say for thy selfe, in a bad case, so desperate and dangerous. having thus spoken, he hung downe the head in his bosome, weeping as abundantly, as if it had beene a childe severely disciplinde. on the other side, _ghismonda_ hearing the speeches of her father, and perceiving withall, that not onely her secret love was discovered, but also _guiscardo_ was in close prison, the matter which most of all did torment her; shee fell into a very strange kinde of extasie, scorning teares, and entreating tearmes, such as feminine frailety are alwayes aptest unto: but rather, with height of courage, controling feare or servile basenesse, and declaring invincible fortitude in her very lookes, shee concluded with her selfe, rather then to urge any humble perswasions, shee would lay her life downe at the stake. for plainely shee perceived, that _guiscardo_ already was a dead man in law, and death was likewise as welcome to her, rather then the deprivation of her love; and therefore, not like a weeping woman, or as checkt by the offence committed, but carelesse of any harme happening to her: stoutly and couragiously, not a teare appearing in her eye, or her soule any way to be perturbed, thus shee spake to her father. _tancrede_, to denie what i have done, or to entreate any favour from you, is now no part of my disposition: for as the one can little availe me, so shall not the other any way advantage me. moreover, i covet not, that you should extend any clemency or kindnesse to me, but by my voluntary confession of the truth; doe intend (first of all) to defend mine honour, with reasons sound, good, and substantiall, and then vertuously pursue to full effect, the greatnesse of my minde and constant resolution. true it is, that i have loved, and still doe, honourable _guiscardo_, purposing the like so long as i shall live, which will be but a small while: but if it bee possible to continue the same affection after death, it is for ever vowed to him onely. nor did mine owne womanish weaknesse so much thereto induce me, as the matchlesse vertues shining cleerely in _guiscardo_, and the little respect you had of marrying me againe. why royall father, you cannot be ignorant, that you being composed of flesh and blood, have begotten a daughter of the selfe same composition, and not made of stone or yron. moreover, you ought to remember (although now you are farre stept in yeeres) what the lawes of youth are, and with what difficulty they are to be contradicted. considering withall, that albeit (during the vigour of your best time) you evermore were exercised in armes; yet you should likewise understand, that negligence and idle delights, have mighty power, not onely in yong people, but also in them of greatest yeeres. i being then made of flesh and blood, and so derived from your selfe; having had also so little benefit of life, that i am yet in the spring, and blooming time of my blood: by either of these reasons, i must needs be subject to naturall desires, wherein such knowledge as i have once already had, in the estate of my marriage, perhaps might move a further intelligence of the like delights, according to the better ability of strength, which exceeding all capacity of resistance, induced a second motive to affection, answerable to my time and youthful desires, and so (like a yong woman) i became amorous againe; yet did i strive, even with all my utmost might, and best vertuous faculties abiding in me, no way to disgrace either you or my selfe, as (in equall censure) yet i have not done. but nature is above all humane power, and love, commanded by nature, hath prevailed for love, joyning with fortune: in meere pity and commiseration of my extreme wrong, i found them both most benigne and gracious, teaching me a way secret enough, whereby i might reach the height of my desires, howsoever you became instructed, or (perhaps) found it out by accident; so it was, and i denie it not. nor did i make election of _guiscardo_ by chance, or rashly, as many women doe, but by deliberate counsell in my soule, and most mature advise; i chose him above all other, and having his honest harmelesse conversation, mutually we enjoyed our hearts contentment. now it appeareth, that i having not offended but by love; in imitation of vulgar opinion, rather then truth: you seeke to reprove me bitterly, alleaging no other maine argument for your anger, but onely my not choosing a gentleman, or one more worthy. wherein it is most evident, that you doe not so much checke my fault, as the ordination of fortune; who many times advanceth men of meanest esteeme, and abaseth them of greater merit. but leaving this discourse, let us looke into the originall of things, wherein wee are first to observe, that from one masse or lumpe of flesh, both we, and all other received our flesh, and one creator hath created all things; yea, all creatures, equally in their forces and faculties, and equall likewise in their vertue: which vertue was the first that made distinction of our birth and equality, in regard, that such as had the most liberall portion thereof, and performed actions thereto answerable, were thereby termed noble, all the rest remaining unnoble: now although contrary use did afterward hide and conceale this law, yet was it not therefore banished from nature or good manners. in which respect, whosoever did execute all his actions by vertue, declared himselfe openly to be noble; and he that tearmed him otherwise, it was an error in the miscaller, and not in the person so wrongfully called; as the very same priviledge is yet in full force among us at this day. cast an heedfull eye then (good father) upon all your gentlemen, and advisedly examine their vertues, conditions and manner of behaviour. on the other side, observe those parts remaining in _guiscardo_: and then, if you will judge truly, and without affection, you will confesse him to be most noble, and that all your gentlemen (in respect of him) are but base groomes and villaines. his vertues and excelling perfections, i never credited from the report or judgement of any person; but onely by your speeches, and mine owne eyes as true witnesses. who did ever more commend _guiscardo_, extolling all those singularities in him, most requisite to be in an honest vertuous man; then you your selfe have done? nor neede you to be sorry, or ashamed of your good opinion concerning him; for, if mine eyes have not deceived my judgement, you never gave him the least part of praise, but i have knowne much more in him, then ever your words were able to expresse: wherefore, if i have beene any way deceived, truly the deceit proceeded onely from you. how will you then maintaine, that i have throwne my liking on a man of base condition? in troth (sir) you cannot. perhaps you will alleadge, that he is meane and poore; i confesse it, and surely it is to your shame, that you have not bestowne place of more preferment, on a man so honest and well deserving, and having beene so long a time your servant. neverthelesse, poverty impaireth not any part of noble nature, but wealth hurries it into horrible confusions. many kings and great princes have heretofore beene poore, when divers of them that have delved into the earth, and kept flockes in the feld, have beene advanced to riches, and exceeded the other in wealth. now, as concerning your last doubt, which most of all afflicteth you, namely, how you shall deale with me; boldly rid your braine of any such disturbance, for if you have resolved now in your extremity of yeeres, to doe that which your younger dayes evermore despised, i meane, to become cruell; use your utmost cruelty against me, for i will never entreate you to the contrary, because i am the sole occasion of this offence, if it doe deserve the name of an offence. and this i dare assure you, that if you deale not with me, as you have done already, or intend to _guiscardo_, mine owne hands shall act as much: and therefore give over your teares to women, and if you purpose to be cruel, let him and me in death drinke both of one cup, at least, if you imagine that we have deserved it. the king knew well enough the high spirit of his daughter, but yet (neverthelesse) he did not beleeve, that her words would prove actions, or shee doe as shee saide. and therefore parting from her, and without intent of using any cruelty to her; concluded, by quenching the heate of another, to coole the fiery rage of her distemper, commanding two of his followers (who had the custody of _guiscardo_) that without any rumour or noyse at all, they should strangle him the night ensuing, and taking the heart forth of his body, to bring it to him, which they performed according to their charge. on the next day, the king called for a goodly standing cup of gold, wherein he put the heart of _guiscardo_, sending it by one of his most familiar servants to his daughter, with command also to use these words to her. thy father hath sent thee this present, to comfort thee with that thing which most of all thou affectest, even as thou hast comforted him with that which he most hated. _ghismonda_, nothing altered from her cruell deliberation, after her father was departed from her, caused certaine poysonous rootes & hearbs to be brought her, which shee (by distillation) made a water of, to drinke suddenly, whensoever any crosse accident should come from her father; whereupon, when the messenger from her father had delivered her the present, and uttered the words as he was commanded: shee tooke the cup, and looking into it with a setled countenance, by sight of the heart, and effect of the message, shee knew certainely, that it was the heart of _guiscardo_; then looking stearnely on the servant, thus she spake unto him. my honest friend, it is no more then right and justice, that so worthy a heart as this is, should have any worser grave then gold, wherein my father hath dealt most wisely. so, lifting the heart up to her mouth; and sweetly kissing it, shee proceeded thus. in all things, even till this instant, (being the utmost period of my life) i have evermore found my fathers love most effectuall to me; but now it appeareth farre greater, then at any time heretofore: and therefore from my mouth, thou must deliver him the latest thankes that ever i shall give him, for sending me such an honourable present. these words being ended, holding the cup fast in her hand, and looking seriously upon the heart, shee began againe in this manner. thou sweete entertainer of all my dearest delights, accursed be his cruelty, that causeth me thus to see thee with my corporall eyes, it being sufficient enough for me, alwayes to behold thee with the sight of my soule. thou hast runne thy race, and as fortune ordained, so are thy dayes finished: for as all flesh hath an ending; so hast thou concluded, albeit too soone, and before thy due time. the travailes and miseries of this world, have now no more to meddle with thee, and thy very heaviest enemy, hath bestowed such a grave on thee, as thy greatnesse in vertue worthily deserveth; now nothing elsee is wanting, wherewith to beautifie thy funerall, but onely her sighes & teares, that was so deare unto thee in thy life time. and because thou mightest the more freely enjoy them, see how my mercilesse father (on his owne meere motion) hath sent thee to me; and truly i will bestow them frankly on thee, though once i had resolved, to die with drie eyes, and not shedding one teare, dreadlesse of their utmost malice towards me. and when i have given thee the due oblation of my teares, my soule, which sometime thou hast kept most carefully, shall come to make a sweete conjunction with thine: for in what company elsee can i travaile more contentedly, and to those unfrequented silent shades, but onely in thine? as yet i am sure it is present here, in this cup sent me by my father, as having a provident respect to the place, for possession of our equall and mutuall pleasures; because thy soule affecting mine so truely, cannot walke alone, without his deare companion. having thus finished her complaint, even as if her head had been converted into a well-spring of water, so did teares abundantly flow from her faire eyes, kissing the heart of _guiscardo_ infinite times. all which while, her women standing by her, neither knew what heart it was, nor to what effect her speeches tended: but being moved to compassionate teares, they often demanded (albeit in vaine) the occasion of her sad complaining, comforting her to their utmost power. when shee was not able to weepe any longer, wiping her eyes, and lifting up her head, without any signe of the least dismay, thus shee spake to the heart. deare heart, all my duty is performed to thee, and nothing now remaineth uneffected; but onely breathing my last, to let my ghost accompany thine. then calling for the glasse of water, which shee had readily prepared the day before, and powring it upon the heart lying in the cup, couragiously advancing it to her mouth, shee dranke it up every drop; which being done, shee lay downe upon her bed, holding her lovers heart fast in her hand, and laying it so neere to her owne as she could. now although her women knew not what water it was, yet when they had seene her to quaffe it off in that manner, they sent word to the king, who much suspecting what had happened, went in all haste to his daughters chamber, entring at the very instant, when shee was laide upon her bed; beholding her in such passionate pangs, with teares streaming downe his reverend beard, he used many kinde words to comfort her, when boldly thus shee spake unto him. father (quoth she) well may you spare these teares, because they are unfitting for you, and not any way desired by me; who but your selfe, hath seene any man to mourne for his owne wilfull offence. neverthelesse, if but the least jot of that love doe yet abide in you, whereof you have made such liberall profession to me; let me obtaine this my very last request, to wit, that seeing i might not privately enjoy the benefit of _guiscardoes_ love, and while he lived; let yet (in death) one publike grave containe both our bodies, that death may affoord us, what you so cruelly in life denied us. extremity of griefe and sorrow, with-held his tongue from returning any answer, and shee perceiving her end approaching, held the heart still closed to her owne bare brest, saying; here fortune, receive two true hearts latest oblation, for, in this manner are we comming to thee. so closing her eyes, all sense forsooke her, life leaving her body breathlesse. thus ended the haplesse love of _guiscardo_, and _ghismonda_, for whose sad disaster, when the king had mourned sufficiently, and repented fruitlessly; he caused both their bodies to be honourably embalmed, and buried in a most royall monument, not without generall sorrow of the subjects of _salerne_. _fryar_ albert _made a young venetian gentlewoman beleeve, that god_ cupid _was falne in love with her, and he resorted oftentimes unto her, in the disguise of the same god. afterward, being frighted by the gentlewomans kindred and friends, he cast himselfe out of her chamber window, and was hidden in a poore mans house; on the day following, in the shape of a wilde or savage man, he was brought upon the rialto of saint_ marke, _and being there publikely knowne by the brethren of his order; he was committed to prison._ the second novell. _reprehending the lewd lives of dissembling hypocrites; and checking the arrogant pride of vaine-headed women._ the novell recounted by madam _fiammetta_, caused teares many times in the eyes of all the company; but it being finished, the king shewing a stearne countenance, saide; i should much have commended the kindnesse of fortune, if in the whole course of my life, i had tasted the least moity of that delight, which _guiscardo_ received by conversing with faire _ghismonda_. nor neede any of you to wonder thereat, or how it can be otherwise, because hourely i feele a thousand dying torments, without enjoying any hope of ease or pleasure: but referring my fortunes to their owne poore condition, it is my will, that madam _pampinea_ proceed next in the argument of successelesse love, according as madam _fiammetta_ hath already begun, to let fall more dew-drops on the fire of mine afflictions. madam _pampinea_ perceiving what a taske was imposed on her, knew well (by her owne disposition) the inclination of the company, whereof shee was more respective, then of the kings command: wherefore, chusing rather to recreate their spirits, then to satisfie the kings melancholy humour; shee determined to relate a tale of mirthfull matter, and yet to keepe within compasse of the purposed argument. it hath been continually used as a common proverbe; that a bad man, taken and reputed to be honest and good, may commit many evils, yet neither credited, or suspected: which proverbe giveth mee very ample matter to speake of, and yet not varying from our intention, concerning the hypocrisie of some religious persons, who having their garments long and large, their faces made artificially pale, their language meeke and humble, to get mens goods from them; yet sower, harsh, and stearne enough, in checking and controuling other mens errors, as also in urging others to give, and themselves to take, without any other hope or meanes of salvation. nor doe they endeavour like other men, to worke out their soules health with feare and trembling; but, even as if they were sole owners, lords, and possessors of paradice, will appoint to every dying person, places (there) of greater or lesser excellency, according as they thinke good, or as the legacies left by them are in quantity, whereby they not onely deceive themselves, but all such as give credit to their subtile perswasions. and were it lawfull for me, to make knowne no more then is meerely necessary; i could quickly disclose to simple credulous people, what craft lieth concealed under their holy habites: and i would wish, that their lies and deluding should speed with them, as they did with a _franciscane_ friar, none of the younger novices, but one of them of greatest reputation, and belonging to one of the best monasteries in _venice_. which i am the rather desirous to report, to recreate your spirits, after your teares for the death of faire _ghismonda_. sometime (honourable ladies) there lived in the city of _imola_, a man of most lewd and wicked life; named, _bertho de la massa_, whose shamelesse deedes were so well knowne to all the citizens, and won such respect among them; as all his lies could not compasse any beleefe, no, not when he delivered a matter of sound truth. wherefore, perceiving that his lewdnesse allowed him no longer dwelling there; like a desperate adventurer, he transported himselfe thence to _venice_, the receptacle of all foule sinne and abhomination, intending there to exercise his wonted bad behaviour, and live as wickedly as ever he had done before. it came to passe, that some remorse of conscience tooke hold of him, for the former passages of his dissolute life, and he pretended to be surprized with very great devotion, becomming much more catholike then any other man, taking on him the profession of a _franciscane cordelier_, and calling himselfe fryar _albert_ of _imola_. in this habite and outward appearance, hee seemed to leade an austere and sanctimonious life, highly commending penance & abstinence, never eating flesh, or drinking wine, but when hee was provided of both in a close corner. and before any person could take notice thereof, hee became (of a theefe) ruffian, forswearer and murtherer, as formerly he had beene a great preacher; yet not abandoning the forenamed vices, when secretly he could put any of them in execution. moreover, being made priest, when he was celebrating masse at the altar, if he saw himselfe to be observed by any; he would most mournefully reade the passion of our saviour, as one whose teares cost him little, whensoever hee pleased to use them: so that, in a short while, by his preaching and teares, he fed the humours of the _venetians_ so pleasingly; that they made him executour (well neere) of all their testaments, yea, many chose him as depositary or guardion of their monies; because he was both confessour and councellor, almost to all the men and women. by this well seeming out-side of sanctity, the wolfe became a shepheard, and his renown for holinesse was so famous in those parts, as saint _frances_ himselfe had hardly any more. it fortuned, that a young gentlewoman, being somewhat foolish, wanton and proud minded, named madam _lisetta de caquirino_, wife to a wealthy merchant, who went with certaine gallies into _flanders_, and there lay as lieger long time, in company of other gentlewomen, went to be confessed by this ghostly father; kneeling at his feete, although her heart was high enough, like a proud minded woman, (for _venetians_ are presumptuous, vaine-glorious, and witted much like to their skittish gondoloes) she made a very short rehearsall of her sinnes. at length fryar _albert_ demanded of her, whether shee had any amorous friend or lover? her patience being exceedingly provoked, stearne anger appeared in her lookes, which caused her to returne him this answer. how now sir _domine_? what? have you no eyes in your head? can you not distinguish between mine, and these other common beauties? i could have lovers enow, if i were so pleased; but those perfections remaining in me, are not to be affected by this man, or that. how many beauties have you beheld, any way answerable to mine, and are more fit for gods, then mortals. many other idle speeches shee uttered, in proud opinion of her beauty, whereby friar _albert_ presently perceived, that this gentlewoman had but a hollow braine, and was fit game for folly to flye at; which made him instantly enamoured of her, and that beyond all capacity of resisting, which yet he referred to a further, and more commodious time. neverthelesse, to shew himselfe an holy and religious man now, he began to reprehend her, and told her plainely, that she was vain-glorious, and overcome with infinite follies. hereupon, she called him a logger headed beast, and he knew not the difference between an ordinary complexion, and beauty of the highest merit. in which respect, friar _albert_, being loth to offend her any further; after confession was fully ended, let her passe away among the other gentlewomen, she giving him divers disdainfull lookes. within some few dayes after, taking one of his trusty brethren in his company, he went to the house of madam _lisetta_, where requiring to have some conference alone with her selfe; shee tooke him into a private parlour, and being there, not to be seene by any body, he fell on his knees before her, speaking in this manner. madam, for charities sake, and in regard of your own most gracious nature, i beseech you to pardon those harsh speeches, which i used to you the other day, when you were with me at confession: because, the very night ensuing thereon, i was chastised in such cruell manner, as i was never able to stirre forth of my bed, untill this very instant morning; whereto the weake witted gentlewoman thus replyed. and who i pray you (quoth she) did chastise you so severely? i will tell you madam, said friar _albert_, but it is a matter of admirable secrecie. being alone by my selfe the same night in my dorter, and in very serious devotion, according to my usuall manner: suddenly i saw a bright splendour about me, and i could no sooner arise to discerne what it might be, and whence it came, but i espied a very goodly young lad standing by me, holding a golden bow in his hand, and a rich quiver of arrowes hanging at his back. catching fast hold on my hood, against the ground he threw me rudely, trampling on me with his feete, and beating me with so many cruell blowes, that i thought my body to be broken in peeces. then i desired to know, why he was so rigorous to me in his correction? because (quoth he) thou didst so saucily presume this day, to reprove the celestiall beauty of madam _lisetta_, who (next to my mother _venus_) i love most dearely. whereupon i perceived, he was the great commanding god _cupid_, and therefore i craved most humbly pardon of him. i will pardon thee (quoth he) but upon this condition, that thou goe to her so soone as conveniently thou canst, and (by lowly humility) prevaile to obtaine her free pardon: which if she will not vouchsafe to grant thee, then shall i in stearne anger returne againe, and lay so many torturing afflictions on thee, that all thy whole life time shall be most hateful to thee. and what the displeased god saide elsee beside, i dare not disclose, except you please first to pardon me. mistresse shallow braine, being swolne big with this wind, like an empty bladder; conceived no small pride in hearing these words, constantly crediting them to be true, and therefore thus answered. did i not tel you father _albert_, that my beauty was celestiall? but i sweare by my beauty, notwithstanding your idle passed arrogancy, i am heartily sorry for your so severe correction; which that it may no more be inflicted on you, i doe freely pardon you; yet with this _proviso_, that you tell me, what the god elsee saide unto you; whereto fryar _albert_ thus replyed. madam, seeing you have so graciously vouchsafed to pardon me, i will thankfully tell you all: but you must be very carefull and respective, that whatsoever i shall reveale unto you, must so closely be concealed, as no living creature in the world may know it; for you are the onely happy lady now living, and that happinesse relieth on your silence and secrecie: with solemne vowes and protestations shee sealed up her many promises, and then the fryar thus proceeded. madam, the further charge imposed on me by god _cupid_, was to tell you, that himselfe is so extremely enamoured of your beauty, and you are become so gracious in his affection; as, many nights he hath come to see you in your chamber, sitting on your pillow, while you slept sweetly, and desiring very often to awake you, but onely fearing to affright you. wherefore, now he sends you word by me, that one night he intendeth to come visite you, and to spend some time in conversing with you. but in regard he is a god, and meerely a spirit in forme, whereby neither you or any elsee have capacity of beholding him, much lesse to touch or feele him: he saith, that (for your sake) he will come in the shape of a man, giving me charge also to know of you, when you shall please to have him come, and in whose similitude you would have him to come, whereof he will not faile; in which respect, you may justly thinke your selfe to be the onely happy woman living, and farre beyond all other in your good fortune. mistris want-wit presently answered, shee was well contented, that god _cupid_ should love her, and she would returne the like love againe to him; protesting withall, that wheresoever shee should see his majesticall picture, she would set a hallowed burning taper before it. moreover, at all times he should be most welcome to her, whensoever hee would vouchsafe to visite her; for, he should alwayes finde her alone in her private chamber: on this condition, that his olde love _psyches_, and all other beauties elsee whatsoever, must be set aside, and none but her selfe only to be his best mistresse, referring his personall forme of appearance, to what shape himselfe best pleased to assume, so that it might not be frightfull, or offensive to her. madam (quoth friar _albert_) most wisely have you answered, & leave the matter to me; for i will take order sufficiently, and to your contentment. but you may do me a great grace, and without any prejudice to your selfe, in granting me one poore request; namely, to vouchsafe the gods appearance to you, in my bodily shape and person, and in the perfect forme of a man as now you behold me, so may you safely give him entertainment, without any taxation of the world, or ill apprehension of the most curious inquisition. beside, a greater happinesse can never befall me: for, while he assumeth the soule out of my body, and walketh on the earth in my humane figure: i shall be wandering in the joyes of lovers paradise, feeling the fruition of their felicities; which are such, as no mortality can be capeable of, no, not so much as in imagination. the wise gentlewoman replied, that she was well contented, in regard of the severe punishment inflicted on him by god _cupid_, for the reproachfull speeches he had given her; to allow him so poore a kinde of consolation, as he had requested her to grant him. whereuppon fryar _albert_ saide: be ready then madam to give him welcome to morrow in the evening, at the entering into your house, for comming in an humane body, he cannot but enter at your doore, whereas, if (in powerfull manner) he made use of his wings, he then would flye in at your window, and then you could not be able to see him. upon this conclusion, _albert_ departed, leaving _lisetta_ in no meane pride of imagination, that god _cupid_ should bee enamored of her beauty; and therefore she thought each houre a yeare, till she might see him in the mortall shape of friar _albert_. and now was his braine wonderfully busied, to visite her in more then common or humane manner; and therefore he made him a sute (close to his body) of white taffata, all poudred over with starres, and spangles of gold, a bow and quiver of arrowes, with wings also fastened to his backe behinde him, and all cunningly covered with his friars habit, which must be the sole meanes for his safe passage. having obtained licence of his superiour, and being accompanyed with an holy brother of the convent, yet ignorant of the businesse by him intended; he went to the house of a friend of his, which was his usuall receptacle, whensoever he went about such deeds of darkness. there did he put on his dissembled habit of god _cupid_, with his winges, bowe, and quiver, in formall fashion; and then (clouded over with his monkes cowle) leaves his companion to awaite his returning backe, while he visited foolish _lisetta_, according to her expectation, readily attending for the gods arrivall. _albert_ being come to the house, knocked at the doore, and the maid admitting him entrance, according as her mistresse had appointed, shee conducted him to her mistresses chamber, where laying aside his friars habite, and she seeing him shine with such glorious splendour, adding action also to his assumed dissimulation, with majesticke motion of his body, wings, and bow, as if he had bene god _cupid_, indeede converted into a body much bigger of stature, then painters commonly do describe him, her wisedome was so overcome with feare and admiration, that she fell on her knees before him, expressing all humble reverence unto him. and he spreading his wings over her, as with wiers and strings hee had made them pliant; shewed how graciously he accepted her humiliation; folding her in his armes, and sweetly kissing her many times together, with repetition of his entire love and affection towards her. so delicately was he perfumed with odorifferous favours, and so compleate of person in his spangled garments, that she could do nothing elsee, but wonder at his rare behaviour, reputing her felicity beyond all womens in the world, and utterly impossible to bee equalled, such was the pride of her presuming. for he told her divers tales and fables, of his awefull power among the other gods, and stolne pleasures of his upon the earth; yet gracing her praises above all his other loves, and vowes made now, to affect none but her onely, as his often visitations should more constantly assure her, that shee verily credited all his protestations, and thought his kisses and embraces, farre to exceed any mortall comparison. after they had spent so much time in amorous discoursing, as might best fit with this their first meeting, and stand cleare from suspition on either side: our _albert-cupid_, or _cupid-albert_, which of them you best please to terme him, closing his spangled winges together againe behinde his backe, fastening also on his bow and quiver of arrowes, over-clouds all with his religious monkes cowle, and then with a parting kisse or two, returned to the place where he had left his fellow and companion, perhaps imployed in as devout an exercise, as he had bin in his absence from him; whence both repayring home to the monastery, all this nightes wandering was allowed as tollerable, by them who made no spare of doing the like. on the morrow following, madam _lisetta_ immediately after dinner, being attended by her chamber-maid, went to see friar _albert_, finding him in his wonted forme and fashion, and telling him what had hapned betweene her and god _cupid_, with all the other lies and tales which hee had told her. truly madam (answered _albert_) what your successe with him hath beene, i am no way able to comprehend; but this i can assure you, that so soone as i had acquainted him with your answer, i felt a sodaine rapture made of my soule, and visibly (to my apprehension) saw it carried by elves and fairies, into the floury fields about _elisium_, where lovers departed out of this life, walk among the beds of lillies and roses, such as are not in this world to be seene, neither to be imagined by any humane capacity. so super-abounding was the pleasure of this joy and solace, that, how long i continued there, or by what meanes i was transported hither againe this morning, it is beyond all ability in mee to expresse, or how i assumed my body againe after that great god hadde made use thereof to your service. well friar _albert_ (quoth shee) you may see what an happinesse hath befalne you, by so grosse an opinion of my perfections, and what a felicity you enjoy, and still are like to do, by my pardoning your error, and granting the gods accesse to me in your shape: which as i envy not, so i wish you heereafter to be wiser, in taking upon you to judge of beautie. much other idle folly proceeded from hir, which still he soothed to her contentment, and (as occasion served) many meetings they had in the former manner. it fortuned within a few dayes after, that madam _lisetta_ being in company with one of her gossips, and their conference (as commonly it falleth out to be) concerning other women of the city; their beautie, behaviour, amorous suters and servants, and generall opinion conceived of their worth and merit; wherein _lisetta_ was over-much conceyted of her selfe, not admitting any other to be her equall. among other speeches, favouring of an unseasoned braine: gossip (quoth she) if you knew what account is made of my beauty, and who holdes it in no meane estimation, you would then freely confesse, that i deserve to bee preferred before any other. as women are ambitious in their owne opinions, so commonly are they covetous of one anothers secrets, especially in matter of emulation, whereupon the gossip thus replyed. beleeve me madam, i make no doubt but your speeches may bee true, in regard of your admired beauty, and many other perfections beside: yet let me tell you, priviledges, how great and singular soever they be, without they are knowen to others, beside such as do particularly enjoy them; they carrie no more account, then things of ordinary estimation. whereas on the contrary, when any lady or gentlewoman hath some eminent and peculiar favour, which few or none other can reach unto, and it is made famous by generall notion: then do all women elsee admire and honour her, as the glory of their kinde, and a miracle of nature. i perceive gossip said _lisetta_ whereat you ayme, & such is my love to you, as you should not lose your longing in this case, were i but constantly secured of your secrecy, which as hitherto i have bene no way able to tax, so would i be loth now to be more suspitious of then needs. but yet this matter is of such maine moment, that if you will protest as you are truely vertuous, never to reveale it to any living body, i will disclose to you almost a miracle. the vertuous oath being past, with many other solemne protestations beside, _lisetta_ then proceeded in this manner. i know gossip, that it is a matter of common & ordinary custome, for ladies and gentlewomen to be graced with favourites, men of fraile & mortall conditions, whose natures are as subject to inconstancy, as their very best endeavours dedicated to folly, as i could name no mean number of our ladies heere in _venice_. but when soveraigne deities shal feele the impression of our humane desires, and behold subjects of such prevailing efficacy, as to subdue their greatest power, yea, and make them enamored of mortall creatures: you may well imagine gossip, such a beauty is superiour to any other. and such is the happy fortune of your friend _lisetta_, of whose perfections, great _cupid_ the awefull commanding god of love himselfe, conceived such an extraordinary liking: as he hath abandoned his seate of supreme majesty, and appeared to me in the shape of a mortall man, with lively expression of his amorous passions, and what extremities of anguish he hath endured, onely for my love. may this be possible? replyed the gossip. can the gods be toucht with the apprehension of our fraile passions? true it is gossip, answered _lisetta_, and so certainly true, that his sacred kisses, sweet embraces, and most pleasing speeches, with proffer of his continuall devotion towards me, hath given me good cause to confirme what i say, and to thinke my felicity farre beyond all other womens, being honoured with his often nightly visitations. the gossip inwardly smiling at her idle speeches, which (nevertheles) she avouched with very vehement asseverations; fell instantly sicke of womens naturall disease, thinking every minute a tedious month, till she were in company with some other gossips, to breake the obligation of her vertuous promise, and that others (as well as her selfe) might laugh at the folly of this shallow-witted woman. the next day following, it was her hap to be at a wedding, among a great number of other women, whom quickly she acquainted with this so strange a wonder; as they did the like to their husbands: and passing so from hand to hand, in lesse space then two daies, all _venice_ was fully possessed with it. among the rest, the brethren to this foolish woman, heard this admirable newes concerning their sister; and they discreetly concealing it to themselves, closely concluded to watch the walks of this pretended god: and if he soared not too lofty a flight, they would clip his wings, to come the better acquainted with him. it fortuned, that the friar hearing his cupidicall visitations over-publikely discovered, purposed to check and reprove _lisetta_ for her indiscretion. and being habited according to his former manner, his friarly cowle covering al his former bravery, he left his companion where he used to stay, and closely walked along unto the house. no sooner was he entred, but the brethren being ambushed neer to the doore, went in after him, and ascending the staires, by such time as he had uncased himselfe, and appeared like god _cupid_, with his spangled wings displayed: they rushed into the chamber, and he having no other refuge, opened a large casement, standing directly over the great gulfe or river, and presently leapt into the water; which being deepe, and hee skilfull in swimming, he had no other harme by his fall, albeit the sodain affright did much perplex him. recovering the further side of the river, he espied a light, & the doore of an house open, wherein dwelt a poore man, whom he earnestly intreated, to save both his life and reputation, telling him many lies and tales by what meanes he was thus disguised, and throwne by night-walking villaines into the water. the poore man, being moved to compassionate his distressed estate, laid him in his owne bed, ministring such other comforts to him, as the time and his poverty did permit; and day drawing on, he went about his businesse, advising him to take his rest, and it should not be long till he returned. so, locking the doore, and leaving the counterfeit god in bed, away goes the poore man to his daily labour. the brethren to _lisetta_, perceiving god _cupid_ to bee fled and gone, and shee in melancholly sadnesse sitting by them: they tooke up the reliques he had left behind him, i meane the friars hood and cowle, which shewing to their sister, and sharply reproving her unwomanly behaviour: they lefte her in no meane discomfort, returning home to their owne houses, with their conquered spoiles of the forlorne friar. during the time of these occurrences, broad day speeding on, & the poore man returning homeward by the _rialto_, to visit his guest so lefte in bed: he beheld divers crouds of people, and a generall rumor noysed among them, that god _cupid_ had beene that night with madame _lisetta_, where being over-closely pursued by her brethren, for fear of being surprized, he leapt out of her window into the gulfe, and no one could tell what was become of him. heereupon, the poore man beganne to imagine, that the guest entertained by him in the night time, must needs bee the same supposed god cupid, as by his wings and other embellishments appeared: wherefore being come home, and sitting downe on the beds side by him, after some few speeches passing between them, he knew him to be friar albert, who promised to give him fifty ducates, if hee would not betray him to _lisettaes_ brethren. upon the acceptation of this offer, the money being sent for, and paied downe; there wanted nothing now, but some apt and convenient meanes, whereby _albert_ might safely be conveyed into the monasterie, which being wholly referred to the poore mans care and trust, thus hee spake. sir, i see no likely-hoode of your cleare escaping home, except in this manner as i advise you. we observe this day as a merry festivall, & it is lawfull for any one, to disguise a man in the skin of a beare, or in the shape of a savage man, or any other forme of better device. which being so done, he is brought upon s. _marks_ market place, where being hunted a while with dogs, upon the huntings conclusion, the feast is ended; and then each man leades his monster whether him pleaseth. if you can accept any of these shapes, before you bee seene heere in my poore abiding, then can i safely (afterward) bring you where you would bee. otherwise, i see no possible meanes, how you may escape hence unknown; for it is without all question to the contrary, that the gentlewomans brethren, knowing your concealment in some one place or other, will set such spies and watches for you throughout the city, as you must needs be taken by them. now, although it seemed a most severe imposition, for _albert_ to passe in any of these disguises: yet his exceeding feare of _lisettaes_ brethren and friends, made him gladly yeelde, and to undergo what shape the poore man pleased, which thus he ordered. annointing his naked body with hony, he then covered it over with downy small feathers, and fastning a chaine about his necke, and a strange ugly vizard on his face; hee gave him a great staffe in the one hand, and two huge mastive dogs chained together in the other, which he had borrowed in the butchery. afterward, he sent a man to the _rialto_, who there proclaimed by the sound of trumpet: that all such as desired to see god _cupid_, which the last night had descended downe from the skies, and fell (by ill hap) into the _venetian_ gulfe, let them repaire to the publike market place of s. _marke_, and there he would appeare in his owne likenesse. this being done, soone after he left his house, and leading him thus disguised along by his chaine, hee was followed by great crowds of people, every one questioning of whence, and what he was. in which manner, he brought him to the market place, where an infinite number of people were gathered together, as well of the followers, as of them that before heard the proclamation. there he made choise of a pillar, which stood in a place somewhat highly exalted, whereto he chained his savage man, making shew, as if he meant to awaite there, till the hunting shold begin: in which time, the flies, waspes, and hornets, did so terribly sting his naked body, being annointed with hony, that he endured thereby unspeakable anguish. when the poore man saw, that there needed no more concourse of people; pretending, as if he purposed to let loose his salvage man; he tooke the maske or vizard from _alberts_ face, and then he spake aloud in this manner. gentlemen and others, seeing the wilde boare commeth not to our hunting, because i imagine that he cannot easily be found: i meane (to the end you may not lose your labour in comming hither) to shew you the great god of love called _cupid_, whom poets feigned long since to be a little boy, but now growne to manly stature. you see in what manner he hath left his high dwelling, onely for the comfort of our _venetian_ beauties: but belike, the night-fogs over-flagging his wings, he fell into our gulfe, and comes now to present his service to you. no sooner had he taken off his vizard, but every one knew him to be friar _albert_; and sodainly arose such shoutes and out-cries, with most bitter words breathed forth against him, hurling also stones, durt and filth in his face, that his best acquaintance then could take no knowledge of him, and not any one pittying his abusing. so long continued the offended people in their fury, that newes thereof was carried to the convent, and six of his religious brethren came, who casting an habite about him, and releasing him from his chain, they led him to the monastery, not without much molestation and trouble of the people; where imprisoning him in their house, severitie of some inflicted punishment, or rather conceite for his open shame, shortned his dayes, and so he dyed. thus you see faire ladies, when licentious life must be clouded with a cloake of sanctity, and evill actions dayly committed, yet escaping uncredited: there will come a time at length, for just discovering of all, that the good may shine in their true luster of glory, and the bad sinke in their owne deserved shame. _three yong gentlemen affecting three sisters, fledde with them into_ candie. _the eldest of them (through jealousie) becommeth the death of her lover: the second, by consenting to the duke of_ candies _request, is the meanes of saving her life. afterward, her owne friend killeth her, and thence flyeth away with the elder sister. the third couple, both man & woman, are charged with her death, and being committed prisoners, they confesse the facte: and fearing death, by corruption of money they prevaile with their keepers, escaping from thence to_ rhodes, _where they died in great poverty._ the third novell. _heerein is declared, how dangerous the occasion is, ensuing by anger and despight, in such as entirely love, especially, being injuried and offended by them that they love._ when the king perceived, that madame _pampinea_ had ended her discourse; he sat sadly a prety while, without uttering one word, but afterward spake thus. little goodnesse appeared in the beginning of this novell, because it ministred occasion of mirth; yet the ending proved better, and i could wish, that worse inflictions had falne on the venerious friar. then turning towards madam _lauretta_, he said; lady, do you tell us a better tale, if possible it may be. she smiling, thus answered the king: sir, you are over-cruelly bent against poore lovers, in desiring, that their amourous processions should have harsh and sinister concludings. neverthelesse, in obedience to your severe command, among three persons amourously perplexed, i will relate an unhappy ending; whereas all may be saide to speede as unfortunately, being equally alike, in enjoying the issue of their desires, and thus i purpose for to proceede. every vice (choise ladies) as very well you know, redoundeth to the great disgrace and prejudice, of him or her by whom it is practised, and oftentimes to others. now, among those common hurtfull enemies, the sinne or vice which most carrieth us with full carrere, and draweth us into unavoidable perils and dangers; in mine opinion, seemeth to be that of choller or anger, which is nothing elsee, but a sudden and inconsiderate moving, provoked by some received injury, which having excluded all respect of reason, and dimde (with darke vapours) the bright discerning sight of the understanding, enflameth the minde with most violent furie. and albeit this inconvenience happeneth most to men, and more to some few, then others; yet notwithstanding, it hath been noted, that women have felt the selfe same infirmity, and in more extreme manner, because it much sooner is kindled in them, and burneth with the brighter flame, in regard they have the lesser consideration, and therefore not to be wondred at. for if we will advisedly observe, we shall plainely perceive, that fire (even of his owne nature) taketh hold on such things as are light and tender, much sooner then it can on hard and weighty substances; and some of us women (let men take no offence at my words) are farre more soft and delicate then they be, and therefore more fraile. in which regard, seeing we are naturally enclined hereto, and considering also, how much our affability and gentlenesse, doe shew themselves pleasing and full of content, to those men with whom we are to live; and likewise, how anger and fury are compacted of extraordinary perils; i purpose (because we may be the more valiant in our courage, to outstand the fierce assaults of wrath and rage) to shew you by mine ensuing novel, how the loves of three young gentlemen, and of as many gentlewomen, came to fatall and unfortunate successe, by the tempestuous anger of one among them, according as i have formerly related unto you. _marseilles_ (as you are not now to learne) is in _provence_, seated on the sea, and is also a very ancient and most noble city, which hath beene (heretofore) inhabited with farre richer and more wealthy merchants, then at this instant time it is. among whom there was one, named _narnaldo civada_, a man but of meane condition, yet cleare in faith and reputation, and in lands, goods, and ready monies, immeasurably rich. many children he had by his wife, among whom were three daughters, which exceeded his sonnes in yeeres. two of them being twinnes, and borne of one body, were counted to be fifteene yeares old; the third was foureteene, and nothing hindered marriage in their parents owne expectation, but the returne home of _narnaldo_, who was then abroade in _spaine_ with his merchandises. the eldest of these sisters was named _ninetta_, the second _magdalena_, and the third _bertella_. a gentleman (albeit but poore in fortunes) and called _restagnone_, was so extraordinarily enamoured of _ninetta_, as no man possibly could be more, and shee likewise as earnest in affection towards him; yet both carrying their loves proceeding with such secresie, as long time they enjoyed their hearts sweete contentment, yet undiscovered by any eye. it came to passe, that two other young gallants, the one named _folco_, and the other _hugnetto_, (who had attained to incredible wealth, by the decease of their father) were also as farre in love, the one with _magdalena_, and the other with _bertella_. when _restagnone_ had intelligence thereof, by the meanes of his faire friend _ninetta_; he purposed to releeve his poverty, by friendly furthering both their love, and his owne: and growing into familiarity with them, one while he would walke abroade with _folco_, and then againe with _hugnetto_, but oftner with them both together, to visite their mistresses, and continue worthy friendship. on a day, when hee saw the time sutable to his intent, and that hee had invited the two gentlemen home to his house, hee fell into this like conference with them. kind friends (quoth he) the honest familiarity which hath past betweene us, may render you some certaine assurance, of the constant love i beare to you both, being as willing to worke any meanes that may tend to your good, as i desire to compasse mine owne. and because the truth of mine affection cannot conceale it selfe to you, i meane to acquaint you with an intention, wherewith my braine hath a long while travelled, and now may soone be delivered of, if it may passe with your liking and approbation. let me then tell you, that except your speeches savour of untruth, and your actions carry a double understanding, in common behaviour both by night and day, you appeare to pine and consume away, in the cordiall love you beare to two of the sisters, as i suffer the same afflictions for the third, with reciprocall requitall of their dearest affection to us. now, to qualifie the heate of our tormenting flames, if you will condescend to such a course as i shall advise you, the remedy will yeeld them equall ease to ours, and we may safely enjoy the benefit of contentment. as wealth aboundeth with you both, so doth want most extremely tyrannize over me: but if one banke might be made of both your rich substances, i embraced therein as a third partaker, and some quarter of the world dissigned out by us, where to live at hearts ease upon your possessions; i durst engage my credite, that all the sisters, (not meanly stored with their fathers treasure) shall beare us company to what place soever we please. there each man freely enjoying his owne dearest love, we may live like three brethren, without any hinderance to our mutuall contentment; it remaineth now in you gentlemen, to accept this comfortable offer, or to refuse it. the two brothers, whose passions exceeded their best meanes for support, perceiving some hope how to enjoy their loves; desired no long time of deliberation, or greatly disputed with their thoughts what was best to be done: but readily replyed, that let happen any danger whatsoever, they would joyne with him in this determination, and he should partake with them in their wealthiest fortunes. after _restagnone_ had heard their answer, within some few dayes following, he went to conferre with _ninetta_, which was no easie matter for him to compasse. neverthelesse, opportunity proved so favourable to him, that meeting with her at a private place appointed, he discoursed at large, what had passed betweene him and the other two young gentlemen, maintaining the same with many good reasons, to have her like and allow of the enterprize. which although (for a while) he could very hardly doe; yet, in regard shee had more desire then power, without suspition to be daily in his company, she franckly thus answered. my hearts chosen friend, i cannot any way mislike your advise, and will take such order with my sisters, that they shall agree to our resolution: let it therefore be your charge, that you and the rest make every thing ready, to depart from hence so soone, as with best convenient meanes we may be enabled. _restagnone_ being returned to _folco_ and _hugnetto_, who thought every houre a yeere, to heare what would succeed upon the promise past betweene them; he told them in plaine termes, that their ladies were as free in consent as they, and nothing wanted now, but furnishment for their sudden departing. having concluded, that candye should be their harbour for entertainment, they made sale of some few inheritances, which lay the readiest for their purpose, as also the goods in their houses, and then, under colour of venting merchandises abroade; they bought a nimble pinnace, fortified with good strength and preparation, and waited but for a convenient wind. on the other side, _ninetta_, who was sufficiently acquainted with the forwardnesse of her sisters desires and her owne; had so substantially prevailed with them, that a good voyage now was the sole expectation. whereupon, the same night when they should set away, they opened a strong barred chest of their fathers, whence they tooke great store of gold and costly jewelse, wherewith escaping secretly out of the house; they came to the place where their lovers attended for them, and going all aboard the pinnace, the windes were so furtherous to them; that without touching any where, the night following they arrived at _geneway_. there being out of peril or pursuite, they all knit the knot of holy wedlocke, and then freely enjoyed their long wished desires, from whence setting sayle againe, and being well furnished with all things wanting; passing on from port to port, at the end of eight dayes they landed in _candie_, not meeting with any impeachment by the way. determining there to spend their dayes, first they provided themselves of faire and goodly lands in the countrey, and then of beautifull dwelling houses in the city, with all due furnishments belonging to them, and families well beseeming such worthy gentlemen, and all delights elsee for their daily recreations, inviting their neighbours, and they them againe in loving manner; so that no lovers could wish to live in more ample contentment. passing on their time in this height of felicity, and not crossed by any sinister accidents, it came to passe (as often wee may observe in the like occasions, that although delights doe most especially please us, yet they breed surfet, when they swell too over-great in abundance) that _restagnone_, who most deerely affected his faire _ninetta_, and had her now in his free possession, without any perill of loosing her: grew now also to bee wearie of her, and consequently, to faile in those familiar performances, which formerly had passed betweene them. for, being one day invited to a banket, hee saw there a beautifull gentle-woman of that countrey, whose perfections pleasing him beyond all comparison: hee laboured (by painfull pursuite) to win his purpose; and meeting with her in divers private places, grew prodigall in his expences upon her. this could not be so closely carried, but beeing seene and observed by _ninetta_, she became possessed with such extreame jelousie, that hee could not doe any thing whatsoever, but immediately he had knowledge of it: which fire, growing to a flame in her, her patience became extreamely provoked, urging rough and rude speeches from her to him, and daily tormenting him beyond power of sufferance. as the enjoying of anything in too much plenty, makes it appeare irkesome and loathing to us, and the deniall of our desires, do more and more whet on the appetite: even so did the angry spleene of _ninetta_ proceede on in violence, against this newe commenced love of _restagnone_. for in succession of time, whether hee enjoyed the embracements of his new mistresse, or no: yet _ninetta_ (by sinister reports, but much more through her owne jealous imaginations) held it for infallible, and to be most certaine. heereupon, she fell into an extreame melancholly, which melancholly begat implacable fury, and (consequently) such contemptible disdaine: as converted her former kindly love to _restagnone_, into most cruell and bloudie hatred; yea, and so strangely was reason or respect confounded in her, as no revenge elsee but speedy death, might satisfie the wrongs shee imagined to receive by _restagnone_ and his minion. upon enquiry, by what meanes shee might best compasse her bloody intention, she grew acquainted with a _græcian_ woman, and wonderfully expert in the compounding of poysons, whom shee so perswaded, by gifts and bounteous promises, that at the length shee prevailed with her. a deadly water was distilled by her, which (without any other counsell to the contrary) on a day when _restagnone_ had his blood some-what over-heated, and little dreamed on any such treason conspired against him by his wife, she caused him to drinke a great draught thereof, under pretence, that it was a most soveraigne and cordiall water: but such was the powerfull operation thereof, that the very next morning, _restagnone_ was found to be dead in his bed. when his death was understood by _folco, hugnetto_ and their wives, and not knowing how hee came to bee thus empoysoned (because their sister seemed to bemoane his sodaine death, with as apparant shewes of mourning as they could possibly expresse) they buried him very honourably, and so all suspition ceased. but as fortune is infinite in her fagaries, never acting disaster so closely, but as cunningly discovereth it againe: so it came to passe, that within a few dayes following, the _græcian_ woman, that had delivered the poyson to _ninetta_, for such another deede of damnation, was apprehended even in the action. and being put upon the tortures, among many other horrid villanies by her committed, she confessed the empoysoning of _restagnone_, and every particle thereto appertaining. whereupon, the duke of _candie_, without any noyse or publication, setting a strong guard (in the night time) about the house of _folco_, where _ninetta_ then was lodged; there sodainly they seized on her, & upon examination, in maintainance of her desperate revenge; voluntarily confessed the fact, and what elsee concerned the occasion of his death, by the wrongs which hee had offered her. _folco_ and _hugnetto_ understanding secretly, both from the duke, & other intimate friends, what was the reason of _ninettaes_ apprehension, which was not a little displeasing to them, laboured by all their best pains and endeavour, to worke such meanes with the duke, that her life might not perish by fire, although she had most justly deserved it; but all their attempts prooved to no effect, because the duke had concluded to execute justice. heere you are to observe, that _magdalena_ (beeing a very beautifull woman, yong, and in the choisest flower of her time:) had often before bin solicited by the duke, to entertaine his love and kindnesse, whereto by no meanes she would listen or give consent. and being now most earnestly importuned by her, for the safety of her sisters life, shee tooke hold on this her daily suite to him, and in private told her, that if she was so desirous of _ninettaes_ life: it lay in her power to obtaine it, by granting him the fruition of her love. she apparantly perceiving, that _ninetta_ was not likely to live, but by the prostitution of her chaste honour, which she preferred before the losse of her owne life, or her sisters; concluded, to let her dye, rather then run into any such disgrace. but having an excellent ingenious wit, quicke, and apprehensive in perillous occasions, shee intended now to make a trial of over-reaching the lascivious duke in his wanton purpose, and yet to be assured of her sisters life, without any blemish to her reputation. soliciting him still as she was wont to doe, this promise passed from her to him, that when _ninetta_ was delivered out of prison, and in safety at home in her house: hee should resort thither in some queint disguise, and enjoy his long expected desire; but untill then she would not yeeld. so violent was the duke in the prosecution of his purpose, that under colour of altering the manner of _ninettaes_ death, not suffering her to bee consumed by fire, but to be drowned, according to a custome observed there long time, and at the importunity of her sister _magdalena_, in the still silence of the night, _ninetta_ was conveyed into a sacke, and sent in that manner to the house of _folco_, the duke following soone after, to challenge her promise. _magdalena_, having acquainted her husband with her vertuous intention, for preserving her sisters life, and disappointing the duke in his wicked desire; was as contrary to her true meaning in this case, as _ninetta_ had formerly beene adverse to _restagnone_, onely being over-ruled likewise by jealousie, and perswaded in his rash opinion, that the duke had already dishonoured _magdalena_, otherwise, he would not have delivered _ninetta_ out of prison. mad fury gave further fire to this unmanly perswasion, and nothing will now quench this violent flame, but the life of poore _magdalena_, suddenly sacrificed in the rescue of her sisters, such a divell is anger, when the understandings bright eye is thereby abused. no credit might be given to her womanly protestations, nor any thing seeme to alter his bloody purpose; but, having slaine _magdalena_ with his poniard, (notwithstanding her teares and humble entreaties) hee ran in haste to _ninettaes_ chamber, shee not dreaming on any such desperate accident, and to her he used these dissembling speeches. sister (quoth he) my wife hath advised, that i should speedily convey you hence, as fearing the renewing of the dukes fury, and your falling againe into the hands of justice: i have a barke readily prepared for you, and your life being secured, it is all that she and i doe most desire. _ninetta_ being fearefull, and no way distrusting what he had saide; in thankfull allowance of her sisters care, and curteous tender of his so ready service; departed thence presently with him, not taking any farewell of her other sister and her husband. to the sea-shore they came, very weakely provided of monies to defray their charges, and getting aboard the barke, directed their course themselves knew not whether. the amourous duke in his disguise, having long daunced attendance at _folcoes_ doore, and no admittance of his entrance; angerly returned backe to his court, protesting severe revenge on _magdalena_, if she gave him not the better satisfaction, to cleare her from thus basely abusing him. on the morrow morning, when _magdalena_ was found murthered in her chamber, and tidings thereof carried to the duke; present search was made for the bloody offendor, but _folco_ being fled and gone with _ninetta_; some there were, who bearing deadly hatred to _hugnetto_, incensed the duke against him and his wife, as supposing them to be guilty of _magdalenaes_ death. he being thereto very easily perswaded, in regard of his immoderate love to the slaine gentlewoman; went himselfe in person (attended on by his guard) to _hugnettoes_ house, where both he and his wife were seized as prisoners. these newes were very strange to them, and their imprisonment as unwelcome; and although they were truly innocent, either in knowledge of the horrid fact, or the departure of _folco_ with _ninetta_: yet being unable to endure the tortures extremity, they made themselves culpable by confession, and that they had hand with _folco_ in the murder of _magdalena_. upon this their forced confession, and sentence of death pronounced on them by the duke himselfe; before the day appointed for their publike execution, by great summes of money, which they had closely hid in their house, to serve when any urgent extremitie should happen to them; they corrupted their keepers, and before any intelligence could be had of their flight, they escaped by sea to _rhodes_, where they lived afterward in great distresse and misery. the just vengeance of heaven followed after _folco_ and _ninetta_, he for murthering his honest wife, and she for poysoning her offending husband: for being beaten a long while on the seas, by tempestuous stormes and weather, and not admitted landing in any port or creeke; they were driven backe on the coast of _candie_ againe, where being apprehended, and brought to the city before the duke, they confessed their severall notorious offences, and ended their loathed lives in one fire together. thus the idle and loose love of _restagnone_, with the franticke rage and jealousie of _ninetta_ and _folco_, overturned all their long continued happinesse, and threw a disastrous ending on them all. gerbino, _contrary to the former plighted faith of his grand-father, king_ gulielmo, _fought with a ship at sea, belonging to the king of_ thunis, _to take away his daughter, who was then in the same ship. shee being slaine by them that had the possession of her, he likewise slew them; and afterward had his owne head smitten off._ the fourth novell. _in commendation of justice betweene princes; and declaring withal, that neither feare, dangers, nor death it selfe; can any way daunt a true and loyall lover._ madam _lauretta_ having concluded her novel, and the company complaining on lovers misfortunes, some blaming the angry and jealous fury of _ninetta_, and every one delivering their severall opinions; the king, as awaking out of a passionate perplexity, exalted his lookes, giving a signe to madam _elisa_, that shee should follow next in order, whereto she obeying, began in this manner. i have heard (gracious ladies, quoth she) of many people, who are verily perswaded, that loves arrowes, never wound any body, but onely by the eyes lookes and gazes, mocking and scorning such as maintaine that men may fall in love by hearing onely. wherein (beleeve me) they are greatly deceived, as will appeare by a novell which i must now relate unto you, and wherein you shall plainely perceive, that not onely fame or report is as prevailing as sight; but also hath conducted divers, to a wretched and miserable ending of their lives. _gulielmo_ the second, king of _sicilie_, according as the _sicilian_ chronicles record, had two children, the one a sonne, named _don rogero_, and the other a daughter, called madam _constance_. the saide _rogero_ died before his father, leaving a sonne behind him, named _gerbino_, who, with much care and cost, was brought up by his grand-father, proving to be a very goodly prince, and wondrously esteemed for his great valour and humanity. his fame could not containe it selfe, within the bounds or limits of _sicilie_ onely, but being published very prodigally, in many parts of the world beside, flourished with no meane commendations throughout all _barbarie_, which in those dayes was tributary to the king of _sicilie_. among other persons, deserving most to be respected, the renowned vertues, and affability of this gallant prince _gerbino_, was understood by the beautious daughter to the king of _thunis_, who by such as had seene her, was reputed to be one of the rarest creatures, the best conditioned, and of the truest noble spirit, that ever nature framed in her very choycest pride of art. of famous, vertuous, and worthy men, it was continually her cheefest delight to heare, and the admired actions of valiant _gerbino_, reported to her by many singular discoursers, such as could best describe him, with language answerable to his due deservings, won such honourable entertainment in her understanding soule, that they were most affectionately pleasing to her, and in capitulating (over and over againe) his manifold and heroycall perfections; meere speech made her extreamely amorous of him, nor willingly would she lend an eare to any other discourse, but that which tended to his honour and advancement. on the other side, the fame of her incomparable beauty, with addition of her other infinite singularities beside; as the world had given eare to in numberlesse places, so _sicilie_ came at length acquainted therewith, in such flowing manner, as was truly answerable to her merit. nor seemed this as a bare babling rumour, in the princely hearing of royall _gerbino_; but was embraced with such a reall apprehension, and the entire probation of a true understanding: that he was no lesse enflamed with noble affection towards her, then she expressed the like in vertuous opinion of him. wherefore, awaiting such convenient opportunity, when he might entreate license of his grandfather, for his owne going to _thunis_, under colour of some honourable occasion, for the earnest desire hee had to see her: he gave charge to some of his especiall friends (whose affaires required their presence in those parts) to let the princesse understand, in such secret manner as best they could devise, what noble affection he bare unto her, devoting himselfe onely to her service. one of his chosen friends thus put in trust, being a jeweller, a man of singular discretion, and often resorting to ladies for sight of his jewelles, winning like admittance to the princesse: related at large unto her, the honourable affection of _gerbino_, with full tender of his person to her service, and that she onely was to dispose of him. both the message and the messenger, were most graciously welcome to her, and flaming in the selfsame affection towards him; as a testimony thereof, one of the very choisest jewelse which she bought of him, shee sent by him to the prince _gerbino_, it being received by him with such joy and contentment, as nothing in the world could be more pleasing to him. so that afterward, by the trusty carriage of this jeweller, many letters and love-tokens passed betweene them, each being as highly pleased with this poore, yet happy kinde of entercourse, as if they had seene & conversed with one another. matters proceeding on in this manner, and continuing longer then their love-sicke passions easily could permit, yet neither being able to find out any other meanes of helpe; it fortuned, that the king of _thunis_ promised his daughter in marriage to the king of _granada_, whereat she grew exceeding sorrowfull, perceyving, that not onely she should be sent further off, by a large distance of way from her friend, but also bee deprived utterly, of all hope ever to enjoy him. and if she could have devised any meanes, either by secret flight from her father, or any way else to further her intention, she would have adventured it for the princes sake. _gerbino_ in like manner hearing of this purposed mariage, lived in a hell of torments, consulting oftentimes with his soule, how he might bee possessed of her by power, when she should be sent by sea to her husband, or private stealing her away from her fathers court before: with these and infinite other thoughts, was he incessantly afflicted, both day and night. by some unhappy accident or other, the king of _thunis_ heard of this their secret love, as also of _gerbinoes_ purposed policy to surprize her, and how likely he was to effect it, in regard of his manly valour, and store of stout friends to assist him. hereupon, when the time was come, that hee would convey his daughter thence to her marriage, and fearing to be prevented by _gerbino_: he sent to the king of _sicily_, to let him understand his determination, craving safe conduct from him, without impeachment of _gerbino_, or any one elsee, untill such time as his intent was accomplished. king _gulielmo_ being aged, and never acquainted with the affectionat proceedings of _gerbino_, nor any doubtfull reason to urge this securitie from him, in a case convenient to be granted: yeelded the sooner thereto right willingly, and as a signale of his honourable meaning, he sent him his royall glove, with a full confirmation for his safe conduct. no sooner were these princely assurances received, but a goodly ship was prepared in the port of _carthagena_, well furnished with all thinges thereto belonging, for the sending his daughter to the king of _granada_, waiting for nothing elsee but best favouring windes. the yong princesse, who understood and saw all this great preparation; secretly sent a servant of hers to _palermo_, giving him especiall charge, on her behalfe, to salute the prince _gerbino_, and to tell him withall, that (within few dayes) shee must be transported to _granada_. and now opportunity gave fayre and free meane, to let the world know, whether hee were a man of that magnanimous spirit, or no, as generall opinion had formerly conceyved of him, and whether he affected her so firmely, as by many close messages he had assured her. he who had the charge of this embassie, effectually performed it, and then returned backe to _thunis_. the prince _gerbino_, having heard this message from his divine mistresse, and knowing also, that the king his grandfather, had past his safe conduct to the king of _thunis_, for peaceable passage thorough his seas: was at his wits end, in this urgent necessitie, what might best bee done. notwithstanding, moved by the setled constancie of his plighted love, and the speeches delivered to him by the messenger from the princesse: to shew himselfe a man endued with courage, he departed thence unto _messina_, where he made readie two speedie gallies, and fitting them with men of valiant disposition, set away to _sardignia_, as making full account, that the ship which carried the princesse, must come along that coast. nor was his expectation therein deceived: for, within few dayes after, the ship (not over-swiftly winded) came sailing neere to the place where they attended for her arrivall; whereof _gerbino_ had no sooner gotten a sight, but to animate the resolutes which were in his company, thus he spake. gentlemen, if you be those men of valour, as heeretofore you have beene reputed, i am perswaded, that there are some among you, who either formerly have, or now instantly do feele, the all-commanding power of love, without which (as i thinke) there is not any mortall man, that can have any goodnesse or vertue dwelling in him. wherefore, if ever you have bene amorously affected, or presently have any apprehension thereof, you shall the more easily judge of what i now aime at. true it is, that i do love, and love hath guided me to be comforted, and manfully assisted by you, because in yonder ship, which you see commeth on so gently under saile (even as if she offered her selfe to be our prize) not onely is the jewell which i most esteeme, but also mighty and unvalewable treasure, to be wonne without any difficult labour, or hazard of a dangerous fight, you being men of such undauntable courage. in the honour of which victory, i covet not any part or parcell, but onely a ladie, for whose sake i have undertaken these armes, and freely give you all the rest contained in the shippe. let us set on them, gentlemen, and my dearest friends; couragiously let us assaile the ship, you see how the wind favours us, and (questionlesse) in so good an action, fortune will not faile us. _gerbino_ needed not to have spoken so much, in perswading them to seize so rich a booty; because the men of _messina_ were naturally addicted to spoile and rapine: and before the prince began his oration, they had concluded to make the ship their purchase. wherefore, giving a lowde shout, according to their countrey manner, and commaunding their trumpets to sound chearefully, they rowed on amain with their oares, and (in meere despight) set upon the ship. but before the gallies could come neere her, they that had the charge and managing of her, perceyving with what speede they made towards them, and no likely meanes of escaping from them, resolvedly they stood uppon their best defence, for now it was no time to be slothfull. the prince being come neere to the ship, commanded that the patrones should come to him, except they would adventure the fight. when the sarazines were thereof advertised, and understood also what he demanded, they returned answer: that their motion and proceeding in this manner, was both against law and plighted faith, which was promised by the king of _sicily_, for their safe passage thorow his sea, by no meanes to be molested or assailed. in testimony whereof, they shewed his glove, avouching moreover, that neyther by force (or otherwise) they would yeelde, or deliver him any thing which they had aboorde their ship. _gerbino_ espying his gracious mistresse on the ships decke, and she appearing to be farre more beautifull, then fame had made relation of her: being much more enflamed now, then formerly he had bin, replyed thus when they shewed the glove. wee have (quoth he) no faulcon heere now, to be humbled at the sight of your glove: and therefore, if you will not deliver the lady, prepare your selves for fight, for we must have her whether you will or no. hereupon, they began to let flie (on both sides) their darts and arrowes, with stones sent in violent sort from their slings, thus continuing the fight a long while, to very great harme on either side. at the length, _gerbino_ perceyving, that small benefite would redound to him, if he did not undertake some other kinde of course: he tooke a small pinnace, which purposely he brought with him from _sardignia_, and setting it on a flaming fire, conveyd it (by the gallies help) close to the ship. the sarazines much amazed thereat, and evidently perceiving, that eyther they must yeeld or dy; brought their kings daughter upon the prow of the ship, most greevously weeping and wringing her hands. then calling _gerbino_, to let him behold their resolution, there they slew hir before his face; and afterward, throwing her body into the sea, said: take her, there we give her to thee, according to our bounden duty, and as thy perjury hath justly deserved. this sight was not a little greevous to the prince _gerbino_, who madded now with this their monstrous cruelty, and not caring what became of his owne life, having lost her for whom hee onely desired to live: not dreading their darts, arrowes, slinged stones, or what violence else they could use against him; he leapt aboord their ship, in despight of all that durst resist him, behaving himself there like a hunger-starved lyon, when he enters among a heard of beastes, tearing their carkasses in pieces both with his teeth and pawes. such was the extreme fury of the poor prince, not sparing the life of any one, that durst appeare in his presence; so that what with the bloody slaughter, and violence of the fires encreasing in the ship; the mariners got such wealth as possibly they could save, and suffering the sea to swallow the rest, _gerbino_ returned unto his gallies againe, nothing proud of this so ill-gotten victory. afterward, having recovered the princesses dead body out of the sea, and enbalmed it with sighes and teares: hee returned backe into _sicilie_, where he caused it to be most honourably buried, in a little island, named _ustica_, face to face confronting _trapanum_. the king of _thunis_ hearing these disastrous newes, sent his ambassadors (habited in sad mourning) to the aged king of _sicily_, complaining of his faith broken with him, and how the accident had falne out. age being sodainly incited to anger, and the king extreamly offended at this injury, seeing no way whereby to deny him justice, it being urged so instantly by the ambassadours: caused _gerbino_ to be apprehended, and hee himselfe (in regard that none of his lords and barons would therein assist him, but laboured to divert him by their earnest importunity) pronounced the sentence of death on the prince, and commanded to have him beheaded in his presence; affecting rather, to dye without an heire, then to be thought a king void of justice. so these two unfortunate lovers, never enjoying the very least benefite of their long wished desires: ended both their lives in violent manner. _the three brethren to_ isabella, _slew a gentleman that secretly loved her. his ghost appeared to her in her sleepe, and shewed her in what place they had buried his body. she (in silent manner) brought away his head, and putting it into a pot of earth, such as flowers, basile, or other sweet hearbes are usually set in; she watered it (a long while) with her teares. whereof her brethren having intelligence; soone after she dyed, with meere conceite of sorrow._ the fift novell. _wherein is plainly proved, that love cannot be rooted uppe, by any humane power or providence; especially in such a soule, where it hath bene really apprehended._ the novell of madame _eliza_ being finished, and some-what commended by the king, in regard of the tragicall conclusion; _philomena_ was enjoyned to proceede next with her discourse. she beeing overcome with much compassion, for the hard fortunes of noble _gerbino_, and his beautifull princesse, after an extreame and vehement sighe, thus she spake. my tale (worthy ladies) extendeth not to persons of so high birth or quality, as they were of whom madame _eliza_ gave you relation: yet (peradventure) it may proove to be no lesse pitifull. and now i remember my selfe, _messina_ so lately spoken of, is the place where this accident also happened. in _messina_ there dwelt three yong men, brethren, and merchants by their common profession, who becoming very rich by the death of theyr father, lived in very good fame and repute. their father was of _san gemignano_, and they had a sister named _isabella_, young, beautifull, and well conditioned; who, upon some occasion, as yet remained unmaried. a proper youth, being a gentleman borne in _pisa_, and named _lorenzo_, as a trusty factor or servant, had the managing of the brethrens businesse and affaires. this _lorenzo_ being of comely personage, affable, and excellent in his behaviour, grew so gracious in the eyes of _isabella_, that shee affoorded him many very respective lookes, yea, kindnesses of no common quality. which _lorenzo_ taking notice of, and observing by degrees from time to time, gave over all other beauties in the citie, which might allure any affection from him, and only fixed his heart on her, so that their love grew to a mutuall embracing, both equally respecting one another, and entertaining kindnesses, as occasion gave leave. long time continued this amorous league of love, yet not so cunningly concealed, but at the length, the secret meeting of _lorenzo_ and _isabella_, to ease their poore soules of loves oppressions, was discovered by the eldest of the brethren, unknowne to them who were thus betrayed. he being a man of great discretion, although this sight was highly displeasing to him: yet notwithstanding, he kept it to himselfe till the next morning, labouring his braine what might best be done in so urgent a case. when day was come, he resorted to his other brethren, and told them what he had seene in the time past, betweene their sister and _lorenzo_. many deliberations passed on in this case; but after all, thus they concluded together, to let it proceede on with patient supportance, that no scandall might ensue to them, or their sister, no evill acte being (as yet) committed. and seeming, as if they knew not of their love, had a wary eye still upon her secret walkes, awaiting for some convenient time, when without their owne prejudice, or _isabellaes_ knowledge, they might safely breake off this their stolne love, which was altogether against their liking. so, shewing no worse countenance to _lorenzo_, then formerly they had done, but imploying and conversing with him in kinde manner; it fortuned, that riding (all three) to recreate themselves out of the cittie, they tooke _lorenzo_ in their company, and when they were come to a solitarie place, such as best suited with their vile purpose: they ran sodainly upon _lorenzo_, slew him, & afterward enterred his body, where hardly it could be discovered by any one. then they returned backe to _messina_, & gave it forth (as a credible report) that they had sent him abroad about their affaires, as formerly they were wont to do: which every one verily beleeved, because they knew no reason why they should conceite any otherwise. _isabella_, living in expectation of his returne, and perceiving his stay to her was so offensively long: made many demands to her brethren, into what parts they had sent him, that his tarrying was so quite from all wonted course. such was her importunate speeches to them, that they taking it very discontentedly, one of them returned her this frowning answer. what is your meaning sister, by so many questionings after _lorenzo_? what urgent affaires have you with him, that makes you so impatient upon his absence? if heereafter you make any more demands for him, we shall shape you such a reply, as will bee but little to your liking. at these harsh words, _isabella_ fell into abundance of teares, where-among she mingled many sighes and groanes, such as were able to overthrow a far stronger constitution: so that, being full of feare and dismay, yet no way distrusting her brethrens cruell deede; shee durst not question any more after him. in the silence of darke night, as she lay afflicted in her bed, oftentimes would she call for _lorenzo_, entreating his speedy returning to her: and then againe, as if he had bene present with her, shee checkt and reproved him for his so long absence. one night amongst the rest, she being growen almost hopelesse, of ever seeing him againe, having a long while wept and greevously lamented; her senses and faculties utterly spent and tired, that she could not utter any more complaints, she fell into a trance or sleepe; and dreamed, that the ghost of _lorenzo_ appeared unto her, in torne and unbefitting garments, his lookes pale, meager, and staring: and (as she thought) thus spake to her. my deare love _isabella_, thou doest nothing but torment thy selfe, with calling on me, accusing me for overlong tarrying from thee: i am come therefore to let thee know, that thou canst not enjoy my company any more, because the very same day when last thou sawest me, thy brethren most bloodily murthered me. and acquainting her with the place where they had buried his mangled body: hee strictly charged her, not to call him at any time afterward, and so vanished away. the yong damosell awaking, and giving some credite to her vision, sighed and wept exceedingly; and after she was risen in the morning, not daring to say any thing to her brethren, she resolutely determined, to go see the place formerly appointed her, onely to make triall, if that which she seemed to see in her sleepe, should carry any likely-hood of truth. having obtained favour of her brethren, to ride a dayes journey from the city, in company of her trusty nurse, who long time had attended on her in the house, and knew the secret passages of her love: they rode directly to the designed place, which being covered with some store of dried leaves, and more deeply sunke then any other part of the ground thereabout, they digged not farre, but they found the body of murthered _lorenzo_, as yet very little corrupted or impaired, and then perceived the truth of her vision. wisedome and government so much prevailed with her, as to instruct her soule, that her teares spent there, were meerely fruitlesse and in vaine, neither did the time require any long tarrying there. gladly would shee have carried the whole body with her, secretly to bestow honourable enterment on it, but it exceeded the compasse of her ability. wherefore, in regard she could not have all, yet she would be possessed of a part, & having brought a keene razor with her, by helpe of the nurse, shee divided the head from the body, and wrapped it up in a napkin, which the nurse conveyed into her lap, and then laide the body in the ground again. thus being undiscovered by any, they departed thence, and arrived at home in convenient time, where being alone by themselves in the chamber: she washed the head over and over with her teares, and bestowed infinite kisses thereon. not long after, the nurse having brought her a large earthen potte, such as wee use to set basile, marjerom, flowers, or other sweet hearbes in, and shrouding the head in a silken scarfe, put it into the pot, covering it with earth, and planting divers rootes of excellent basile therein, which she never watered, but either with her teares, rose water, or water distilled from the flowers of oranges. this pot she used continually to sitte by, either in her chamber, or any where elsee: for she caried it alwaies with her, sighing and breathing foorth sad complaints thereto, even as if they had beene uttered to her _lorenzo_, and day by day this was her continuall exercise, to the no meane admiration of her bretheren, and many other friends that beheld her. so long she held on in this mourning manner, that, what by the continuall watering of the basile, and putrifaction of the head, so buried in the pot of earth; it grew very flourishing, and most odorifferous to such as scented it, so that as no other basile could possibly yeeld so sweet a savour. the neighbours noting this behaviour in her, observing the long continuance thereof, how much her bright beauty was defaced, and the eyes sunke into her head by incessant weeping, made many kinde and friendly motions, to understand the reason of her so violent oppressions; but could not by any meanes prevaile with her, or win any discovery by her nurse, so faithfull was she in secrecie to her. her brethren also waxed wearie of this carriage in her; and having very often reproved her for it, without any other alteration in her: at length, they closely stole away the potte of basile from her, for which she made infinite wofull lamentations, earnestly entreating to have it restored againe, avouching that shee could not live without it. perceiving that she could not have the pot againe, she fell into an extreame sicknesse, occasioned onely by her ceaselesse weeping: and never urged she to have any thing, but the restoring of her basile pot. her brethren grew greatly amazed thereat, because shee never called for ought elsee beside; and thereupon were very desirous to ransacke the pot to the very bottome. having emptied out all the earth, they found the scarfe of silke, wherein the head of lorenzo was wrapped; which was (as yet) not so much consumed, but by the lockes of haire, they knew it to be _lorenzoes_ head, whereat they became confounded with amazement. fearing least their offence might come to open publication, they buried it very secretly; and, before any could take notice thereof, they departed from _messina_, and went to dwell in _naples. isabella_ crying & calling still for her pot of basile, being unable to give over mourning, dyed within a few dayes after. thus have you heard the hard fate of poore _lorenzo_ and his _isabella_. within no long while after, when this accident came to be publikely knowne, an excellent ditty was composed thereof, beginning thus: _cruell and unkinde was the christian, that robd me of my basiles blisse, &c._ _a beautifull yong virgin, named_ andreana, _became enamored of a yong gentleman, called_ gabriello. _in conference together, she declared a dreame of hers to him, and he another of his to her; whereupon_ gabriello _fell downe sodainly dead in her armes. shee, and her chamber-maide were apprehended, by the officers belonging to the seigneury, as they were carrying_ gabriello, _to lay him before his owne doore. the potestate offering violence to the virgin, and she resisting him vertuously: it came to the understanding of her father, who approved the innocence of his daughter, and compassed her deliverance. but she afterward, being weary of all worldly felicities, entred into religion, and became a nun._ the sixth novell. _describing the admirable accidents of fortune; and the mighty prevailing power of love._ the novell which madam _philomena_ had so graciously related, was highly pleasing unto the other ladies; because they had oftentimes heard the song, without knowing who made it, or uppon what occasion it was composed. but when the king saw that the tale was ended: hee commanded _pamphilus_, that hee should follow in his due course: whereupon he spake thus. the dreame already recounted in the last novell, doth minister matter to me, to make report of another tale, wherein mention is made of two severall dreames; which divined as well what was to ensue, as the other did what had hapned before. and no sooner were they finished in the relation, by both the parties which had formerly dreampt them, but the effects of both as sodainly followed. worthy ladies, i am sure it is not unknowne to you, that it is, & hath bene a generall passion, to all men and women living, to see divers and sundry things while they are sleeping. and although (to the sleeper) they seeme most certaine, so that when he awaketh, hee judgeth the trueth of some, the likelyhood of others, and some beyond all possibility of truth: yet notwithstanding, many dreames have bene observed to happen, and very strangely have come to passe. and this hath bene a grounded reason for some men, to give as great credit to such things as they see sleeping, as they do to others usually waking. so that, according unto their dreames, and as they make construction of them, that are sadly distasted, or merrily pleased, even as (by them) they either feare or hope. on the contrary, there are some, who will not credit any dreame whatsoever, untill they be falne into the very same danger which formerly they saw, and most evidently in their sleepe. i meane not to commend either the one or other, because they do not alwayes fall out to be true; neither are they at all times lyars. now, that they prove not all to be true, we can best testifie to our selves. and that they are not alwayes lyars, hath already sufficiently bene manifested, by the discourse of madame _philomena_, and as you shall perceive by mine owne, which next commeth in order to salute you. wherefore, i am of this opinion, that in matters of good life, and performing honest actions; no dreame is to be feared presaging the contrary, neither are good works any way to be hindred by them. likewise, in matters of bad and wicked quality, although our dreames may appeare favourable to us, and our visions flatter us with prosperous successe: yet let us give no credence unto the best, nor addicte our minds to them of contrary nature. and now we will proceed to our novell. in the citie of _brescia_, there lived sometime a gentleman, named _messer negro da ponte cararo_, who (among many other children) had a daughter called _andreana_, yong and beautifull, but as yet unmarried. it fortuned, that shee fell in love with a neighbour, named _gabriello_, a comely yong gentleman, of affable complexion, and graciously conditioned. which love was (with like kindnesse) welcommed and entertained by him, and by the furtherance of her chamber-maide, it was so cunningly carried, that in the garden belonging to _andreanaes_ father, she had many meetings with her _gabriello_. and solemne vowes being mutually passed betweene them, that nothing but death could alter their affection: by such ceremonious words as are used in marriage, they maried themselves secretly together, and continued their stolne chaste pleasures, with equall contentment to them both. it came to passe, that _andreana_ sleeping in her bed, dreamed, that she met with _gabriello_ in the garden, where they both embracing lovingly together, she seemed to see a thing blacke and terrible, which sodainely issued forth of his body, but the shape thereof she could not comprehend. it rudely seized upon _gabriello_, & in despight of her utmost strength (with incredible force) snatched him out of her armes, and sinking with him into the earth, they never after did see one another; whereuppon, overcome with extremity of greefe and sorrow, presently shee awaked, being then not a little joyfull, that she found no such matter as shee feared, yet continued very doubtfull of her dreame. in regard whereof, _gabriello_ being desirous to visite her the night following: she laboured very diligently to hinder his comming to her; yet knowing his loyall affection toward her, and fearing least he should grow suspitious of some other matter: she welcommed him into the garden, where gathering both white and damaske roses (according to the nature of the season) at length, they sate downe by a goodly fountaine, which stoode in the middst of the garden. after some small familiar discourse passing betweene them, _gabriello_ demanded of her upon what occasion shee denied his comming thither the night before, and by such a sodaine unexpected admonition? _andreana_ told him, that it was in regard of a troublesome dreame, wherewith hir soule was perplexed the precedent night, and doubt what might ensue thereon. _gabriello_ hearing this, began to smile, affirming to her, that it was an especiall note of folly, to give any credit to idle dreames: because (oftentimes) they are caused by excesse of feeding, and continually are observed to be meere lies. for (quoth hee) if i had any superstitious beleefe of dreames, i should not then have come hither nowe: yet not so much as being dismayed by your dreame, but for another of mine owne, which i am the more willing to acquaint you withall. me thought, i was in a goodly delightfull forrest, in the noble exercise of sportfull hunting, and became there possessed of a yong hinde, the verie loveliest and most pleasing beast that was ever seene. it seemed to be as white as snow, and grew (in a short while) so familiar with mee, that by no meanes it would forsake me. i could not but accept this rare kindnesse in the beast, and fearing least (by some ill hap) i might loose it, i put a coller of gold about the necke thereof, and fastned it into a chain of gold also, which then i held strictly in my hand. the hind afterward couched downe by mee, laying his head mildely in my lap; and on a sudden, a blacke grey-hound bitch came rushing on us (but whence, or how i could not imagine) seeming halfe hunger-starved, and very ugly to look upon. at me she made her full carriere, without any power in me of resistance: and putting her mouth into the lefte side of my bosome, griped it so mainly with her teeth, that (me thought) i felt my heart quite bitten through, and she tugged on still, to take it wholly away from me; by which imagined paine and anguish i felt, instantly i awaked: laying then my hand upon my side, to know whether any such harme had befaln me, or no, and finding none at all, i smiled at mine owne folly, in making such a frivolous and idle search. what can be said then in these or the like cases? divers times i have had as ill seeming dreames, yea, and much more to be feared: yet never any thing hurtfull to me followed thereon; and therefore i have alwaies made the lesse account of them. the yong maiden, who was still dismayed by her owne dreame, became much more afflicted in her minde, when shee had heard this other reported by _gabriello_: but yet to give him no occasion of distast, she bare it out in the best manner she could devise to doe. and albeit they spent the time in much pleasing discourse, maintained with infinite sweete kisses on either side: yet was she still suspitious, but knew not whereof; fixing her eies oftentimes upon his face, and throwing strange lookes to all parts of the garden, to catch hold on any such blacke ugly sight, whereof he had formerly made description to her. as thus she continued in these afflicting feares, it fortuned, that _gabriello_ sodainly breathing forth a very vehement sighe, and throwing his armes fast about her, said: o helpe me deare love, or elsee i dye; and, in speaking the words, fell downe uppon the ground. which the yong damosell perceiving, and drawing him into her lappe, weeping saide: alas sweete friend, what paine dost thou feele? _gabriello_ answered not one word, but being in an exceeding sweate, without any ability of drawing breath, very soone after gave up the ghost. how greevous this strange accident was to poore _andreana_, who loved him as deerely as her owne life: you that have felt loves tormenting afflictions, can more easily conceive, then i relate. wringing her hands, & weeping incessantly, calling him, rubbing his temples, and using all likely meanes to reduce life: she found all her labour to be spent in vain, because he was starke dead indeed, and every part of his body as cold as ice: whereupon, she was in such wofull extremity, that she knew not what to do or say. all about the garden she went weeping, in infinite feares and distraction of soule, calling for her chamber-maid, the only secret friend to their stolne meetings, and told her the occasion of this sudden sorrow. after they had sighed and mourned awhile, over the dead body of _gabriello, andreana_ in this manner spake to her maid. seeing fortune hath thus bereft me of my love, mine owne life must needs be hatefull to me: but before i offer any violence to my selfe, let us devise some convenient meanes, as may both preserve mine honour from any touch or scandall, and conceale the secret love passing betweene us: but yet in such honest sort, that this body (whose blessed soule hath too soone forsaken it) may be honourably enterred. whereto her mayde thus answered: mistresse, never talke of doing any violence to your self, because by such a blacke and dismall deed, as you have lost his kind company here in this life, so shall you never more see him in the other world: for immediately you sinke downe to hell, which foule place cannot bee a receptacle for his faire soule, that was endued with so many singular vertues. wherefore, i holde it farre better for you, to comfort your selfe by all good meanes, and with the power of fervent prayer, to fight against all desperate intruding passions, as a truly vertuous minde ought to doe. now, as concerning his enterrement, the meanes is readily prepared for you heere in this garden, where never he hath bene seene by any, or his resorting hither knowne, but onely to our selves. if you will not consent to have it so, let you and i convey his bodye hence, and leave it in such apt place, where it may be found to morrow morning: and being then carried to his owne house, his friends and kindred will give it honest buriall. _andreana_, although her soule was extraordinarily sorrowfull, & teares flowed abundantly from her eyes; yet she listned attentively to hir maids counsell; allowing her first advice against desperation, to be truly good; but to the rest thus she replied. god forbid (quoth she) that i shold suffer so deare a loving friend, as he hath alwayes shewed himselfe to mee; nay, which is much more, my husband; by sacred and solemn vowes passed betweene us, to be put into the ground basely, and like a dog, or elsee to be left in the open streete. he hath had the sacrifice of my virgin teares, and if i can prevaile, he shall have some of his kindred, as i have instantly devised, what (in this hard case) is best to be done. forthwith she sent the maid to her chamber, for divers elles of white damaske lying in her chest, which when she had brought, they spread it abroad on the grasse, even in the manner of a winding sheete, and therein wrapped the bodie of _gabriello_, with a faire wrought pillow lying under his head, having first (with their teares) closed his mouth and eyes, and placed a chaplet of flowers on his head, covering the whole shrowd over in the same manner, which being done, thus she spake to her maide. the doore of his owne house is not farre hence, and thither (between us two) he may be easily carried, even in this manner as we have adorned him; where leaving him in his owne porch, we may returne back before it be day; and although it will be a sad sight to his friends; yet, because he dyed in mine armes, and we being so well discharged of the bodie, it will be a little comfort to me. when she had ended these words, which were not uttered without infinite teares, the maid entreated her to make hast, because the night passed swiftly on. at last, she remembred the ring on her finger, wherewith _gabriello_ had solemnly espoused her, and opening the shroud againe, she put it on his finger, saying, my deare and loving husband, if thy soule can see my teares, or any understanding do remaine in thy body, being thus untimely taken from me: receive the latest guifte thou gavest me, as a pledge of our solemne and spotlesse marriage. so, making up the shroud againe as it should be, and conveighing it closely out of the garden, they went on along with it, towardes his dwelling house. as thus they passed along, it fortuned, that they were met and taken by the guard or watch belonging to the potestate, who had bin so late abroad, about very earnest and important businesse. _andreana_, desiring more the dead mans company, then theirs whom she had thus met withall, boldly spake thus to them. i know who and what you are, and can tel my selfe, that to offer flight will nothing availe me: wherefore, i am ready to go along with you before the seigneurie, and there will tel the truth concerning this accident. but let not any man among you, be so bold as to lay hand on me, or to touch me, because i yeeld so obediently to you: neither to take any thing from this body, except he intend that i shal accuse him. in which respect, not any one daring to displease her, shee went with the dead bodye to the seigneurie, there to answere all objections. when notice heereof was given to the potestate, he arose; and shee being brought foorth into the hall before him, he questioned with her, how and by what meanes this accident happened. beside, he sent for divers physitians, to be informed by them, whether the gentleman were poysoned, or otherwise murthered: but al of them affirmed the contrary, avouching rather, that some impostumation had engendred neere his heart, which sodainly breaking, occasioned his as sodaine death. the potestate hearing this, and perceiving that _andreana_ was little or nothing at all faulty in the matter: her beauty and good carriage, kindled a villanous and lustfull desire in him towards her, provoking him to the immodest motion, that upon granting his request, he would release her. but when he saw, that all his perswasions were to no purpose, hee sought to compasse his will by violence; which, like a vertuous and valiant _virago_, shee worthily withstood, defending her honour nobly, and reprooving him with many injurious speeches, such as a lustfull letcher justlie deserved. on the morrow morning, these newes being brought to her father, _messer negro da ponte cararo_; greeving thereat exceedingly, and accompanied with many of his friends, he went to the palace. being there arrived, and informed of the matter by the potestate: hee demaunded (in teares) of his daughter, how, and by what meanes shee was brought thither? the potestate would needs accuse her first, of outrage and wrong offered to him by her, rather then to tarry her accusing of him: yet, commending the yong maiden, and her constancie, proceeded to say, that onely to prove her, he had made such a motion to her, but finding her so firmly vertuous, his love and liking was now so addicted to her, that if hir father were so pleased, to forget the remembrance of her former secret husband, he willingly would accept her in marriage. while thus they continued talking, _andreana_ comming before her father, the teares trickling mainly downe her cheekes, and falling at his feete, she began in this manner. deare father, i shall not neede to make an historicall relation, either of my youthfull boldnesse or misfortunes, because you have both seene and knowne them: rather most humblie, i crave your pardon, for another error by me committed, in that, both without your leave and liking, i accepted the man as my troth-plighted husband, whom (above all other in the world) i most intirely affected. if my offence heerein do challenge the forfeite of my life, then (good father) i free you from any such pardon: because my onely desire is to die your daughter, and in your gracious favour; with which words, in signe of her humility, she kissed his feete. _messer negro da ponte_, being a man well stept into yeares, and of a milde and gentle nature, observing what his daughter had saide: could not refraine from teares, and in his weeping, lovingly tooke her from the ground, speaking thus to her. daughter, i could have wished, that thou hadst taken such an husband, as (in my judgement) had bene best fitting for thee, and yet if thou didst make election of one, answerable to thine owne good opinion & liking: i have no just reason to be therewith offended. my greatest cause of complaint, is, thy too severe concealing it from me, and the slender trust thou didst repose in me, because thou hast lost him, before i knew him. neverthelesse, seeing these occasions are thus come to passe, and accidents alreadie ended, cannot by any meanes be re-called: it is my will, that as i would gladly have contented thee, by making him my sonne in law, if he had lived; so i will expresse the like love to him now he is dead. and so turning himself to his kindred and friends, lovingly requested of them, that they would grace _gabriello_ with most honourable obsequies. by this time, the kindred and friends to the dead man (uppon noise of his death bruited abroad) were likewise come to the pallace, yea, most of the men and women dwelling in the city, the bodie of _gabriello_ beeing laide in the midst of the court, upon the white damaske shrowde given by _andreana_, with infinite roses and other sweet flowers lying thereon: and such was the peoples love to him, that never was any mans death, more to be bemoaned and lamented. being delivered out of the court, it was carried to buriall, not like a burgesse or ordinary citizen, but with such pompe as beseemed a lord baron, and on the shoulders of very noble gentlemen, with very especiall honour and reverence. within some few dayes after, the potestate pursuing his former motion of marriage, and the father moving it to his daughter; she wold not by any meanes listen thereto. and he being desirous to give her contentment, delivered her and her chamber-maid into a religious abbey, very famous for devotion and sanctity, where afterwardes they ended their lives. _faire_ simonida _affecting_ pasquino, _and walking with him in a pleasant garden, it fortuned, that_ pasquino _rubbed his teeth with a leafe of sage, and immediately fell downe dead._ simonida _being brought before the bench of justice, and charged with the death of_ pasquino: _she rubbed her teeth likewise with one of the leaves of the same sage, as declaring what shee saw him do: and thereon she dyed also in the same manner._ the seaventh novell. _whereby is given to understand, that love & death do use their power equally alike, as well upon poore and meane persons, as on them that are rich and noble._ _pamphilus_ having ended his tale, the king declaring an outward shew of compassion, in regard of _andreanaes_ disastrous fortune: fixed his eye on madam _emillia_, and gave her such an apparant signe, as expressed his pleasure, for her next succeeding in discourse; which being sufficient for her understanding, thus she began: faire assembly, the novel so lately delivered by _pamphilus_, maketh me willing to report another to you, varying from it, in any kinde of resemblance; onely this excepted: that as _andreana_, lost her lover in a garden, even so did shee of whome i am now to speake. and being brought before the seate of justice, according as _andreana_ was, freed her selfe from the power of the law; yet neither by force, or her owne vertue, but by her sodaine and inopinate death. and although the nature of love is such (according as wee have oftentimes heeretofore maintained) to make his abiding in the houses of the noblest persons; yet men and women of poore and farre inferiour quality, do not alwayes sit out of his reach, though enclosed in their meanest cottages; declaring himselfe sometimes as powerfull a commaunder in those humble places, as he doth in the richest and most imperious palaces. as will plainly appeare unto you, either in all, or a great part of my novell, whereto our citie pleadeth some title; though, by the diversity of our discourses, talking of so many severall accidents; we have wandred into many other parts of the world, to make all answerable to our owne liking. it is not any long time since, when there lived in our city of _florence_, a young and beautifull damosell, yet according to the nature of hir condition; because she was the daughter of a poore father, and called by the name of _simonida_. now, albeit shee was not supplied by any better meanes, then to maintaine her selfe by her owne painfull travell, & earne her bread before shee could eate it, by carding and spinning to such as employed her; yet was she not of so base or dejected a spirit, but had both courage and sufficient vertue, to understand the secret solicitings of love, and to distinguish the parts of well deserving, both by private behaviour and outward ceremony. as naturall instinct was her first tutor thereto, so wanted she not a second maine and urging motion; a chip hewed out of the like timber, one no better in birth then her selfe, a proper young springall, named _pasquino_, whose generous behaviour, and gracefull actions (in bringing her daily wooll to spin, by reason his master was a clothier) prevailed upon her liking and affection. nor was he negligent in the observation of her amorous regards, but the tinder tooke, and his soule flamed with the selfe-same fire; making him as desirous of her loving acceptance, as possibly she could bee of his: so that the commanding power of love, could not easily be distinguished in which of them it had the greater predominance. for, everie day as he brought her fresh supply of woolles, and found her seriously busied at hir wheele: her soule would vent forth many deepe sighes, and those sighes fetch floods of teares from her eyes, thorough the singular good opinion she had conceyved of him, and earnest desire to enjoy him. _pasquino_ on the other side, as leysure gave him leave for the least conversing with her: his disease was every way answerable to her, for teares stood in his eyes, sighes flew abroad, to ease the poore hearts afflicting oppressions, which though he was unable to conceale; yet would hee seeme to clowd them cleanly, by entreating her that his masters worke might be neatly performed, and with such speed as time would permit her, intermixing infinite praises of her artificiall spinning; and affirming withall, that the quilles of yearne received from her, were the choisest beauty of the whole peece; so that when other worke-women played, _simonida_ was sure to want no employment. heereupon, the one soliciting, and the other taking delight in beeing solicited; it came to passe, that often accesse bred the bolder courage, & over-much bashfulnesse became abandoned, yet no immodestie passing betweene them: but affection grew the better setled in them both, by interchangeable vowes of constant perseverance, so that death onely, but no disaster elsee had power to divide them. their mutuall delight continuing on in this manner, with more forcible encreasing of their loves equall flame; it fortuned, that _pasquino_ sitting by _simonida_, tolde her of a goodly garden, whereto hee was desirous to bring her, to the end, that they might the more safely converse together, without the suspition of envious eyes. _simonida_ gave answer of her well-liking the motion, and acquainting her father therewith, he gave her leave, on the sunday following after dinner, to go serch the pardon of s. _gallo_, and afterwards to visit the garden. a modest yong maiden named _lagina_, following the same profession, and being an intimate familiar friend, _simonida_ tooke along in her company, and came to the garden appointed by _pasquino_; where shee found him readily expecting her comming, and another friend also with him, called _puccino_ (albeit more usually tearmed _strambo_) a secret well-willer to _lagina_, whose love became the more furthered by this friendly meeting. each lover delighting in his hearts chosen mistresse, caused them to walke alone by themselves, as the spaciousnesse of the garden gave them ample liberty: _puccino_ with his _lagina_ in one part, & _pasquino_ with his _simonida_ in another. the walke which they had made choise of, was by a long and goodly bed of sage, turning and returning by the same bed as their conference ministred occasion, and as they pleased to recreate themselves; affecting rather to continue still there, then in any part of the garden. one while they would sit downe by the sage bed, and afterward rise to walke againe, as ease or wearinesse seemed to invite them. at length, _pasquino_ chanced to crop a leafe of the sage, wherewith he both rubbed his teeth and gummes, and champing it betweene them also, saying; that there was no better thing in the world to cleanse the teeth withall, after feeding. not long had he thus champed the sage in his teeth, returning to his former kinde of discoursing, but his countenance began to change very pale, his sight failed, and speech forsooke him; so that (in briefe) he fell downe dead. which when _simonida_ beheld, wringing her hands, she cryed out for helpe to _strambo_ and _lagina_, who immediately came running to her. they finding _pasquino_ not onely to be dead, but his bodie swolne; and strangely over-spred with foule black spots, both on his face, handes, and all parts elsee beside: _strambo_ cried out, saying; ah wicked maide, what hast thou poisoned him? these words and their shrill out-cries also, were heard by neighbours dwelling neere to the garden, who comming in sodainly uppon them, and seeing _pasquino_ lying dead, and hugely swoln, _strambo_ likewise complaining, and accusing _simonida_ to have poysoned him; shee making no answer, but standing in a gastly amazement, all her senses meerely confounded, at such a strange and uncouth accident, in loosing him whome she so dearely loved: knew not how to excuse her selfe, and therefore every one verily beleeved, that _strambo_ had not unjustly accused her. poore woful maide, thus was shee instantly apprehended, and drowned in her teares, they led her along to the potestates palace, where her accusation was justified by _strambo, lagina,_ and two men more; the one named _atticciato_, and the other _malagevole_, fellowes and companions with _pasquino_, who came into the garden also upon the out-cry. the judge, without any delay at all, gave eare to the busines, and examined the case very strictly: but could by no meanes comprehend, that any malice should appeare in her towards him, nor that she was guiltie of the mans death. wherefore, in the presence of _simonida_, hee desired to see the dead body, and the place where he fell downe dead, because there he intended to have her relate, how she saw the accident to happen, that her owne speeches might the sooner condemne her, whereas the case yet remained doubtfull, and farre beyond his comprehension. so, without any further publication, and to avoid the following of the turbulent multitude: they departed from the bench of justice, and came to the place, where _pasquinoes_ body lay swolne like a tunne. demanding there questions, concerning his behaviour, when they walked there in conference together, and, not a little admiring the manner of his death, while hee stood advisedly considering thereon. she going to the bed of sage, reporting the whole precedent history, even from the original to the ending: the better to make the case understood, without the least colour of ill carriage towardes _pasquino_; according as she had seene him do, even so did she plucke another leafe of the sage, rubbing her teeth therewith, and champing it as he formerly did. _strambo_, and the other intimate friends of _pasquino_, having noted in what manner she used the sage, and this appearing as her utmost refuge, either to acquit or condemne her: in presence of the judge they smiled thereat, mocking and deriding whatsoever shee saide, or did, and desiring (the more earnestly) the sentence of death against her, that her body might be consumed with fire, as a just punishment for her abhominable transgression. poore _simonida_, sighing and sorrowing for her deere loves losse, and (perhappes) not meanly terrified, with the strict infliction of torment so severely urged and followed by _strambo_ and the rest: standing dumb still, without answering so much as one word; by tasting of the same sage, fell downe dead by the bed, even by the like accident as _pasquino_ formerly did, to the admirable astonishment of all there present. oh poore infortunate lovers, whose starres were so inauspicious to you, as to finish both your mortall lives, and fervent love, in lesse limitation then a dayes space. how to censure of your deaths, and happines to ensue thereon, by an accident so straunge and inevitable: it is not within the compasse of my power, but to hope the best, and so i leave you. but yet concerning _simonida_ her selfe, in the common opinion of us that remaine living: her true vertue and innocency (though fortune was other wise most cruell to her) would not suffer her to sinke under the testimony of _strambo, lagina, atticciato_ and _malagevole_, being but carders of wool, or perhaps of meaner condition; a happier course was ordained for her, to passe clearly from their infamous imputation, and follow her _pasquino_, in the verie same manner of death, and with such a speedie expedition. the judge standing amazed, and all there present in his companie, were silent for a long while together: but, uppon better re-collection of his spirits, thus he spake. this inconvenience which thus hath hapned, and confounded our senses with no common admiration; in mine opinion concerneth the bed of sage, avouching it either to bee venomous, or dangerously infected; which (neverthelesse) is seldom found in sage. but to the end, that it may not be offensive to any more heereafter, i will have it wholly digd up by the rootes, and then to bee burnt in the open market place. hereupon, the gardiner was presently sent for, and before the judge would depart thence, he saw the bed of sage digged up by the roots, and found the true occasion, whereby these two poore lovers lost their lives. for, just in the middest of the bed, and at the maine roote, which directed all the sage in growth; lay an huge mighty toad, even weltring (as it were) in a hole full of poyson; by meanes whereof, in conjecture of the judge, and all the rest, the whole bed of sage became envenomed, occasioning every leafe thereof to be deadly in taste. none being so hardie, as to approach neere the toade, they made a pile of wood directly over it, and setting it on a flaming fire, threw all the sage thereinto, and so they were consumed together. so ended all further suite in lawe, concerning the deaths of _pasquino_ and _simonida_: whose bodies being carried to the church of saint _paul_, by their sad and sorrowfull accusers, _strambo, lagina, atticciato_ and _malagevole_, were buried together in one goodlie monument, for a future memory of their hard fortune. jeronimo _affecting a yong maiden, named_ silvestra: _was constrained (by the earnest importunity of his mother) to take a journey to_ paris. _at his return home from thence againe, hee found his love_ silvestra _married. by secret meanes, he got entrance into her house, and dyed upon the bed lying by her. afterward, his body being carried to church, to receive buriall, she likewise died there instantly upon his coarse._ the eight novell. _wherein is againe declared, the great indiscretion and folly of them, that think to constraine love, according to their will, after it is constantly setled before: with other instructions, concerning the unspeakeable power of love._ madam _emillia_ had no sooner concluded her novell, but madame _neiphila_ (by the kings command) began to speake in this manner. it seemeth to mee (gracious ladies) that there are some such people to be found, who imagine themselves to know more, then all other elsee in the world beside, and yet indeede doe know nothing at all: presuming (thorough this arrogant opinion of theirs) to imploy and oppose their senselesse understanding, against infallible grounded reason, yea, and to attempt courses, not only contrary to the counsell and judgment of men, but also to crosse the nature of divine ordination. out of which fancy & ambitious presumption, many mighty harmes have already had beginning, and more are like to ensue uppon such boldnesse, because it is the ground of all evils. now, in regard that among all other naturall things, no one is lesse subject to take counsell, or can bee wrought to contrariety, then love, whose nature is such, as rather to run upon his owne rash consumption, then to be ruled by admonitions of the very wisest: my memory hath inspired itself, with matter incident to this purpose, effectually to approve, what i have already said. for i am now to speake of a woman, who would appeare to have more wit, then either she had indeed, or appertained to her by any title. the matter also, wherein she would needs shew hir studious judgement and capacity, was of much more consequence then she could deserve to meddle withall. yet such was the issue of her fond presuming; that (in one instant) she expelled both love, and the soule of her owne sonne out of his body, where (doubtlesse) it was planted by divine favour and appointment. in our owne city (according to true & ancient testimony) there dwelt sometime a very worthy and wealthy merchant, named _leonardo sighiero_, who by his wife had one onely sonne, called _jeronimo_, and within a short while after his birth, _leonardo_ being very sicke, and having setled al his affaires in good order; departed out of this wretched life to a better. the tutors and governours of the childe, thought it fittest to let him live with his mother, where he had his whole education, though schooled among many other worthy neighbours children, according as in most cities they use to do. yong _jeronimo_ growing on in yeares, and frequenting dayly the company of his schoole-fellowes and others: hee would often sport (as the rest did) with the neighbours children, and much prety pastime they found together. in the harmlesse recreations of youth, graver judgements have often observed, that some especiall matter received then such original, as greater effect hath followed thereon. and many times, parents and kindred have bene the occasion (although perhaps beyond their expectation) of very strange and extraordinary accidents, by names of familiarity passing betweene boyes and girles, as king and queene, sweet heart and sweet heart, friend and friend, husband and wife, and divers other such like kind tearmes, prooving afterwards to be true indeede. it fell out so with our yong _jeronimo_; for, among a number of pretty damoselse, daughters to men of especiall respect, and others of farre inferiour qualitie: a taylors daughter, excelling the rest in favour and feature (albeit her father was but poore) _jeronimo_ most delighted to sport withall; and no other titles passed betweene them, even in the hearing of their parents and friendes, but wife and husband: such was the beginning of their young affection, presaging (no doubt) effectually to follow. nor grew this familiarity (as yet) any way distasted, till by their dayly conversing together, and enterchange of infinite pretty speeches: _jeronimo_ felt a strange alteration in his soule, with such enforcing and powerfull afflictions; as he was never well but in her company, nor she enjoyed any rest if _jeronimo_ were absent. at the length, this being noted by his mother, she beganne to rebuke him, yea, many times gave him both threatnings and blowes, which proving to no purpose, nor hindering his accesse to her; she complained to his tutors, and like one that in regard of her riches, thought to plant an orange upon a blacke thorne, spake as followeth. this sonne of mine _jeronimo_, being as yet but fourteene years of age, is so deeply enamored of a yong girle, named _silvestra_, daughter unto a poore tailor, our neere dwelling neighbour: that if we do not send him out of her company, one day (perhaps) he may make her his wife, and yet without any knowledge of ours, which questionlesse would be my death. otherwise, he may pine and consume himselfe away, if he see us procure her marriage to some other. wherefore, i hold it good, that to avoid so great an inconvenience, we shold send _jeronimo_ some far distance hence, to remaine where some of our factors are employed: because, when he shall be out of her sight, and their often meetings utterly disappointed; his affection to her will the sooner ceasse, by frustrating his hope for ever enjoying her, and so we shall have the better meanes, to match him with one of greater quality. the tutors did like well of her advice, not doubting but it would take answerable effect: and therefore, calling _jeronimo_ into a private parlour, one of them began in this manner. _jeronimo_, you are now growne to an indifferent stature, and (almost) able to take government of your selfe. it cannot then seeme any way inconvenient, to acquaint you with your deceased fathers affaires, and by what good courses he came to such wealth. you are his onely sonne and heire, to whom hee hath bequeathed his rich possessions (your mothers moity evermore remembred) and travaile would now seeme fitting for you, as well to gaine experience in traffick and merchandize, as also to let you see the worlds occurrences. your mother therefore (and we) have thought it expedient, that you should journey from hence to _paris_, there to continue for some such fitting time, as may grant you full and free opportunity, to survey what stocke of wealth is there employed for you, and to make you understand, how your factors are furtherous to your affayres. beside, this is the way to make you a man of more solid apprehension, & perfect instruction in civill courses of life; rather then by continuing here to see none but lords, barons, and gentlemen, whereof wee have too great a number. when you are sufficiently qualified there, and have learned what belongeth to a worthy marchant, such as was _leonardo sighiero_ your famous father; you may returne home againe at your owne pleasure. the youth gave them attentive hearing, and (in few words) returned them answer: that he would not give way to any such travaile, because hee knew how to dispose of himselfe in _florence_, as well as in any other place he should be sent too. which when his tutors heard, they reproved him with many severe speeches: and seeing they could win no other answer from him, they made returne thereof to his mother. shee storming extreamly thereat, yet not so much for denying the journey to _paris_, as in regard of his violent affection to the maide; gave him very bitter and harsh language. all which availing nothing, she began to speake in a more milde and gentle straine, entreating him with flattering and affable words, to be governed in this case by his tutors good advise. and so farre (in the end) she prevailed with him, that he yeelded to live at _paris_ for the space of a yeare; but further time he would not graunt, and so all was ended. _jeronimo_ being gone to remain at _paris_, his love daily increasing more and more, by reason of his absence from _silvestra_, under faire and friendly promises, of this moneth and the next moneth sending for him home; there they detained him two whole yeares together. whereuppon, his love was growne to such an extremity, that he neither would, or could abide any longer there, but home hee returned, before hee was expected. his love _silvestra_, by the cunning compacting of his mother and tutors, he found married to a tent-makers sonne; whereat hee vexed and greeved beyond all measure. neverthelesse, seeing the case was now no way to bee holpen; hee strove to beare it with so much patience, as so great a wrong, and his hearts tormenting greefe, would give him leave to doe. having found out the place where she dwelt, hee began (as it is the custome of yong lovers) to use divers daily walkes by her door: as thinking in his minde, that her remembrance of him was constantly continued, as his was most intirely fixed on her. but the case was verie strangely altred, because she was now growne no more mindfull of him, then if she had never seene him before. or if she did any way remember him, it appeared to be so little, that manifest signes declared the contrary. which _jeronimo_ very quickely perceived, albeit not without many melanchollie perturbations. notwithstanding, he laboured by all possible meanes, to recover her former kindnesse againe: but finding all his paines frivouslie employed; he resolved to dye, and yet to compasse some speech with her before. by meanes of a neere dwelling neighbour (that was his verie deare & intimate friend) he came acquainted with every part of the house, & prevailed so far, that one evening, when she and her husband supt at a neighbours house; he compassed accesse into the same bed chamber, where _silvestra_ used most to lodge. finding the curtaines ready drawne, he hid himselfe behinde them on the further side of the bed, and so tarried there untill _silvestra_ and her husband were returned home, and laide downe in bedde to take their rest. the husbands sences were soone overcome with sleepe, by reason of his painefull toyling all the day, and bodies that are exercised with much labour, are the more desirous to have ease. she staying up last, to put out the light, and hearing her husband sleepe so soundly, that his snoring gave good evidence thereof: layed her selfe down the more respectively, as being very loath any way to disease him, but sweetly to let him enjoy his rest. _silvestra_ lay on the same side of the bed, where _jeronimo_ had hid himselfe behinde the curtaines; who stepping softly to her in the darke, and laying his hand gently on her brest, saide: deare love, forbeare a little while to sleepe, for heere is thy loyall friend _jeronimo_. the yong woman starting with amazement, would have cried out, but that hee entreated her to the contrary; protesting, that he came for no ill intent to her, but onely to take his latest leave of her. alas _jeronimo_ (quoth she) those idle dayes are past and gone, when it was no way unseemly for our youth, to entertaine equality of those desires, which then well agreed with our young blood. since when, you have lived in forraine countries, which appeared to me to alter your former disposition: for, in the space of two whole yeares, either you grew forgetfull of me (as change of ayre, may change affection) or (at the best) made such account of mee, as i never heard the least salutation from you. now you know me to be a married wife, in regard whereof, my thoughts have embraced that chaste and honourable resolution, not to minde any man but my husband; and therefore, as you are come hither without my love or license, so in like manner i do desire you to be gone. let this priviledge of my husbandes sound sleeping, be no colour to your longer continuing heere, or encourage you to finde any further favour at mine hand: for if mine husband shold awake, beside the danger that thereon may follow to you, i cannot but loose the sweet happinesse of peacefull life, which hitherto we have both mutually embraced. the yong man, hearing these wordes, and remembring what loving kindnesse he had formerly found, what secret love letters hee had sent from _paris_, with other private intelligences and tokens, which never came to her receite and knowledge, so cunningly his mother and tutors had carried the matter: immediately he felt his heart strings to break; and lying downe upon the beds side by her, uttered these his very last words. _silvestra_ farewell, thou hast kilde the kindest heart that ever loved a woman: and speaking no more, gave up the ghost. she hearing these words delivered with an entire sighe, and deepe-fetcht groane: did not imagine the strange consequence following thereon; yet was mooved to much compassion, in regard of her former affection to him. silent shee lay an indifferent while, as being unable to returne him any answer; and looking when he would be gone, according as before she had earnestly entreated him. but when she perceyved him to lye so still, as neither word or motion came from him, she saide: kinde _jeronimo_, why doest thou not depart and get thee gone? so putting forth her hand, it hapned to light upon his face, which she felt to be as cold as yce: whereat marvelling not a little, as also at his continued silence: shee jogged him, and felt his hands in like manner, which were stiffely extended forth, and all his body cold, as not having any life remaining in him, which greatly amazing her, and confounding her with sorrow beyond all measure, shee was in such perplexity, that the could not devise what to do or say. in the end, she resolved to try how her husband would take it, that so strange an accident should thus happen in his house, and putting the case as if it did not concerne them, but any other of the neighbours; awaking him first, demaunded of him what was best to bee done, if a man should steale into a neighbours house, unknowne to him, or any of his family; & in his bed chamber to be found dead. he presently replyed (as not thinking the case concerned himselfe) that, the onely helpe in such an unexpected extremity, was, to take the dead body, and convey it to his owne house, if he had any; whereby no scandall or reproach would followe to them, in whose house he had so unfortunately dyed. heereupon, shee immediately arose, and lighting a candle, shewed him the dead bodie of _jeronimo_, with protestation of every particular, both of her innocencie, either of knowledge of his comming thither, or any other blame that could concerne her. which hee both constantly knowing and beleeving, made no more ceremonie, but putting on his garments, tooke the dead bodie upon his shoulders, and carried it to the mothers doore, where he left it, and afterward returned to his owne house againe. when day light was come, and the dead body found lying in the porch, it moved very much greefe and amazement, considering, he had bin seene the day before, in perfect health to outward appearance. nor neede we to urge any question of his mothers sorrow upon this straunge accident, who, causing his body to bee carefully searched, without any blow, bruise, wound, or hurt uppon it, the physitians could not give any other opinion, but that some inward conceyte of greefe had caused his death, as it did indeed, and no way otherwise. to the cheefe church was the dead body carried, to be generally seene of all the people, his mother and friends weeping heavily by it, as many more did the like beside, because he was beloved of every one. in which time of universall mourning, the honest man (in whose house he dyed) spake thus to his wife: disguise thyselfe in some decent manner, and go to the church, where (as i heare) they have laide the body of _jeronimo_. crowde in amongest the women, as i will doe the like amongst the men, to heare what opinion passeth of his death, and whether wee shall bee scandalized thereby, or no. _silvestra_, who was now become full of pitty too late, quickely condiscended, as desiring to see him dead, whom sometime she dearly affected in life. and being come to the church, it is a matter to bee admired, if advisedly we consider on the powerfull working of love; for the heart of this woman, which the prosperous fortune of _jeronimo_ could not pierce, now in his wofull death did split in sunder; and the ancient sparks of love so long concealed in the embers, brake foorth into a furious flame; and being violently surprized with extraordinary compassion, no sooner did she come neere to the dead body, where many stoode weeping round about it; but strangely shrieking out aloud, she fell downe upon it: & even as extremity of greefe finished his life, so did it hers in the same manner. for she moved neither hand not foot, because her vitall powers had quite forsaken her. the women labouring to comfort her by al the best means they could devise; did not take any knowledge of her, by reason of her disguised garments: but finding her dead indeede, and knowing her also to be _silvestra_, being overcome with unspeakable compassion, & danted with no meane admiration, they stood strangely gazing each upon other. wonderfull crowds of people were then in the church; and this accident being now noysed among the men, at length it came to her husbands understanding, whose greefe was so great, as it exceeded all capacitie of expression. afterward, he declared what had hapned in his house the precedent night, according as his wife had truly related to him, with all the speeches, which past between _silvestra_ and _jeronimo_; by which discourse, they generally conceived, the certaine occasion of both their sodaine deaths, which moved them to great compassion. then taking the yong womans body, and ordering it as a coarse ought to bee: they layed it on the same biere by the yong man, and when they had sufficiently sorrowed for their disastrous fortunes, they gave them honourable buriall both in one grave. so, this poore couple, whome love (in life) could not joyne together, death did unite in an inseparable conjunction. _messer_ guiglielmo _of_ rossiglione _having slaine messer_ guiglielmo guardastagno, _whom hee imagined to love his wife, gave her his heart to eate. which she knowing afterward, threw her selfe out of an high window to the ground; and being dead, was then buried with her friend._ the ninth novell. _whereby appeareth, what ill successe attendeth on them, that love contrarie to reason: in offering injurie both to friendship and marriage together._ when the novell of madam _neiphila_ was ended, which occasioned much compassion in the whole assembly; the king who wold not infringe the priviledge graunted to _dioneus_, no more remaining to speake but they two, began thus. i call to minde (gentle ladies) a novell, which (seeing we are so farre entred into the lamentable accidents of successelesse love) will urge you unto as much commisseration, as that so lately reported to you. and so much the rather; because the persons of whom we are to speake, were of respective quality; which approveth the accident to bee more cruell, then those whereof wee have formerly discoursed. according as the people of _provence_ do report, there dwelt sometime in that jurisdiction, two noble knights, each well possessed of castles & followers; the one beeing named _messer guiglielmo de rossiglione_, and the other _messer guiglielmo guardastagno_. now, in regard that they were both valiant gentlemen, and singularly expert in actions of armes; they loved together the more mutually, and held it as a kinde of custom, to be seene in all tiltes and tournaments, or any other exercises of armes, going commonly alike in their wearing garments. and although their castles stood about five miles distant each from other, yet were they dayly conversant together, as very loving and intimate friends. the one of them, i meane _messer guiglielmo de rossiglione_, had to wife a very gallant beautifull lady, of whom _messer guardastagno_ (forgetting the lawes of respect and loyall friendshippe) became over-fondly enamoured, expressing the same by such outward meanes, that the lady her selfe tooke knowledge thereof, and not with any dislike, as it seemed, but rather lovingly entertained; yet she grew not so forgetfull of her honour and estimation, as the other did of faith to his friend. with such indiscretion was this idle love carried, that whether it sorted to effect, or no, i know not: but the husband perceived some such manner of behaviour, as hee could not easily digest, nor thought it fitting to endure. whereuppon, the league of friendly amity so long continued, began to faile in very strange fashion, and became converted into deadly hatred: which yet hee very cunningly concealed, bearing an outwarde shew of constant friendshippe still, but (in his heart) hee had vowed the death of _guardastagno_. nothing wanted, but by what meanes it might best be effected, which fell out to bee in this manner. a publicke just or tourney, was proclaimed by sound of trumpet throughout all france, wherewith immediately, _messer guiglielmo rossiglione_ acquainted _messer guardastagno_, entreating him that they might further conferre thereon together, and for that purpose to come and visit him, if he intended to have any hand in the businesse. _guardastagno_ being exceeding gladde of this accident, which gave him liberty to see his mistresse; sent answer backe by the messenger, that on the morrow at night, he would come and sup with _rossiglione_; who upon this reply, projected to himselfe in what manner to kill him. on the morrow, after dinner, arming himselfe, and two more of his servants with him, such as he had solemnly sworne to secrecy, hee mounted on horseback, and rode on about a mile from his owne castle, where he lay closely ambushed in a wood, through which _guardastagno_ must needs passe. after he had stayed there some two houres space and more, he espyed him come riding with two of his attendants, all of them being unarmed, as no way distrusting any such intended treason. so soone as he was come to the place, where he had resolved to do the deed; hee rushed forth of the ambush, and having a sharpe lance readily charged in his rest, ran mainly at him, saying: false villain, thou art dead. _guardastagno_, having nothing wherewith to defend himselfe, nor his servants able to give him any succour; being pierced quite through the body with the lance, downe hee fell dead to the ground, and his men (fearing the like misfortune to befall them) gallopped mainely backe againe to their lords castle, not knowing them who had thus murthered their master, by reason of their armed disguises, which in those martiall times were usually worne. _messer guiglielmo rossiglione_, alighting from his horse, and having a keene knife ready drawne in his hand; opened therewith the brest of dead _guardastagno_, and taking foorth his heart with his owne hands, wrapped it in the banderole belonging to his lance, commanding one of his men to the charge thereof, and never to disclose the deed. so, mounting on horse-backe againe, and darke night drawing on apace, he returned home to his castle. the lady, who had heard before of _guardastagnoes_ intent, to suppe there that night, and (perhaps) being earnestly desirous to see him; mervailing at his so long tarrying, saide to her husband. beleeve me sir (quoth she) me thinkes it is somewhat strange, that _messer guiglielmo guardastagno_ delayes his comming so long, he never used to do so til now. i received tidings from him wife (said he) that he cannot be heere till to morrow. whereat the lady appearing to bee displeased, concealed it to her selfe, and used no more words. _rossiglione_ leaving his lady, went into the kitchin, where calling for the cooke, he delivered him the heart, saying: take this heart of a wilde boare, which it was my good happe to kill this day, and dresse it in the daintiest manner thou canst devise to doe; which being so done, when i am set at the table, send it to me in a silver dish, with sauce beseeming so dainty a morsell. the cooke tooke the heart, beleeving it to be no otherwise, then as his lord had saide: and using his utmost skill in dressing it, did divide it into artificiall small slices, and made it most pleasing to be tasted. when supper time was come, _rossiglione_ sate downe at the table with his lady: but hee had little or no appetite at all to eate, the wicked deed which he had done so perplexed his soule, and made him to sit very strangely musing. at length, the cook brought in the dainty dish, which he himselfe setting before his wife, began to finde fault with his own lack of stomack, yet provoked her with many faire speeches, to tast the cooks cunning in so rare a dish. the lady having a good appetite indeede, when she had first tasted it, fed afterward so heartily thereon, that shee left very little, or none at all remaining. when he perceyved that all was eaten, he said unto her: tel me madam, how you do like this delicate kinde of meat? in good faith sir (quoth she) in all my life i was never better pleased. now trust mee madam, answered the knight, i doe verily beleeve you, nor do i greatly wonder thereat, if you like that dead, which you loved so dearly being alive. when she heard these words, a long while she sate silent, but afterward saide. i pray you tell mee sir, what meate was this which you have made me to eate? muse no longer (said he) for therein i will quickly resolve thee. thou hast eaten the heart of _messer guiglielmo guardastagno_, whose love was so deare and precious to thee, thou false, perfidious, and disloyall lady: i pluckt it out of his vile body with mine owne hands, and made my cooke to dresse it for thy diet. poor lady, how strangely was her soule afflicted, hearing these harsh and unpleasing speeches? teares flowed aboundantly from her faire eies, and like tempestuous windes embowelled in the earth, so did vehement sighes breake mainly from her heart, and after a tedious time of silence, she spake in this manner. my lord and husband, you have done a most disloyall and damnable deede, misguided by your owne wicked jealous opinion, and not by any just cause given you, to murther so worthie and noble a gentleman. i protest unto you uppon my soule, which i wish to bee confounded in eternall perdition, if ever i were unchaste to your bedde, or allowed him any other favour, but what might well become so honourable a friend. and seeing my bodie hath bene made the receptacle for so precious a kinde of foode, as the heart of so valiant and courteous a knight, such as was the noble _guardastagno_; never shall any other foode heereafter, have entertainment there, or my selfe live the wife to so bloody a husband. so starting uppe from the table, and stepping unto a great gazing windowe, the casement whereof standing wide open behinde her: violently shee leaped out thereat, which beeing an huge heighth in distance from the ground, the fall did not onely kill her, but also shivered her bodie into many peeces. which _rossiglione_ perceyving, hee stoode like a bodie without a soule, confounded with the killing of so deare a friend, losse of a chaste and honourable wife, and all through his owne over-credulous conceit. uppon further conference with his private thoughtes, and remorsefull acknowledgement of his heinous offence, which repentance (too late) gave him eyes now to see, though rashnesse before would not permit him to consider; these two extreamities inlarged his dulled understanding. first, he grew fearfull of the friends and followers to murdered _guardastagno_, as also the whole countrey of _provence_, in regarde of the peoples generall love unto him; which being two maine and important motives, both to the detestation of so horrid an acte, and immediate severe revenge to succeed thereon: hee made such provision as best hee could, and as so sodaine a warning would give leave, hee fled away secretly in the night season. these unpleasing newes were soone spread abroad the next morning, not only of the unfortunate accidents, but also of _rossigliones_ flight; in regard whereof, the dead bodyes being found, and brought together, as well by the people belonging to _guardastagno_, as them that attended on the lady: they were layed in the chappell of _rossigliones_ castell; where, after so much lamentation for so great a misfortune to befall them, they were honourably enterred in one faire tombe, with excellent verses engraven thereon, expressing both their noble degree, and by what unhappy meanes, they chanced to have buriall there. _a physitians wife laide a lover of her maids (supposing him to bee dead) in a chest, by reason that he had drunke water, which usually was given to procure a sleepy entrancing. two lombard usurers, stealing the chest, in hope of a rich booty, carried it into their owne house, where afterward the man awaking, was apprehended for a theefe. the chamber-maide to the physitians wife, going before the bench of justice, accuseth her selfe for putting the imagined dead body into the chest, by which meanes he escapeth hanging. and the theeves which stole away the chest, were condemned to pay a great summe of money._ the tenth novell. _wherein is declared, that sometime by adventurous accident, rather then anie reasonable comprehension, a man may escape out of manifold perilles, but especially in occurrences of love._ after that the king had concluded his novell, there remained none now but _dioneus_ to tell the last; which himselfe confessing, and the king commaunding him to proceede, he beganne in this manner. so many miseries of unfortunate love, as all of you have alreadie related, hath not onely swolne your eyes with weeping, but also made sicke our hearts with sighing: yea (gracious ladies) i my selfe finde my spirits not meanly afflicted thereby. wherefore the whole day hath bene very irkesome to me, and i am not a little glad, that it is so neere ending. now, for the better shutting it up altogether, i would be very loath to make an addition, of any more such sad and mournfull matter, good for nothing but onely to feede melancholly humour, and from which (i hope) my faire starres will defend me. tragical discourse, thou art no fit companion for me, i will therefore report a novell which may minister a more joviall kinde of argument, unto those tales that must bee told to morrow, and with the expiration of our present kings reigne, to rid us of all heart-greeving heereafter. know then (most gracious assembly) that it is not many yeares since, when there lived in _salerne_, a verie famous physitian, named signieur _mazzeo della montagna_, who being already well entred into years, would (neverthelesse) marrie with a beautifull young mayden of the cittie, bestowing rich garments, gaudie attyres, ringes, and jewelles on her, such as few women elsee could any way equall, because hee loved her most deerely. yet being an aged man, and never remembering, how vaine and idle a thing it is, for age to make such an unfitting election, injurious to both; and therefore endangering that domesticke agreement, which ought to bee the sole and maine comfort of marriage: it maketh mee therefore to misdoubt, that as in our former tale of signiour _ricciardo de cinzica_, some dayes of the calender did heere seeme as distastefull, as those that occasioned the other womans discontentment. in such unequall choyses, parents commonly are more blame-woorthie, then any imputation, to bee layde on the young women, who gladdely would enjoy such as in heart they have elected: but that their parents, looking thorough the glasses of greedie lucre, doe overthrow both their owne hopes, and the faire fortunes of their children together. yet to speake uprightly of this young married wife, she declared her selfe to be of a wise and chearefull spirit, not discoraged with her inequalitie of marriage: but bearing all with a contented browe, for feare of urging the very least mislike in her husband. and hee, on the other side, when occasions did not call him to visite his pacients, or to be present at the colledge among his fellow-doctours, would alwayes bee chearing and comforting his wife, as one that could hardly affoord to bee out of her company. there is one especiall fatall misfortune, which commonly awaiteth on olde mens marriages; when freezing december will match with flouring may, and greene desires appeare in age, beyond all possibility of performance. nor are there wanting good store of wanton gallants, who hating to see beauty in this manner betrayed, and to the embraces of a loathed bed, will make their folly seene in publike appearance, and by their dayly proffers of amorous services (seeming compassionate of the womans disaster) are usually the cause of jealous suspitions, & very heinous houshold discontentments. among divers other, that faine would bee nibling at this bayte of beautie, there was one, named _ruggiero de jeroly_, of honourable parentage, but yet of such a deboshed and disordered life, as neither kindred or friends, were willing to take any knowledge of him, but utterly gave him over to his dissolute courses: so that, thoroughout all _salerne_, his conditions caused his generall contempt, and hee accounted no better, but even as a theeving and lewde companion. the doctours wife, had a chamber-maide attending on her; who, notwithstanding all the ugly deformities in _ruggiero_, regarding more his person then his imperfections (because hee was a compleate and well-featured youth) bestowed her affection most entirely on him, and oftentimes did supplie his wants, with her owne best meanes. _ruggiero_ having this benefite of the maides kinde love to him, made it an hopefull mounting ladder, whereby to derive some good liking from the mistresse, presuming rather on his outward comely parts, then anie other honest quality that might commend him. the mistresse knowing what choyse her maide had made, and unable by any perswasions to remoove her, tooke knowledge of _ruggieroes_ privat resorting to hir house, and in meere love to her maide (who had very many especiall deservings in her) oftentimes she would (in kinde manner) rebuke him, and advise him to a more setled course of life; which counsell, that it might take the better effect; she graced with liberall gifts: one while with gold, others with silver, and often with garments, for his comelier accesse thether: which bounty, he (like a lewde mistaker) interpreted as assurances of her affection to him, and that he was more graceful in her eye, then any man elsee could be. in the continuance of these proceedings, it came to passe, that master doctor _mazzeo_ (being not onely a most expert physitian, but likewise as skilfull in chirurgerie beside) hadde a pacient in cure, who by great misfortune, had one of his legges broken all in pieces; which some weaker judgement having formerly dealt withall, the bones and sinewes were become so fowly putrified, as he tolde the parties friends, that the legge must bee quite cut off, or elsee the pacient must needes dye: yet he intended so to order the matter, that the perrill should proceede no further, to prejudice any other part of the bodie. the case beeing thus resolved on with the pacient and his friends, the day and time was appointed when the deede should be done: and the doctor conceyving, that except the patient were sleepily entranced, hee could not by anie meanes endure the paine, but must needes hinder what he meant to do: by distillation hee made such an artificiall water, as (after the pacient hath receyved it) it will procure a kinde of dead sleepe, and endure so long a space, as necessity requireth the use thereof, in full performance of the worke. after he had made this sleepy water, he put it into a glasse, wherewith it was filled (almost) up to the brimme; and till the time came when hee should use it; hee set it in his owne chamber-windowe, never acquainting any one, to what purpose he had provided the water, nor what was his reason of setting it there; when it drew towards the evening, and he was returned home from his pacients, a messenger brought him letters from _malfy_, concerning a great conflict hapning there between two noble families, wherein divers were very dangerously wounded on either side, and without his speedy repairing thither, it would prove to the losse of many lives. heereupon, the cure of the mans leg must needs bee prolonged, untill he was returned backe againe, in regard that manie of the wounded persons were his worthy friends, and liberall bountie was there to be expected, which made him presently go aboord a small barke, and forthwith set away towards _malfy_. this absence of master doctor _mazzeo_, gave opportunity to adventurous _ruggiero_, to visite his house (he being gone) in hope to get more crownes, and courtesie from the mistresse, under formall colour of courting the maide. and being closely admitted into the house, when divers neighbours were in conference with her mistresse, and helde her with such pleasing discourse, as required longer time then was expected: the maide, had no other roome to conceale _ruggiero_ in, but onely the bed chamber of her master, where she lockt him in; because none of the houshold people should descry him, and stayed attending on her mistris, till all the guests tooke their leave, and were gone. _ruggiero_ thus remayning alone in the chamber, for the space of three long houres and more, was visited neither by maide nor mistris, but awaited when he should bee set at liberty. now, whether feeding on salt meats before his coming thither, or customary use of drinking, which maketh men unable any long while to abstain, as being never satisfied with excesse; which of these two extreams they were, i know not: but drink needs hee must. and, having no other meanes for quenching his thirst, espied the glasse of water standing in the window, and thinking it to be some soveraigne kinde of water, reserved by the doctor for his owne drinking, to make him lusty in his old years, he tooke the glasse; and finding the water pleasing to his pallate, dranke it off every drop; then sitting downe on a coffer by the beds side, soone after hee fell into a sound sleepe, according to the powerfull working of the water. no sooner were all the neighbours gone, and the maide at libertie from her mistresse, but unlocking the doore, into the chamber she went; and finding _ruggiero_ sitting fast asleepe, she began to hunch and punche him, entreating him (softly) to awake: but all was to no purpose, for hee neither mooved, or answered one word, whereat her patience being some what provoked, she punched him more rudely, and angerly said: awake for shame thou drowsie dullard, and if thou be so desirous of sleeping, get thee home to thine owne lodging, because thou art not allowed to sleep heere. _ruggiero_ being thus rudely punched, fell from off the coffer flat on the ground, appearing no other in all respects, then as if hee were a dead body. whereat the maide being fearfully amazed, plucking him by the nose and yong beard, and what elsee she could devise to do, yet all her labour proving still in vaine: she was almost beside her wits, stamping and raving all about the roome, as if sence and reason had forsaken her; so violent was her extreame distraction. upon the hearing of this noise, her mistris came sodainely into the chamber, where being affrighted at so strange an accident, and suspecting that _ruggiero_ was dead indeed: she pinched him strongly, and burnt his fingers with a candle, yet all was as fruitlesse as before. then sitting downe, she began to consider advisedly with her selfe, how much her honour and reputation would be endangered heereby, both with her husband, and in vulgar opinion when this should come to publique notice. for (quoth she to her maide) it is not thy fond love to this unruly fellow that can sway the censure of the monster multitude, in beleeving his accesse hither onely to thee: but my good name, and honest repute, as yet untoucht with the very least taxation, will be rackt on the tenter of infamous judgement, and (though never so cleare) branded with generall condemnation. it is wisedome therefore, that we should make no noise but (in silence) consider with our selves, how to cleare the house of this dead body, by some such helpfull and witty device, as when it shall bee found in the morning, his being heere may passe without suspition, and the worlds rash opinion no way touch us. weeping and lamenting is now laid aside, and all hope in them of his lives restoring: onely to rid his body out of the house, that now requires their care and cunning, whereupon the maide thus beganne. mistresse (quoth she) this evening, although it was very late, at our next neighbours doore (who you know is a joyner by his trade) i saw a great chest stand; and, as it seemeth, for a publike sale, because two or three nightes together, it hath not bene thence remooved: and if the owner have not lockt it, all invention elsee cannot furnish us with the like help. for therein will we lay his body, whereon i will bestow two or three wounds with my knife, and leaving him so, our house can be no more suspected concerning his being heere, then any other in the streete beside; nay rather farre lesse, in regard of your husbands credit and authority. moreover, heereof i am certaine, that he being of such bad and disordered qualities: it will the more likely be imagined, that he was slaine by some of his own loose companions, being with them about some pilfering busines, and afterward hid his body in the chest, it standing so fitly for the purpose, and darke night also favouring the deed. the maids counsell past under the seale of allowance, only her mistris thought it not convenient, that (having affected him so deerely) shee should mangle his body with any wounds; but rather to let it be gathered by more likely-hood, that villaines had strangled him, and then conveied his body into the chest. away she sends the maide, to see whether the chest stood there still, or no; as indeede it did, and unlockt, whereof they were not a little joyfull. by the helpe of her mistresse, the maide tooke _ruggiero_ upon her shoulders, and bringing him to the doore, with diligent respect that no one could discover them; in the chest they laide him, and so there left him, closing downe the lidde according as they found it. in the same street, and not farre from the joyner, dwelt two yong men who were lombards, living uppon the interest of their moneyes, coveting to get much, and spend little. they having observed where the chest stood, and wanting a necessary mooveable to houshold, yet loath to lay out mony for buying it: complotted together this very night, to steale it thence, and carry it home to their house, as accordingly they did; finding it somewhat heavy, and therefore imagining, that matter of woorth was contained therein. in the chamber where their wives lay, they left it; and so without any further search till the next morning, they laid them down to rest likewise. _ruggiero_, who had now slept a long while, the drinke being digested, & the vertue thereof fully consummated; began to awake before day. and although his naturall sleep was broken, and his sences had recoverd their former power, yet notwithstanding, there remained such an astonishment in his braine, as not onely did afflict him all the day following, but also divers dayes and nights afterward. having his eies wide open, & yet not discerning any thing, he stretched forth his armes every where about him, and finding himselfe to be enclosed in the chest, he grew more broad awake, and said to himselfe. what is this? where am i? do i wake or sleepe? full well i remember, that not long since i was in my sweet-hearts chamber, and now (me thinkes) i am mewed up in a chest. what shold i thinke heereof? is master doctor returned home, or hath some other inconvenience hapned, whereby finding me asleepe, she was enforced to hide me thus? surely it is so, and otherwise it cannot bee: wherefore, it is best for mee to lye still, and listen when i can heare any talking in the chamber. continuing thus a longer while then otherwise hee would have done, because his lying in the bare chest was somewhat uneasie and painfull to him; turning divers times on the one side, and then as often again on the other, coveting still for ease, yet could not find any: at length, he thrust his backe so strongly against the chests side, that (it standing on an un-even ground) it began to totter, and after fell downe. in which fall, it made so loud a noise, as the women (lying in the beds standing by) awaked, and were so overcome with feare, that they had not the power to speake one word. _ruggiero_ also being affrighted with the chests fall, and perceiving how by that meanes it was become open: he thought it better, least some other sinister fortune should befall him, to be at open liberty, then inclosed up so strictly. and because he knew not where he was, as also hoping to meet with his mistresse; he went all about groping in the dark, to finde either some staires or doore, whereby to get forth. when the women (being then awake) heard his trampling, as also his justling against the doores and windowes; they demaunded, who was there? _ruggiero_, not knowing their voyces, made them no answer, wherefore they called to their husbands, who lay verie soundly sleeping by them, by reason of their so late walking abroad, and therefore heard not this noise in the house. this made the women much more timorous, and therefore rising out of their beddes, they opened the casements towards the streete, crying out aloude, theeves, theeves. the neighbours arose upon this outcry, running up and downe from place to place, some engirting the house, and others entering into it: by means of which troublesome noise, the two lombards awaked, and seizing there uppon poore _ruggiero_, (who was well-neere affrighted out of his wittes, at so strange an accident, and his owne ignorance, how he happened thither, and how to escape from them) he stood gazing on them without any answer. by this time, the sergeants and other officers of the city, ordinarily attending on the magistrate, beeing raised by the tumult of this uproare, were come into the house, and had poore _ruggiero_ committed unto their charge: who bringing him before the governor, was forthwith called in question, and known to be of a most wicked life, a shame to al his friends and kindred. he could say little for himselfe, never denying his taking in the house, and therefore desiring to finish all his fortunes together, desperately confessed, that he came with a fellonious intent to rob them, and the governor gave him sentence to be hanged. soone were the newes spread throughout _salerne_, that _ruggiero_ was apprehended, about robbing the house of the two usuring lombardes: which when mistresse doctor and her chamber-maide heard, they were confounded with most straunge admiration, and scarsely credited what they themselves had done the night before, but rather imagined all matters past, to be no more then meerely a dreame, concerning _ruggieroes_ dying in the house, and their putting him into the chest, so that by no likely or possible meanes, hee could bee the man in this perillous extreamitie. in a short while after, master doctor _mazzeo_ was returned from _malfy_, to proceede in his cure of the poore mans legge; and calling for his glasse of water, which he left standing in his owne chamber window, it was found quite empty, and not a drop in it: whereat hee raged so extreamly, as never had the like impatience beene noted in him. his wife, and her maide, who had another kinde of businesse in their braine, about a dead man so strangely come to life againe, knewe not well what to say; but at the last, his wife thus replyed somewhat angerly. sir (quoth she) what a coyle is heere about a paltry glasse of water, which perhaps hath bene spilt, yet neyther of us faulty therein? is there no more such water to be had in the world? alas deere wife (saide hee) you might repute it to be a common kinde of water, but indeede it was not so; for i did purposely compound it, onely to procure a dead-seeming sleepe: and so related the whole matter at large, of the pacients legge, and his waters losse. when she had heard these words of her husband, presently she conceived, that the water was drunke off by _ruggiero_, which had so sleepily entranced his sences, as they verily thought him to bee dead, wherefore she saide. beleeve me sir, you never acquainted us with any such matter, which would have procured more carefull respect of it: but seeing it is gone, your skill extendeth to make more, for now there is no other remedy. while thus master doctor and his wife were conferring together, the maide went speedily into the citie, to understand truly, whither the condemned man was _ruggiero_, and what would now become of him. beeing returned home againe, and alone with her mistresse in the chamber, thus she spake. now trust me mistresse, not one in the citie speaketh well of _ruggiero_, who is the man condemned to dye; and, for ought i can perceive, he hath neither kinsman nor friend that will doe any thing for him; but he is left with the provost, and must be executed to morrow morning. moreover mistresse, by such instructions as i have received, i can well-neere informe you, by what meanes hee came to the two lombards house, if all be true that i have heard. you know the joyner before whose doore the chest stoode, wherein we did put _ruggiero_; there is now a contention betweene him and another man, to whom (it seemeth) the chest doth belong; in regard whereof, they are readie to quarrell extremly each with other. for the one owning the chest, and trusting the joyner to sell it for him, would have him to pay him for the chest. the joyner denieth any sale thereof, avouching, that the last night it was stolne from his doore. which the other man contrarying, maintaineth that he solde the chest to the two lombard usurers, as himself is able to affirme, because he found it in the house, when he (being present at the apprehension of _ruggiero_) sawe it there in the same house. heereupon, the joyner gave him the lye, because he never sold it to any man; but if it were there, they had robd him of it, as hee would make it manifest to their faces. then falling into calmer speeches they went together to the lombardes house, even as i returned home. wherefore mistresse, as you may easily perceive, _ruggiero_ was (questionlesse) carried thither in the chest, and so there found; but how he revived againe, i cannot comprehend. the mistresse understanding now apparantly, the full effect of the whole businesse, and in what manner it had bene carried, revealed to the maide her husbands speeches, concerning the glasse of sleepie water, which was the onely engine of all this trouble, clearly acquitting _ruggiero_ of the robbery, howsoever (in desperate fury, and to make an end of a life so contemptible) he had wrongfully accused himselfe. and notwithstanding this his hard fortune, which hath made him much more infamous then before, in all the dissolute behaviour of his life: yet it coulde not quaile her affection towards him; but being loath he should dye for some other mans offence, and hoping his future reformation; she fell on her knees before her mistresse, and (drowned in her teares) most earnestly entreated her, to advise her with some such happy course, as might bee the safety of poore _ruggieroes_ life. mistresse doctor, affecting her maide dearely, and plainly perceiving, that no disastrous fortune whatsoever, could alter her love to condemned _ruggiero_; hoping the best heereafter, as the maide her selfe did, and willing to save life rather then suffer it to be lost without just cause, she directed her in such discreet manner, as you will better conceyve by the successe. according as she was instructed by hir mistris, shee fell at the feete of master doctor, desiring him to pardon a great error, whereby shee had over-much offended him. as how? said master doctor. in this manner (quoth the maid) and thus proceeded. you are not ignorant sir, what a leud liver _ruggiero de jeroly_ is, and notwithstanding all his imperfections, how dearely i love him, as hee protesteth the like to me, and thus hath our love continued a yeare, and more. you beeing gone to _malfy_, and your absence granting me apt opportunity, for conference with so kinde a friend; i made the bolder, and gave him entrance into your house, yea even into mine owne chamber, yet free from any abuse, neyther did hee (bad though he be) offer any. thirsty he was before his coming thether, either by salt meats, or distempered diet, and i being unable to fetch him wine or water, by reason my mistresse sate in the hall, seriouslie talking with her sisters; remembred, that i saw a viall of water standing in your chamber windowe, which hee drinking quite off, i set it emptie in the place againe. i have heard your discontentment for the said water, and confesse my fault to you therein: but who liveth so justly, without offending at one time or other? and i am heartily sorry for my transgression; yet not so much for the water, as the hard fortune that hath followd thereon; because thereby _ruggiero_ is in danger to lose his life, and all my hopes are utterly lost. let me entreat you therefore (gentle master) first to pardon me, and then to grant me permission, to succour my poore condemned friend, by all the best meanes i can devise. when the doctor had heard all her discourse, angry though he were, yet thus he answered with a smile. much better had it bin, if thy follies punishment had falne on thy selfe, that it might have paide thee with deserved repentance, upon thy mistresses finding thee sleeping. but go and get his deliverance if thou canst, with this caution, that if ever heereafter he be seene in my house, the peril thereof shall light on thy selfe. receyving this answer, for her first entrance into the attempt, and as her mistris had advised her, in all hast shee went to the prison, where shee prevailed so well with the jaylor, that hee granted her private conference with _ruggiero_. she having instructed him what he should say to the provost, if he had any purpose to escape with life; went thither before him to the provost, who admitting her into his presence, and knowing that shee was master doctors maid, a man especially respected of all the citie, he was the more willing to heare her message, he imagining that shee was sent by her master. sir (quoth shee) you have apprehended _ruggiero de jeroly_, as a theefe, and judgement of death is (as i heare) pronounced against him: but hee is wrongfully accused, and is clearly innocent of such a heinous detection. so entering into the history, she declared every circumstance, from the originall to the end: relating truly, that being her lover, shee brought him into her masters house, where he dranke the compounded sleepy water, and reputed for dead, she laide him in the chest. afterward, she rehearsed the speeches betweene the joyner, and him that laide claime to the chest, giving him to understand thereby, how _ruggiero_ was taken in the lombards house. the provost presently gathering, that the truth in this case was easy to be knowne; sent first for master doctor _mazzeo_, to know, whether hee compounded any such water, or no: which he affirmed to bee true, and upon what occasion he prepared it. then the joyner, the owner of the chest, and the two lombards, being severally questioned withall: it appeared evidently, that the lombards did steale the chest in the night season, and carried it home to their owne house. in the end, _ruggiero_ being brought from the prison, and demanded, where hee was lodged the night before, made answer, that he knew not where. only he well remembred, that bearing affection to the chamber-maide of master doctor _mazzeo della montagna_, she brought him into a chamber, where a violl of water stoode in the window, and he being extreamly thirsty, dranke it off all. but what became of him afterward (till being awake, hee found himselfe enclosed in a chest, and in the house of the two lombards) he could not say any thing. when the provost had heard all their answers, which he caused them to repeate over divers times, in regard they were very pleasing to him: he cleared _ruggiero_ from the crime imposed on him, and condemned the lombards in three hundred ducates, to bee given to _ruggiero_ in way of an amends, and to enable his marriage with the doctors mayde, whose constancie was much commended, and wrought such a miracle on penitent _ruggiero_; that, after his marriage, which was graced with great and honourable pompe, he regained the intimate love of all his kindred, and lived in most noble condition, even as if he had never beene the disordered man. if the former novelse had made all the ladies sad and sighe, this last of _dioneus_ as much delighted them, as restoring them to their former jocond humour, and banishing tragicall discourse for ever. the king perceyving that the sun was neere setting, and his government as neere ending, with many kinde and courteous speeches, excused himselfe to the ladies, for being the motive of such an argument, as expressed the infelicity of poore lovers. and having finished his excuse, up he arose, taking the crowne of lawrell from off his owne head, the ladies awaiting on whose head he pleased next to set it, which proved to be the gracious lady _fiammetta_, and thus hee spake. heere i place this crowne on her head, that knoweth better then any other, how to comfort this fayre assembly to morrow, for the sorrow which they have this day endured. madame _fiammetta_, whose lockes of haire were curled, long, and like golden wiers, hanging somewhat downe over her white & delicate shoulders, her visage round, wherein the damaske rose and lilly contended for priority, the eyes in her head, resembling those of the faulcon messenger, and a dainty mouth; her lippes looking like two little rubyes with a commendable smile thus she replyed. _philostratus_, gladly i do accept your gift; and to the end that ye may the better remember your selfe, concerning what you have done hitherto: i will and commaund, that generall preparation bee made against to morrow, for faire and happy fortunes hapning to lovers, after former cruell and unkinde accidents. which proposition was very pleasing to them all. then calling for the master of the housholde, and taking order with him, what was most needfull to be done; shee gave leave unto the whole company (who were all risen) to go recreate themselves until supper time. some of them walked about the garden, the beauty whereof banished the least thought of wearinesse. others walked by the river to the mill, which was not farre off, and the rest fel to exercises, fitting their own fancies, untill they heard the summons for supper. hard by the goodly fountaine (according to their wonted manner) they supped altogether, and were served to their no mean contentment: but being risen from the table, they fell to their delight of singing and dancing. while _philomena_ led the dance, the queene spake in this manner. _philostratus_, i intend not to varie from those courses heeretofore observed by my predecessors, but even as they have already done, so it is my authority, to command a song. and because i am well assured, that you are not unfurnished of songs answerable to the quality of the passed novelse: my desire is, in regard we would not be troubled heereafter, with any more discourses of unfortunate love, that you shall sing a song agreeing with your owne disposition. _philostratus_ made answer, that he was readie to accomplish her command, and without all further ceremony, thus he began. _the song._ chorus. _my teares do plainly prove, how justly that poore heart hath cause to greeve, which (under trust) findes treason in his love. when first i saw her, that now makes me sigh, distrust did never enter in my thoughts. so many vertues clearly shin'd in her, that i esteem'd all martyrdome was light which love could lay on me. nor did i greeve, although i found my liberty was lost. but now mine error i do plainly see: not without sorrow, thus betray'd to bee. my teares do, &c. for, being left by basest treachery of her in whom i most reposed trust: i then could see apparant flatterie in all the fairest shewes that she did make. but when i strove to get forth of the snare, i found myselfe the further plunged in. for i beheld another in my place, and i cast off, with manifest disgrace. my teares do, &c. then felt my heart such helse of heavy woes, not utterable. i curst the day and houre when first i saw her lovely countenance, enricht with beautie, farre beyond all other, which set my soule on fire, enflamde each part, making a martyrdome of my poore hart. my faith and hope being basely thus betrayde; i durst not moove, to speake i was affrayde. my teares do, &c. thou canst (thou powerfull god of love) perceive, my ceasselesse sorrow, voide of any comfort, i make my moane to thee, and do not fable, desiring, that to end my misery, death may come speedily, and with his dart with one fierce stroke, quite passing through my hart: to cut off future fell contending strife, an happy end be made of love and life. my teares do, &c. no other meanes of comfort doth remaine, to ease me of such sharpe afflictions, but only death. grant then that i may die, to finish greefe and life in one blest houre. for, being bereft of any future joyes, come, take me quickly from so false a friend. yet in my death, let thy great power approve, that i died true, and constant in my love. my teares, &c. happy shall i account this sighing song, if some (beside my selfe) doe learne to sing it, and so consider of my miseries, as may incite them to lament my wrongs. and to be warned by my wretched fate; least (like my selfe) themselves do sigh too late. learne lovers learne, what tis to be unjust, and be betrayed where you repose best trust._ finis the words contained in this song, did manifestly declare, what torturing afflictions poore _philostratus_ felt, and more (perhaps) had beene perceived by the lookes of the lady whom he spake of, being then present in the dance; if the sodaine ensuing darknesse had not hid the crimson blush, which mounted up into her face. but the song being ended, & divers other beside, lasting till the houre of rest drew on; by command of the queene, they all repaired to their chambers. _the end of the fourth day._ the fift day. _whereon, all the discourses do passe under the governement of the most noble lady_ fiammetta: _concerning such persons, as have bene successefull in their love, after many hard and perillous misfortunes._ the induction. now began the sunne to dart foorth his golden beames, when madam _fiammetta_ (incited by the sweete singing birdes, which since the breake of day, sat merrily chanting on the trees) arose from her bed: as all the other ladies likewise did, and the three young gentlemen descending downe into the fields, where they walked in a gentle pace on the greene grasse, until the sunne were risen a little higher. on many pleasant matters they conferred together, as they walked in severall companies, til at the length the queene, finding the heate to enlarge it selfe strongly, returned backe to the castle; where when they were all arrived, shee commanded, that after this mornings walking, their stomackes should bee refreshed with wholsome wines, as also divers sorts of banquetting stuffe. afterward, they all repaired into the garden, not departing thence, untill the houre of dinner was come: at which time, the master of the houshold, having prepared every thing in decent readinesse, after a solemn song was sung, by order from the queene, they were seated at the table. when they had dined, to their owne liking and contentment, they began (in continuation of their former order) to exercise divers dances, and afterward voyces to their instruments, with many pretty madrigals and roundelayes. uppon the finishing of these delights, the queene gave them leave to take their rest, when such as were so minded, went to sleep, others solaced themselves in the garden. but after midday was overpast, they met (according to their wonted manner) and as the queene had commanded, at the faire fountaine; where she being placed in her seate royall, and casting her eye upon _pamphilus_, shee bad him begin the dayes discourses, of happy successe in love, after disastrous and troublesome accidents; who yeelding thereto with humble reverence, thus began. many novelse (gracious ladies) do offer themselves to my memory, wherewith to beginne so pleasant a day, as it is her highnesse desire that this should be, among which plenty, i esteeme one above all the rest: because you may comprehend thereby, not onely the fortunate conclusion, wherewith we intend to begin our day; but also, how mighty the forces of love are, deserving to bee both admired and reverenced. albeit there are many, who scarsely knowing what they say, do condemne them with infinite grosse imputations: which i purpose to disprove, & (i hope) to your no little pleasing. chynon, _by falling in love, became wise, and by force of armes, winning his faire lady_ iphigenia _on the seas, was afterward imprisoned at_ rhodes. _being delivered by one named_ lysimachus, _with him he recovered his_ iphigenia _againe, and faire_ cassandra, _even in the middest of their mariage. they fled with them into_ candye, _where after they had married them, they were called home to their owne dwelling._ the first novell. _wherein is approved, that love (oftentimes) maketh a man both wise and valiant._ according to the ancient annales of the _cypriots_, there sometime lived in _cyprus_, a noble gentleman, who was commonly called _aristippus_, and exceeded all other of the countrey in the goods of fortune. divers children he had, but (amongst the rest) a sonne, in whose birth he was more infortunate then any of the rest; and continually greeved, in regard, that having all the compleate perfections of beauty, good forme, and manly parts, surpassing all other youths of his age or stature, yet hee wanted the reall ornament of the soule, reason and judgement; being (indeed) a meere ideot or foole, and no better hope to be expected of him. his true name, according as he receyved it by baptisme, was _galesus_, but because neyther by the laborious paines of his tutors, indulgence, and faire endeavour of his parents, or ingenuity of any other, he could bee brought to civility of life, understanding of letters, or common cariage of a reasonable creature: by his grosse and deformed kinde of speech, his qualities also savouring rather of brutish breeding, then any way derived from manly education; as an epithite of scorne and derision, generally, they gave him the name of _chynon_, which in their native countrey language, and divers other beside, signifieth a very sot or foole, and so was he termed by every one. this lost kinde of life in him, was no meane burthen of greefe unto his noble father, and all hope being already spent, of any future happy recovery, he gave command (because he would not alwayes have such a sorrow in his sight) that he should live at a farme of his owne in a country village, among his peazants and plough-swaines. which was not any way distastefull to _chynon_, but well agreed with his owne naturall disposition; for their rurall qualities, and grosse behaviour pleased him beyond the cities civility. _chynon_ living thus at his fathers countrey village, exercising nothing elsee but rurall demeanour, such as then delighted him above all other: it chanced upon a day about the houre of noone, as hee was walking over the fields, with a long staffe on his necke, which commonly he used to carry; he entred into a small thicket, reputed the goodliest in all those quarters, and by reason it was then the month of may, the trees had their leaves fairely shot forth. when he had walked thorow the thicket, it came to passe, that (even as if good fortune guided him) he came into a faire meadow, on everie side engirt with trees, and in one corner thereof stoode a goodly fountaine, whose current was both coole and cleare. harde by it, uppon the greene grasse, he espied a very beautifull yong damosell, seeming to bee fast asleepe, attired in such fine loose garments, as hidde verie little of her white body: onely from the girdle downward, shee ware a kirtle made close unto her, of interwoven delicate silke, and at her feete lay two other damoselse sleeping, and a servant in the same manner. no sooner hadde _chynon_ fixed his eie upon her, but he stood leaning uppon his staffe, and viewed her very advisedly, without speaking a word, and in no mean admiration, as if he had never seene the forme of a woman before. he began then to feele in his harsh rurall understanding (where into never till now, either by painfull instruction, or all other good meanes used to him, any honest civility had power of impression) a strange kinde of humour to awake, which informed his grosse and dull spirite, that this damosell was the very fairest, which ever any living man beheld. then he began to distinguish her parts, commending the tresses of hir haire, which he imagined to be of gold; her forehead, nose, mouth, neck, armes, but (above all) her brests, appearing (as yet) but onely to shewe themselves, like two little mountainets. so that, of a fielden clownish lout, he would needs now become a judge of beauty, coveting earnestly in his soule, to see her eyes, which were veiled over with sound sleepe, that kept them fast enclosed together, and onely to looke on them, hee wished a thousand times, that she would awake. for, in his judgement, she excelled all the women that ever he had seene, and doubted, whether she were some goddesse or no; so strangely was he metamorphosed from folly, to a sensible apprehension, more then common. and so far did this sodaine knowledge in him extend; that he could conceive of divine and celestiall things, and that they were more to be admired & reverenced, then those of humane or terrene consideration; wherefore the more gladly he contented himselfe, to tarry til she awaked of her owne accord. and although the time of stay seemed tedious to him, yet notwithstanding, he was overcome with such extraordinary contentment, as hee had no power to depart thence, but stood as if he had bin glued fast to the ground. after some indifferent respite of time, it chanced that the young damosel (who was named _iphigenia_) awaked before any of the other with her, and lifting up her head, with her eyes wide open, shee saw _chynon_ standing before her, leaning still on his staffe; whereat mervailing not a little, she saide unto him: _chynon_, whither wanderest thou, or what dost thou seeke for in this wood? _chynon_, who not onely by his countenance, but likewise his folly, nobility of birth, and wealthy possessions of his father, was generally knowne throughout the countrey, made no answere at all to the demand of _iphigenia_: but so soone as he beheld her eies open, he began to observe them with a constant regard, as being perswaded in his soule, that from them flowed such an unutterable singularity, as he had never felt til then. which the yong gentlewoman well noting, she began to wax fearfull, least these stedfast lookes of his, should incite his rusticity to some attempt, which might redound to her dishonour: wherefore awaking her women and servant, and they all being risen, she saide. farewell _chynon_, i leave thee to thine owne good fortune; whereto hee presently replyed, saying: i will go with you. now, although the gentlewoman refused his company, as dreading some acte of incivility from him: yet could she not devise any way to be rid of him, til he had brought her to her owne dwelling, where taking leave mannerly of her, hee went directly home to his fathers house, saying; nothing should compel him to live any longer in the muddy countrey. and albeit his father was much offended heereat, and all the rest of his kindred and friends: (yet not knowing how to helpe it) they suffered him to continue there still, expecting the cause of this his so sodaine alteration, from the course of life, which contented him so highly before. _chynon_ being now wounded to the heart (where never any civil instruction could before get entrance) with loves piercing dart, by the bright beauty of _iphigenia_, mooved much admiration (falling from one change to another) in his father, kindred, and all elsee that knew him. for first, he requested of his father, that he might be habited and respected like to his other brethren, whereto right gladly he condiscended. and frequenting the company of civill youths, observing also the cariage of gentlemen, especially such as were amorously enclined: he grew to a beginning in short time (to the wonder of every one) not onely to understande the first instruction of letters, but also became most skilfull, even amongest them that were best exercised in philosophie. and afterward, love to _iphigenia_ being the sole occasion of this happy alteration, not only did his harsh and clownish voyce convert it selfe more mildely, but also hee became a singular musitian, & could perfectly play on any instrument. beside, he tooke delight in the riding and managing of great horses, and finding himselfe of a strong and able body, he exercised all kinds of military disciplines, as wel by sea, as on the land. and, to be breefe, because i would not seeme tedious in the repetition of al his vertues, scarsly had he attained to the fourth yeare, after he was thus falne in love, but hee became generally knowne, to bee the most civil, wise, and worthy gentleman, as well for all vertues enriching the minde, as any whatsoever to beautifie the body, that very hardly he could be equalled throughout the whole kingdome of _cyprus_. what shall we say then, (vertuous ladies) concerning this _chynon_? surely nothing elsee, but that those high and divine vertues, infused into his gentle soule, were by envious fortune bound and shut uppe in some small angle of his intellect, which being shaken and set at liberty by love, (as having a farre more potent power then fortune, in quickning and reviving the dull drowsie spirits); declared his mighty and soveraigne authority, in setting free so many faire and precious vertues unjustly detayned, to let the worlds eye behold them truly, by manifest testimony, from whence he can deliver those spirits subjected to his power, & guide them (afterward) to the highest degrees of honour. and although _chynon_ by affecting _iphigenia_, failed in some particular things; yet notwithstanding, his father _aristippus_ duely considering, that love had made him a man, whereas (before) he was no better then a beast: not only endured all patiently, but also advised him therein, to take such courses as best liked himselfe. neverthelesse, _chynon_ (who refused to be called _galesus_, which was his naturall name indeede) remembring that _iphigenia_ tearmed him _chynon_, and coveting (under that title) to accomplish the issue of his honest amorous desire: made many motions to _ciphæus_ the father of _iphigenia_, that he would be pleased to let him enjoy her in marriage. but _ciphæus_ told him, that he had already passed his promise for her, to a gentleman of _rhodes_, named _pasimondo_, which promise he religiously intended to performe. the time being come, which was concluded on for _iphigeniaes_ marriage, in regard that the affianced husband had sent for her: _chynon_ thus communed with his owne thoughts. now is the time (quoth he) to let my divine mistresse see, how truly and honourably i doe affect her, because (by her) i am become a man. but if i could bee possessed of her, i should growe more glorious, then the common condition of a mortall man, and have her i will, or loose my life in the adventure. beeing thus resolved, he prevailed with divers young gentlemen his friends, making them of his faction, and secretly prepared a shippe, furnished with all things for a navall fight, setting sodainly forth to sea, and hulling abroad in those parts by which the vessell should passe, that must convey _iphigenia_ to _rhodes_ to her husband. after many honours done to them, who were to transport her thence unto _rhodes_, being imbarked, they set saile uppon their _bon viaggio_. _chynon_, who slept not in a businesse so earnestly importing him, set on them (the day following) with his ship, and standing aloft on the decke, cried out to them that had the charge of _iphigenia_, saying. strike your sayles, or elsee determine to be sunke in the sea. the enemies to _chynon_, being nothing danted with his words, prepared to stand upon their own defence; which made _chynon_, after the former speeches delivered, and no answer returned, to commaund the grapling irons to bee cast forth, which tooke such fast hold on the rhodians shippe, that (whether they would or no) both the vesselse joyned close together. and hee shewing himselfe fierce like a lyon, not tarrying to be seconded by any, stepped aboord the rhodians ship, as if he made no respect at all of them, and having his sword ready drawne in his hand (incited by the vertue of unfaigned love) layed about him on all sides very manfully. which when the men of _rhodes_ perceyved, calling downe their weapons, and all of them (as it were) with one voice, yeelded themselves his prisoners: whereupon he said. honest friends, neither desire of booty, or hatred to you, did occasion my departure from _cyprus_, thus to assaile you with drawne weapons: but that which heereto hath most mooved me, is a matter highly importing to me, and very easie for you to graunt, and so enjoy your present peace. i desire to have faire _iphigenia_ from you, whom i love above all other ladies living, because i could not obtain her of her father, to make her my lawfull wife in marriage. love is the ground of my instant conquest, and i must use you as my mortall enemies, if you stand uppon any further tearmes with me, and do not deliver her as mine owne: for your _pasimondo_, must not enjoy what is my right, first by vertue of my love, & now by conquest: deliver her therefore, and depart hence at your pleasure. the men of _rhodes_, being rather constrained thereto, then of any free disposition in themselves; with teares in their eyes, delivered _iphigenia_ to _chynon_; who beholding her in like manner to weepe, thus spake unto her. noble lady, do not any way discomfort your selfe, for i am your _chynon_, who have more right and true title to you, and much better doe deserve to enjoy you, by my long continued affection to you, then _pasimondo_ can any way pleade; because you belong to him but only by promise. so, bringing her aboord his owne ship, where the gentlemen his companions gave her kinde welcome, without touching any thing elsee belonging to the rhodians, he gave them free liberty to depart. _chynon_ being more joyfull, by the obtaining of his hearts desire, then any other conquest elsee in the world could make him, after hee had spent some time in comforting _iphigenia_, who as yet sate sadly sighing; he consulted with his companions, who joyned with him in opinion, that their safest course was, by no meanes to returne to _cyprus_; and therefore all (with one consent) resolved to set saile for _candye_, where every one made account, but especially _chynon_, in regard of ancient and newe combined kindred, as also very intimate friends, to finde very worthy entertainement, and so to continue there safely with _iphigenia_. but fortune, who was so favourable to _chynon_, in granting him so pleasing a conquest, to shew her inconstancy, as sodainly changed the inestimable joy of our jocond lover, into as heavy sorrow and disaster. for, foure houres were not fully compleated, since his departure from the rhodians, but darke night came upon them, and he sitting conversing with his fayre mistris, in the sweetest solace of his soule; the winds began to blow roughly, the seas swelled angerly, & a tempest arose impetuously, that no man could see what his duty was to do, in such a great unexpected distresse, nor how to warrant themselves from perishing. if this accident were displeasing to poore _chynon_, i thinke the question were in vaine demanded: for now it seemed to him, that the godds had granted his cheefe desire, to the end hee should dye with the greater anguish, in losing both his love and life together. his friends likewise, felte the selfesame affliction, but especially _iphigenia_, who wept and greeved beyond all measure, to see the ship beaten, with such stormy billowes, as threatned her sinking every minute. impatiently she cursed the love of _chynon_, greatly blaming his desperate boldnesse, and maintaining, that so violent a tempest could never happen, but onely by the gods displeasure, who would not permit him to have a wife against their will; and therefore thus punished his proud presumption, not only in his unavoidable death, but also that her life must perish for company. she continuing in these wofull lamentations, and the mariners labouring all in vaine, because the violence of the tempest encreased more and more, so that every moment they expected wracking: they were carried (contrary to their owne knowledge) very neere unto the isle of _rhodes_, which they being no way able to avoid, and utterly ignorant of the coast; for safety of their lives, they laboured to land there if possibly they might. wherein fortune was somewhat furtherous to them, driving them into a small gulfe of the sea, whereinto (but a little while before) the rhodians, from whom _chynon_ had taken iphigenia, were newly entred with their ship. nor had they any knowledge each of other, till the breake of day (which made the heavens to looke more clearly) gave them discoverie, of being within a flight shoote together. _chynon_ looking forth, and espying the same ship which he had left the day before, hee grew exceeding sorrowfull, as fearing that which after followed, and therefore hee willed the mariners, to get away from her by all their best endeavour, & let fortune afterward dispose of them as she pleased; for into a worse place they could not come, nor fall into the like danger. the mariners employed their very utmost paines, and all prooved but losse of time: for the winde was so stern, and the waves so turbulent, that still they drove them the contrary way: so that striving to get foorth of the gulfe, whether they would or no, they were driven on land, and instantly knowne to the rhodians, whereof they were not a little joyful. the men of _rhodes_ being landed, ran presently to a neere neighbouring village, where dwelt divers worthy gentlemen, to whom they reported the arrivall of _chynon_, what fortune befell them at sea, and that _iphigenia_ might now be recovered againe, with chastisement to _chynon_ for his bold insolence. they being very joyfull of these good newes, tooke so many men as they could of the same village, and ran immediately to the sea side, where _chynon_ being newly landed and his people, intending flight into a neere adjoining forrest, for defence of himselfe and _iphigenia_, they were all taken, led thence to the village, and afterwards to the chiefe city of _rhodes_. no sooner were they arrived, but _pasimondo_, the intended husband for _iphigenia_ (who had already heard the tydings) went and complayned to the senate, who appointed a gentleman of _rhodes_, named _lysimachus_, and being that yeare soveraigne magistrate over the rhodians, to go well provided for the apprehension of _chinon_ and all his company, committing them to prison, which accordingly was done. in this manner, the poore unfortunate lover _chynon_, lost his faire _iphigenia_, having won her in so short a while before, and scarsely requited with so much as a kisse. but as for _iphigenia_, she was royally welcommed by many lords and ladies of _rhodes_, who so kindely comforted her, that she soone forgotte all her greefe and trouble on the sea, remaining in company of those ladies and gentlewomen, untill the day determined for her mariage. at the earnest entreaty of divers rhodian gentlemen, who were in the ship with _iphigenia_, and had their lives courteously saved by _chynon_: both he and his friends had their lives likewise spared, although _pasimondo_ laboured importunately, to have them all put to death; onely they were condemned to perpetuall imprisonment, which (you must thinke) was most greevous to them, as being now hopelesse of any deliverance. but in the meane time, while _pasimondo_ was ordering his nuptiall preparation, fortune seeming to repent the wrongs shee had done to _chynon_, prepared a new accident, whereby to comfort him in this deep distresse, and in such manner as i will relate unto you. _pasimondo_ had a brother, yonger then he in yeares, but not a jot inferiour to him in vertue, whose name was _hormisda_, and long time the case had bene in question, for his taking to wife a faire yong gentlewoman of _rhodes_, called _cassandra_; whom _lysimachus_ the governour loved verie dearly, and hindred her marriage with _hormisda_, by divers strange accidents. now _pasimondo_ perceiving, that his owne nuptials required much cost and solemnity, hee thought it very convenient, that one day might serve for both the weddinges, which elsee would lanch into more lavish expences, and therefore concluded, that his brother _hormisda_ should marry _cassandra_, at the same time as he wedded _iphigenia_. heereuppon, he consulted with the gentlewomans parents, who liking the motion as well as he, the determination was set downe, and one day to effect the duties of both. when this came to the hearing of _lysimachus_, it was very greatly displeasing to him, because now he saw himselfe utterly deprived of al hope to attaine the issue of his desire, if _hormisda_ receyved _cassandra_ in marriage. yet being a very wise and worthy man, hee dissembled his distaste, and began to consider on some apt meanes, whereby to disappoint the marriage once more, which he found impossible to bee done, except it were by way of rape or stealth. and that did not appear to him any difficult matter, in regard of his office and authority: onely it wold seeme dishonest in him, by giving such an unfitting example. neverthelesse, after long deliberation, honour gave way to love, and resolutely he concluded to steale her away, whatsoever became of it. nothing wanted now, but a convenient company to assist him, & the order how to have it done. then he remembred _chynon_ and his friends, whom he detained as his prisoners, and perswaded himself, that he could not have a more faithfull friend in such a busines, then _chynon_ was. hereupon, the night following, he sent for him into his chamber, and being alone by themselves, thus he began. _chynon_ (quoth hee) as the gods are very bountifull, in bestowing their blessings on men, so doe they therein most wisely make proofe of their vertues, and such as they finde firme and constant, in all occurrences which may happen, them they make worthy (as valiant spirits) of the very best and highest merites. now, they being willing to have more certain experience of thy vertues, then those which heeretofore thou hast shewne, within the bounds and limits of thy fathers possessions, which i know to be superabounding: perhaps do intend to present thee other occasions, of more important weight and consequence. for first of all (as i have heard) by the piercing solicitudes of love, of a senselesse creature, they made thee to become a man endued with reason. afterward, by adverse fortune, and now againe by wearisome imprisonment, it seemeth that they are desirous to make triall, whether thy manly courage be changed, or no, from that which heretofore it was, when thou enjoyedst a matchlesse beautie, and lost her againe in so short a while. wherefore, if thy vertue be such as it hath bin, the gods can never give thee any blessing more worthy of acceptance, then she whom they are now minded to bestow on thee: in which respect, to the end that thou mayst re-assume thy wonted heroicke spirit, and become more couragious then ever heretofore, i will acquaint thee withall more at large. understand then noble _chynon_, that _pasimondo_, the onely glad man of thy misfortune, and diligent sutor after thy death, maketh all hast hee can possibly devise to do, to celebrate his marriage with thy faire mistris: because he would pleade possession of the prey, which fortune (when she smiled) did first bestow, and (afterward frowning) took from thee again. now, that it must needs be very irkesome to thee (at least if thy love bee such, as i am perswaded it is) i partly can collect from my selfe, being intended to be wronged by his brother _hormisda_, even in the selfsame manner, and on his marriage day, by taking faire _cassandra_ from me, the onely jewell of my love and life. for the prevention of two such notorious injuries, i see that fortune hath left us no other meanes, but only the vertue of our courages, and the helpe of our right hands, by preparing our selves to armes, opening a way to thee, by a second rape or stealth; and to me the first, for absolute possession of our divine mistresses. wherefore, if thou art desirous to recover thy losse, i will not onely pronounce liberty to thee (which i thinke thou dost little care for without her) but dare also assure thee to enjoy _iphigenia_, so thou wilt assist mee in mine enterprize, and follow me in my fortune, if the gods do let them fall into our power. you may well imagine, that _chynons_ dismayed soule was not a little cheared at these speeches; and therefore, without craving any long respit of time for answer, thus he replyed. lord _lysimachus_, in such a busines as this is, you cannot have a faster friend then my self, at least, if such good hap may betide me, as you have more then halfe promised: & therefore do no more but command what you would have to be effected by mee, and make no doubt of my courage in the execution: whereon _lysimachus_ made this answer. know then _chynon_ (quoth hee) that three dayes hence, these marriages are to bee celebrated in the houses of _pasimondo_ and _hormisda_, upon which day, thou, thy friends, and my self (with some others, in whom i repose especiall trust) by the friendly favour of night, will enter into their houses, while they are in the middest of theyr joviall feasting; and (seizing on the two brides) beare them thence to a shippe, which i will have lye in secret, waiting for our comming, and kil all such as shall presume to impeach us. this direction gave great contentment to _chynon_, who remained still in prison, without revealing a word to his owne friends, until the limited time was come. upon the wedding day, performed with great and magnificent triumph, there was not a corner in the brethrens houses, but it sung joy in the highest key. _lysimachus_, after he had ordered all things as they ought to be, and the houre for dispatch approached neere; he made a division in three parts, of _chynon_, his followers, and his owne friendes, being all well armed under their outward habites. having first used some encouraging speeches, for more resolute prosecution of the enterprize, he sent one troope secretly to the port, that they might not be hindred of going aboord the ship, when the urgent necessity should require it. passing with the other two traines of _pasimondo_, he left the one at the doore, that such as were in the house might not shut them up fast, and so impeach their passage forth. then with _chynon_, and the third band of confederates, he ascended the staires up into the hall, where he found the brides with store of ladies and gentlewomen, all sitting in comely order at supper. rushing in roughly among the attendants, downe they threw the tables, and each of them laying hold of his mistris, delivered them into the hands of their followers, commanding that they should be carried aboord the ship, for avoiding of further inconveniences. this hurrie and amazement beeing in the house, the brides weeping, the ladies lamenting, and all the servants confusedly wondering; _chynon_ and _lysimachus_ (with their friends) having their weapons drawn in their hands, made all opposers to give them way, and so gayned the stair head for their owne descending. there stoode _pasimondo_, with an huge long staffe in his hand, to hinder their passage downe the stayres; but _chynon_ saluted him so soundly on the head, that it being cleft in twaine, hee fell dead before his feete. his brother _hormisda_ came to his rescue, and sped in the selfe-same manner as he had done; so did divers other beside, whom the companions to _lysimachus_ and _chynon_, either slew out-right, or wounded. so they left the house, filled with bloode, teares, and out-cries, going on together, without any hinderance, and so brought both the brides aboord the shippe, which they rowed away instantly with theyr oares. for, now the shore was full of armed people, who came in rescue of the stolne ladies: but all in vaine, because they were lanched into the main, and sayled on merrily towardes _candye_. where beeing arrived, they were worthily entertained by honourable friendes and kinsmen, who pacified all unkindnesses betweene them and their mistresses: and, having accepted them in lawfull marriage, there they lived in no meane joy and contentment: albeit there was a long and troublesome difference (about these rapes) betweene _rhodes_ and _cyprus_. but yet in the end, by the meanes of noble friends and kindred on either side, labouring to have such discontentment appeased, endangering warre betweene the kingdomes: after a limited time of banishment, _chynon_ returned joyfully with his _iphigenia_ home to _cyprus_, and _lysimachus_ with his beloved _cassandra_ unto _rhodes_, each living in their severall countries, with much felicity. _faire_ constance _of_ liparis, _fell in love with_ martuccio gomito: _and hearing that he was dead, desperately she entred into a barke, which being transported by the windes to_ susa _in_ barbary, _from thence she went to_ thunis, _where she found him to be living. there she made her selfe knowne to him, and he being in great authority, as a privy counsellor to the king: he married the saide_ constance, _and returned richly home with her, to the island of_ liparis. the second novell. _wherein is declared the firme loyaltie of a true lover: and how fortune doth sometime humble men, to raise them afterward to a farre higher degree._ when the queene perceyved, that the novell recited by _pamphilus_ was concluded, which she graced with especial commendations: she commaunded madame _Æmillia_, to take her turne as next in order; whereupon, thus she began. me thinkes it is a matter of equity, that every one should take delight in those things, whereby the recompence may be noted, answerable to their owne affection. and because i rather desire to walke along by the paths of pleasure, then dwell on any ceremonious or scrupulous affectation, i shall the more gladly obey our queen to day, then yesterday i did our melancholly king. understand then (noble ladies) that neere to _sicily_, there is a small island, commonly called _liparis_, wherein (not long since) lived a yong damosell, named _constance_, born of very sufficient parentage in the same island. there dwelt also a young man, called _martuccio gomito_, of comely feature, well conditioned, and not unexpert in many vertuous qualities; affecting _constance_ in hearty manner: and she so answerable to him in the same kinde, that to be in his company, was her onely felicity. _martuccio_ coveting to enjoy her in marriage, made his intent knowne to her father: who upbraiding him with poverty, tolde him plainly that hee should not have her. _martuccio_ greeving to see himselfe thus despised, because he was poore: made such good meanes, that he was provided of a small barke; and calling such friends (as he thought fit) to his association, made a solemne vow, that hee would never returne backe to _liparis_, untill he was rich, and in better condition. in the nature and course of a rover or pirate, so put he thence to sea, coasting all about _barbarie_, robbing and spoyling such as hee met with; who were of no greater strength then himselfe: wherein fortune was so favourable to him, that he became wealthy in a very short while. but as felicities are not alwayes permanent, so hee and his followers, not contenting themselves with sufficient riches: by greedy seeking to get more, happened to be taken by certaine ships of the sarazins, and so were robbed themselves of all that they had gotten, yet they resisted them stoutly a long while together, though it proved to the losse of many lives among them. when the sarazens had sunke his shippe in the sea, they tooke him with them to _thunis_, where he was imprisoned, and lived in extreamest misery. newes came to _liparis_, not onely by one, but many more beside, that all those which departed thence in the small barke with _martuccio_ were drowned in the sea, and not a man escaped. when _constance_ heard these unwelcome tydings (who was exceeding full of greefe, for his so desperate departure) she wept and lamented extraordinarily, desiring now rather to dye, then live any longer. yet shee had not the heart, to lay any violent hand on her selfe, but rather to end her dayes by some new kinde of necessity. and departing privately from her fathers house, shee went to the port or haven, where (by chance) she found a small fisher-boate, lying distant from the other vesselse, the owners whereof being all gone on shore, and it well furnished with masts, sailes, and oares, she entred into it; and putting forth the oares, beeing some-what skilfull in sayling, (as generally all the women of that island are) shee so well guyded the sailes, rudder, and oares, that she was quickly farre off from the land, and soly remained at the mercy of the windes. for thus she had resolved with her selfe, that the boat being uncharged, and without a guide, wold either be over-whelmed by the windes, or split in peeces against some rocke; by which meanes she could not escape although shee would, but (as it was her desire) must needs be drowned. in this determination, wrapping a mantle about her head, and lying downe weeping in the boats bottome, she hourely expected her finall expiration: but it fell out otherwise, and contrary to her desperate intention, because the winde turning to the north, and blowing very gently, without disturbing the seas a jot, they conducted the small boat in such sort, that after the night of her entering into it, and the morowes sailing untill the evening, it came within an hundred leagues of _thunis_, and to a strond neere a towne called _susa_. the young damosell knew not whether she were on the sea or land; as one, who not by any accident hapning, lifted up her head to look about her, neither intended ever to doe. now it came to passe, that as the boate was driven to the shore, a poore woman stood at the sea side, washing certaine fishermens nets; and seeing the boate comming towards her under saile, without any person appearing in it, she wondred thereat not a little. it being close at the shore, and she thinking the fishermen to be asleepe therein: stept boldly, and looked into the boate, where she saw not any body, but onely the poore distressed damosell, whose sorrowes having broght her now into a sound sleepe, the woman gave many cals before she could awake her, which at the length she did, and looked very strangely about her. the poore woman perceyving by her habite that she was a christian, demanded of her (in speaking latine) how it was possible for her, beeing all alone in the boate, to arrive there in this manner? when _constance_ heard her speake the latine tongue, she began to doubt, least some contrary winde had turned her backe to _liparis_ againe, and starting up sodainly, to looke with better advice about her, shee saw her selfe at land: and not knowing the countrey, demanded of the poore woman where she was? daughter (quoth she) you are heere hard by _susa_ in _barbarie_. which _constance_ hearing, and plainly perceyving, that death had denied to end her miseries, fearing least she should receive some dishonour, in such a barbarous unkinde country, and not knowing what shold now become of her, she sate downe by the boates side, wringing her hands, & weeping bitterly. the good woman did greatly compassionate her case, and prevailed so well by gentle speeches, that shee conducted her into her owne poore habitation; where at length she understoode, by what meanes shee hapned thither so strangely. and perceyving her to be fasting, shee set such homely bread as she had before her, a few small fishes, and a crewse of water, praying her for to accept of that poore entertainement, which meere necessity compelled her to do, and shewed her selfe very thankefull for it. _constance_ hearing that she spake the latine language so well; desired to know what she was. whereto the olde woman thus answered: gentlewoman (quoth she) i am of _trapanum_, named _carapresa_, and am a servant in this countrey to certaine christian fishermen. the yong maiden (albeit she was very full of sorrow) hearing her name to be _carapresa_, conceived it as a good augury to her selfe, & that she had heard the name before, although shee knew not what occasion should move her thus to do. now began her hopes to quicken againe, and yet shee could not tell upon what ground; nor was she so desirous of death as before, but made more precious estimation of her life, and without any further declaration of her selfe or countrey, she entreated the good woman (even for charities sake) to take pitty on her youth, and help her with such good advice, to prevent all injuries which might happen to her, in such a solitary wofull condition. _carapresa_ having heard her request, like a good woman as shee was, left _constance_ in her poore cottage, and went hastily to leave her nets in safety: which being done, she returned backe againe, and covering _constance_ with her mantle, led her on to _susa_ with her, where being arrived, the good woman began in this manner. _constance_, i will bring thee to the house of a very worthy sarazin lady, to whome i have done manie honest services, according as she pleased to command me. she is an ancient woman, full of charity, and to her i will commend thee as best i may, for i am well assured, that shee will gladly entertaine thee, and use thee as if thou wert her owne daughter. now, let it be thy part, during thy time of remaining with her, to employ thy utmost diligence in pleasing her, by deserving and gaining her grace, till heaven shall blesse thee with better fortune: and as she promised, so she performed. the sarazine lady, being well stept into yeares, upon the commendable speeches delivered by _carapresa_, did the more seriously fasten her eye on _constance_, and compassion provoking her to teares, she tooke her by the hand, and (in loving manner) kissed her fore-head. so she led her further into her house, where dwelt divers other women (but not one man) all exercising themselves in severall labours, as working in all sorts of silke, with imbroideries of gold and silver, and sundry other excellent arts beside, which in short time were verie familiar to _constance_, and so pleasing grew her behaviour to the old lady, and all the rest beside; that they loved and delighted in her wonderfully, and (by little and little) she attained to the speaking of their language, although it were verie harsh and difficult. _constance_ continuing thus in the old ladies service at _susa_, & thought to be dead or lost in her owne fathers house; it fortuned, that one reigning then as king of _thunis_, who named himselfe _mariabdela_: there was a young lord of great birth, and very powerfull, who lived as then in _granada_, and pleaded that the kingdome of _thunis_ belonged to him. in which respect, he mustred together a mighty army, and came to assault the king, as hoping to expell him. these newes comming to the eare of _martuccio gomito_, who spake the barbarian language perfectly; and hearing it reported, that the king of _thunis_ made no meane preparation for his owne defence: he conferred with one of his keepers, who had the custody of him, and the rest taken with him, saying: if (quoth hee) i could have meanes to speake with the king, and he were pleased to allow of my counsell, i can enstruct him in such a course, as shall assure him to win the honour of the field. the guard reported these speeches to his master, who presently acquainted the king therewith, and _martuccio_ being sent for; he was commanded to speake his minde: whereupon he began in this manner. my gracious lord, during the time that i have frequented your countrey, i have heedfully observed, that the militarie discipline used in your fights and battailes, dependeth more upon your archers, then any other men imployed in your warre. and therefore, if it could bee so ordered, that this kinde of artillery might fayle in your enemies campe, & yours be sufficiently furnished therewith, you neede make no doubt of winning the battaile: whereto the king thus replyed. doubtlesse, if such an acte were possible to be done, it would give great hope of successefull prevailing. sir, said _martuccio_, if you please it may bee done, and i can quickly resolve you how. let the strings of your archers bowes bee made more soft and gentle, then those which heretofore they have formerly used; and next, let the nockes of the arrowes be so provided, as not to receive any other, then those pliant gentle strings. but this must be done so secretly, that your enemies may have no knowledge thereof, least they should provide themselves in the same manner. now the reason (gracious lord) why thus i counsell you, is to this end. when the archers on the enemies side have shot their arrowes at your men, and yours in the like manner at them: it followeth, that (upon meere constraint) they must gather up your arrowes, to shoote them backe againe at you, for so long while as the battell endureth, as no doubt but your men will do the like to them. but your enemies will finde themselves much deceived, because they can make no use of your peoples arrowes, in regard that the nockes are too narrow to receive their boysterous strings. which will fall out contrary with your followers, for the pliant strings belonging to your bowes, are as apt for their enemies great nockt arrowes, as their owne, and so they shall have free use of both, reserving them in plentifull store, when your adversaries must stand unfurnished of any, but them that they cannot any way use. this counsell pleased the king very highly, and hee being a prince of great understanding, gave order to have it accordingly followed, and thereby valiantly vanquished his enemies. heereupon, _martuccio_ came to be great in his grace, as also consequently rich, and seated in no meane place of authority. now, as worthy and commendable actions are soone spread abroad, in honour of the man by whome they hapned: even so the fame of this rare got victory, was quickly noysed throughout the countrey, and came to the hearing of poore _constance_, that _martuccio gomito_ (whom she supposed so long since to be dead) was living, and in honourable condition. the love which formerly she bare unto him, being not altogether extinct in her heart; of a small sparke, brake foorth into a sodaine flame, and so encreased day by day, that her hope (being before almost quite dead) revived againe in chearfull manner. having imparted all her fortunes to the good olde lady with whome she dwelt; she told her beside, that she had an earnest desire to see _thunis_, to satisfie her eyes as well as her eares, concerning the rumor blazed abroad. the good olde lady commended her desire, and (even as if she had bene her mother) tooke her with her aboord a barke, and so sayled thence to _thunis_, where both she and _constance_ found honourable welcome, in the house of a kinsman to the sarazin lady. _carapresa_ also went along with them thither, and her they sent abroad into the citie, to understand the newes of _martuccio gomito_. after they knew for a certaintie that hee was living, and in great authority about the king, according as the former report went of him. then the good old lady, being desirous to let _martuccio_ know, that his faire friend _constance_ was come thither to see him; went her selfe to the place of his abiding, and spake unto him in this manner. noble _martuccio_, there is a servant of thine in my house, which came from _liparis_, and requireth to have a little private conference with thee: but because i durst not trust any other with the message, my selfe (at her entreaty) am come to acquaint thee therewith. _martuccio_ gave her kinde and hearty thankes, and then went along with her to the house. no sooner did _constance_ behold him, but shee was ready to dye with conceite of joy, and being unable to containe her passion: sodainely she threw her armes about his necke, and in meere compassion of her many misfortunes, as also the instant solace of her soule (not being able to utter one word) the teares trickled abundantly downe her cheekes. _martuccio_ also seeing his faire friend, was overcome with exceeding admiration, & stood awhile, as not knowing what to say; till venting forth a vehement sighe, thus he spake. my deerest love _constance_! art thou yet living? it is a tedious long while since i heard thou wast lost, and never any tydinges knowne of thee in thine owne fathers house. with which wordes, the teares standing his eyes, most lovingly he embraced her. _constance_ recounted to him all her fortunes, and what kindnesse she hadde receyved from the sarazine lady, since her first houre of comming to her. and after much other discourse passing betweene them, _martuccio_ departed from her, and returning to the king his master, tolde him all the historie of his fortunes, and those beside of his love _constance_, beeing purposely minded (with his gracious liking) to marry her according to the christian law. the king was much amazed at so many strange accidents, and sending for _constance_ to come before him; from her own mouth he heard the whole relation of her continued affection to _martuccio_, whereuppon hee saide. now trust me faire damosell, thou hast dearly deserved him to be thy husband. then sending for very costly jewelse, and rich presents, the one halfe of them he gave to her, and the other to _martuccio_, graunting them license withall, to marry according to their owne mindes. _martuccio_ did many honours, and gave great giftes to the aged sarazine lady, with whom _constance_ had lived so kindly respected: which although she had no neede of, neither ever expected any such rewarding; yet (conquered by their urgent importunity, especially _constance_, who could not be thankfull enough to her) she was enforced to receive them, and taking her leave of them weeping, sayled backe againe to _susa_. within a short while after, the king licensing their departure thence, they entred into a small barke, and _carapresa_ with them, sailing on with prosperous gales of winde, untill they arrived at _liparis_, where they were entertained with generall rejoycing. and because their marriage was not sufficiently performed at _thunis_, in regard of divers christian ceremonies there wanting, their nuptials were againe most honourably solemnized, and they lived (many yeares after) in health and much happinesse. pedro bocamazzo, _escaping away with a yong damosell which he loved, named_ angelina, _met with theeves in his journey. the damosell flying fearfully into a forrest, by chance arriveth at a castle._ pedro _being taken by the theeves, and happening afterward to escape from them; commeth (accidentally) to the same castle where_ angelina _was. and marrying her, they then returned home to rome._ the third novell. _wherein, the severall powers both of love and fortune, is more at large approved._ there was not any one in the whole company, but much commended the novell reported by madam _emillia_, and when the queene perceived it was ended, she turned towards madam _eliza_, commanding her to continue on their delightfull exercise: whereto shee declaring her willing obedience, began to speak thus. courteous ladies, i remember one unfortunate night, which happened to two lovers, that were not indued with the greatest discretion. but because they had very many faire and happy dayes afterwardes, i am the more willing for to let you heare it. in the citie of _rome_, which (in times past) was called the ladie and mistresse of the world, though now scarsely so good as the waiting maid: there dwelt sometime a yong gentleman, named _pedro bocamazzo_, descended from one of the most honourable families in _rome_, who was much enamoured of a beautifull gentlewoman, called _angelina_, daughter to one named _giglivozzo saullo_, whose fortunes were none of the fairest, yet he greatly esteemed among the romaines. the entercourse of love between these twaine, had so equally enstructed their hearts and souls, that it could hardly be judged which of them was the more fervent in affection. but he, not being inured to such oppressing passions, and therefore the lesse able to support them, except he were sure to compasse his desire, plainly made the motion, that he might enjoy her in honourable mariage. which his parents and friends hearing, they went to conferre with him, blaming him with over-much basenesse, so farre to disgrace himselfe and his stocke. beside, they advised the father to the maid, neither to credit what _pedro_ saide in this case, or to live in hope of any such match, because they all did wholly despise it. _pedro_ perceiving, that the way was shut up, whereby (and none other) he was to mount the ladder of his hopes; began to waxe weary of longer living: and if he could have won her fathers consent, he would have maried her in the despight of all his friends. neverthelesse, he had a conceit hammering in his head, which if the maid would bee as forward as himselfe, should bring the matter to full effect. letters and secret intelligences passing still betweene, at length he understood her ready resolution, to adventure with him thorough all fortunes whatsoever, concluding on their sodaine and secret flight from rome. for which _pedro_ did so well provide, that very early in a morning, and well mounted on horsebacke, they tooke the way leading unto _alagna_, where _pedro_ had some honest friends, in whom he reposed especiall trust. riding on thus thorow the countrey, having no leysure to accomplish their marriage, because they stoode in feare of pursuite: they were ridden above foure leagues from rome, still shortning the way with their amorous discoursing. it fortuned, that _pedro_ having no certaine knowledge of the way, but following a trackt guiding too farre on the left hand; rode quite out of course, and came at last within sight of a small castle, out of which (before they were aware) yssued twelve villaines, whom _angelina_ sooner espyed, then _pedro_ could do, which made her cry out to him, saying: help deere love to save us, or elsee we shall be assayled. _pedro_ then turning his horse so expeditiously as he could, and giving him the spurres as neede required; mainly he gallopped into a neere adjoining forrest, more minding the following of _angelina_, then any direction of his way, or then that endeavoured to be his hinderance. so that by often winding & turning about, as the passage appeared troublesome to him, when he thought him selfe free and furthest from them, he was round engirt, and seized on by them. when they had made him to dismount from his horse, questioning him of whence and what he was, and he resolving them therein, they fell into a secret consultation, saying thus among themselves. this man is a friend to our deadly enemies, how can wee then otherwise dispose of him, but bereave him of all he hath, and in despight of the _orsini_ (men in nature hatefull to us) hang him up heere on one of these trees? all of them agreeing in this dismall resolution, they commanded _pedro_ to put off his garments, which he yeelding to do (albeit unwillingly) it so fell out, that five and twenty other theeves, came sodainly rushing in upon them, crying, kill, kill, and spare not a man. they which before had surprized _pedro_, desiring nowe to shifte for their owne safetie; left him standing quaking in his shirt, and so ranne away mainely to defend themselves. which the new crewe perceyving, and that their number farre exceeded the other: they followed to robbe them of what they had gotten, accounting it as a present purchase for them. which when _pedro_ perceyved, and saw none tarrying to prey uppon him; hee put on his cloathes againe, and mounting on his owne horsse, gallopped that way, which _angelina_ before had taken: yet could hee not descry any tracke or path, or so much as the footing of a horse; but thought himselfe in sufficient securitie, beeing rid of them that first seized on him, and also of the rest, which followed in the pursuite of them. for the losse of his beloved _angelina_, he was the most wofull man in the world, wandering one while this way, and then againe another, calling for her all about the forrest, without any answere returning to him. and not daring to ride backe againe, on he travailed still, not knowing where to make his arrivall. and having formerly heard of savage ravenous beasts, which commonly live in such unfrequented forrests: he not onely was in feare of loosing his owne life, but also despayred much for his _angelina_, least some lyon or woolfe, had torne her body in peeces. thus rode on poore unfortunate _pedro_, untill the breake of day appeared, not finding any meanes to get forth of the forrest, still crying and calling for his fayre friend, riding many times backeward, when as hee thought hee rode forward, untill hee became so weake and faint, what with extreame feare, lowd calling, and continuing so long a while without any sustenance, that the whole day beeing thus spent in vaine, and darke night sodainly come uppon him, hee was not able to hold out any longer. now was hee in farre worse case then before, not knowing where, or how to dispose of himselfe, or what might best bee done in so great a necessity. from his horse hee alighted, and tying him by the bridle unto a great tree, uppe he climbed into the same tree, fearing to bee devoured (in the night time) by some wilde beast, choosing rather to let his horsse perish, then himselfe. within a while after, the moone beganne to rise, and the skies appeared bright and cleare: yet durst hee not nod, or take a nap, lest he should fall out of the tree; but sate still greeving, sighing, and mourning, despairing of ever seeing his _angelina_ any more, for he could not be comforted by the smallest hopefull perswasion, that any good fortune might befall her in such a desolate forrest, where nothing but dismall feares was to be expected, and no likelihood that she should escape with life. now, concerning poore affrighted _angelina_, who (as you heard before) knew not any place of refuge to flye unto: but even as it pleased hir horse to carry her: she entred so farre into the forest, that she could not devise where to seeke her owne safety. and therefore, even as it fared with her friend _pedro_, in the same manner did it fall out with her, wandering the whole night, and all the day following, one while taking one hopefull tracke, and then another, calling, weeping, wringing hir hands, and greevously complaining of her hard fortune. at the length, perceyving that _pedro_ came not to her at all, she found a little path (which shee lighted on by great good fortune) even when dark night was apace drawing, and followed it so long, til it brought her within the sight of a small poore cottage, whereto she rode on so fast as she could; and found therein a very old man, having a wife rather more aged then he, who seeing hir to be without company, the old man spake thus unto her. faire daughter (quoth he) whether wander you at such an unseasonable houre, and all alone in a place so desolate? the damosell weeping, replied; that shee had lost her company in the forest, and enquired how neere shee was to _alagna_. daughter (answered the old man) this is not the way to _alagna_, for it is above sixe leagues hence. then shee desired to knowe, how farre off shee was from such houses, where she might have any reasonable lodging? there are none so neere, said the old man, that day light will give you leave to reach. may it please you then good father (replied _angelina_) seeing i cannot travaile any whether elsee; for gods sake, to let me remaine heere with you this night. daughter answered the good old man, wee can gladly give you entertainement here, for this night, in such poore manner as you see: but let mee tell you withall, that up and downe these wooddes (as well by night as day) walke companies of all conditions, and rather enimies then friends, who doe us many greevious displeasures and harmes. now if by misfortune, you beeing heere, any such people should come, and seeing you so loovely faire, as indeed you are, offer you any shame or injurie: alas you see it lies not in our power to lend you any helpe or succour. i thought it good (therefore) to acquaint you heerewith; because if any such mischance do happen, you should not afterward complaine of us. the yong maiden, seeing the time to be so farre spent, albeit the olde mans words did much dismay her, yet she thus replyed. if it be the will of heaven, both you and i shall be defended from any misfortune: but if any such mischance do happen, i account the matter lesse deserving grief, if i fall into the mercy of men, then to be devoured by wild beasts in this forrest. so, being dismounted from her horse, and entred into the homely house; she supt poorely with the olde man and his wife, with such mean cates as their provision affoorded: and after supper, lay downe in hir garments on the same poore pallet, where the aged couple tooke their rest, and was very well contented therewith, albeit she could not refraine from sighing and weeping, to bee thus divided from her deare _pedro_, of whose life and welfare she greatly despaired. when it was almost day, she heard a great noise of people travailing by, whereupon sodainly she arose, and ranne into a garden plot, which was on the backside of the poore cottage, espying in one of the corners a great stacke of hay, wherein she hid her selfe, to the end, that travelling strangers might not readily finde her there in the house. scarsely was she fully hidden, but a great company of theeves and villaines, finding the doore open, rushed into the cottage, where looking round about them for some booty, they saw the damoselse horse stand ready sadled, which made them demand to whom it belonged. the good olde man, not seeing the maiden present there, but immagining that shee had made some shift for her selfe, answered thus. gentlemen, there is no body here but my wife and my selfe: as for this horse, which seemeth to bee escaped from the owner; hee came hither yesternight, and we gave him house-roome heere, rather then to be devoured by wolves abroad. then said the principall of the theevish crew; this horse shall be ours, in regard he hath no other master, and let the owner come claime him of us. when they had searched every corner of the poore cottage, & found no such prey as they looked for, some of them went into the backe side; where they had left their javelins and targets, wherewith they used commonly to travaile. it fortuned, that one of them, being more subtily suspitious then the rest, thrust his javeline into the stacke of hay, in the very same place where the damosell lay hidden, missing very little of killing her; for it entred so farre, that the iron head pierced quite thorough her garments, and touched her left bare brest: whereupon, shee was ready to cry out, as fearing that she was wounded: but considering the place where she was, she lay still, and spake not a word. this disordred company, after they had fed on some young kids, and other flesh which they brought with them thither, they went thence about their theeving exercise, taking the damoselse horse along with them. after they were gone a good distance off, the good old man beganne thus to question his wife. what is become (quoth hee) of our young gentlewoman, which came so late to us yesternight? i have not seen hir to day since our arising. the old woman made answer, that she knew not where she was, and sought all about to finde her. _angelinaes_ feares being well over-blowne, and hearing none of the former noise, which made her the better hope of their departure, came forth of the hay-stack; whereof the good old man was not a little joyfull, and because she had so well escaped from them: so seeing it was now broad day-light, he sayde unto her. now that the morning is so fairely begun, if you can be so well contented, we will bring you to a castle, which stands about two miles and an halfe hence, where you will be sure to remaine in safety. but you must needs travaile thither on foote, because the night-walkers that happened hither, have taken away your horse with them. _angelina_ making little or no account of such a losse, entreated them for charities sake, to conduct her to that castle, which accordingly they did, and arrived there betweene seven and eight of the clocke. the castle belonged to one of the _orsini_, being called, _liello di campo di fiore_, and by great good fortune, his wife was then there, she being a very vertuous and religious lady. no sooner did shee looke upon _angelina_, but shee knew her immediately, and entertaining her very willingly, requested, to know the reason of her thus arriving there: which shee at large related, and moved the lady (who likewise knew _pedro_ perfectly well) to much compassion, because he was a kinsman and deare friend to her husband; and understanding how the theeves had surprized him, shee feared, that he was slaine among them, whereupon shee spake thus to _angelina_. seeing you know not what is become of my kinsman _pedro_, you shall remaine here with me, untill such time, as (if we heare no other tidings of him) you may with safety be sent backe to _rome_. _pedro_ all this while sitting in the tree, so full of griefe, as no man could be more; about the houre of midnight (by the bright splendour of the moone) espied about some twenty wolves, who, so soone as they got a sight of the horse, ran and engirt him round about. the horse when he perceived them so neere him, drew his head so strongly back-ward, that breaking the reines of his bridle, he laboured to escape away from them. but being beset on every side, and utterly unable to helpe himselfe, he contended with his teeth & feete in his owne defence, till they haled him violently to the ground, and tearing his body in peeces, left not a jot of him but the bare bones, and afterward ran ranging thorow the forrest. at this sight, poore _pedro_ was mightily dismayed, fearing to speed no better then his horse had done, and therefore could not devise what was best to be done; for he saw no likelihood now, of getting out of the forrest with life. but day-light drawing on apace, and he almost dead with cold, having stood quaking so long in the tree; at length by continuall looking every where about him, to discerne the least glimpse of any comfort; he espied a great fire, which seemed to be about halfe a mile off from him. by this time it was broade day, when he descended downe out of the tree, (yet not without much feare) and tooke his way towards the fire, where being arrived, he found a company of shepheards banquetting about it, whom he curteously saluting, they tooke pity on his distresse, and welcommed him kindly. after he had tasted of such cheare as they had, and was indifferently refreshed by the good fire; hee discoursed his hard disasters to them, as also how he happened thither, desiring to know, if any village or castle were neere thereabout, where he might in better manner releeve himselfe. the shepheards told him, that about a mile and an halfe from thence, was the castle of _signior liello di campo di fiore_, and that his lady was now residing there; which was no meane comfort to poore _pedro_, requesting that one of them would accompany him thither, as two of them did in loving manner, to ridde him of all further feares. when he was arrived at the castle, and found there divers of his familiar acquaintance; he laboured to procure some meanes, that the damosell might be sought for in the forrest. then the lady calling for her, and bringing her to him; he ran and caught her in his armes, being ready to swoune with conceit of joy, for never could any man be more comforted, then he was at the sight of his _angelina_, and questionlesse, her joy was not a jot inferior to his, such a simpathy of firme love was sealed between them. the lady of the castle, after shee had given them very gracious entertainement, and understood the scope of their bold adventure; shee reproved them both somewhat sharpely, for presuming so farre without the consent of their parents. but perceiving (notwithstanding all her remonstrances) that they continued still constant in their resolution, without any inequality on either side; shee saide to her selfe. why should this matter be any way offensive to me? they love each other loyally; they are not inferiour to one another in birth, but in fortune; they are equally loved and allied to my husband, and their desire is both honest and honourable. moreover, what know i, if it be the will of heaven to have it so? theeves intended to hang him, in malice to his name and kinred, from which hard fate he hath happily escaped. her life was endangered by a sharpe pointed javeline, and yet her fairer starres would not suffer her so to perish: beside, they both have escaped the fury of ravenous wild beasts, and all these are apparant signes, that future comforts should recompence former passed misfortunes; farre be it therefore from me, to hinder the appointment of the heavens. then turning her selfe to them, thus shee proceeded. if your desire be to joyne in honourable marriage, i am well contented therewith, and your nuptials shall here be sollemnized at my husbands charges. afterward both he and i will endeavour, to make peace between you and your discontented parents. _pedro_ was not a little joyfull at her kind offer, and _angelina_ much more then he; so they were maried together in the castle, and worthily feasted by the lady, as forrest entertainment could permit, and there they enjoyed the first fruits of their love. within a short while after, the lady and they (well mounted on horse-backe, and attended with an honourable traine) returned to _rome_; where her lord _liello_ and shee prevailed so wel with _pedroes_ angry parents: that all variance ended in love and peace, and afterward they lived lovingly together, till old age made them as honourable, as their true and mutuall affection formerly had done. ricciardo manardy, _was found by_ messer lizio da valbonna, _as he sate fast asleepe at his daughters chamber window, having his hand fast in hers, and shee sleeping in the same manner. whereupon, they were joyned together in marriage, and their long loyall love mutually recompenced._ the fourth novell. _declaring the discreete providence of parents, in care of their childrens love and their owne credit, to cut off inconveniences, before they doe proceede too farre._ madam _eliza_ having ended her tale, and heard what commendations the whole company gave thereof; the queene commanded _philostratus_, to tell a novell agreeing with his owne minde, who smiling thereat, thus replyed. faire ladies, i have beene so often checkt & snapt, for my yester dayes matter and argument of discoursing, which was both tedious and offensive to you; that if i intended to make you any amends, i should now undertake to tell such a tale, as might put you into a mirthfull humour. which i am determined to doe, in relating a briefe and pleasant novell, not any way offensive (as i trust) but exemplary for some good notes of observation. not long since, there lived in _romania_, a knight, a very honest gentleman, and well qualified, whose name was _messer lizio da valbonna_, to whom it fortuned, that (at his entrance into age) by his lady and wife, called _jaquemina_, he had a daughter, the very choycest and goodliest gentlewoman in all those parts. now because such a happy blessing (in their olde yeeres) was not a little comfortable to them; they thought themselves the more bound in duty, to be circumspect of her education, by keeping her out of over-frequent companies, but onely such as agreed best with their gravity, & might give the least ill example to their daughter, who was named _catharina_; as making no doubt, but by this their provident and wary respect, to match her in mariage answerable to their liking. there was also a young gentleman, in the very flourishing estate of his youthfull time, descended from the family of the _manardy da brettinoro_, named _messer ricciardo_, who oftentimes frequented the house of _messer lizio_, and was a continuall welcome guest to his table, _messer lizio_ and his wife making the like account of him, even as if he had beene their owne sonne. this young gallant, perceiving the maiden to be very beautifull, of singular behaviour, and of such yeeres as was fit for mariage, became exceedingly enamoured of her, yet concealed his affection so closely as he could; which was not so covertly caried, but that she perceived it, and grew in as good liking of him. many times he had an earnest desire to have conference with her, which yet still he deferred, as fearing to displease her; till at the length he lighted on an apt opportunity, and boldly spake to her in this manner. faire _catharina_, i hope thou wilt not let me die for thy love? _signior ricciardo_ (replyed shee suddenly againe) i hope you will extend the like mercy to me, as you desire that i should shew to you. this answere was so pleasing to _messer ricciardo_, that presently he saide. alas deare love, i have dedicated all my fairest fortunes onely to thy service, so that it remaineth soly in thy power, to dispose of me as best shall please thee, and to appoint such times of private conversation, as may yeeld more comfort to my poore afflicted soule. _catherina_ standing musing awhile, at last returned him this answere. _signior ricciardo_, quoth shee, you see what a restraint is set on my liberty, how short i am kept from conversing with any one, that i hold this our enterparlance now almost miraculous. but if you could devise any convenient meanes, to admit us more familiar freedome, without any prejudice to mine honour, or the least distaste of my parents; doe but enstruct it, and i will adventure it. _ricciardo_ having considered on many wayes and meanes, thought one to be the fittest of all; and therefore thus replyed. _catharina_ (quoth he) the onely place for our more private talking together, i conceive to be the gallery over your fathers garden. if you can winne your mother to let you lodge there, i will make meanes to climbe over the wall, and at the goodly gazing window, we may discourse so long as we please. now trust me deare love (answered _catharina_) no place can be more convenient for our purpose, there shall we heare the sweete birds sing, especially the nightingale, which i have heard singing there all the night long; i will breake the matter to my mother, and how i speede, you shall heare further from me. so, with divers parting kisses, they brake off conference, till their next meeting. on the day following, which was towards the ending of the moneth of _may, catharina_ began to complaine to her mother, that the season was over-hot and tedious, to be still lodged in her mothers chamber, because it was an hinderance to her sleeping; and wanting rest, it would be an empairing of her health. why daughter (quoth the mother) the weather (as yet) is not so hot, but (in my minde) you may very well endure it. alas mother, said shee, aged people, as you and my father are, doe not feele the heates of youthfull bloud, by reason of your farre colder complexion, which is not to be measured by younger yeeres. i know that well daughter, replyed the mother; but is it in my power, to make the weather warme or coole, as thou perhaps wouldst have it? seasons are to be suffered, according to their severall qualities; and though the last night might seeme hot, this next ensuing may be cooler, and then thy rest will be the better. no mother, quoth _catherina_, that cannot be; for as summer proceedeth on, so the heate encreaseth, and no expectation can be of temperate weather, untill it groweth to winter againe. why daughter, saide the mother, what wouldest thou have me to doe? mother (quoth shee) if it might stand with my fathers good liking and yours, i would be lodged in the garden gallery, which is a great deale more coole, and temperate. there shall i heare the sweete nightingale sing, as every night shee useth to doe, and many other pretty birds beside, which i cannot doe, lodging in your chamber. the mother loving her daughter dearely, as being some-what over-fond of her, and very willing to give her contentment; promised to impart her minde to her father, not doubting but to compasse what shee requested. when shee had moved the matter to _messer lizio_, whose age made him somewhat froward and teasty; angerly he said to his wife. why how now woman? cannot our daughter sleepe, except shee heare the nightingale sing? let there be a bed made for her in the oven, and there let the crickets make her melody. when _catharina_ heard this answere from her father, and saw her desire to be disappointed; not onely could shee not take any rest the night following, but also complained more of the heate then before, not suffering her mother to take any rest, which made her goe angerly to her husband in the morning, saying. why husband, have we but one onely daughter, whom you pretend to love right dearely, and yet can you be so carelesse of her, as to denie her a request, which is no more then reason? what matter is it to you or me, to let her lodge in the garden gallery? is her young bloud to be compared with ours? can our weake and crazie bodies, feele the frolicke temper of hers? alas, shee is hardly (as yet) out of her childish yeeres, and children have many desires farre differing from ours: the singing of birds is rare musicke to them, and chiefly the nightingale; whose sweete notes will provoke them to rest, when neither art or physicke can doe it. is it even so wife? answered _messer lizio_. must your will and mine be governed by our daughter? well be it so then, let her bed be made in the garden gallerie, but i will have the keeping of the key, both to locke her in at night, and set her at libertie every morning. woman, woman, young wenches are wily, many wanton crochets are busie in their braines, and to us that are aged, they sing like lapwings, telling us one thing, and intending another; talking of nightingales, when their mindes run on cocke-sparrowes. seeing wife, shee must needes have her minde, let yet your care and mine extend so farre, to keepe her chastity uncorrupted, and our credulity from being abused. _catharina_ having thus prevailed with her mother, her bed made in the garden gallery, and secret intelligence given to _ricciardo_, for preparing his meanes of accesse to her window; old provident _lizio_ lockes the doore to bed-ward, and gives her liberty to come forth in the morning, for his owne lodging was neere to the same gallery. in the dead and silent time of night, when all (but lovers) take their rest; _ricciardo_ having provided a ladder of ropes, with grapling hookes to take hold above and below, according as he had occasion to use it. by helpe thereof, first he mounted over the garden wall, and then climbde up to the gallery window, before which (as is every where in _italie_) was a little round engirting tarras, onely for a man to stand upon, for making cleane the window, or otherwise repairing it. many nights (in this manner) enjoyed they their meetings, entermixing their amorous conference with infinite kisses and kinde embraces, as the window gave leave, he sitting in the tarras, and departing alwayes before breake of day, for feare of being discovered by any. but, as excesse of delight is the nurse to negligence, and begetteth such an over-presuming boldnesse, as afterward proveth to be sauced with repentance: so came it to passe with our over-fond lovers, in being taken tardy through their owne folly. after they had many times met in this manner, the nights (according to the season) growing shorter and shorter, which their stolne delight made them lesse respective of, then was requisite in an adventure so dangerous: it fortuned, that their amorous pleasure had so farre transported them, and dulled their sences in such sort, by these their continued nightly watchings; that they both fell fast asleepe, he having his hand closed in hers, and shee one arme folded about his body, and thus they slept till broade day light. old _messer lizio_, who continually was the morning cocke to the whole house, going foorth into his garden, saw how his daughter and _ricciardo_ were seated at the window. in he went againe, and going to his wives chamber, saide to her. rise quickly wife, and you shall see, what made our daughter so desirous to lodge in the garden gallery. i perceive that shee loved to heare the nightingale, for shee hath caught one, and holds him fast in her hand. is it possible, saide the mother, that our daughter should catch a live nightingale in the darke? you shall see that your selfe, answered _messer lizio_, if you will make haste, and goe with me. shee, putting on her garments in great haste, followed her husband, and being come to the gallery doore, he opened it very softly, and going to the window, shewed her how they both sate fast asleepe, and in such manner as hath been before declared: whereupon, shee perceiving how _ricciardo_ and _catharina_ had both deceived her, would have made an outcry, but that _messer lizio_ spake thus to her. wife, as you love me, speake not a word, neither make any noyse: for, seeing shee hath loved _ricciardo_ without our knowledge, and they have had their private meetings in this manner, yet free from any blamefull imputation; he shall enjoy her, and shee him. _ricciardo_ is a gentleman, well derived, and of rich possessions, it can be no disparagement to us, that _catharina_ match with him in mariage, which he neither shall, or dare denie to doe, in regard of our lawes severity; for climbing up to my window with his ladder of ropes, whereby his life is forfeited to the law, except our daughter please to spare it, as it remaineth in her power to doe, by accepting him as her husband, or yeelding his life up to the law, which surely shee will not suffer, their love agreeing together in such mutuall manner, and he adventuring so dangerously for her. madam _jaquemina_, perceiving that her husband spake very reasonably, and was no more offended at the matter; stept aside with him behinde the drawne curtaines, untill they should awake of themselves. at the last, _ricciardo_ awaked, and seeing it was so farre in the day, thought himselfe halfe dead, and calling to _catharina_, saide. alas deare love! what shall we doe? we have slept too long, and shall be taken here. at which words, _messer lizio_ stept forth from behind the curtaines, saying. nay, _signior ricciardo_, seeing you have found such an unbefitting way hither, we will provide you a better for your backe returning. when _ricciardo_ saw the father and mother both there present, he could not devise what to doe or say, his sences became so strangely confounded; yet knowing how hainously hee had offended, if the strictnesse of law should be challenged against him, falling on his knees, he saide. alas _messer lizio_, i humbly crave your mercy, confessing my selfe well worthy of death, that knowing the sharpe rigour of the law, i would presume so audaciously to breake it. but pardon me worthy sir, my loyall and unfeined love to your daughter _catharina_, hath beene the onely cause of my transgressing. _ricciardo_ (replyed _messer lizio_) the love i beare thee, and the honest confidence i doe repose in thee, step up (in some measure) to pleade thine excuse, especially in the regard of my daughter, whom i blame thee not for loving, but for this unlawfull way of presuming to her. neverthelesse, perceiving how the case now standeth, and considering withall, that youth and affection were the ground of thine offence: to free thee from death, and my selfe from dishonour, before thou departest hence, thou shalt espouse my daughter _catharina_, to make her thy lawfull wife in mariage, and wipe off all scandall to my house and me. all this while was poore _catharina_ on her knees likewise to her mother, who (notwithstanding this her bold adventure) made earnest suite to her husband to remit all, because _ricciardo_ right gladly condiscended, as it being the maine issue of his hope and desire; to accept his _catharina_ in mariage, whereto shee was as willing as he. _messer lizio_ presently called for the confessour of his house, and borrowing one of his wives rings, before they went out of the gallery; _ricciardo_ and _catharina_ were espoused together, to their no little joy and contentment. now had they more leasure for further conference, with the parents and kindred to _ricciardo_, who being no way discontented with this sudden match, but applauding it in the highest degree; they were publikely maried againe in the cathedrall church, and very honourable triumphes performed at the nuptials, living long after in happy prosperity. guidotto _of cremona, departing out of this mortall life, left a daughter of his, with_ jacomino _of pavia._ giovanni di severino, _and_ menghino da minghole, _fell both in love with the young maiden, and fought for her; who being afterward knowne, to be the sister to_ giovanni, _shee was given in mariage to_ menghino. the fifth novell. _wherein may be observed, what quarrelse and contentions are occasioned by love; with some particular discription, concerning the sincerity of a loyall friend._ all the ladies laughing heartily, at the novell of the nightingale, so pleasingly delivered by _philostratus_, when they saw the same to be fully ended, the queene thus spake. now trust me _philostratus_, though yester-day you did much oppresse mee with melancholy, yet you have made me such an amends to day, as wee have little reason to complaine any more of you. so converting her speech to madam _neiphila_, shee commanded her to succeede with her discourse, which willingly she yeelded to, beginning in this manner. seeing it pleased _philostratus_, to produce his novell out of _romania_: i meane to walke with him in the same jurisdiction, concerning what i am to say. there dwelt sometime in the city of _fano_, two lombards, the one being named _guidotto_ of _cremona_, and the other _jacomino_ of _pavia_, men of sufficient entrance into yeeres, having followed the warres (as souldiers) all their youthful time. _guidotto_ feeling sicknesse to over-master him, and having no sonne, kinsman, or friend, in whom he might repose more trust, then hee did in _jacomino_: having long conference with him about his worldly affaires, and setled his whole estate in good order; he left a daughter to his charge, about ten yeeres of age, with all such goods as he enjoyed, and then departed out of this life. it came to passe, that the city of _faenza_, long time being molested with tedious warres, and subjected to very servile condition; beganne now to recover her former strength, with free permission (for all such as pleased) to returne and possesse their former dwellings. whereupon, _jacomino_ (having sometime beene an inhabitant there) was desirous to live in _faenza_ againe, convaying thither all his goods, and taking with him also the young girle, which _guidotto_ had left him, whom hee loved, and respected as his owne childe. as shee grew in stature, so shee did in beauty and vertuous qualities, as none was more commended throughout the whole city, for faire, civill, and honest demeanour, which incited many amorously to affect her. but (above all the rest) two very honest young men, of good fame and repute, who were so equally in love addicted to her, that being jealous of each others fortune, in preventing of their severall hopefull expectation; a deadly hatred grew suddenly betweene them, the one being named, _giovanni de severino_, and the other _menghino da minghole_. either of these two young men, before the maide was fifteene yeeres old, laboured to be possessed of her in marriage, but her guardian would give no consent thereto: wherefore, perceiving their honest intended meaning to be frustrated, they now began to busie their braines, how to forestall one another by craft and circumvention. _jacomino_ had a maide-servant belonging to his house, somewhat aged, and a man-servant beside, named _grivello_, of mirthfull disposition, and very friendly, with whom _giovanni_ grew in great familiarity; and when he found time fit for the purpose, he discovered his love to him, requesting his furtherance and assistance, in compassing the height of his desire, with bountifull promises of rich rewarding; whereto _grivello_ returned this answere. i know not how to sted you in this case, but when my master shall sup foorth at some neighbours house, to admit your entrance where she is: because, if i offer to speake to her, shee never will stay to heare me. wherefore, if my service this way may doe you any good, i promise to performe it; doe you beside, as you shall find it most convenient for you. so the bargaine was agreed on betweene them, and nothing elsee now remained, but to what issue it should sort in the end. _menghino_, on the other side, having entred into the chamber-maides acquaintance, sped so well with her, that shee delivered so many messages from him, as had (already) halfe won the liking of the virgin; passing further promises to him beside, of bringing him to have conference with her, whensoever her master should be absent from home. thus _menghino_ being favoured (on the one side) by the olde chamber-maide, and _giovanni_ (on the other) by trusty _grivello_; their amorous warre was now on foote, and diligently followed by both their sollicitors. within a short while after, by the procurement of _grivello, jacomino_ was invited by a neighbour to supper, in company of divers his very familiar friends, whereof intelligence being given to _giovanni_; a conclusion passed betweene them, that (upon a certaine signale given) he should come, and finde the doore standing ready open, to give him all accesse unto the affected mayden. the appointed night being come, and neither of these hot lovers knowing the others intent, but their suspition being alike, and encreasing still more and more; they made choyce of certaine friends and associates, well armed and provided, for eithers safer entrance when neede should require. _menghino_ stayed with his troope, in a neere neighbouring house to the mayden, attending when the signall would be given: but _giovanni_ and his consorts, were ambushed somewhat further off from the house, and both saw when _jacomino_ went foorth to supper. now _grivello_ and the chamber-maide began to vary, which should send the other out of the way, till they had effected their severall intention; whereupon _grivello_ said to her. what maketh thee to walke thus about the house, and why doest thou not get thee to bed? and thou (quoth the maide) why doest thou not goe to attend on our master, and tarry for his returning home? i am sure thou hast supt long agoe, and i know no businesse here in the house for thee to doe. thus (by no meanes) the one could send away the other, but either remained as the others hinderance. but _grivello_ remembring himselfe, that the houre of his appointment with _giovanni_ was come, he saide to himselfe. what care i whether our olde maide be present, or no? if shee disclose any thing that i doe, i can be revenged on her when i list. so, having made the signall, he went to open the doore, even when _giovanni_ (and two of his confederates) rushed into the house, and finding the faire young maiden sitting in the hall, laide hands on her, to beare her away. the damosell began to resist them, crying out for helpe so loude as shee could, as the olde chamber-maide did the like: which _menghino_ hearing, he ranne thither presently with his friends, and seeing the young damosell brought well-neere out of the house; they drew their swords, crying out: traytors, you are but dead men, here is no violence to be offered, neither is this a booty for such base groomes. so they layed about them lustily, and would not permit them to passe any further. on the other side, upon this mutinous noyse and out-cry, the neighbours came foorth of their houses, with lights, staves, and clubbes, greatly reproving them for this out-rage, yet assisting _menghino_: by meanes whereof, after a long time of contention, _menghino_ recovered the mayden from _giovanni_, and placed her peaceably in _jacominoes_ house. no sooner was this hurly-burly somewhat calmed, but the serjeants to the captaine of the city, came thither, and apprehended divers of the mutiners: among whom were _menghino, giovanni,_ and _grivello_, committing them immediately to prison. but after every thing was pacified, and _jacomino_ returned home to his house from supper; he was not a little offended at so grosse an injury. when he was fully informed, how the matter happened, and apparantly perceived, that no blame at all could be imposed on the mayden: he grew the better contented, resolving with himselfe (because no more such inconveniences should happen) to have her married so soone as possibly he could. when morning was come, the kindred and friends on either side, understanding the truth of the error committed, and knowing beside, what punishment would be inflicted on the prisoners, if _jacomino_ pressed the matter no further, then as with reason and equity well he might; they repaired to him, and (in gentle speeches) entreated him, not to regard a wrong offered by unruly and youthfull people, meerely drawne into the action by perswasion of friends; submitting both themselves, and the offendors, to such satisfaction as he pleased to appoint them. _jacomino_, who had seene and observed many things in his time, and was a man of sound understanding, returned them this answere. gentlemen, if i were in mine owne countrey, as now i am in yours; i would as forwardly confesse my selfe your friend, as here i must needes fall short of any such service, but even as you shall please to command me. but plainely, and without all further ceremonious complement, i must agree to whatsoever you can request; as thinking you to be more injured by me, then any great wrong that i have sustained. concerning the young damosell remaining in my house, shee is not (as many have imagined) either of _cremona_, or _pavia_, but borne a _faentine_, here in this citie: albeit neither my selfe, shee, or he of whom i had her, did ever know it, or yet could learne whose daughter shee was. wherefore, the suite you make to me, should rather (in duty) be mine to you: for shee is a native of your owne, doe right to her, and then you can doe no wrong unto mee. when the gentlemen understood, that the mayden was borne in _faenza_, they marvelled thereat, and after they had thanked _jacomino_ for his curteous answer; they desired him to let them know, by what meanes the damosell came into his custody, and how he knew her to be borne in _faenza_: when he, perceiving them attentive to heare him, began in this manner. understand worthy gentlemen, that _guidotto_ of _cremona_, was my companion and deare friend, who growing neere to his death, tolde me, that when this city was surprized by the emperour _frederigo_, and all things committed to sacke and spoile; he and certaine of his confederates entred into a house, which they found to be well furnished with goods, but utterly forsaken of the dwellers, onely this poore mayden excepted, being then aged but two yeeres, or thereabout. as hee mounted up the steps, with intent to depart from the house; she called him father, which word moved him so compassionately: that he went backe againe, brought her away with him, and all things of worth which were in the house, going thence afterward to _fano_, and there deceasing, he left her and all his goods to my charge; conditionally, that i should see her maried when due time required, and bestow on her the wealth which he had left her. now, very true it is, although her yeeres are convenient for mariage, yet i could never find any one to bestow her on, at least that i thought fitting for her: howbeit, i will listen thereto much more respectively, before any other such accident shall happen. it came to passe, that in the reporting of this discourse, there was then a gentleman in the company, named _guillemino da medicina_, who at the surprizal of the city, was present with _guidotto_ of _cremona_, and knew well the house which he had ransacked, the owner whereof was also present with him, wherefore taking him aside, he saide to him. _bernardino_, hearest thou what _jacomino_ hath related? yes very wel, replyed _bernardino_, and remember withall, that in that dismall bloody combustion, i lost a little daughter, about the age as _jacomino_ speaketh. questionlesse then, replied _guillemino_, shee must needes be the same young mayden, for i was there at the same time, and in the house, whence _guidotto_ did bring both the girle and goods, and i doe perfectly remember, that it was thy house. i pray thee call to minde, if ever thou sawest any scarre or marke about her, which may revive thy former knowledge of her, for my minde perswades me, that the maide is thy daughter. _bernardino_ musing a while with himselfe, remembred, that under her left eare, shee had a scarre, in the forme of a little crosse, which happened by the byting of a wolfe, and but a small while before the spoyle was made. wherefore, without deferring it to any further time, he stept to _jacomino_ (who as yet staied there) and entreated him to fetch the mayden from his house, because shee might be knowne to some in the company: whereto right willingly he condiscended, and there presented the maide before them. so soone as _bernardino_ beheld her, he began to be much inwardly moved; for the perfect character of her mothers countenance, was really figured in her sweete face, onely that her beauty was somewhat more excelling. yet not herewith satisfied, he desired _jacomino_ to be so pleased, as to lift up a little the lockes of haire, depending over her left eare. _jacomino_ did it presently, albeit with a modest blushing in the maide, and _bernardino_ looking advisedly on it, knew it to be the selfe same crosse; which confirmed her constantly to be his daughter. overcome with excesse of joy, which made the teares to trickle downe his cheekes, he proffered to embrace and kisse the maide: but she resisting his kindnesse, because (as yet) shee knew no reason for it, he turned himselfe to _jacomino_, saying. my deare brother and friend, this maide is my daughter, and my house was the same which _guidotto_ spoyled, in the generall havocke of our city, and thence he carried this child of mine, forgotten (in the fury) by my wife her mother. but happy was the houre of his becomming her father, and carrying her away with him; for elsee she had perished in the fire, because the house was instantly burnt downe to the ground. the mayden hearing his words, observing him also to be a man of yeeres and gravity: shee beleeved what he saide, and humbly submitted her selfe to his kisses & embraces, even as instructed thereto by instinct of nature. _bernardino_ instantly sent for his wife, her owne mother, his daughters, sonnes, and kindred, who being acquainted with this admirable accident, gave her most gracious and kind welcome, he receiving her from _jacomino_ as his childe, and the legacies which _guidotto_ had left her. when the captaine of the city (being a very wise and worthy gentleman) heard these tydings, and knowing that _giovanni_, then his prisoner, was the son to _bernardino_, and naturall brother to the newly recovered maide; he bethought himselfe, how best he might qualifie the fault committed by him. and entring into the hall among them, handled the matter so discreetly, that a loving league of peace was confirmed betweene _giovanni_ and _menghino_, to whom (with free and full consent on all sides) the faire maide, named _agatha_, was given in marriage, with a more honourable enlargement of her dowry, and _grivello_, with the rest, delivered out of prison, which for their tumultuous riot they had justly deserved. _menghino_ and _agatha_ had their wedding worthily sollemnized, with all due honours belonging thereto; and long time after they lived in _faenza_, highly beloved, and graciously esteemed. guion di procida, _being found familiarly conversing with a young damosell, which he loved; and had been given (formerly) to_ frederigo, _king of sicilie: was bound to a stake; to be consumed with fire. from which danger (neverthelesse) he escaped, being knowne by_ don rogiero de oria, _lord admirall of sicilie, and afterward married the damosell._ the sixth novell. _wherein is manifested, that love can leade a man into numberlesse perils: out of which he escapeth with no meane difficulty._ the novell of madam _neiphila_ being ended, which proved very pleasing to the ladies: the queene commanded madam _pampinea_, that shee should prepare to take her turne next, whereto willingly obeying, thus shee began. many and mighty (gracious ladies) are the prevailing powers of love, conducting amorous soules into infinite travelse, with inconveniences no way avoidable, and not easily to be foreseene, or prevented. as partly already hath beene observed, by divers of our former novelse related, and some (no doubt) to ensue hereafter; for one of them (comming now to my memory) i shall acquaint you withall, in so good tearmes as i can. _ischia_ is an iland very neere to _naples_, wherein (not long since) lived a faire and lovely gentlewoman, named _restituta_, daughter to a gentleman of the same isle, whose name was _marino bolgaro_. a proper youth called _guion_, dwelling also in a neere neighbouring isle, called _procida_, did love her as dearely as his owne life, and she was as intimately affected towards him. now because the sight of her was his onely comfort, as occasion gave him leave; he resorted to _ischia_ very often in the day time, and as often also in the night season, when any barque passed from _procida_ to _ischia_; if to see nothing elsee, yet to behold the walles that enclosed his mistresse thus. while this love continued in equall fervency, it chanced upon a faire summers day, that _restituta_ walked alone upon the sea-shoare, going from rocke to rocke, having a naked knife in her hand, wherewith shee opened such oysters as shee found among the stones, seeking for small pearles enclosed in their shelles. her walke was very solitary and shady, with a faire spring or well adjoining to it, and thither (at that very instant time) certaine sicilian young gentlemen, which came from _naples_, had made their retreate. they perceiving the gentlewoman to be very beautifull (shee as yet not having any sight of them) and in such a silent place alone by her selfe: concluded together, to make a purchase of her, and carry her thence away with them; as indeed they did, notwithstanding all her out-cryes and exclaimes, bearing her perforce aboard their barque. setting sayle thence, they arrived in _calabria_, and then there grew a great contention betweene them, to which of them this booty of beauty should belong, because each of them pleaded a title to her. but when they could not grow to any agreement, but doubted greater disaster would ensue thereon, by breaking their former league of friendship: by an equall conformity in consent, they resolved, to bestow her as a rich present, on _frederigo_ king of _sicilie_, who was then young & joviall, and could not be pleased with a better gift; wherefore they were no sooner landed at _palermo_, but they did according as they had determined. the king did commend her beauty extraordinarily, and liked her farre beyond all his other loves: but, being at that time empaired in his health, and his body much distempered by ill dyet; he gave command, that untill he should be in more able disposition, shee must be kept in a goodly house of his owne, erected in a beautifull garden, called the _cube_, where shee was attended in most pompeous manner. now grew the noyse and rumor great in _ischia_, about this rape or stealing away of _restituta_; but the chiefest greevance of all, was, that it could not be knowne how, by whom, or by what meanes. but _guion di procida_, whom this injury concerned much more then any other; stood not in expectation of better tydings from _ischia_, but hearing what course the barke had taken, made ready another, to follow after with all possible speede. flying thus on the winged minds through the seas, even from _minerva_, unto the _scalea_ in _calabria_, searching for his lost love in every angle: at length it was tolde him at the _scalea_, that shee was carried away by certaine _sicillian_ marriners, to _palermo_, whither _guion_ set sayle immediately. after some diligent search made there, he understood, that she was delivered to the king, and he had given strict command, for keeping her in his place of pleasure; called the _cube_: which newes were not a little greevous to him, for now he was almost quite out of hope, not onely of ever enjoying her, but also of seeing her. neverthelesse, love would not let him utterly despaire, whereupon he sent away his barque, and perceiving himselfe to be unknowne of any; he continued for some time in _palermo_, walking many times by that goodly place of pleasure. it chanced on a day, that keeping his walke as he used to doe, fortune was so favourable to him, as to let him have a sight of her at her window; from whence also she had a full view of him, to their exceeding comfort and contentment. and _guion_ observing, that the _cube_ was seated in a place of small resort; approached so neere as possibly he durst, to have some conference with _restituta_. as love sets a keene edge on the dullest spirit, and (by a small advantage) makes a man the more adventurous: so this little time of unseene talke, inspired him with courage, and her with witty advice, by what meanes his accesse might be much neerer to her, and their communication concealed from any discovery, the scituation of the place, and benefit of time duly considered. night must be the cloud to their amorous conclusion, and therefore, so much thereof being spent, as was thought convenient, he returned thither againe, provided of such grappling-yrons, as is required when men will clamber, made fast unto his hands and knees; by their helpe he attained to the top of the wall, whence discending downe into the garden, there he found the maine yard of a ship, whereof before shee had given him instruction, and rearing it up against her chamber window, made that his meanes for ascending thereto, shee having left it open for his easier entrance. you cannot denie (faire ladies) but here was a very hopefull beginning, and likely to have as happy an ending, were it not true loves fatall misery, even in the very height of promised assurance, to be thwarted by unkind prevention, and in such manner as i will tell you. this night, intended for our lovers meeting, proved disastrous and dreadfull to them both: for the king, who at the first sight of _restituta_, was highly pleased with her excelling beauty; gave order to his eunuches and other women, that a costly bathe should be prepared for her, and therein to let her weare away that night, because the next day he intended to visit her. _restituta_ being royally conducted from her chamber to the bathe, attended on with torch-light, as if shee had been a queene: none remained there behind, but such women as waited on her, and the guards without, which watched the chamber. no sooner was poore _guion_ aloft at the window, calling softly to his mistresse, as if she had beene there; but he was over-heard by the women in the darke, and immediately apprehended by the guard, who forthwith brought him before the lord marshall, where being examined, and he avouching, that _restituta_ was his elected wife, and for her he had presumed in that manner; closely was he kept in prison till the next morning. when he came into the kings presence, and there boldly justified the goodnesse of his cause: _restituta_ likewise was sent for, who no sooner saw her deare love _guion_, but shee ran and caught him fast about the necke, kissing him in teares, and greeving not a little at his hard fortune. hereat the king grew exceedingly enraged, loathing and hating her now, much more then formerly he did affect her, and having himselfe seene, by what strange meanes he did climbe over the wall, and then mounted to her chamber window; he was extreamely impatient, and could not otherwise be perswaded, but that their meetings thus had beene very many. forthwith he sentenced them both with death, commanding, that they should be conveyed thence to _palermo_, and there (being stript starke naked) be bound to a stake backe to backe, and so to stand the full space of nine houres, to see if any could take knowledge, of whence, or what they were; then afterward, to be consumed with fire. the sentence of death, did not so much daunt or dismay the poore lovers, as the uncivill and unsightly manner, which (in feare of the kings wrathfull displeasure) no man durst presume to contradict. wherefore, as he had commanded, so were they carried thence to _palermo_, and bound naked to a stake in the open market place, and (before their eyes) the fire and wood brought, which was to consume them, according to the houre as the king had appointed. you need not make any question, what an huge concourse of people were soone assembled together, to behold such a sad and wofull spectacle, even the whole city of _palermo_, both men and women. the men were stricken with admiration, beholding the unequalled beauty of faire _restituta_, & the selfe same passion possessed the women, seeing _guion_ to be such a goodly and compleat young man: but the poore infortunate lovers themselves, they stood with their lookes dejected to the ground, being much pittied of all, but no way to be holpen or rescued by any, awaiting when the happy houre would come, to finish both their shame and lives together. during the time of this tragicall expectation, the fame of this publike execution being noysed abroade, calling all people farre and neere to behold it; it came to the eare of _don rogiero de oria_, a man of much admired valour, and then the lord high admirall of _sicily_, who came himselfe in person, to the place appointed for their death. first he observed the mayden, confessing her (in his soule) to be a beauty beyond all compare. then looking on the young man, thus he saide within himselfe: if the inward endowments of the mind, doe paralell the outward perfections of body; the world cannot yeeld a more compleate man. now, as good natures are quickly incited to compassion (especially in cases almost commanding it) and compassion knocking at the doore of the soule, doth quicken the memory with many passed recordations: so this noble admirall, advisedly beholding poore condemned _guion_, conceived, that he had somewhat seene him before this instant, and upon this perswasion (even as if divine vertue had tutured his tongue) he saide: is not thy name _guion di procida_? marke now, how quickly misery can receive comfort, upon so poore and silly a question; for _guion_ began to elevate his dejected countenance, and looking on the admirall, returned him this answere. sir, heretofore i have been the man which you spake of; but now, both that name and man must die with me. what misfortune (quoth the admirall) hath thus unkindly crost thee? love (answered _guion_) and the kings displeasure. then the admirall would needs know the whole history at large, which briefly was related to him, and having heard how all had happened; as he was turning his horse to ride away thence, _guion_ called to him, saying. good my lord, entreate one favour for me, if possible it may be. what is that? replyed the admirall. you see sir (quoth _guion_) that i am very shortly to breathe my last; all the grace which i doe most humbly entreate, is, that as i am here with this chaste virgin, (whom i honour and love beyond my life) and miserably bound backe to backe: our faces may be turned each to other, to the end, that when the fire shall finish my life, by looking on her, my soule may take her flight in full felicity. the admirall smyling, saide; i will doe for thee what i can, and (perhaps) thou mayest so long looke on her, as thou wilt be weary, and desire to looke off her. at his departure, he commanded them that had the charge of this execution, to proceede no further, untill they heard more from the king, to whom hee gallopped immediately, and although hee beheld him to be very angerly moved; yet he spared not to speake in this manner. sir, wherein have those poore young couple offended you, that are so shamefully to be burnt at _palermo_? the king told him: whereto the admirall (pursuing still his purpose) thus replyed. beleeve me sir, if true love be an offence, then theirs may be termed to be one; and albeit it did deserve death, yet farre be it from thee to inflict it on them: for as faults doe justly require punishment, so doe good turnes as equally merit grace and requitall. knowest thou what and who they are, whom thou hast so dishonourably condemned to the fire? not i, quoth the king. why then i will tell thee, answered the admirall, that thou mayest take the better knowledge of them, and forbeare hereafter, to be so over-violently transported with anger. the young gentleman, is the sonne to _landolfo di procida_, the onely brother to lord _john di procida_, by whose meanes thou becamest lord and king of this countrey. the faire young damosell, is the daughter to _marino bolgaro_, whose power extendeth so farre, as to preserve thy prerogative in _ischia_, which (but for him) had long since beene out-rooted there. beside, these two maine motives, to challenge justly grace and favour from thee; they are in the floure and pride of their youth, having long continued in loyall love together, and compelled by fervency of endeared affection, not any will to displease thy majesty: they have offended (if it may be termed an offence to love, and in such lovely young people as they are.) canst thou then find in thine heart to let them die, whom thou rather oughtest to honour, and recompence with no meane rewards? when the king had heard this, and beleeved for a certainty, that the admirall told him nothing but truth: he appointed not onely, that they should proceede no further, but also was exceeding sorrowfull for what he had done, sending presently to have them released from the stake, and honourably to be brought before him. being thus enstructed in their severall qualities, and standing in duty obliged, to recompence the wrong which he had done, with respective honours: he caused them to be cloathed in royall garments, and knowing them to be knit in unity of soule; the like he did by marrying them sollemnly together, and bestowing many rich gifts and presents on them, sent them honourably attented home to _ischia_; where they were with much joy and comfort received, and lived long after in great felicity. theodoro _falling in love with_ violenta, _the daughter to his master, named_ amarigo, _and shee conceiving with childe by him; was condemned to be hanged. as they were leading him to the gallowes, beating and misusing him all the way: he happened to be knowne by his owne father, whereupon hee was released, and afterward enjoyed_ violenta _in marriage._ the seventh novell. _wherein is declared, the sundry travelse and perillous accidents, occasioned by those two powerfull commanders, love and fortune, the insulting tyrants over humaine life._ greatly were the ladies minds perplexed, when they heard, that the two poore lovers were in danger to be burned: but hearing afterward of their happy deliverance, for which they were as joyfull againe; upon the concluding of the novell, the queene looked on madam _lauretta_, enjoyning her to tell the next tale, which willingly she undertooke to doe, and thus began. faire ladies, at such time as the good king _william_ reigned in _sicily_, there lived within the same dominions a young gentleman, named _signior amarigo_, abbot of _trapani_, who (among his other worldly blessings, commonly termed the goods of fortune) was not unfurnished of children; and therefore having neede of servants, he made his provision of them as best he might. at that time, certaine gallies of _geneway_ pyrates comming from the easterne parts, which coasting along _armenia_, had taken divers children; he bought some of them, thinking that they were turkes. they all resembling clownish peazants, yet there was one among them, who seemed to be of more tractable and gentle nature, yea, and of a more affable countenance then any of the rest, being named, _theodoro_: who growing on in yeeres, (albeit he lived in the condition of a servant) was educated among _amarigoes_ children, and as enstructed rather by nature, then accident, his conditions were very much commended, as also the feature of his body, which proved so highly pleasing to his master _amarigo_, that he made him a free man, and imagining him to be a turke, caused him to be baptized, and named _pedro_, creating him superintendent of all his affaires, and reposing his chiefest trust in him. as the other children of _signior amarigo_ grew in yeeres and stature, so did a daughter of his, named _violenta_, a very goodly and beautifull damosell, somewhat over-long kept from marriage by her fathers covetousnesse, and casting an eye of good liking on poore _pedro_. now, albeit shee loved him very dearely, and all his behaviour was most pleasing to her, yet maiden modesty forbad her to reveale it, till love (too long concealed) must needes disclose itselfe. which _pedro_ at the length tooke notice of, and grew so forward towards her in equality of affection, as the very sight of her was his onely happinesse. yet very fearefull he was, least it should be noted, either by any of the house, or the maiden her selfe: who yet well observed it, and to her no meane contentment, as it appeared no lesse (on the other side) to honest _pedro_. while thus they loved together meerely in dumbe shewes, not daring to speake to each other, (though nothing more desired) to find some ease in this their oppressing passions: fortune, even as if shee pittied their so long languishing, enstructed them how to find out a way, whereby they might both better releeve themselves. _signior amarigo_, about some two or three miles distance from _trapani_, had a countrey-house or farme, whereto his wife, with her daughter and some other women, used oftentimes to make their resort, as it were in sportfull recreation; _pedro_ alwayes being diligent to man them thither. one time among the rest, it came to passe, as often it falleth out in the summer season, that the faire skie became suddenly over-clouded, even as they were returning home towards _trapani_, threatning a storme of raine to overtake them, except they made the speedier haste. _pedro_, who was young, and likewise _violenta_, went farre more lightly then her mother and her company, as much perhaps provoked by love, as feare of the sudden raine falling, and paced on so fast before them, that they were wholly out of sight. after many flashes of lightning, and a few dreadfull clappes of thunder, there fell such a tempestuous shower of hayle, as compelled the mother and her traine to shelter themselves in a poore countrey-mans cottage. _pedro_ and _violenta_, having no other refuge, ranne likewise into a poore sheepe-coate, so over ruined, as it was in danger to fall on their heads; for no body dwelt in it, neither stood any other house neere it, and it was scarcely any shelter for them, howbeit, necessity enforceth to make shift with the meanest. the storme encreasing more & more, and they coveting to avoide it so well as they could; sighes and drie hemmes were often inter-vented, as dumbly (before) they were wont to doe, when willingly they could affoord another kind of speaking. at last _pedro_ tooke heart, and saide: i would this shower would never cease, that i might be alwayes where i am. the like could i wish, answered _violenta_, so we were in a better place of safety. these wishes drew on other gentle language, with modest kisses and embraces, the onely ease to poore lovers soules; so that the raine ceased not, till they had taken order for their oftner conversing, and absolute plighting of their faithes together. by this time the storme was fairely over-blowne, and they attending on the way, till the mother and the rest were come, with whom they returned to _trapani_, where by wise and provident meanes, they often conferred in private together, and enjoyed the benefit of their amorous desires; yet free from any ill surmise or suspition. but, as lovers felicities are sildome permanent, without one encountring crosse or other: so these stolne pleasures of _pedro_ and _violenta_, met with as sowre a sauce in the farewell. for, shee proved to be conceived with childe, then which could befall them no heavier affliction, and _pedro_ fearing to loose his life therefore, determined immediate flight, and revealed his purpose to _violenta_. which when she heard, she told him plainly, that if he fled, forth-with shee would kill her selfe. alas deare love (quoth _pedro_) with what reason can you wish my tarrying here? this conception of yours, doth discover our offence, which a fathers pity may easily pardon in you: but i being his servant and vassall, shall be punished both for your sinne and mine, because he will have no mercy on me. content thy selfe _pedro_, replyed _violenta_, i will take such order for mine owne offence, by the discreete counsell of my loving mother, that no blame shall any way be laide on thee, or so much as a surmise, except thou wilt fondly betray thy selfe. if you can doe so, answered _pedro_, and constantly maintaine your promise; i will not depart, but see that you prove to be so good as your word. _violenta_, who had concealed her amisse so long as shee could, and saw no other remedy, but now at last it must needes be discovered; went privately to her mother, and (in teares) revealed her infirmity, humbly craving her pardon, and furtherance in hiding it from her father. the mother being extraordinarily displeased, chiding her with many sharpe and angry speeches, would needes know with whom shee had thus offended. the daughter (to keepe _pedro_ from any detection) forged a tale of her owne braine, farre from any truth indeede, which her mother verily beleeving, and willing to preserve her daughter from shame, as also the fierce anger of her husband, he being a man of very implacable nature: conveyed her to the countrey-farme, whither _signior amarigo_ sildome or never resorted, intending (under the shadow of sicknesse) to let her lie in there, without the least suspition of any in _trapani_. sinne and shame can never be so closely carried, or clouded with the greatest cunning; but truth hath a loop-light whereby to discover it, even when it supposeth it selfe in the surest safety. for, on the very day of her deliverance, at such time as the mother, and some few friends (sworne to secrecy) were about the businesse: _signior amarigo_, having beene in company of other gentlemen, to flye his hawke at the river, upon a sudden, (but very unfortunately, albeit he was alone by himselfe) stept into his farme house, even to the next roome where the women were, and heard the new-borne babe to cry, whereat marvelling not a little, he called for his wife, to know what young childe cryed in his house. the mother, amazed at his so strange comming thither, which never before he had used to doe, and pittying the wofull distresse of her daughter, which now could be no longer covered, revealed what happened to _violenta_. but he, being nothing so rash in beliefe, as his wife was, made answere, that it was impossible for his daughter to be conceived with childe, because he never observed the least signe of love in her to any man whatsoever, and therefore he would be satisfied in the truth, as shee expected any favour from him, for elsee there was no other way but death. the mother laboured by all meanes shee could devise, to pacifie her husbands fury, which proved all in vaine; for being thus impatiently incensed, he drew foorth his sword, and stepping with it drawne into the chamber (where she had been delivered of a goodly sonne) he said unto her. either tell me who is the father of this bastard, or thou and it shall perish both together. poore _violenta_, lesse respecting her owne life, then she did the childes; forgot her sollemne promise made to _pedro_, and discovered all. which when _amarigo_ had heard, he grew so desperately enraged, that hardly he could forbeare from killing her. but after he had spoken what his fury enstructed him, hee mounted on horse-backe againe, ryding backe to _trapani_, where he disclosed the injury which _pedro_ had done him, to a noble gentleman, named _signior conrado_, who was captaine for the king over the city. before poore _pedro_ could have any intelligence, or so much as suspected any treachery against him; he was suddenly apprehended, and being called in question, stood not on any deniall, but confessed truly what he had done: whereupon, within some few dayes after, he was condemned by the captaine, to be whipt to the place of execution, and afterward to be hanged by the necke. _signior amarigo_, because he would cut off (at one and the same time) not onely the lives of the two poore lovers, but their childes also; as a franticke man, violently carried from all sense of compassion, even when _pedro_ was led and whipt to his death: he mingled strong poyson in a cup of wine, delivering it to a trusty servant of his owne, and a naked rapier withall, speaking to him in this manner. goe carry these two presents to my late daughter _violenta_, and tell her from me, that in this instant houre, two severall kinds of death are offered unto her, and one of them she must make choyce of, either to drinke the poyson, and so die, or to run her body on this rapiers point, which if she denie to doe, she shall be haled to the publike market place, and presently be burned in the sight of her lewd companion, according as shee hath worthily deserved. when thou hast delivered her this message, take her bastard brat, so lately since borne, and dash his braines out against the walles, and afterward throw him to my dogges to feede on. when the father had given this cruell sentence, both against his own daughter, and her young sonne, the servant, readier to doe evill, then any good, went to the place where his daughter was kept. poore condemned _pedro_, (as you have heard) was ledde whipt to the jybbet, and passing (as it pleased the captaines officers to guide him) by a faire inne: at the same time were lodged there three chiefe persons of _armenia_, whom the king of the countrey had sent to _rome_, as ambassadours to the popes holinesse, to negociate about an important businesse neerely concerning the king and state. reposing there for some few dayes, as being much wearied with their journey, and highly honoured by the gentlemen of _trapani_, especially _signior amarigo_; these ambassadours standing in their chamber window, heard the wofull lamentations of _pedro_ in his passage by. _pedro_ was naked from the middle upward, and his hands bound fast behind him, but being well observed by one of the ambassadours, a man aged, and of great authority, named _phineo_: he espied a great red spot uppon his breast, not painted, or procured by his punishment, but naturally imprinted in the flesh, which women (in these parts) terme the rose. uppon the sight hereof, he suddenly remembred a sonne of his owne, which was stolne from him about fifteene yeeres before, by pyrates on the sea-coast of _laiazzo_, never hearing any tydings of him afterward. upon further consideration, and compairing his sonnes age with the likelyhood of this poore wretched mans; thus he conferred with his owne thoughts. if my sonne (quoth he) be living, his age is equall to this mans time, and by the redde blemish on his brest, it plainely speakes him for to be my sonne. moreover, thus he conceived, that if it were he, he could not but remember his owne name, his fathers, and the armenian language; wherefore, when hee was just opposite before the window, hee called aloud to him, saying: _theodoro. pedro_ hearing the voyce, presently listed up his head, and _phineo_ speaking _armenian_, saide: of whence art thou, and what is thy fathers name? the sergeants (in reverence to the lord ambassadour) stayed a while, till _pedro_ had returned his answer, who saide. i am an _armenian_ borne, sonne to one _phineo_, and was brought hither i cannot tell by whom. _phineo_ hearing this, knew then assuredly, that this was the same sonne which he had lost; wherefore, the teares standing in his eyes with conceite of joy: downe he descended from the window, and the other ambassadours with him, running in among the sergeants to embrace his sonne, and casting his owne rich cloake about his whipt body, entreating them to forbeare and proceed no further, till they heard what command he should returne withall unto them; which very willingly they promised to doe. already, by the generall rumour dispersed abroade, _phineo_ had understood the occasion, why _pedro_ was thus punished, and sentenced to be hanged; wherefore, accompanied with his fellow ambassadours, and all their attending traine, he went to _signior conrado_, and spake thus to him. my lord, he whom you have sent to death as a slave, is a free gentleman borne, and my sonne, able to make her amends whom he hath dishonoured, by taking her in mariage as his lawfull wife. let me therefore entreate you, to make stay of the execution, untill it may be knowne, whether she will accept him as her husband, or no; least (if she be so pleased) you offend directly against your owne law. when _signior conrado_ heard, that _pedro_ was sonne to the lord ambassadour, he wondered thereat not a little, and being somewhat ashamed of his fortunes error, confessed, that the claime of _phineo_ was conformable to law, and ought not to be denied him; going presently to the councell chamber, sending for _signior amarigo_ immediately thither, and acquainting him fully with the case. _amarigo_, who beleeved that his daughter and her child were already dead, was the wofullest man in the world, for his so rash proceeding, knowing very well, that if shee were not dead, the scandall would easily be wipt away with credit. wherefore he sent in all poast haste, to the place where his daughter lay, that if his command were not already executed, by no meanes to have it done at all. he who went on this speedy errand, found there _signior amarigoes_ servant standing before _violenta_, with the cup of poyson in his one hand, and the drawne rapier in the other, reproaching herewith very foule and injurious speeches, because shee had delayed the time so long, and would not accept the one or other, striving (by violence) to make her take the one. but hearing his masters command to the contrary, he left her, and returned backe to him, certifying him how the case stood. most highly pleased was _amarigo_ with these glad newes, and going to the ambassadour _phineo_, in teares excused himselfe (so well as he could) for his severity, and craving pardon; assured him, that if _theodoro_ would accept his daughter in mariage, willingly he would bestow her on him. _phineo_ allowed his excuses to be tollerable, and saide beside; if my sonne will not mary your daughter, then let the sentence of death be executed on him. _amarigo_ and _phineo_ being thus accorded, they went to poore _theodoro_, fearefully looking every minute when he should die, yet joyfull that he had found his father, who presently moved the question to him. _theodoro_ hearing that _violenta_ should be his wife, if he would so accept her: was overcome with such exceeding joy, as if he had leapt out of hell into paradise; confessing, that no greater felicity could befall him, if _violenta_ her selfe were so well pleased as he. the like motion was made to her, to understand her disposition in this case, who hearing what good hap had befalne _theodoro_, and now in like manner must happen to her: whereas not long before, when two such violent deathes were prepared for her, and one of them she must needes embrace, shee accounted her misery beyond all other womens, but shee now thought her selfe above all in happinesse, if she might be wife to her beloved _theodoro_, submitting herselfe wholy to her fathers disposing. the mariage being agreed on betweene them, it was celebrated with great pompe and sollemnity, a generall feast being made for all the citizens, and the young maried couple nourished up their sweete son, which grew to be a very comely childe. after that the embassie was dispatched at _rome_, and _phineo_ (with the rest) was returned thither againe; _violenta_ did reverence him as her owne naturall father, and he was not a little proud of so lovely a daughter, beginning a fresh feasting againe, and continuing the same a whole moneth together. within some short while after, a galley being fairely furnished for the purpose, _phineo_, his sonne, daughter, and their young son went aboard, sayling away thence to _laiazzo_, where afterward they lived long in much tranquility. anastasio, _a gentleman of the family of the_ honesti, _by loving the daughter to_ signior paulo traversario, _lavishly wasted a great part of his substance, without receiving any love from her againe. by perswasion of some of his kindred and friends, he went to a countrey dwelling of his, called_ chiasso, _where he saw a knight desperately pursue a young damosell, whom he slew, and afterward gave her to be devoured by his hounds._ anastasio _invited his friends, and hers also whom he so dearely loved, to take part of a dinner with him, who likewise saw the same damosell so torne in peeces: which his unkind love perceiving, and fearing least the like ill fortune should happen to her; shee accepted_ anastasio _to be her husband._ the eighth novell. _declaring, that love not onely makes a man prodigall, but also an enemy to himselfe. moreover, adventure oftentimes bringeth such matters to passe, as wit and cunning in man can never comprehend._ so soone as madam _lauretta_ held her peace, madam _philomena_ (by the queenes command) began, and saide. lovely ladies, as pitty is most highly commended in our sexe, even so is cruelty in us as severely revenged (oftentimes) by divine ordination. which that you may the better know, and learne likewise to shun, as a deadly evill; i purpose to make apparant by a novell, no lesse full of compassion, then delectable. _ravenna_ being a very ancient city in _romania_, there dwelt sometime a great number of worthy gentlemen, among whom i am to speake of one more especially, named _anastasio_, descended from the family of the _honesti_, who by the death of his father, and an unkle of his, was left extraordinarily abounding in riches, and growing to yeeres fitting for mariage, (as young gallants are easily apt enough to doe) he became enamoured of a very beautifull gentlewoman, who was daughter to _signior paulo traversario_, one of the most ancient and noble families in all the countrey. nor made he any doubt, but by his meanes and industrious endeavour, to derive affection from her againe; for hee carried himselfe like a brave minded gentleman, liberall in his expences, honest and affable in all his actions, which commonly are the true notes of a good nature, and highly to be commended in any man. but, howsoever fortune became his enemy, these laudable parts of manhood did not any way friend him, but rather appeared hurtfull to him: so cruell, unkind, and almost meerely savage did she shew her selfe to him; perhaps in pride of her singular beauty, or presuming on her nobility by birth, both which are on her blemishes, then ornaments in a woman, especially when they be abused. the harsh and uncivill usage in her, grew very distastefull to _anastasio_, and so unsufferable, that after a long time of fruitlesse service, requited still with nothing but coy disdain; desperate resolutions entred into his brain, and often he was minded to kill himselfe. but better thoughts supplanting those furious passions, he abstained from any such violent act; & governed by more manly consideration, determined, that as she hated him, he would requite her with the like, if he could: wherein he became altogether deceived, because as his hopes grew to a dayly decaying, yet his love enlarged it selfe more and more. thus _anastasio_ persevering still in his bootelesse affection, and his expences not limited within any compasse; it appeared in the judgement of his kindred and friends, that he was falne into a mighty consumption, both of his body and meanes. in which respect, many times they advised him to leave the city of _ravenna_, and live in some other place for such a while; as might set a more moderate stint upon his spendings, and bridle the indiscreete course of his love, the onely fuell which fed this furious fire. _anastasio_ held out thus a long time, without lending an eare to such friendly counsell: but in the end, he was so neerely followed by them, as being no longer able to deny them, he promised to accomplish their request. whereupon, making such extraordinary preparation, as if he were to set thence for _france_ or _spaine_, or elsee into some further distant countrey: he mounted on horsebacke, and accompanied with some few of his familiar friends, departed from _ravenna_, and rode to a country dwelling house of his owne, about three or foure miles distant from the cittie, which was called _chiasso_, and there (upon a very goodly greene) erecting divers tents and pavillions, such as great persons make use of in the time of a progresse: he said to his friends, which came with him thither, that there hee determined to make his abiding, they all returning backe unto _ravenna_, and might come to visite him againe so often as they pleased. now, it came to passe, that about the beginning of may, it being then a very milde and serrene season, and he leading there a much more magnificent life, then ever he had done before, inviting divers to dine with him this day, and as many to morrow, and not to leave him till after supper: upon the sodaine, falling into remembrance of his cruell mistris, hee commanded all his servants to forbeare his company, and suffer him to walke alone by himselfe awhile, because he had occasion of private meditations, wherein he would not (by any meanes) be troubled. it was then about the ninth houre of the day, and he walking on solitary all alone, having gone some halfe miles distance from his tents, entred into a grove of pine-trees, never minding dinner time, or any thing elsee, but only the unkind requitall of his love. sodainly he heard the voice of a woman, seeming to make most mournfull complaints, which breaking of his silent considerations, made him to lift up his head, to know the reason of this noise. when he saw himselfe so farre entred into the grove, before he could imagine where he was; hee looked amazedly round about him, and out of a little thicket of bushes & briars, round engirt with spreading trees, hee espyed a young damosell come running towards him, naked from the middle upward, her haire dishevelled on her shoulders, and her faire skinne rent and torne with the briars and brambles, so that the blood ran trickling downe mainly; shee weeping, wringing her hands, and crying out for mercy so lowde as shee could. two fierce blood-hounds also followed swiftly after, and where their teeth tooke hold, did most cruelly bite her. last of all (mounted on a lusty blacke courser) came gallopping a knight, with a very sterne and angry countenance, holding a drawne short sword in his hand, giving her very vile and dreadfull speeches, and threatning everie minute to kill her. this strange and uncouth sight, bred in him no meane admiration, as also kinde compassion to the unfortunate woman; out of which compassion, sprung an earnest desire, to deliver her (if he could) from a death so full of anguish and horror: but seeing himselfe to be without armes, hee ran and pluckt up the plant of a tree, which handling as if it had beene a staffe, he opposed himselfe against the dogges and the knight, who seeing him comming, cryed out in this manner to him. _anastasio_, put not thy selfe in any opposition, but referre to my hounds and me, to punish this wicked woman as she hath justly deserved. and in speaking these words, the hounds tooke fast hold on her body, so staying her, untill the knight was come neerer to her, and alighted from his horse: when _anastasio_ (after some other angry speeches) spake thus unto him. i cannot tell what or who thou art, albeit thou takest such knowledge of me: yet i must say, that it is meere cowardize in a knight, being armed as thou art, to offer to kill a naked woman, and make thy dogges thus to seize on her, as if she were a savage beast; therefore beleeve me, i will defend her so farre as i am able. _anastasio_, answered the knight, i am of the same city as thou art, and do well remember, that thou wast a little ladde, when i (who was then named _guido anastasio_, and thine unckle) became as intirely in love with this woman, as now thou art of _paulo traversarioes_ daughter. but through her coy disdaine and cruelty, such was my heavy fate, that desperately i slew my selfe with this short sword which thou beholdest in mine hand: for which rash sinfull deede, i was and am condemned to eternall punishment. this wicked woman, rejoycing immeasurably in mine unhappie death, remained no long time alive after me, and for her mercilesse sinne of cruelty, and taking pleasure in my oppressing torments; dying unrepentant, and in pride of her scorne, she had the like sentence of condemnation pronounced on her, and sent to the same place where i was tormented. there the three impartiall judges, imposed this further infliction on us both; namely, that shee should flye in this manner before mee, and i (who loved her so deerely while i lived) must pursue her as my deadly enemy, not like a woman that had any taste of love in her. and so often as i can overtake her, i am to kill her with this sword, the same weapon wherewith i slew my selfe. then am i enjoyned, therewith to open her accursed body, and teare out her hard and frozen heart, with her other inwards, as now thou seest me doe, which i give unto my hounds to feede on. afterward, such is the appointment of the supreame powers, that she re-assumeth life againe, even as if she had not bene dead at all, and falling to the same kinde of flight, i with my houndes am still to follow her, without any respite or intermission. every friday, and just at this houre, our course is this way, where shee suffereth the just punishment inflicted on her. nor do we rest any of the other dayes, but are appointed unto other places, where she cruelly executed her malice against me, being now (of her dear affectionate friend) ordained to be her endlesse enemy, and to pursue her in this manner, for so many yeeres, as she exercised monthes of cruelty towards me. hinder me not then, in being the executioner of divine justice; for all thy interposition is but in vaine, in seeking to crosse the appointment of supreame powers. _anastasio_ having attentively heard all this discourse, his haire stoode upright like porcupines quils, and his soule was so shaken with the terror, that he stept back to suffer the knight to doe what he was enjoyned, looking yet with milde commiseration on the poore woman. who kneeling most humbly before the knight, & sternly seised on by the two blood hounds, he opened her brest with his weapon, drawing foorth her heart and bowelse, which instantly he threw to the dogges, and they devoured them very greedily. soone after, the damosell (as if none of this punishment had bene inflicted on her) started up sodainly, running amaine towards the sea shore, and the hounds swiftly following her, as the knight did the like, after he had taken his sword, and was mounted on horseback; so that _anastasio_ had soon lost all sight of them, and could not gesse what was become of them. after he had heard and observed all these things, he stoode awhile as confounded with feare and pitty, like a simple silly man, hoodwinkt with his owne passions, not knowing the subtle enemies cunning illusions, in offering false suggestions to the sight, to worke his owne ends thereby, & encrease the number of his deceived servants. forthwith hee perswaded himself, that he might make good use of this womans tormenting, so justly imposed on the knight to prosecute, if thus it should continue still every friday. wherefore, setting a good note or marke upon the place, hee returned backe to his owne people, and at such time as hee thought convenient, sent for divers of his kindred and friends from _ravenna_, who being present with him, thus hee spake to them. deare kinsmen and friends, ye have a long while importuned mee, to discontinue my over doating love to her, whom you all think, and i find to be my mortall enemy: as also, to give over my lavish expences, wherein i confesse my selfe too prodigal; both which requests of yours, i will condiscend to, provided, that you will performe one gracious favour for mee; namely, that on friday next, signior _paulo traversario_, his wife, daughter, with all other women linked in linage to them, and such beside onely as you shall please to appoynt, will vouchsafe to accept a dinner heere with mee; as for the reason thereto mooving mee, you shall then more at large be acquainted withall. this appeared no difficult matter for them to accomplish: wherefore, being returned to _ravenna_, and as they found the time answerable to their purpose, they invited such as _anastasio_ had appointed them. and although they found it somewhat an hard matter, to gain her company whom he so deerely affected; yet notwithstanding, the other women won her along with them. a most magnificent dinner had _anastasio_ provided, and the tables were covered under the pine-trees, where hee saw the cruell lady so pursued and slaine: directing the guests so in their seating, that the yong gentlewoman his unkinde mistresse, sate with her face opposite unto the place, where the dismall spectacle was to be seene. about the closing up of dinner, they beganne to heare the noise of the poore prosecuted woman, which drove them all to much admiration; desiring to know what it was, and no one resolving them, they arose from the tables, and looking directly as the noise came to them, they espied the wofull woman, the dogges eagerly pursuing her; and the armed knight on horseback, gallopping fiercely after them with his drawn weapon, and came very nere unto the company, who cryed out with lowd exclaimes against the dogs and the knight, stepping forth in assistance of the injuried woman. the knight spake unto them, as formerly hee had done to _anastasio_, (which made them draw backe, possessed with feare and admiration) acting the same cruelty as hee did the friday before, not differing in the least degree. most of the gentlewomen there present, being neere allyed to the unfortunate woman, and likewise to the knight, remembring well both his love and death, did shed teares as plentifully, as if it had bin to the very persons themselves, in visiall performance of the action indeede. which tragicall scene being passed over, and the woman and knight gone out of their sight: all that had seene this straunge accident, fell into diversity of confused opinions, yet not daring to disclose them, as doubting some further danger to ensue thereon. but beyond al the rest, none could compare in feare and astonishment with the cruell yong maide affected by _anastasio_, who both saw and observed all with a more inward apprehension, knowing very well, that the morall of this dismall spectacle, carried a much neerer application to her then any other in all the company. for now she could call to mind, how unkinde and cruell she had shewn her selfe to _anastasio_, even as the other gentlewoman formerly did to her lover, still flying from him in great contempt and scorne: for which, shee thought the blood-hounds also pursued her at the heeles already, and a sword of due vengeance to mangle her body. this feare grew so powerfull in her, that, to prevent the like heavy doome from falling on her; she studied (by all her best & commendable meanes, and therein bestowed all the night season) how to change her hatred into kinde love, which at the length shee fully obtayned, and then purposed to prosecute in this manner. secretly she sent a faithfull chamber-maide of her owne, to greete _anastasio_ on her behalfe; humbly entreating him to come see her: because now she was absolutely determined, to give him satisfaction in all which (with honour) he could request of her. whereto _anastasio_ answered, that he accepted her message thankfully, and desired no other favour at her hand, but that which stood with her owne offer, namely, to be his wife in honourable marriage. the maide knowing sufficiently, that hee could not be more desirous of the match, then her mistresse shewed her selfe to be, made answere in her name, that this motion would bee most welcome to her. heereupon, the gentlewoman her selfe, became the solicitour to her father and mother, telling them plainly, that she was willing to bee the wife of _anastasio_: which newes did so highly content them, that uppon the sunday next following, the mariage was very worthily sollemnized, and they lived and loved together very kindly. thus the divine bounty, out of the malignant enemies secret machinations, can cause good effects to arise and succeede. for, from this conceite of fearfull imagination in her, not onely happened this long desired conversion, of a maide so obstinately scornfull and proud: but likewise al the women of _ravenna_ (being admonished by her example) grew afterward more kinde and tractable to mens honest motions, then ever they shewed themselves before. and let me make some use hereof (faire ladies) to you, not to stand over-nicely conceited of your beauty and good parts, when men (growing enamored of you by them) solicite you with their best and humblest services. remember then this disdainfull gentlewoman, but more especially her, who being the death of so kinde a lover, was therefore condemned to perpetuall punishment, and hee made the minister thereof, whom she had cast off with coy disdaine, from which i wish your minds to be as free, as mine is ready to do you any acceptable service. frederigo, _of the_ alberighi _family, loved a gentlewoman, and was not requited with like love againe. by bountifull expences, and over liberall invitations, he wasted and consumed all his lands and goods, having nothing left him, but a hawke or faulcon. his unkinde mistresse happeneth to come visite him, and he not having any other foode for her dinner; made a daintie dish of his faulcone for her to feede on. being conquered by this his exceeding kinde courtesie, she changed her former hatred towardes him, accepting him as her husband in marriage, and made him a man of wealthy possessions._ the ninth novell. _wherein is figured to the life, the notable kindnesse and courtesie, of a true and constant lover: as also the magnanimous minde of a famous lady._ madame _philomena_ having finished her discourse, the queene perceiving, that her turne was the next, in regard of the priviledge granted to _dioneus_; with a smiling countenance thus she spake. now or never am i to maintaine the order which was instituted when we beganne this commendable exercise, whereto i yeeld with all humble obedience. and (worthy ladies) i am to acquaint you with a novell, in some sort answerable to the precedent, not onely to let you know, how powerfully your kindnesses do prevaile, in such as have a free and gentle soule: but also to advise you, in being bountifull, where vertue doth justly chalenge it. and evermore, let your favours shine on worthy deservers, without the direction of chaunce or fortune, who never bestoweth any gift by discretion; but rashly without consideration, even to the first she blindly meets withall. you are to understand then, that _coppo di borghese domenichi_, who was of our owne city, and perhaps (as yet) his name remaineth in great and reverend authority, now in these dayes of ours, as well deserving eternal memory; yet more for his vertues and commendable qualities, then any boast of nobility from his predecessors. this man, being well entred into yeares, and drawing towards the finishing of his dayes; it was his only delight and felicity, in conversation among his neighbours, to talke of matters concerning antiquity, and some other things within compasse of his owne knowledge: which he would deliver in such singular order, (having an absolute memory) and with the best language, as verie few or none could do the like. among the multiplicity of his queint discourses, i remember he told us, that sometime there lived in _florence_ a yong gentleman, named _frederigo_, sonne to signior _philippo alberigho_, who was held and reputed, both for armes, and all other actions beseeming a gentleman, hardly to have his equall through all _tuscany_. this _frederigo_ (as it is no rare matter in yong gentlemen) became enamored of a gentlewoman, named madam _giana_, who was esteemed (in her time) to be the fairest and most gracious lady in all _florence_. in which respect, and to reach the height of his desire, he made many sumptuous feasts and banquets, joustes, tiltes, tournaments, and all other noble actions of armes, beside, sending her infinite rich and costly presents, making spare of nothing, but lashing all out in lavish expence. notwithstanding, shee being no lesse honest then faire, made no reckoning of whatsoever he did for her sake, or the least respect of his owne person. so that _frederigo_, spending thus daily more, then his meanes and ability could maintaine, and no supplies any way redounding to him, or his faculties (as very easily they might) diminished in such sort, that he became so poore; as he had nothing left him, but a small poore farme to live upon, the silly revenewes whereof were so meane, as scarcely allowed him meat and drinke; yet had he a faire hawke or faulcon, hardly any where to be fellowed, so expeditious and sure she was of flight. his low ebbe and poverty, no way quailing his love to the lady, but rather setting a keener edge thereon; he saw the city life could no longer containe him, where most he coveted to abide: and therefore, betooke himselfe to his poore countrey farme, to let his faulcon get him his dinner and supper, patiently supporting his penurious estate, without suite or meanes making to one, for helpe or reliefe in any such necessity. while thus he continued in this extremity, it came to passe, that the husband to madam _giana_ fell sicke, and his debility of body being such, as little, or no hope of life remained: he made his last will and testament, ordaining thereby, that his sonne (already growne to indifferent stature) should be heire to all his lands and riches, wherein hee abounded very greatly. next unto him, if he chanced to die without a lawfull heire, hee substituted his wife, whom most dearely he affected, and so departed out of this life. madam _giana_ being thus left a widow; as commonly it is the custome of our city dames, during the summer season, shee went to a house of her owne in the countrey, which was somewhat neere to poore _frederigoes_ farme, and where he lived in such an honest kind of contented poverty. hereupon, the young gentleman her sonne, taking great delight in hounds and hawkes; grew into familiarity with poore _frederigo_, and having seene many faire flights of his faulcon, they pleased him so extraordinarily, that he earnestly desired to enjoy her as his owne; yet durst not move the motion for her, because he saw how choycely _frederigo_ esteemed her. within a short while after, the young gentleman, became very sicke, whereat his mother greeved exceedingly, (as having no more but he, and therefore loved him the more entirely) never parting from him either night or day, comforting him so kindly as shee could, and demanding, if he had a desire to any thing, willing him to reveale it, and assuring him withall, that (if it were within the compasse of possibility) he should have it. the youth hearing how many times shee had made him these offers, and with such vehement protestations of performance, at last thus spake. mother (quoth he) if you can doe so much for me, as that i may have _frederigoes_ faulcon, i am perswaded, that my sicknesse soone will cease. the lady hearing this, sate some short while musing to her selfe, and began to consider, what shee might best doe to compasse her sonnes desire: for well shee knew, how long a time _frederigo_ had most lovingly kept it, not suffering it ever to be out of his sight. moreover, shee remembred, how earnest in affection he had beene to her, never thinking himselfe happy, but onely when he was in her company; wherefore, shee entred into this private consultation with her owne thoughts. shall i send, or goe my selfe in person, to request the faulcon of him, it being the best that ever flew? it is his onely jewell of delight, and that taken from him, no longer can he wish to live in this world. how farre then voide of understanding shall i shew my selfe, to rob a gentleman of his sole felicity, having no other joy or comfort left him? these and the like considerations, wheeled about her troubled braine, onely in tender care and love to her sonne, perswading her selfe assuredly, that the faulcon were her own, if shee would but request it: yet not knowing whereon it were best to resolve, shee returned no answer to her sonne, but sate still in her silent meditations. at the length, love to the youth, so prevailed with her, that she concluded on his contentation, and (come of it what could) shee would not send for it; but goe her selfe in person to request it, and then returne home againe with it, whereupon thus she spake. sonne, comfort thy selfe, and let languishing thoughts no longer offend thee: for here i promise thee, that the first thing i doe to morrow morning, shall be my journey for the faulcon, and assure thy selfe, that i will bring it with me. whereat the youth was so joyed, that he imagined, his sicknesse began instantly a little to leave him, and promised him a speedy recovery. somewhat early the next morning, the lady, in care of her sicke sons health, was up and ready betimes, and taking another gentlewoman with her; onely as a mornings recreation, shee walked to _frederigoes_ poore countrey farme, knowing that it would not a little glad him to see her. at the time of her arrivall there, he was (by chance) in a silly garden, on the backe-side of his house, because (as yet) it was no convenient time for flight: but when he heard, that madam _giana_, was come thither, and desired to have some conference with him; as one almost confounded with admiration, in all haste he ran to her, and saluted her with most humble reverence. shee in all modest and gracious manner, requited him with the like salutations, thus speaking to him. _signior frederigo_, your owne best wishes befriend you, i am now come hither, to recompence some part of your passed travailes, which heretofore you pretended to suffer for my sake, when your love was more to me, then did well become you to offer, or my selfe to accept. and such is the nature of my recompence, that i make my selfe your guest, and meane this day to dine with you, as also this gentlewoman, making no doubt of our welcome: whereto, with lowly reverence, thus he replyed. madam, i doe not remember, that ever i sustained any losse or hinderance by you, but rather so much good, as if i was woorth any thing, it proceeded from your great deservings, and by the service in which i did stand engaged to you. but my present happinesse can no way bee equalled, derived from your super-abounding gracious favour, and more then common course of kindnesse, vouchsafing (of your owne liberal nature) to come and visit so poore a servant. oh that i had as much to spend againe, as heeretofore riotously i have run thorow: what a welcome wold your poore host bestow upon you, for gracing this homely house with your divine presence? with these wordes, hee conducted her into his house, and then into his simple garden, where having no convenient company for her, he saide. madam, the poverty of this place is such, that it affoordeth none fit for your conversation: this poore woman, wife to an honest husbandman will attend on you, while i (with some speede) shall make ready dinner. poore _frederigo_, although his necessity was extreame, and his greefe great, remembring his former inordinate expences, a moity whereof would now have stood him in some sted; yet hee had a heart as free and forward as ever, not a jotte dejected in his minde, though utterly overthrowne by fortune. alas! how was his good soule afflicted, that he had nothing wherewith to honour his lady? up and downe he runnes, one while this way, then againe another, exclaiming on his disastrous fate, like a man enraged, or bereft of senses: for he had not one peny of mony neither pawne or pledge, wherewith to procure any. the time hasted on, and he would gladly (though in meane measure) expresse his honourable respect of the lady. to begge of any, his nature denied it, and to borrow he could not, because his neighbours were all as needie as himselfe. at last, looking round about, and seeing his faulcon standing on her pearch, which he felt to be very plumpe and fat, being voide of all other helpes in his neede, and thinking her to be a fowle meete for so noble a lady to feede on: without any further demurring or delay, he pluckt off her necke, and caused the poore woman presently to pull her feathers: which being done, he put her on the spit, and in short time she was daintily roasted. himselfe covered the table, set bread and salt on, and laid the napkins, whereof he had but a few left him. going then with chearfull lookes into the garden, telling the lady that dinner was ready, and nothing now wanted, but her presence. shee, and the gentlewoman went in, and being seated at the table, not knowing what they fed on, the falcon was all their foode; and _frederigo_ not a little joyfull, that his credite was so well saved. when they were risen from the table, and had spent some small time in familiar conference: the lady thought it fitte, to acquaint him with the reason of her comming thither, and therefore (in very kinde manner) thus began. _frederigo_, if you do yet remember your former carriage towards me, as also my many modest and chaste denials, which (perhaps) you thought to favour of a harsh, cruell, and un-womanly nature: i make no doubt, but you will wonder at my present presumption, when you understande the occasion, which expressely mooved me to come hither. but if you were possessed of children, or ever had any, whereby you might comprehend what love (in nature) is due unto them: then i durst assure my self, that you would partly hold mee excused. now, in regard that you never had any, and i my selfe (for my part) have but onely one, i stand not exempted from those lawes, which are in common to other mothers. and being compelled to obey the power of those lawes; contrary to mine owne will, and those duties which reason ought to maintaine: i am to request such a gift of you, which i am certaine, that you do make most precious account of, as in manly equity you can do no lesse. for, fortune hath bin so extreamly adverse to you, that she hath robbed you of all other pleasures, allowing you no comfort or delight, but onely that poore one, which is your faire faulcone. of which bird, my sonne is become so straungely desirous, as, if i doe not bring it to him at my comming home; i feare so much the extreamity of his sicknesse, as nothing can ensue thereon, but his losse of life. wherefore i beseech you, not in regard of the love you have born me, for thereby you stand no way obliged: but in your owne true gentle nature (the which hath alwayes declared it selfe ready in you, to do more kinde offices generally, then any other gentleman that i know) you will be pleased to give her me, or at the least, let me buy her of you. which if you do, i shall freely then confesse, that onely by your meanes, my sonnes life is saved, and wee both shall for ever remaine engaged to you. when _frederigo_ had heard the ladies request, which was now quite out of his power to graunt, because it had bene her service at dinner: he stood like a man meerely dulled in his sences, the teares trickling amaine downe his cheekes: and he not able to utter one word. which shee perceiving, began to conjecture immediately, that these teares and passions proceeded rather from greefe of minde, as being loather to part with his faulcon, then any other kinde of matter: which made her readie to say, that she would not have it. neverthelesse shee did not speake, but rather tarried to attend his answer. which, after some small respite and pawse, he returned in this manner. madame, since the houre, when first mine affection became soly devoted to your service; fortune hath bene crosse and contrary to mee, in many occasions, as justly, and in good reason i may complain of her. yet all seemed light and easie to be indured, in comparison of her present malicious contradiction, to my utter overthrow, and perpetuall molestation. considering, that you are come hither to my poore house, which (while i was rich and able) you would not so much as vouchsafe to look on. and now you have requested a small matter of mee, wherein shee hath also most crookedly thwarted me, because she hath disabled mee, in bestowing so meane a gift, as your selfe will confesse, when it shall be related to you in very few words. so soone as i heard, that it was your gracious pleasure to dine with me, having regard to your excellency, and what (by merit) is justly due unto you: i thought it a part of my bounden dutie, to entertaine you with such exquisite viands, as my poore power could any way compas, and farre beyond respect or welcome, to other common and ordinarie persons. whereupon, remembring my faulcon, which nowe you aske for; and her goodnesse, excelling all other of her kinde; i supposed, that she would make a dainty dish for your dyet, and having drest hir, so well as i could devise to do: you have fed hartily on her, and i am proud that i have so well bestowne her. but perceiving now, that you would have her for your sicke sonne; it is no meane affliction to mee, that i am disabled of yeelding you contentment, which all my lifetime i have desired to doe. to approve his words, the feathers, feete, and beake were brought in, which when she saw, she greatly blamed him for killing so rare a falcon, to content the appetite of any woman whatsoever. yet she commended his height of spirit, which poverty had no power to abase. lastly, her hopes being frustrate for enjoying the faulcon, and fearing besides the health of her sonne: she thanked _frederigo_ for his honourable kindnesse, returning home againe sad and melancholly. shortly after, her sonne either greeving that he could not have the faulcone, or by extreamity of his disease, chanced to dye, leaving his mother a most wofull lady. after so much time was expired, as conveniently might agree with sorrow and mourning; her brethren made many motions to her, to joyne her selfe in marriage againe, because she was extraordinarily rich, and as yet but yong in yeares. now, although she was well contented never to be married any more; yet being continually importuned by them, and remembring the honourable honesty of _frederigo_, his last poore, yet magnificent dinner, in killing his faulcone for her sake, shee saide to her brethren. this kinde of widdowed estate doth like me so well, as willingly i would never leave it: but seeing you are so earnest for my second marriage, let me plainly tell you, that i will never accept of any other husband, but onely _frederigo di alberino_. her brethren in scornfull manner reprooved her, telling her, that hee was a begger, and had nothing left to keepe him in the world. i knowe it well (quoth she) and am heartily sorry for it. but give me a man that hath neede of wealth, rather then wealth that hath neede of a man. the brethren hearing how shee stoode addicted, and knowing _frederigo_ to bee a worthy gentleman, though poverty had disgraced him in the worlde: consented thereto, so she bestowed her selfe and her riches on him. he on the other side, having so noble a lady to his wife, and the same whome he had so long and deerely loved: submitted all his fairest fortunes unto her, became a better husband (for the world) then before, and they lived and loved together in equall joy and happinesse. pedro di vinciolo _went to sup at a friends house in the city. his wife (in the meane while) had a young man (whom shee loved) at supper with her._ pedro _returning whom upon a sudden, the young man was hidden under a coope for hennes._ pedro, _in excuse of his so soone comming home, declareth, how in the house of_ herculano _(with whom he should have supt) a friend of his wives was found, which was the reason of the suppers breaking off._ pedroes _wife reproving the error of_ herculanoes _wife; an asse (by chance) treads on the young mans fingers, that lay hidden under the hen-coope. uppon his crying out,_ pedro _steppeth thither, sees him, knowes him, and findeth the fallacy of his wife: with whom (neverthelesse) he groweth to agreement, in regard of some imperfections in himselfe._ the tenth novell. _reprehending the cunning shifts, of light headed and immodest women, who, by abusing themselves, doe throw evill aspersions on all the sexe._ the queenes novell being ended, and all the company applauding the happy fortune of _frederigo_, as also the noble nature of madam _giana: dioneus_, who never expected any command, prepairing to deliver his discourse, began in this manner. i know not, whether i should terme it a vice accidental, and ensuing through the badnesse of complexions uppon us mortals; or elsee an error in nature, to joy and smile rather at lewd accidents, then at deeds that justly deserve commendation, especially, when they doe not any way concerne our selves. now, in regard that all the paines i have hitherto taken, and am also to undergoe at this present, aymeth at no other end, but onely to purge your mindes of melancholly, and entertaine the time with mirthful matter: pardon me i pray you (faire ladies) if my tale trip in some part, and favour a little of immodesty; yet in hearing it, you may observe the same course, as you doe in pleasing and delightfull gardens, plucke a sweete rose, and yet preserve your fingers from pricking. which very easily you may doe, wincking at the imperfections of a foolish man, and smiling at the amorous subtilties of his wife, compassionating the misfortune of others, where urgent necessity doth require it. there dwelt (not long since) in _perugia_, a wealthy man, named _pedro di vinciolo_, who (perhaps) more to deceive some other, and restraine an evill opinion, which the _perugians_ had conceived of him, in matter no way beseeming a man, then any beauty or good feature remaining in the woman, entred into the estate of marriage. and fortune was so conforme to him in his election, that the woman whom he had made his wife, had a young, lusty, and well enabled body, a red hairde wench, hot and fiery spirited, standing more in neede of three husbands, then he, who could not any way well content one wife, because his minde ran more on his money, then those offices and duties belonging to wed-lock, which time acquainting his wife withall, contrary to her owne expectation, and those delights which the estate of marriage afforded, knowing her selfe also to be of a sprightly disposition, and not to be easily tamed by houshold cares and attendances; shee waxed weary of her husbands unkind courses, upbraided him daily with harsh speeches, making his owne home meerely as a hell to him. when shee saw that this domesticke disquietnesse returned her no benefit, but rather tended to her owne consumption, then any amendment in her miserable husband; shee began thus to conferre with her private thoughts. this husband of mine liveth with me, as if he were no husband, or i his wife; the marriage bed, which should be a comfort to us both, seemeth hatefull to him, and as little pleasing to me, because his minde is on his money, his head busied with worldly cogitations, and early and late in his counting-house, admitting no familiar conversation with me. why should not i be as respectlesse of him, as he declares himselfe to be of me? i tooke him for an husband, brought him a good and sufficient dowry, thinking him to be a man, and affected a woman as a man ought to doe, elsee he had never beene any husband of mine. if he be a woman hater, why did he make choyce of me to be his wife? if i had not intended to be of the world, i could have coopt my selfe up in a cloyster, and shorne my selfe a nunne, but that i was not borne to such severity of life. my youth shall be blasted with age, before i can truly understand what youth is, and i shall be branded with the disgracefull word barrennesse, knowing my selfe meete and able to be a mother, were my husband but worthy the name of a father, or expected issue and posterity, to leave our memoriall to after times in our race, as all our predecessours formerly have done, and for which mariage was chiefly instituted. castles long besieged, doe yeeld at the last, and women wronged by their owne husbands, can hardly warrant their owne frailty, especially living among so many temptations, which flesh and bloud are not alwayes able to resist. well, i meane to be advised in this case, before i will hazard my honest reputation, either to suspition or scandall, then which, no woman can have two heavier enemies, and very few there are that can escape them. having thus a long while consulted with her selfe, and (perhaps) oftner then twice or thrice; shee became secretly acquainted with an aged woman, generally reputed to be more then halfe a saint, walking alwayes very demurely in the streetes, counting (over and over) her _pater nosters_, and all the cities holy pardons hanging at her girdle, never talking of any thing, but the lives of the holy fathers, or the wounds of saint _frances_, all the world admiring her sanctity of life, even as if shee were divinely inspired: this she saint must be our distressed womans councellour, and having found out a convenient season, at large she imparted all her mind to her, in some such manner as formerly you have heard, whereto shee returned this answere. now trust me daughter, thy case is to be pittied, and so much the rather, because thou art in the floure and spring time of thy youth, when not a minute of time is to be left: for there is no greater an error in this life, then the losse of time, because it cannot be recovered againe; and when the fiends themselves affright us, yet if we keepe our embers still covered with warme ashes on the hearth, they have nor any power to hurt us. if any one can truly speake thereof, then i am able to deliver true testimony; for i know, but not without much perturbation of minde, and piercing afflictions in the spirit; how much time i lost without any profit. and yet i lost not all, for i would not have thee thinke me to be so foolish, that i did altogether neglect such an especiall benefit; which when i call to minde, and consider now in what condition i am, thou must imagine, it is no small hearts griefe to me, that age should make me utterly despised, and no fire afforded to light my tinder. with men it is not so, they are borne apt for a thousand occasions, as well for the present purpose we talke of, as infinite other beside; yea, and many of them are more esteemed being aged, then when they were yong. but women serve onely for mens contentation, and to bring children, and therefore are they generally beloved, which if they faile of, either it is by unfortunate marriage, or some imperfection depending on nature, not through want of good will in themselves. we have nothing in this world but what is given us, in which regard, we are to make use of our time, and employ it the better while we have it. for, when we grow to be old, our husbands, yea, our very dearest and nearest friends, will scarcely looke on us. we are then fit for nothing, but to sit by the fire in the kitchin, telling tales to the cat, or counting the pots and pannes on the shelves. nay, which is worse, rimes and songs is made of us, even in meere contempt of our age, and commendation of such as are young, the daintiest morselse are fittest for them, and we referred to feed on the scrappes from their trenchers, or such reversion as they can spare us. i tell thee daughter, thou couldst not make choyce of a meeter woman in all the city, to whom thou mightest safely open thy minde, and knowes better to advise thee then i doe. but remember withall, that i am poore, and it is your part not to suffer poverty to be unsupplyed. i will make thee partaker of all these blessed pardons, at every altar i will say a _pater noster_, and an _ave maria_, that thou maist prosper in thy hearts desires, and be defended from foule sinne and shame, and so shee ended her motherly counsell. within a while after, it came to passe, that her husband was invited foorth to supper, with one named _herculano_, a kind friend of his, but his wife refused to goe, because shee had appointed a friend to supper with her, to whom the old woman was employed as her messenger, and was well recompenced for her labour. this friend was a gallant proper youth, as any all _perugia_ yeelded, and scarcely was he seated at the table, but her husband was returned backe, and called to be let in at the doore. which when shee perceived, shee was almost halfe dead with feare, and coveting to hide the young man, that her husband should not have any sight of him, shee had no other meanes, but in an entry, hard by the parlour where they purposed to have supt, stood a coope or hen-pen, wherein she used to keepe her pullen, under which he crept, and then shee covered it with an old empty sacke, and after ran to let her husband come in. when he was entred into the house; as halfe offended at his so sudden returne, angerly she saide: it seemes sir you are a shaver at your meate, that you have made so short a supper. in troth wife (quoth he) i have not supt at all, no, not so much as eaten one bit. how hapned that? said the woman. mary wife (quoth he) i will tell you, and then thus he began. as _herculano_, his wife, and i were sitting downe at the table, very neere unto us we heard one sneeze, whereof at the first we made no reckoning, untill we heard it againe the second time, yea, a third, fourth, and fifth, and many more after, whereat we were not a little amazed. now wife i must tell you, before we entred the roome where we were to sup, _herculanoes_ wife kept the doore fast shut against us, and would not let us enter in an indifferent while; which made him then somewhat offended, but now much more, when he had heard one to sneeze so often. demanding of her a reason for it, and who it was that thus sneezed in his house: he started from the table, and stepping to a little doore neere the staires head, necessarily there made, to set such things in, as otherwise would be troublesome to the roome, (as in all houses we commonly see the like) he perceived, that the party was hidden there, which wee had heard so often to sneeze before. no sooner had he opened the doore, but such a smell of brimston came foorth (whereof we felt not the least savour before) as made us likewise to cough and sneeze, being no way able to refraine it. she seeing her husband to be much moved, excused the matter thus, that (but a little while before) shee had whited certaine linnen with the smoake of brimstone, as it is an usuall thing to doe, and then set the pan into that spare place, because it should not be offensive to us. by this time, _herculano_ had espied him that sneezed, who being almost stifled with the smell, and closenesse of the small roome wherein he lay, had not any power to helpe himselfe, but still continued coughing and sneezing, even as if his heart would have split in twaine. foorth he pluckt him by the heeles, and perceiving how matters had past, he saide to her. i thanke you wife, now i see the reason, why you kept us so long from comming into this roome, let me die, if i beare this wrong at your hands. when his wife heard these words, and saw the discovery of her shame; without returning either excuse or answere, foorth of doores she ran, but whither, we know not. _herculano_ drew his dagger, and would have slaine him that still lay sneezing; but i disswaded him from it, as well in respect of his, as also mine owne danger, when the law should censure on the deede. and after the young man was indifferently recovered; by the perswasion of some neighbours comming in: he was closely conveyed out of the house, and all the noyse quietly pacified. onely (by this meanes, and the flight of _herculanoes_ wife) we were disappointed of our supper; and now you know the reason of my so soone returning. when she had heard this whole discourse, then she perceived, that other women were subject to the like infirmity, and as wise for themselves, as shee could be, though these and the like sinister accidents might sometimes crosse them, and gladly she wished, that _herculanoes_ wifes excuse, might now serve to acquite her: but because in blaming others errors, our owne may sometime chance to escape discovery, and cleare us, albeit we are as guilty; in a sharpe reprehending manner, thus she began. see husband, here is hansome behaviour, of an holy faire seeming, and saint-like woman, to whom i durst have confest my sinnes, i conceived such a religious perswasion of her lives integrity, free from the least scruple of taxation. a woman, so farre stept into yeeres, as shee is, to give such an evill example to other younger women, is it not a sinne beyond all sufferance? accursed be the houre, when she was borne into this world, and her selfe likewise, to be so lewdly and incontinently given; an universall shame and slaunder, to all the good women of our city. shall i terme her a woman, or rather some savage monster in a womans shape? hath shee not made am open prostitution of her honesty, broken her plighted faith to her husband, and all the womanly reputation shee had in this world? her husband, being an honourable citizen, entreating her alwayes, as few men elsee in the city doe their wives; what an heart-breake must this needes be to him, good man? neither i, nor any honest man elsee, ought to have any pity on her; but (with our owne hands) teare her in peeces, or dragge her along to a good fire in the market place, wherein she and her minion should be consumed together, and their base ashes dispersed abroade in the winde, least the pure aire should be infected with them. then, remembring her owne case, and her poore affrighted friend, who lay in such distresse under the hen-coope; shee began to advise her husband, that he would be pleased to goe to bed, because the night passed on apace. but _pedro_, having a better will to eate, then to sleepe, desired her to let him have some meate, else hee must goe to bed with an empty bellie; whereto shee answered. why husband (quoth shee) do i make any large provision, when i am debard of your company? i would i were the wife of _herculano_, seeing you cannot content your selfe from one nights feeding, considering, it is now over-late to make any thing ready. it fortuned, that certaine husbandmen, which had the charge of _pedroes_ farme house in the countrey, and there followed his affaires of husbandry, were returned home this instant night, having their asses laden with such provision, as was to be used in his city-house. when the asses were unladen, and set up in a small stable, without watering; one of them being (belike) more thirsty then the rest, brake loose, and wandering all about smelling to seeke water, happened into the entry, where the young man lay hidden under the hen-pen. now, he being constrained (like a carpe) to lie flat on his belly, because the coope was over-weighty for him to carry, and one of his hands more extended forth, then was requisite for him in so urgent a shift: it was his hap (or ill fortune rather) that the asse set his foote on the young mans fingers, treading so hard, and the paine being very irkesome to him, as he was enforced to cry out aloude, which _pedro_ hearing, he wondered thereat not a little. knowing that this cry was in his house, he tooke the candle in his hand, and going foorth of the parlour, heard the cry to be louder and louder; because the asse removed not his foote, but rather trod the more firmely on his hand. comming to the coope, driving thence the asse, and taking off the old sacke, he espyed the young man, who, beside the painfull anguish he felt of his fingers, arose up trembling, as fearing some outrage beside to be offered him by _pedro_, who knew the youth perfectly, and demanded of him, how he came thither. no answer did he make to that question, but humbly entreated (for charities sake) that he would not doe him any harme. feare not (quoth _pedro_) i will not offer thee any violence: onely tel me how thou camest hither, and for what occasion; wherein the youth fully resolved him. _pedro_ being no lesse joyfull for thus finding him, then his wife was sorrowfull, tooke him by the hand, and brought him into the parlour, where shee sate trembling and quaking, as not knowing what to say in this distresse. seating himselfe directly before her, and holding the youth still fast by the hand, thus he began. oh wife! what bitter speeches did you use (even now) against the wife of _herculano_, maintaining that shee had shamed all other women, and justly deserved to be burned? why did you not say as much of your selfe? or, if you had not the heart to speake it, how could you be so cruell against her, knowing your offence as great as hers? questionlesse, nothing else urged you thereto, but that all women are of one and the same condition, covering their owne grosse faults by farre inferiour infirmities in others. you are a perverse generation, meerely false in your fairest shewes. when she saw that he offered her no other violence, but gave her such vaunting and reproachfull speeches, holding still the young man before her face, meerely to vexe and despight her: shee began to take heart, and thus replied. doest thou compare me with the wife of _herculano_, who is an olde, dissembling hypocrite? yet she can have of him whatsoever she desireth, and he useth her as a woman ought to be, which favour i could never yet find at thy hands. put the case, that thou keepest me in good garments, allowing me to goe neatly hosed and shod; yet well thou knowest, there are other meete matters belonging to a woman, and every way as necessarily required, both for the preservation of houshold quietnesse, and those other rites betweene a husband and wife. let me be worser garmented, courser dieted, yea, debarred of all pleasure and delights; so i might once be worthy the name of a mother, and leave some remembrance of woman-hood behind me. i tell thee plainly _pedro_, i am a woman as others are, and subject to the same desires, as (by nature) attendeth on flesh and bloud: look how thou failest in kindnesse towards me, thinke it not amisse, if i doe the like to thee, and endeavour thou to win the worthy title of a father, because i was made to be a mother. when _pedro_ perceived, that his wife had spoken nothing but reason, in regard of his over-much neglect towards her, and not using such houshold kindnesse, as ought to be between man and wife, he returned her this answer. well wife (quoth he) i confesse my fault, and hereafter will labour to amend it; conditionally, that this youth, nor any other, may no more visite my house in mine absence. get me therefore something to eate, for doubtlesse, this young man and thy selfe fell short of your supper, by reason of my so soone returning home. in troth husband, saide shee, we did not eate one bit of anything, and i will be a true and loyall wife to thee, so thou wilt be the like to me. no more words then wife, replyed _pedro_, all is forgotten and forgiven, let us to supper, and we are all friends. she seeing his anger was so well appeased, lovingly kissed him, and laying the cloth, set on the supper, which shee had provided for her selfe & the youth, and so they supt together merrily, not one unkind word passing betweene them. after supper, the youth was sent away in friendly manner, and _pedro_ was alwayes afterward more loving to his wife, then formerly he had been, and no complaint passed on either side, but mutuall joy and houshold contentment, such as ought to be betweene man and wife. _dioneus_ having ended his tale, for which the ladies returned him no thankes, but rather angerly frowned on him: the queene, knowing that her government was now concluded, arose, and taking off her crowne of lawrell, placed it graciously on the head of madam _eliza_, saying. now madam, it is your turne to command. _eliza_ having received the honour, did (in all respects) as others formerly had done, and after she had enstructed the master of the houshold, concerning his charge during the time of her regiment, for contentation of all the company; thus she spake. we have long since heard, that with witty words, ready answers, and sudden jests or taunts, many have checkt & reproved great folly in others, and to their owne no meane commendation. now, because it is a pleasing kind of argument, ministring occasion of mirth and wit: my desire is, that all our discourse to morrow shall tend thereto. i meane of such persons, either men or women, who with some sudden witty answer, have encountred a scorner in his owne intention, and layed the blame where it justly belonged. every one commended the queenes appointment, because it savoured of good wit and judgement; and the queene being risen, they were all discharged till supper time, falling to such severall exercises as themselves best fancyed. when supper was ended, and the instruments layed before them; by the queenes consent, madam _Æmillia_ undertooke the daunce, and the song was appointed to _dioneus_, who began many, but none that proved to any liking, they were so palpably obscene and idle, savouring altogether of his owne wanton disposition. at the length, the queene looking stearnely on him, and commanding him to sing a good one, or none at all; thus he began. _the song. eyes, can ye not refraine your hourely weeping? eares, how are you deprivde of sweete attention? thoughts, have you lost your quiet silent sleeping? wit, who hath robde thee of thy rare invention? the lacke of these, being life and motion giving: are sencelesse shapes, and no true signes of living. eyes, when you gazde upon her angell beauty; eares, while you heard her sweete delicious straines, thoughts (sleeping then) did yet performe their duty, wit, then tooke sprightly pleasure in his paines. while shee did live, then none of these were scanting, but now (being dead) they all are gone and wanting._ after that _dioneus_ (by proceeding no further) declared the finishing of his song; many more were sung beside, and that of _dioneus_ highly commended. some part of the night being spent in other delightfull exercises, and a fitting houre for rest drawing on: they betooke themselves to their chambers, where we will leave them till to morrow morning. _the end of the fifth day._ finis. http://www.freeliterature.org (images generously made available by the internet archive.) the decameron containing an hundred pleasant novels. _wittily discoursed, betweene seven honourable ladies, and three noble gentlemen._ the last five dayes. london, printed by isaac jaggard, . to the right honourable sir phillip herbert, knight, lord baron of sherland, earle of montgomery, and knight of the most noble order of the garter. _having (by your honourable command) translated this_ decameron, _or_ cento novelle, _sirnamed_ il principe galeotto, _of ten dayes severall discourses, grounded on variable and singuler arguments, happening betweene seaven noble ladies, and three very honourable gentlemen: although not attyred in such elegantcy of phrase, or nice curiosity of stile, as a quicker and more sprightly wit could have performed, but in such home-borne language, as my ability could stretch unto; yet it commeth (in all duty) to kisse your noble hand, and to shelter it selfe under your gracious protection, though not from the leering eye, and over-lavish tongue of snarling envy; yet from the power of his blasting poyson, and malice of his machinations._ _to the reader._ bookes (courteous reader) may rightly be compared to _gardens_; wherein, let the painfull gardiner expresse never so much care and diligent endeavour; yet among the very fairest, sweetest, and freshest flowers, as also plants of most precious vertue; ill favouring and stinking weeds, fit for no use but the fire or mucke-hill, will spring and sprout up. so fareth it with bookes of the very best quality, let the author bee never so indulgent, and the printer vigilant: yet both may misse their ayme, by the escape of errors and mistakes, either in sense or matter, the one fault ensuing by a ragged written copy; and the other thorough want of wary correction. if then the best bookes cannot be free from this common infirmity; blame not this then, of farre lighter argument, wherein thy courtesie may helpe us both: his blame, in acknowledging his more sufficiency, then to write so grosse and absurdly: and mine, in pardoning unwilling errours committed, which thy judgement finding, thy pen can as easily correct. _farewell._ the table dedication. to the reader. * * * * * the sixt day, governed under madame eliza. _wherein the discourses or novels there to bee recounted, doe concerne such persons; who by some witty words (when any have taunted them) have revenged themselves, in a sudden, unexpected and discreet answere, thereby preventing losse, danger, scorne and disgrace, retorting them on the busi-headed questioners._ the argument of the first novell. _a knight requested madame_ oretta, _to ride behinde him on horsebacke, and promised, to tell her an excellent tale by the way. but the lady perceiving, that his discourse was idle, and much worse delivered: entreated him to let her walke on foote againe._ _the morall._ reprehending the folly of such men, as undertake to report discourses, which are beyond their wit and capacity, and gaine nothing but blame for their labour. the argument of the second novell. cistio _a baker, by a witty answere which he gave unto_ messer geri spina, _caused him to acknowledge a very indiscreet motion, which he had made to the said_ cistio. _the morall._ approving, that a request ought to be civill, before it should be granted to any one whatsoever. the argument of the third novell. madam nonna de pulci, _by a sodaine answere, did put to silence a bishop of_ florence, _and the lord marshall: having mooved a question to the said lady, which seemed to come short of honesty._ _the morall._ wherein is declared, that mockers doe sometimes meet with their matches in mockery, and to their owne shame. the argument of the fourth novell. chichibio, _the cooke to_ messer currado gianfiliazzi, _by a sodaine pleasant answere which he made to his master; converted his anger into laughter, and thereby escaped the punishment, that_ messer _meant to impose on him._ _the morall._ whereby plainely appeareth, that a sodaine witty, and merry answere, doth oftentimes appease the furious choller of an angry man. the argument of the fift novell. messer forese da rabatte, _and maister_ giotto, _a painter by his profession, comming together from_ mugello, _scornefully reprehended one another for their deformity of body._ _the morall._ whereby may be observed, that such as will speake contemptibly of others, ought (first of all) to looke respectively on their owne imperfections. the argument of the sixt novell. _a yong and ingenious scholler, being unkindly reviled and smitten by his ignorant father, and through the procurement of an unlearned vicare; afterward attained to bee doubly revenged on him._ _the morall._ serving as an advertisment to unlearned parents, not to be over-rash, in censuring on schollers imperfections, through any bad or unbeseeming perswasions. the argument of the seaventh novell. madame phillippa, _being accused by her husband_ rinaldo de pugliese, _because he tooke her in adultery, with a yong gentleman named_ lazarino de guazzagliotori: _caused her to bee cited before a judge. from whom she delivered her selfe, by a sodaine, witty, and pleasant answere, and moderated a severe strict statute, formerly made against women._ _the morall._ wherein is declared, of what worth it is to confesse a truth, with a facetious and witty excuse. the argument of the eighth novell. fresco da celatico, _counselled and advised his neece_ cesca: _that if such as deserved to bee looked on, were offensive to her eyes (as she had often told him;) she should forbeare to looke on any._ _the morall._ in just scorne of such unsightly and ill-pleasing surly sluts, who imagine none to bee faire or well-favoured, but themselves. the argument of the ninth novell. signior guido cavalcante, _with a sodaine and witty answere, reprehended the rash folly of certaine florentine gentlemen, that thought to scorne and flout him._ _the morall._ notably discovering the great difference that is betweene learning and ignorance, upon judicious apprehension. the argument of the tenth novell. _frier_ onyon _promised certaine honest people of the country, to shew them a feather of the same phoenix, that was with_ noah _in his arke. in sted whereof, he found coales, which he avouched to be those very coales, wherewith the same phoenix was roasted._ _the morall._ wherein may be observed, what palpable abuses doe many times passe, under the counterfeit cloake of religion. * * * * * the seaventh day, governed under the regiment of dioneus. _wherein the discourses are directed, for the discovery of such policies and deceits, as women have used for beguiling of their husbands, either in respect of their love, or for the prevention of some blame or scandall; escaping without sight, knowledge, or otherwise._ the argument of the first novell. john _of_ lorraine _heard one knocke at his doore in the night time, whereupon he awaked his wife_ monna tessa. _shee made him beleeve, that it was a spirit which knocked at the doore, and so they arose, going both together to conjure the spirit with a charme; and afterwards, they heard no more knocking._ _the morall._ reprehending the simplicity of some sottish husbands: and discovering the wanton subtilties of some women, to compasse their unlawfull desires. the argument of the second novell. peronella _hid a yong man her friend and lover, under a great brewing fat, uppon the sodaine returning home of her husband; who tolde her, that he had sold the saide fat, and brought him that bought it, to carry it away._ peronella _replyed, that shee had formerly solde it unto another, who was now underneath it, to see whether it were whole and sound, or no. whereupon, he being come forth from under it; shee caused her husband to make it neate and cleane, and so the last buyer carried it away._ _the morall._ wherein is declared, what hard and narrow shifts and distresses, such as be seriously linked in love, are many times enforced to undergoe: according as their owne wit, and capacity of their surprizers, drive them to extremities. the argument of the third novell. _friar_ reynard, _falling in love with a gentlewoman, wife to a man of good account; found the meanes to become her gossip. afterward, he being conferring closely with her in her chamber, and her husband comming sodainely thither: she made him beleeve, that he came thither for no other ende; but to cure his god-sonne by a charme, of a dangerous disease which he had by wormes._ _the morall._ serving as a friendly advertisement to married women, that monks, friars, and priests may be none of their gossips, in regard of unavoydable perils ensuing thereby. the argument of the fourth novell. tofano _in the night season, did locke his wife out of his house, and she not prevailing to get entrance againe, by all the entreaties shee could possibly use: made him beleeve that shee had throwne her selfe into a well, by casting a great stone into the same well._ tofano _hearing the fall of the stone into the well, and being perswaded that it was his wife indeede; came forth of his house, and ranne to the welles side. in the meane while, his wife gotte into the house, made fast the doore against her husband, and gave him many reprochfull speeches._ _the morall._ wherein is manifested, that the malice and subtilty of a woman, surpasseth all the art or wit in man. the argument of the fift novell. _a jealous man, clouded with the habite of a priest, became the confessour to his owne wife; who made him beleeve, that she was deepely in love with a priest, which came every night, and lay with her. by meanes of which confession, while her jealous husband watched the doore of his house; to surprise the priest when he came: she that never meant to doe amisse, had the company of a secret friend who came over the toppe of the house to visite her, while her foolish husband kept the doore._ _the morall._ in just scorne and mockery of such jealous husbands, that wil be idle headed upon no occasion. and yet when they have good reason for it, doe least of all suspect any such injury. the argument of the sixth novell. _madame_ isabella, _delighting in the company of her affected friend, named_ lionello, _and she being likewise beloved by_ signior lambertuccio: _at the same time as shee had entertained_ lionello, _she was also visited by_ lambertuccio. _her husband returning home in the very instant; she caused_ lambertuccio _to runne foorth with a drawne sword in his hand, and (by that meanes) made an excuse sufficient for_ lionello _to her husband._ _the morall._ wherein is manifestly discerned, that if love be driven to a narrow straite in any of his attempts; yet hee can accomplish his purpose by some other supply. the argument of the seaventh novell. lodovico _discovered to his mistresse madame_ beatrix, _how amourously he was affected to her. she cunningly sent_ egano _her husband into his garden, in all respects disguised like herselfe; while (friendly)_ lodovico _conferred with her the meane while. afterward,_ lodovico _pretending a lascivious allurement of his mistresse, thereby to wrong his honest master, instead of her, beateth_ egano _soundly in the garden._ _the morall._ whereby is declared, that such as keepe many honest seeming servants, may sometime finde a knave among them, and one that proves to bee over-sawcy with his master. the argument of the eight novell. arriguccio berlinghieri, _became immeasurably jealous of his wife_ simonida, _who fastened a thred about her great toe, for to serve as a signall, when her amourous friend should come to visite her._ arriguccio _findeth the fallacy, and while he pursueth the amorous friend, shee causeth her maide to lie in her bed against his returne: whom he beateth extreamly, cutting away the lockes of her haire (thinking he had done all this violence to his wife_ simonida:) _and afterward fetcheth her mother and brethren, to shame her before them, and so be rid of her. but they finding all his speeches to be false; and reputing him to be a drunken jealous foole; all the blame and disgrace falleth on himselfe._ _the morall._ whereby appeareth, that an husband ought to be very well advised, when he meaneth to discover any wrong offered by his wife; except he himselfe doe rashly run into all the shame and reproch. the argument of the ninth novell. lydia, _a lady of great beauty, birth, and honor, being wife to_ nicostratus, _governor of_ argos, _falling in love with a gentleman, named_ pyrrhus; _was requested by him (as a true testimony of her unfeigned affection) to performe three severall actions of her selfe. she did accomplish them all, and imbraced and kissed_ pyrrhus _in the presence of_ nicostratus; _by perswading him, that whatsoever he saw, was meerely false._ _the morall._ wherein is declared, that great lords may sometime be deceived by their wives, as well as men of meaner condition. the argument of the tenth novell. _two citizens of_ sienna, _the one named_ tingoccio mini, _and the other_ meucio di tora, _affected both one woman, called_ monna mita, _to whom the one of them was a gossip. the gossip dyed, and appeared afterward to his companion, according as he had formerly promised him to doe, and told him what strange wonders he had seene in the other world._ _the morall._ wherein such men are covertly reprehended, who make no care or conscience at all of those things that should preserve them from sinne. * * * * * the eighth day, governed under madame lauretta. _whereon all the discourses, is, concerning such witty deceivings, as have, or may be put in practise, by wives to their husbands, husbands to their wives, or one man towards another._ the argument of the first novell. gulfardo _made a match or wager, with the wife of_ gasparuolo, _for the obtaining of her amorous favour, in regard of a summe of money first to be given her. the money he borrowed of her husband, and gave it in payment to her, as in case of discharging him from her husbands debt. after his returne home from_ geneway, _he told him in the presence of his wife, how hee had payde the whole summe to her, with charge of delivering it to her husband, which she confessed to be true, albeit greatly against her will._ _the morall._ wherein is declared, that such women as will make sale of their honestie, are sometimes over-reached in their payment, and justly served as they should be. the argument of the second novell. _a lusty priest of_ varlungo, _fell in love with a prety woman, named_ monna belcolore. _to compasse his amorous desire, hee left his cloake (as a pledge of further payment) with her. by a subtile sleight afterward, he borrowed a morter of her, which when hee sent home againe in the presence of her husband, he demanded to have his cloake sent him, as having left it in pawne for the morter. to pacifie her husband, offended that she did not lend the priest the morter without a pawne: she sent him backe his cloake againe, albeit greatly against hir will._ _the morall._ approving, that no promise is to be kept with such women as will make sale of their honesty for coine. the argument of the third novell. calandrino, bruno, _and_ buffalmaco, _being painters by profession, travailed to the plaine of_ mugnone, _to finde the precious stone called helitropium._ calandrino _perswading himselfe to have found it, returned home to his house heavy loaden with stones. his wife rebuking him for his absence, he groweth into anger, and shrewdly beates her. afterward, when the case is debated by his other friends_ bruno _&_ buffalmaco, _all is found to be meere folly._ _the morall._ reprehending the simplicity of such men, as are too much addicted to credulity, and will give credit to every thing they heare. the argument of the fourth novell. _the provost belonging to the cathedrall church of_ fiesola, _fell in love with a gentlewoman, being a widdow, and named_ piccarda, _who hated him as much as he loved her. he immagining that he lay with her: by the gentlewomans brethren, and the bishop under whom he served, was taken in bed with her mayde, an ugly, foule, deformed slut._ _the morall._ wherein is declared, how love oftentimes is so powerfull in aged men, and driveth them to such doating, that it redoundeth to their great disgrace and punishment. the argument of the fift novell. _three pleasant companions, plaid a merry prank with a judge (belonging to the marquesate of_ ancona) _at_ florence, _at such time as he sat on the bench, & hearing criminall causes._ _the morall._ giving admonition, that for the managing of publike affaires, no other persons are or ought to bee appointed, but such as be honest, and meet to sit on the seate of authority. the argument of the sixt novell. bruno _and_ buffalmaco _stole a yong brawne from_ calandrino, _and for his recovery thereof, they used a kinde of pretended conjuration, with pils made of ginger and strong malmesey. but insted of this application, they gave him two pils of a dogges dates or dousets, confected in alloes, by meanes whereof they made him beleeve, that hee had robd himselfe. and for feare they should report this theft to his wife, they made him to buy another brawne._ _the morall._ wherein is declared, how easily a plaine and simple man may bee made a foole, when he dealeth with crafty companions. the argument of the seaventh novell. _a yong gentleman being a scholler, fell in love with a ladie, named_ helena, _she being a woman, and addicted in affection unto another gentleman. one whole night in cold winter, she caused the scholler to expect her comming, in an extreame frost and snow. in revenge whereof, by his imagined art and skill, he made her to stand naked on the top of a tower, the space of a whole day, and in the hot moneth of july, to be sun-burnt and bitten with waspes and flies._ _the morall._ serving as an admonition to all gentlewomen, not to mocke gentlemen schollers, when they make meanes of love to them, except they intend to seeke their owne shame by disgracing them. the argument of the eighth novell. _two neere dwelling neighbours, the one beeing named_ spinelloccio tavena, _and the other_ zeppa di mino, _frequenting each others company daily together;_ spinelloccio _cuckolded his friend and neighbour. which happening to the knowledge of_ zeppa, _hee prevailed so well with the wife of_ spinelloccio, _that he being lockt up in a chest, hee revenged his wrong at that instant, so that neyther of them complained of his misfortune._ _the morall._ wherein is approved, that hee which offereth shame and disgrace to his neighbour, may receive the like injury (if not worse) by the same man. the argument of the ninth novell. _maestro_ simone, _an idle headed doctor of physicke, was thrown by_ bruno _and_ buffalmaco _into a common leystall of filth: the physitian fondly beleeving, that (in the night time) he should be made one of a new created company, who usually went to see wonders at_ corsica, _and there in the leystall they left him._ _the morall._ approving, that titles of honour, learning, and dignity, are not alwayes bestowne on the wisest men. the argument of the tenth novell. _a cicilian curtezan, named madam_ biancafiore, _by her subtle policy deceived a yong merchant called_ salabetto, _of all his mony he had taken for his wares at_ palermo. _afterward, he making shew of coming thither againe with far richer merchandises then before: made the meanes to borrow a great summe of money, leaving her so base a pawne, as well requited her for her former cousenage._ _the morall._ approving, that such as meet with cunning harlots, suffering them selves to be deceyved, must sharpen their wits, to make them requitall in the same kind. * * * * * the ninth day, governed under madame Ã�millia. whereon, the argument of each severall discourse, is not limited to any one peculiar subject: but everie one remaineth at liberty, to speake of whatsoever themselves best pleaseth. the argument of the first novell. _madam_ francesca, _a widdow of_ pistoya, _being affected by two florentine gentlemen, the one named_ rinuccio palermini, _and the other_ alessandro chiarmontesi, _and she bearing no good will to either of them, ingeniously freed her selfe from both their importunate suites. one of them shee caused to lye as dead in a grave, and the other to fetch him from thence: so neither of them accomplishing what they were enjoyned, failed of their expectation._ _the morall._ approving, that chast and honest women, ought rather to deny importunate suiters, by subtle and ingenious means, then fall into the danger of scandall and slander. the argument of the second novell. _madame_ usimbalda, _lady abbesse of a monastery of nuns in_ lombardie, _arising hastily in the night time without a candle, to take one of her daughter nunnes in bed with a yong gentleman, whereof she was enviously accused, by certaine of her other sisters: the abbesse her selfe (being at the same time in bed with a priest) imagining to have put on her head her plaited vayle, put on the priests breeches. which when the poore nunne perceyved; by causing the abbesse to see her owne error, she got her selfe to be absolved, and had the freer liberty afterward, to be more familiar with her frend, then formerly she had bin._ _the morall._ whereby is declared, that whosoever is desirous to reprehend sinne in other men, should first examine himselfe, that he be not guiltie of the same crime. the argument of the third novell. _master_ simon _the physitian, by the perswasions of_ bruno, buffalmaco, _and a third companion, named_ nello, _made_ calandrino _to beleeve, that he was conceived great with childe. and having physicke ministred to him for the disease: they got both good fatte capons and money of him, and so cured him, without any other manner of deliverance._ _the morall._ discovering the simplicity of some silly witted men, and how easie a matter it is to abuse and beguile them. the argument of the fourth novell. francesco fortarigo, _played away all that he had at_ buonconvento, _and likewise the money of_ francesco aniolliero, _being his master: then running after him in his shirt, and avouching that hee had robbed him: he caused him to be taken by pezants of the country, clothed himselfe in his masters wearing garments, and (mounted on his horse) rode thence to_ sienna, _leaving_ aniolliero _in his shirt, and walked bare-footed._ _the morall._ serving as an admonition to all men, for taking gamesters and drunkards into their service. the argument of the fifte novell. calandrino _became extraordinarily enamoured of a young damosell, named_ nicholetta. bruno _prepared a charme or writing for him, avouching constantly to him, that so soone as he touched the damosell therewith, she should follow him whithersoever hee would have her. she being gone to an appointed place with him, hee was found there by his wife, and dealt withall according to his deserving._ _the morall._ in just reprehension of those vaine-headed fooles, that are led and governed by idle perswasions. the argument of the sixth novell. _two yong gentlemen, the one named_ panuccio, _and the other_ adriano, _lodged one night in a poore inne, whereof one of them went to bed to the hostes daughter, and the other (by mistaking his way in the darke) to the hostes wife. he which lay with the daughter, hapned afterward to the hostes bed, and told him what he had done, as thinking he spake to his owne companion. discontentment growing betweene them, the mother perceiving her errour, went to bed to her daughter, and with discreete language, made a generall pacification._ _the morall._ wherein is manifested, that an offence committed ignorantly, and by mistaking; ought to be covered with good advise, and civill discretion. the argument of the seaventh novell. talano de molese _dreamed, that a wolfe rent and tore his wives face and throate. which dreame he told to her, with advise to keep her selfe out of danger; which she refusing to doe, received what followed._ _the morall._ whereby (with some indifferent reason) it is concluded, that dreames do not alwayes fall out to be leasings. the argument of the eight novell. blondello _(in a merry manner) caused_ guiotto _to beguile himselfe of a good dinner: for which deceit,_ guiotto _became cunningly revenged, by procuring_ blondello _to be unreasonably beaten and misused._ _the morall._ whereby plainly appeareth, that they which take delight in deceiving others, do well deserve to be deceived themselves. the argument of the ninth novell. _two yong gentlemen, the one named_ melisso, _borne in the city of_ laiazzo: _and the other_ giosefo _of_ antioch, _travailed together unto_ salomon, _the famous king of_ great britaine. _the one desiring to learne what he should do, whereby to compasse and winne the love of men. the other craved to be enstructed, by what meanes hee might reclaime an headstrong and unruly wife. and what answeres the wise king gave unto them both, before they departed away from him._ _the morall._ containing an excellent admonition, that such as covet to have the love of other men, must first learne themselves, how to love: also, by what meanes such women as are curst and self willed, may be reduced to civill obedience. the argument of the tenth novell. john de barolo, _at the instance and request of his gossip_ pietro da trefanti, _made an enchantment, to have his wife become a mule. and when it came to the fastening on of the taile, gossip_ pietro _by saying she should have no taile at all, spoyled the whole enchantment._ _the morall._ in just reproofe of such foolish men, as will be governed by over-light beleefe. * * * * * the tenth day, governed under pamphilus. _whereon the severall arguments doe concerne such persons, as other by way of liberality, or in magnificent manner, performed any worthy action, for love, favor, friendship, or any other honourable occasion._ the argument of the first novell. _a florentine knight, named signior_ rogiero de figiovanni, _became a servant to_ alphonso, _king of_ spaine, _who (in his owne opinion) seemed but sleightly to respect and reward him. in regard whereof, by a notable experiment, the king gave him a manifest testimony, that it was not through any defect in him, but onely occasioned by the knights ill fortune; most bountifully recompensing him afterward._ _the morall._ wherein may evidently be discerned, that servants to princes and great lords, are many times recompenced, rather by their good fortune, then in any regard of their dutifull services. the argument of the second novell. ghinotto di tacco; _tooke the lord abbot of_ clugni _as his prisoner, and cured him of a grievous disease, which he had in his stomacke, and afterward set him at liberty. the same lord abbot, when hee returned from the court of rome, reconciled_ ghinotto _to pope_ boniface; _who made him a knight, and lord prior of a goodly hospitall._ _the morall._ wherein is declared that good men doe sometimes fall into bad conditions, onely occasioned thereto by necessity: and what meanes are to be used, for their reducing to goodnesse againe. the argument of the third novell. mithridanes _envying the life and liberality of_ nathan, _and travelling thither, with a setled resolution to kill him: chaunceth to conferre with_ nathan _unknowne. and being instructed by him, in what manner he might best performe the bloody deede, according as hee gave direction, hee meeteth with him in a small thicket or woode, where knowing him to be the same man, that taught him how to take away his life: confounded with shame, hee acknowledgeth his horrible intention, and becommeth his loyall friend._ _the morall._ shewing in an excellent and lively demonstration, that any especiall honourable vertue, persevering and dwelling in a truly noble soule, cannot be violenced or confounded, by the most politicke attemptes of malice and envy. the argument of the fourth novell. signior gentile de carisendi, _being come from_ modena, _tooke a gentlewoman, named madam_ catharina, _forth of a grave, wherein she was buried for dead; which act he did, in regard of his former honest affection to the said gentlewoman. madame_ catharina _remaining there afterward, and delivered of a goodly sonne: was (by_ signior gentile) _delivered to her owne husband; named_ signior nicoluccio caccianimico, _and the yong infant with her._ _the morall._ wherein is shewne, that true love hath alwayes bin, and so still is, the occasion of many great and worthy courtesies. the argument of the fift novell. _madame_ dianora, _the wife of signior_ gilberto, _being immodestly affected by signior_ ansaldo, _to free herselfe from his tedious importunity, she appointed him to performe (in her judgement) an act of impossibility; namely, to give her a garden, as plentifully stored with fragrant flowers in january, as in the flourishing moneth of_ may. ansaldo, _by meanes of a bond which he made to a magitian, performed her request. signior_ gilberto, _the ladyes husband, gave consent, that his wife should fulfill her promise made to_ ansaldo. _who hearing the bountifull mind of her husband; released her of her promise: and the magitian likewise discharged signior_ ansaldo, _without taking any thing of him._ _the morall._ admonishing all ladies and gentlewomen, that are desirous to preserve their chastity, free from all blemish and taxation: to make no promise of yeelding to any, under a compact or covenant, how impossible soever it may seeme to be. the argument of the sixt novell. _victorious_ king charles, _sirnamed the aged, and first of that name, fell in love with a yong maiden, named_ genevera, _daughter to an ancient knight, called signior_ neri degli uberti. _and waxing ashamed of his amorous folly, caused both_ genevera, _and her fayre sister_ isotta, _to be joyned in marriage with two noble gentlemen; the one named_ signior maffeo da palizzi, _and the other,_ signior gulielmo della magna. _the morall._ sufficiently declaring, that how mighty soever the power of love is: yet a magnanimous and truly generous heart, it can by no meanes fully conquer. the argument of the seaventh novell. lisana, _the daughter of a florentine apothecary, named_ bernardo puccino, _being at_ palermo, _and seeing_ piero, _king of_ aragon _run at the tilt; fell so affectionately enamored of him, that she languished in an extreame and long sickenesse. by her owne devise, and means of a song, sung in the hearing of the king: he vouchsafed to visite her, and giving her a kisse, terming himselfe also to bee her knight for ever after, hee honourably bestowed her in marriage on a young gentleman, who was called_ perdicano, _and gave him liberall endowments with her._ _the morall._ wherein is covertly given to understand, that howsoever a prince may make use of his absolute power and authority, towards maides or wives that are his subjects: yet he ought to deny and reject all things, as shall make him forgetfull of himselfe, and his true honour. the argument of the eight novell. sophronia, _thinking her selfe to be the maried wife of_ gisippus, _was (indeed) the wife of_ titus quintus fulvius, _& departed thence with him to rome. within a while after,_ gisippus _also came thither in very poore condition, and thinking that he was despised by_ titus, _grew weary of his life, and confessed that he had murdred a man, with full** intent to die for the fact. but_ titus _taking knowledge of him, and desiring to save the life of_ gisippus, _charged himself to have done the bloody deed. which the murderer himself (standing then among the multitude) seeing, truly confessed the deed. by meanes whereof, all three were delivered by the emperor_ octavius; _and_ titus _gave his sister in mariage to_ gisippus, _giving them also the most part of his goods & inheritances._ _the morall._ declaring, that notwithstanding the frownes of fortune, diversity of occurrences, and contrary accidents happening: yet love and friendship ought to be preciously preserved among men. the argument of the ninth novell. saladine, _the great_ soldan _of_ babylon, _in the habite of a merchant, was honourably received and welcommed, into the house of signior_ thorello d'istria. _who travelling to the holy land, prefixed a certaine time to his wife, for his returne backe to her againe, wherein, if he failed, it was lawfull for her to take another husband. by clouding himselfe in the disguise of a faulkner, the_ soldan _tooke notice of him, and did him many great honours. afterward,_ thorello _falling sicke, by magicall art, he was conveighed in one night to_ pavia, _when his wife was to be married on the morrow: where making himselfe knowne to her, all was disappointed, and shee went home with him to his owne house._ _the morall._ declaring what an honourable vertue courtesie is, in them that truely know how to use them. the argument of the tenth novell. _the marquesse of_ saluzzo, _named_ gualtiero, _being constrained by the importunate solliciting of his lords, and other inferiour people, to joyne himselfe in marriage; tooke a woman according to his owne liking, called_ grizelda, _she being the daughter of a poore countriman, named_ janiculo, _by whom he had two children, which he pretended to be secretly murdered. afterward, they being grown to yeres of more stature, and making shew of taking in marriage another wife, more worthy of his high degree and calling: made a seeming publique liking of his owne daughter, expulsing his wife_ grizelda _poorely from him. but finding her incomparable patience; more dearely (then before) hee received her into favour againe, brought her home to his owne pallace, where (with her children) hee caused her and them to be respectively honoured, in despight of all her adverse enemies._ _the morall._ set downe as an example or warning to all wealthie men, how to have care of marrying themselves. and likewise** to poore and meane women, to be patient in their fortunes, and obedient to their husbands. the sixt day. _governed under the authority of madam eliza, and the argument of the discourses or novels there to be recounted, doe concerne such persons; who by some witty words (when any have checkt or taunted them) have revenged themselves, in a sudden, unexpected and discreet answere, thereby preventing loss, danger, scorne and disgrace, retorting them on the busi-headed questioners._ the induction. the moone having past the heaven, lost her bright splendour, by the arising of a more powerfull light, and every part of our world began to looke cleare: when the queene (being risen) caused all the company to be called, walking forth afterward upon the pearled dewe (so farre as was supposed convenient) in faire and familiar conference together, according as severally they were disposed, & repetition of divers the passed novels, especially those which were most pleasing, and seemed so by their present commendations. but the sunne beeing somewhat higher mounted, gave such a sensible warmth to the ayre, as caused their returne backe to the pallace, where the tables were readily covered against their comming, strewed with sweet hearbes and odoriferous flowers, seating themselves at the tables (before the heat grew more violent) according as the queene commanded. after dinner, they sung divers excellent canzonnets, and then some went to sleepe, others played at the chesse, and some at the tables: but _dioneus_ and madam _lauretta_, they sung the love-conflict betweene _troylus_ and _cressida_. now was the houre come, of repairing to their former consistory or meeting place, the queene having thereto generally summoned them, and seating themselves (as they were wont to doe) about the faire fountaine. as the queene was commanding to begin the first novell, an accident suddenly happened, which never had befalne before: to wit, they heard a great noyse and tumult, among the houshold servants in the kitchin. whereupon, the queene caused the master of the houshold to be called, demaunding of him, what noyse it was, and what might be the occasion thereof? he made answere, that _lacisca_ and _tindaro_ were at some words of discontentment, but what was the occasion thereof, he knew not. whereupon, the queene commanded that they should be sent for, (their anger and violent speeches still continuing) and being come into her presence, she demaunded the reason of their discord; and _tindaro_ offering to make answere, _lacisca_ (being somewhat more ancient then he, and of a fiercer fiery spirit, even as if her heart would have leapt out of her mouth) turned her selfe to him, and with a scornefull frowning countenance, said. see how this bold, unmannerly and beastly fellow, dare presume to speake in this place before me: stand by (saucy impudence) and give your better leave to answere; then turning to the queene, thus shee proceeded. madam, this idle fellow would maintaine to me, that signior _sicophanto_ marrying with _madama della grazza_, had the victory of her virginity the very first night: and i avouched the contrary, because shee had been a mother twise before, in very faire adventuring of her fortune. and he dared to affirme beside, that yong maides are so simple, as to loose the flourishing aprill of their time, in meere feare of their parents, and great prejudice of their amourous friends. onely being abused by infinite promises, that this yeare and that yeare they shall have husbands, when, both by the lawes of nature and reason, they are not tyed to tarry so long, but rather ought to lay hold upon opportunity, when it is fairely and friendly offered, so that seldome they come maides to marriage. beside, i have heard, and know some married wives, that have played divers wanton prancks with their husbands, yet carried all so demurely and smoothly; that they have gone free from publique detection. all which this woodcocke will not credit, thinking me to be so yong a novice, as if i had been borne but yesterday. while _lacisca_ was delivering these speeches, the ladies smiled on one another, not knowing what to say in this case: and although the queene (five and or severall times) commaunded her to silence; yet such was the earnestnes of her spleen, that she gave no attention, but held on still even untill she had uttered all that she pleased. but after she had concluded her complaint, the queene (with a smiling countenance) turned towards _dioneus_ saying. this matter seemeth most properly to belong to you; and therefore i dare repose such trust in you, that when our novels (for this day) shall be ended, you will conclude the case with a definitive sentence. whereto _dioneus_ presently thus replyed. madam, the verdict is already given, without any further expectation: and i affirme, that _lacisca_ hath spoken very sensibly, because shee is a woman of good apprehension, and _tindaro_ is but a puny, in practise and experience, to her. when _lacisca_ heard this, she fell into a lowd laughter, and turning her selfe to _tindaro_, sayde: the honour of the day is mine, and thine owne quarrell hath overthrowne thee in the fielde. thou that (as yet) hath scarsely learned to sucke, wouldest thou presume to know so much as i doe? couldst thou imagine mee, to be such a trewant in losse of my time, that i came hither as an ignorant creature? and had not the queene (looking verie frowningly on her) strictly enjoyned her to silence; shee would have continued still in this triumphing humour. but fearing further chastisement for disobedience, both shee and _tindaro_ were commanded thence, where was no other allowance all this day, but onely silence and attention, to such as should be enjoyned speakers. and then the queene, somewhat offended at the folly of the former controversie, commanded madame _philomena_, that she should give beginning to the dayes novels: which (in dutifull manner) shee undertooke to doe, and seating her selfe in formall fashion, with modest and very gracious gesture, thus she began. _a knight requested madam_ oretta, _to ride behinde him on horse-backe, and promised, to tell her an excellent tale by the way. but the lady perceiving, that his discourse was idle, and much worse delivered: entreated him to let her walke on foote againe._ the first novell. _reprehending the folly of such men, as undertake to report discourses, which are beyond their wit and capacity, and gaine nothing but blame for their labour._ gracious ladies, like as in our faire, cleere, and serene seasons, the starres are bright ornaments to the heavens, and the flowry fields (so long as the spring time lasteth) weare their goodliest liveries, the trees likewise bragging in their best adornings: even so at friendly meetings, short, sweet, and sententious words, are the beauty & ornament of any discourse, savouring of wit and sound judgement, worthily deserving to be commended. and so much the rather, because in few and witty words, aptly suting with the time and occasion, more is delivered then was expected, or sooner answered, then rashly apprehended: which, as they become men verie highly, yet do they shew more singular in women. true it is, what the occasion may be, i know not, either by the badnesse of our wittes, or the especiall enmitie betweene our complexions and the celestiall bodies: there are scarsely any, or very few women to be found among us, that well knowes how to deliver a word, when it should and ought to be spoken; or, if a question bee mooved, understands to suite it with an apt answere, such as conveniently is required, which is no meane disgrace to us women. but in regard, that madame _pampinea_ hath already spoken sufficiently of this matter, i meane not to presse it any further: but at this time it shall satisfie mee, to let you know, how wittily a ladie made due observation of opportunitie, in answering of a knight, whose talke seemed tedious and offensive to her. no doubt there are some among you, who either do know, or (at the least) have heard, that it is no long time since, when there dwelt a gentlewoman in our citie, of excellent grace and good discourse, with all other rich endowments of nature remaining in her, as pitty it were to conceale her name: and therefore let me tell ye, that shee was called madame _oretta_, the wife to signior _geri spina_. she being upon some occasion (as now we are) in the countrey, and passing from place to place (by way of neighbourly invitations) to visite her loving friends and acquaintance, accompanied with divers knights and gentlewomen, who on the day before had dined and supt at her house, as now (belike) the selfe-same courtesie was intended to her: walking along with her company upon the way; and the place for her welcome beeing further off then she expected: a knight chanced to overtake this faire troop, who well knowing madam _oretta_, using a kinde and courteous salutation, spake thus unto her. madam, this foot travell may bee offensive to you, and were you so well pleased as my selfe, i would ease your journey behinde mee on my gelding, even so farre as you shall command me: and beside, will shorten your wearinesse with a tale worth the hearing. courteous sir (replyed the lady) i embrace your kinde offer with such acceptation, that i pray you to performe it; for therein you shall doe me an especiall favour. the knight, whose sword (perhappes) was as unsuteable to his side, as his wit out of fashion for any readie discourse, having the lady mounted behinde him: rode on with a gentle pace, and (according to his promise) began to tell a tale, which indeede (of it selfe) deserved attention, because it was a knowne and commendable history, but yet delivered so abruptly, with idle repetitions of some particulars three or foure severall times, mistaking one thing for another, and wandering erroneously from the essentiall subject, seeming neere an end, and then beginning againe: that a poore tale could not possibly be more mangled, or worse tortured in telling, then this was; for the persons therein concerned, were so abusively nicke-named, their actions and speeches so monstrously misshapen,** that nothing could appeare to be more ugly. madame _oretta_, being a lady of unequalled ingenuitie, admirable in judgement, and most delicate in her speech, was afflicted in soule, beyond all measure; overcome with many colde sweates, and passionate heart-aking qualmes, to see a foole thus in a pinne-fold, and unable to get out, albeit the doore stood wide open to him, whereby shee became so sicke; that, converting her distaste to a kinde of pleasing acceptation, merrily thus she spake. beleeve me sir, your horse trots so hard, & travels so uneasily; that i entreate you to let me walke on foot againe. the knight, being (perchance) a better understander, then a discourser; perceived by this witty taunt, that his bowle had run a contrarie bias, and he as farre out of tune, as he was from the towne. so, lingering the time, untill her company was neerer arrived: hee lefte her with them, and rode on as his wisedome could best direct him. cistio _a baker, by a wittie answer which he gave unto_ messer geri spina, _caused him to acknowledge a very indiscreete motion, which he had made to the said_ cistio. the second novell. _approving, that a request ought to be civill, before it should be granted to any one whatsoever._ the words of madame _oretta_, were much commended by the men and women; and the discourse being ended, the queene gave command to madam _pampinea_, that shee should follow next in order, which made her to begin in this manner. worthy ladies, it exceedeth the power of my capacitie, to censure in the case whereof i am to speake, by saying, who sinned most, either nature, in seating a noble soule in a vile body, or fortune, in bestowing on a body (beautified with a noble soule) a base or wretched condition of life. as we may observe by _cistio_, a citizen of our owne, and many more beside; for, this _cistio_ beeing endued with a singular good spirit, fortune hath made him no better then a baker. and beleeve me ladies, i could (in this case) lay as much blame on nature, as on fortune; if i did not know nature to be most absolutely wise, & that fortune hath a thousand eyes, albeit fooles have figured her to bee blinde. but, upon more mature and deliberate consideration, i finde, that they both (being truly wise and judicious) have dealt justly, in imitation of our best advised mortals, who being uncertaine of such inconveniences, as may happen unto them, do bury (for their own benefit) the very best and choisest things of esteeme, in the most vile and abject places of their houses, as being subject to least suspition, and where they may be sure to have them at all times, for supply of any necessitie whatsoever, because so base a conveyance hath better kept them, then the very best chamber in the house could have done. even so these two great commanders of the world, do many times hide their most precious jewels of worth, under the clouds of arts or professions of worst estimation, to the end, that fetching them thence when neede requires, their splendour may appeare to be the more glorious. nor was any such matter noted in our homely baker _cistio_, by the best observation of _messer geri spina_, who was spoken of in the late repeated novell, as being the husband to madame _oretta_; whereby this accident came to my remembrance, and which (in a short tale) i will relate unto you. let me then tell ye, that pope _boniface_ (with whom the fore-named _messer geri spina_ was in great regard) having sent divers gentlemen of his court to _florence_ as ambassadors, about very serious and important businesse: they were lodged in the house of _messer geri spina_, and he employed (with them) in the saide popes negotiation. it chanced, that as being the most convenient way for passage, every morning they walked on foot by the church of saint _marie d'ughi_, where _cistio_ the baker dwelt, and exercised the trade belonging to him. now although fortune had humbled him to so meane a condition, yet shee added a blessing of wealth to that contemptible quality, and (as smiling on him continually) no disasters at any time befell him, but still he flourished in riches, lived like a jolly citizen, with all things fitting for honest entertainment about him, and plenty of the best wines (both white and claret) as _florence_, or any part thereabout yeelded. our frolicke baker perceiving, that _messer geri spina_ and the other ambassadors, used every morning to passe by his doore, and afterward to returne backe the same way: seeing the season to be somewhat hot & soultry, he tooke it as an action of kindnesse and courtesie, to make them an offer of tasting his white wine. but having respect to his own meane degree, and the condition of _messer geri_; hee thought it farre unfitting for him, to be so forward in such presumption; but rather entred into consideration of some such meanes, whereby _messer geri_ might bee the inviter of himselfe to taste his wine. and having put on him a trusse or thin doublet, of very white and fine linnen cloath, as also breeches, and an apron of the same, and a white cap upon his head, so that he seemed rather to be a miller, then a baker: at such times as _messer geri_ and the ambassadors should daily passe by, hee set before his doore a new bucket of faire water, and another small vessell of _bologna_ earth (as new and sightly as the other) full of his best and choisest white wine, with two small glasses, looking like silver, they were so cleare. downe he sate, with all this provision before him, and emptying his stomacke twice or thrice, of some clotted flegmes which seemed to offend it: even as the gentlemen were passing by, he dranke one or two rouses of his wine so heartily, and with such a pleasing appetite, as might have moved a longing (almost) in a dead man. _messer geri_ well noting his behaviour, and observing the verie same course in him two mornings together; on the third day (as he was drinking) he said unto him. well done _cistio_, what, is it good, or no? _cistio_ starting up, forthwith replyed: yes sir, the wine is good indeed, but how can i make you to beleeve me, except you taste of it? _messer geri_, eyther in regard of the times quality, or by reason of his paines taken, perhaps more then ordinary, or else, because hee saw _cistio_ had drunke so sprightly, was very desirous to taste of the wine, and turning unto the ambassadors, in merriment he saide. my lords, me thinks it were not much amisse, if we tooke a taste of this honest mans wine, perhaps it is so good, that we shall not neede to repent our labour. heereupon, he went with them to _cistio_, who had caused an handsome seate to be fetched forth of his house, whereon he requested them to sit downe, and having commanded his men to wash cleane the glasses, he saide. fellowes, now get you gone, and leave me to the performance of this service; for i am no worse a skinker, then a baker, and tarry you never so long, you shall not drinke a drop. having thus spoken, himselfe washed foure or five small glasses, faire and new, and causing a viall of his best wine to be brought him: hee diligently filled it out to _messer geri_ and the ambassadours, to whom it seemed the very best wine, that they had drunke of in a long while before. and having given _cistio_ most hearty thankes for his kindnesse, and the wine his due commendation: many dayes afterwardes (so long as they continued there) they found the like courteous entertainment, and with the good liking of honest _cistio_. but when the affayres were fully concluded, for which they were thus sent to _florence_, and their parting preparation in due readinesse: _messer geri_ made a very sumptuous feast for them, inviting thereto the most part of the honourablest citizens, and _cistio_ to be one amongst them; who (by no meanes) would bee seene in an assembly of such state and pompe, albeit he was thereto (by the saide _messer geri_) most earnestly entreated. in regard of which deniall, _messer geri_ commaunded one of his servants, to take a small bottle, and request _cistio_ to fill it with his good wine; then afterward, to serve it in such sparing manner to the table, that each gentleman might be allowed halfe a glasse-full at their down-sitting. the serving-man, who had heard great report of the wine, and was halfe offended, because he could never taste thereof: tooke a great flaggon bottle, containing foure or five gallons at the least, and comming there-with unto _cistio_, saide unto him. _cistio_, because my master cannot have your companie among his friends, he prayes you to fill this bottle with your best wine. _cistio_ looking uppon the huge flaggon, replied thus. honest fellow, _messer geri_ never sent thee with such a message to me: which although the servingman very stoutly maintained, yet getting no other answer, he returned backe therewith to his master. _messer geri_ returned the servant backe againe unto _cistio_, saying: goe, and assure _cistio_, that i sent thee to him, and if hee make thee any more such answeres, then demaund of him, to what place else i should send thee? being come againe to _cistio_, hee avouched that his maister had sent him, but _cistio_ affirming, that hee did not: the servant asked, to what place else hee should send him? marrie (quoth _cistio_) unto the river of _arno_, which runneth by _florence_, there thou mayest be sure to fill thy flaggon. when the servant had reported this answer to _messer geri_, the eyes of his understanding beganne to open, and calling to see what bottle hee had carried with him: no sooner looked he on the huge flaggon, but severely reproving the sawcinesse of his servant, hee sayde. now trust mee, _cistio_ told thee nothing but trueth, for neither did i send thee with any such dishonest message, nor had the reason to yeeld or grant it. then he sent him with a bottle of more reasonable competencie, which so soone as _cistio_ saw: yea mary my friend, quoth he, now i am sure that thy master sent thee to me, and he shall have his desire with all my hart. so, commaunding the bottle to be filled, he sent it away by the servant, and presently following after him, when he came unto _messer geri_, he spake unto him after this manner. sir, i would not have you to imagine, that the huge flaggon (which first came) did any jotte dismay mee; but rather i conceyved, that the small viall whereof you tasted every morning, yet filled many mannerly glasses together, was fallen quite out of your remembrance; in plainer tearmes, it beeing no wine for groomes or peazants, as your selfe affirmed yesterday. and because i meane to bee a skinker no longer, by keeping wine to please any other pallate but mine owne: i have sent you halfe my store, and heereafter thinke of mee as you shall please. _messer geri_ tooke both his guifte and speeches in most thankefull manner, accepting him alwayes after, as his intimate friend, because he had so graced him before the ambassadours. madame nonna de pulci, _by a sodaine answere, did put to silence a byshop of_ florence, _and the lord marshall: having moved a question to the said lady, which seemed to come short of honesty._ the third novell. _wherein is declared, that mockers do sometimes meete with their matches in mockery, and to their owne shame._ when madame _pampinea_ had ended her discourse, and (by the whole company) the answere and bounty of _cistio_, had past with deserved commendation: it pleased the queene, that madame _lauretta_ should next succeed: whereupon verie chearefully thus she beganne. faire assembly, madame _pampinea_ (not long time since) gave beginning, and madam _philomena_ hath also seconded the same argument, concerning the slender vertue remaining in our sexe, and likewise the beautie of wittie words, delivered on apt occasion, and in convenient meetings. now, because it is needlesse to proceede any further, then what hath beene already spoken: let mee onely tell you (over and beside) and commit it to memorie, that the nature of meetings and speeches are such, as they ought to nippe or touch the hearer, like unto the sheepes nibling on the tender grasse, and not as the sullen dogge byteth. for, if their biting be answereable to the dogges, they deserve not to be termed witty jests or quips, but foule and offensive language: as plainly appeareth by the words of madame _oretta_, and the merry, yet sensible answer of _cistio_. true it is, that if it be spoken by way of answer, and the answerer biteth doggedly, because himselfe was bitten in the same manner before: he is the lesse to bee blamed, because hee maketh payment but with coine of the same stampe. in which respect, an especiall care is to bee had, how, when, with whom, and where we jest or gibe, whereof very many proove too unmindfull, as appeared (not long since) by a prelate of ours, who met with a byting, no lesse sharpe and bitter, then had first come from himselfe before, as verie briefely i intend to tell you how. _messer antonio d'orso_, being byshoppe of _florence_, a vertuous, wise, and reverend prelate; it fortuned that a gentleman of _catalogna_, named _messer diego de la ratta_, and lord marshall to king _robert_ of _naples_, came thither to visite him. hee being a man of very comely personage, and a great observer of the choysest beauties in court: among all the other _florentine_ dames, one proved to bee most pleasing in his eye, who was a verie faire woman indeede, and neece to the brother of the saide _messer antonio_. the husband of this gentlewoman (albeit descended of a worthie family) was, neverthelesse, immeasurably covetous, and a verie vile harsh natured man. which the lord marshall understanding, made such a madde composition with him, as to give him five hundred ducates of gold, on condition, that hee would let him lye one night with his wife, not thinking him so base minded as to give consent. which in a greedy avaritious humour he did, and the bargaine being absolutely agreed on; the lord marshall prepared to fit him with a payment, such as it should be. he caused so many peeces of silver to be cunningly guilded, as then went for currant mony in _florence_, and called _popolines_, & after he had lyen with the lady (contrary to her will and knowledge, her husband had so closely carried the businesse) the money was duely paid to the cornuted coxcombe. afterwards, this impudent shame chanced to be generally knowne, nothing remaining to the wilfull wittoll, but losse of his expected gaine, and scorne in every place where he went. the bishop likewise (beeing a discreete and sober man) would seeme to take no knowledge thereof; but bare out all scoffes with a well setled countenance. within a short while after, the bishop and the lord marshall (alwaies conversing together) it came to passe, that upon saint _johns_ day, they riding thorow the city, side by side, and viewing the brave beauties, which of them might best deserve to win the prize; the byshop espied a yong married lady (which our late greevous pestilence bereaved us of) she being named madame _nonna de pulci_, and cousine to _messer alexio rinucci_, a gentleman well knowne unto us all. a very goodly beautifull yong woman she was, of delicate language, and singular spirite, dwelling close by s. _peters_ gate. this lady did the bishop shew to the marshall, and when they were come to her, laying his hand uppon her shoulder, he said. madam _nonna_, what thinke you of this gallant? dare you adventure another wager with him? such was the apprehension of this witty lady, that these words seemed to taxe her honour, or else to contaminate the hearers understanding, whereof there were great plenty about her, whose judgement might be as vile, as the speeches were scandalous. wherefore, never seeking for any further purgation of her cleare conscience, but onely to retort taunt for taunt, presently thus she replied. my lord, if i should make such a vile adventure, i would looke to bee payde with better money. these words being heard both by the bishop and marshall, they felt themselves touched to the quicke, the one, as the factor or broker, for so dishonest a businesse, to the brother of the bishop; and the other, as receiving (in his owne person) the shame belonging to his brother. so, not so much as looking each on other, or speaking one word together all the rest of that day, they rode away with blushing cheekes. whereby we may collect, that the yong lady, being so injuriously provoked, did no more then well became her, to bite their basenesse neerely, that so abused her openly. chichibio, _the cooke to_ messer currado gianfiliazzi, _by a sodaine pleasant answer which he made to his master; converted his anger into laughter, and thereby escaped the punishment, that_ messer _meant to impose on him._ the fourth novell. _whereby plainly appeareth, that a sodaine witty and merry answer, doth oftentimes appease the furious choller of an angry man._ madam _lauretta_ sitting silent, and the answer of lady _nonna_ having past with generall applause: the queene commanded madame _neiphila_ to follow next in order; who instantly thus began. although a ready wit (faire ladies) doth many times affoord worthy and commendable speeches, according to the accidents happening to the speaker: yet notwithstanding, fortune (being a ready helper divers wayes to the timorous) doth often tippe the tongue with such a present reply, as the partie to speake, had not so much leysure as to thinke on, nor yet to invent; as i purpose to let you perceive, by a prety short novell. _messer currado gianfiliazzi_ (as most of you have both seene and knowen) living alwayes in our citie, in the estate of a noble citizen, beeing a man bountifull, magnificent, and within the degree of knighthoode: continually kept both hawkes and hounds, taking no meane delight in such pleasures as they yeelded, neglecting (for them) farre more serious imployments, wherewith our present subject presumeth not to meddle. upon a day, having kilde with his faulcon a crane, neere to a village called _peretola_, and finding her to be both young and fat, he sent it to his cooke, a _venetian_ borne, and named _chichibio_, with command to have it prepared for his supper. _chichibio_, who resembled no other, then (as he was indeede) a plaine, simple, honest merry fellow, having drest the crane as it ought to bee, put it on the spit, and laide it to the fire. when it was well neere fully roasted, and gave forth a very delicate pleasing savour; it fortuned that a young woman dwelling not far off, named _brunetta_, and of whom _chichibio_ was somewhat enamored, entred into the kitchin, and feeling the excellent smell of the crane, to please her beyond all savours, that ever she had felt before: she entreated _chichibio_ verie earnestly, that hee would bestow a legge thereof on her. whereto _chichibio_ (like a pleasant companion, and evermore delighting in singing) sung her this answer. _my_ brunetta, _faire and feat a, why should you say so? the meate of my master, allowes you for no taster, go from the kitchin go._ many other speeches past betweene them in a short while, but in the end, _chichibio_, because hee would not have his mistresse _brunetta_ angrie with him; cut away one of the cranes legges from the spit, and gave it to her to eate. afterward, when the fowle was served up to the table before _messer currado_, who had invited certain strangers his friends to sup with him, wondering not a little, he called for _chichibio_ his cook; demanding what was become of the cranes other legge? whereto the _venetian_ (being a lyar by nature) sodainely answered: sir, cranes have no more but one legge each bird. _messer currado_, growing verie angry, replyed. wilt thou tell me, that a crane hath no more but one legge? did i never see a crane before this? _chichibio_ persisting resolutely in his deniall, saide. beleeve me sir, i have told you nothing but the truth, and when you please, i will make good my wordes, by such fowles as are living. messer _currado_, in kinde love to the strangers that hee had invited to supper, gave over any further contestation; onely he said. seeing thou assurest me, to let me see thy affirmation for truth, by other of the same fowles living (a thing which as yet i never saw, or heard of) i am content to make proofe thereof to morrow morning, till then i shall rest satisfied: but, upon my word, if i finde it otherwise, expect such a sound payment, as thy knavery justly deserveth, to make thee remember it all thy life time. the contention ceassing for the night season, messer _currado_, who though he had slept well, remained still discontented in his minde: arose in the morning by breake of day, and puffing & blowing angerly, called for his horses, commanding _chichibio_ to mount on one of them; so riding on towards the river, where (earely every morning) he had seene plenty of cranes, he sayde to his man; we shall see anon sirra, whether thou or i lyed yesternight. _chichibio_ perceiving, that his masters anger was not (as yet) asswaged, and now it stood him upon, to make good his lye; not knowing how he should do it, rode after his master, fearfully trembling all the way. gladly he would have made an escape, but hee could not by any possible meanes, and on every side he looked about him, now before, and after behinde, to espy any cranes standing on both their legges, which would have bin an ominous sight to him. but being come neere to the river, he chanced to see (before any of the rest) upon the banke thereof, about a dozen cranes in number, each of them standing but upon one legge, as they use to do when they are sleeping. whereupon, shewing them quickly to messer _currado_, he said. now sir your selfe may see, whether i told you true yesternight, or no: i am sure a crane hath but one thigh, and one leg, as all here present are apparant witnesses, and i have bin as good as my promise. messer _currado_ looking on the cranes, and well understanding the knavery of his man, replyed: stay but a little while sirra, & i will shew thee, that a crane hath two thighes, and two legges. then riding somwhat neerer to them, he cryed out aloud, shough, shough, which caused them to set downe their other legs, and all fled away, after they had made a few paces against the winde for their mounting. so going unto _chichibio_, he said: how now you lying knave, hath a crane two legs, or no? _chichibio_ being well-neere at his wits end, not knowing now what answer hee should make; but even as it came sodainly into his minde, said: sir, i perceive you are in the right, and if you would have done as much yesternight, and had cryed shough, as here you did: questionlesse, the crane would then have set down the other legge, as these heere did: but if (as they) she had fled away too, by that meanes you might have lost your supper. this sodaine and unexpected witty answere, comming from such a logger-headed lout, and so seasonably for his owne safety: was so pleasing to _messer currado_, that he fell into a hearty laughter, and forgetting all anger, saide. _chichibio_, thou hast quit thy selfe well, and to my contentment: albeit i advise thee, to teach mee no more such trickes heereafter. thus _chichibio_, by his sodaine and merry answer, escaped a sound beating, which (otherwise) his master had inflicted on him. messer forese da rabatte, _and maister_ giotto, _a painter by his profession, comming together from_ mugello, _scornfully reprehended one another for their deformity of body._ the fift novell. _whereby may bee observed, that such as will speake contemptibly of others, ought (first of all) to looke respectively on their owne imperfections._ so soone as madame _neiphila_ sate silent (the ladies having greatly commended the pleasant answer of _chichibio_) _pamphilus_, by command from the queene, spake in this manner. woorthy ladies, it commeth to passe oftentimes, that like as fortune is observed divers wayes, to hide under vile and contemptible arts, the most great and unvalewable treasures of vertue (as, not long since, was well discoursed unto us by madam _pampinea_:) so in like manner hath appeared; that nature hath infused very singular spirits into most misshapen and deformed bodies of men. as hath beene noted in two of our owne citizens, of whom i purpose to speake in fewe words. the one of them was named _messer forese de rabatte_, a man of little and low person, but yet deformed in body, with a flat face, like a terrier or beagle, as if no comparison (almost) could bee made more ugly. but notwithstanding all this deformity, he was so singularly experienced in the lawes, that all men held him beyond any equall, or rather reputed him as a treasury of civill knowledge. the other man, being named _giotto_, had a spirit of so great excellency, as there was not any particular thing in nature, the mother and worke-mistresse of all, by continuall motion of the heavens; but hee by his pen and pensell could perfectly portrait; shaping them all so truly alike and resemblable, that they were taken for the reall matters indeede; and, whether they were present or no, there was hardly any possibility of their distinguishing. so that many times it happened, that by the variable devises he made, the visible sence of men became deceived, in crediting those things to be naturall, which were but meerly painted. by which meanes, hee reduced that singular art to light, which long time before had lyen buried, under the grosse error of some; who, in the mysterie of painting, delighted more to content the ignorant, then to please the judicious understanding of the wise, he justly deserving thereby, to be tearmed one of the _florentines_ most glorious lights. and so much the rather, because he performed all his actions, in the true and lowly spirit of humility: for while he lived, and was a master in his art, above all other painters: yet he refused any such title, which shined the more majestically in him, as appeared by such, who knew much lesse then he, or his schollers either: yet his knowledge was extreamly coveted among them. now, notwithstanding all this admirable excellency in him: he was not (thereby) a jot the handsommer man (either in person or countenance) then was our fore-named lawyer _messer forese_, and therefore my novell concerneth them both. understand then, (faire assemblie) that the possessions and inheritances of _messer forese_ and _giotto_, lay in _mugello_; wherefore, when holy-dayes were celebrated by order of court, and in the sommer time, upon the admittance of so apt a vacation; _forese_ rode thither upon a very unsightly jade, such as a man can can seldome meet with worse. the like did _giotto_ the painter, as ill fitted every way as the other; and having dispatched their busines there, they both returned backe towards _florence_, neither of them being able to boast, which was the best mounted. riding on a faire and softly pace, because their horses could goe no faster: and they being well entred into yeeres, it fortuned (as oftentimes the like befalleth in sommer) that a sodaine showre of raine over-tooke them; for avoyding whereof, they made all possible haste to a poore countrey-mans cottage, familiarly knowne to them both. having continued there an indifferent while, and the raine unlikely to cease: to prevent all further protraction of time, and to arrive at _florence_ in due season: they borrowed two old cloakes of the poore man, of over-worn and ragged country gray, as also two hoodes of the like complexion, (because the poore man had no better) which did more mishape them, then their owne ugly deformity, and made them notoriously flouted and scorned, by all that met or overtooke them. after they had ridden some distance of ground, much moyled and bemyred with their shuffling jades, flinging the dirt every way about them, that well they might be termed two filthy companions: the raine gave over, and the evening looking somwhat cleare, they began to confer familiarly together. _messer forese_, riding a lofty _french_ trot, everie step being ready to hoise him out of his saddle, hearing _giottos_ discreete answers to every ydle question he made (for indeede he was a very elegant speaker) began to peruse and surveigh him, even from the foote to the head, as we use to say. and perceiving him to be so greatly deformed, as no man could be worse, in his opinion: without any consideration of his owne misshaping as bad, or rather more unsightly then hee; in a scoffing laughing humour, hee saide. _giotto_, doest thou imagine, that a stranger, who had never seene thee before, and should now happen into our companie, would beleeve thee to bee the best painter in the world, as indeede thou art? presently _giotto_ (without any further meditation) returned him this answere. signior _forese_, i think he might then beleeve it, when (beholding you) hee could imagine that you had learned your a. b. c. which when _forese_ heard, he knew his owne error, and saw his payment returned in such coine, as he sold his wares for. _a yong and ingenious scholler, being unkindly reviled and smitten by his ignorant father, and through the procurement of an unlearned vicare: afterward attained to be doubly revenged on him._ the sixth novell. _serving as an advertisement to unlearned parents, not to bee over-rash, in censuring on schollers perfections, through any badde or unbeseeming perswasions._ the ladies smiled very heartily, at the ready answer of _giotto_; untill the queene charged madam _fiammetta_, that shee should next succeed in order: whereupon, thus she began. the verie greatest infelicity that can happen to a man, and most insupportable of all other, is ignorance; a word (i say) which hath bin so generall, as under it is comprehended all imperfections whatsoever. yet notwithstanding, whosoever can cull (graine by graine) the defects incident to humane race; will and must confesse, that wee are not all borne to knowledge: but onely such, whom the heavens illuminating by their bright radiance (wherein consisteth the sourse and well-spring of all science) by little & little, do bestow the influence of their bounty, on such and so manie as they please, who are to expresse themselves the more thankfull for such a blessing. and although this grace doth lessen the misfortune of many, which were over-mighty to bee in all; yet some there are, who by sawcie presuming on themselves, doe bewray their ignorance by theyr owne speeches; setting such behaviour on each matter, and soothing every thing with such gravity, even as if they would make comparison: or (to speake more properly) durst encounter in the listes with great _salomon_ or _socrates_. but let us leave them, and come to the matter of our purposed novell. in a certaine village of _piccardie_, there lived a priest or vicar, who beeing meerely an ignorant blocke, had yet such a peremptorie presuming spirite: as, though it was sufficiently discerned, yet hee beguiled many thereby, untill at last he deceyved himselfe, and with due chastisement to his folly. a plaine husbandman dwelling in the same village, possessed of much land and living, but verie grosse and dull in understanding; by the entreaty of divers his friends and well-willers, some-thing more intelligable then himselfe: became incited, or rather provoked, to send a sonne of his to the university of _paris_, to study there as was fitting for a scholler. to the end (quoth they) that having but this son onely, and fortunes blessings abounding in store for him: hee might like wise have the riches of the minde, which are those true treasures indeede, that _aristippus_ giveth us advice to be furnished withall. his friends perswasions having prevailed, and hee continued at _paris_ for the space of three yeares: what with the documents he had attayned to, before his going thither, and by meanes of a happie memory in the time of his being there, wherewith no young man was more singularly endued (in so short a while) he attained and performed the greater part of his studies. now, as oftentimes it commeth to passe, the love of a father (surmounting all other affections in man) made the olde farmer desirous to see his sonne: which caused his sending for him with all convenient speede, and obedience urged his as forward willingnesse thereto. the good olde man, not a little joyfull to see him in so good condition and health, and encreased so much in stature since his parting thence: familiarly told him, that he earnestly desired to know, if his minde and body had attained to a competent and equall growth, which within three or foure dayes he would put in practise. no other helpe had he silly simple man, but master vicar must bee the questioner and poser of his son: wherein the priest was very unwilling to meddle, for feare of discovering his owne ignorance, which passed under better opinion then he deserved. but the farmer beeing importunate, and the vicar many wayes beholding to him, durst not returne deniall, but undertooke it very formally, as if he had bene an able man indeede. but see how fooles are borne to be fortunate, and where they least hope, there they find the best successe; the simplicitie of the father, must be the meanes for abusing his schollerly son, and a skreene to stand betweene the priest and his ignorance. earnest is the olde man to know, what and how farre his sonne had profited at schoole, and by what note he might best take understanding of his answeres: which jumping fit with the vicars vanity, and a warrantable cloake to cover his knavery; he appoints him but one word onely, namely _nescio_, wherewith if he answered to any of his demands, it was an evident token, that hee understood nothing. as thus they were walking and conferring in the church, the farmer very carefull to remember the word _nescio_: it came to passe upon a sodaine, that the young man entred into them, to the great contentment of his father, who prayed master vicar, to make approbation of his sonne, whether he were learned, or no, and how hee had benefited at the university? after the time of the daies salutations had past betweene them, the vicar being subtle and crafty, as they walked along by one of the tombs in the church; pointing with his finger to the tombe, the priest uttered these words to the scholler. _quis hic est sepultus?_ the yong scholler (by reason it was erected since his departure, and finding no inscription whereby to informe him) answered, as well hee might, _nescio_. immediately the father, keeping the word perfectly in his memorie, grewe verie angerly passionate; and, desiring to heare no more demaunds: gave him three or foure boxes on the eares; with many harsh and injurious speeches, tearming him an asse and villaine, and that he had not learned any thing. his sonne was pacient, and returned no answer, but plainly perceived, that this was a tricke intended against him, by the malicious treachery of the priest, on whom (in time) he might be revenged. within a short while after, the suffragane of those parts (under whom the priest was but a deputy, holding the benefice of him, with no great charge to his conscience) being abroad in his visitation, sent word to the vicar, that he intended to preach there on the next sunday, and hee to prepare in a readinesse, _bonum & commodum_, because hee would have nothing else to his dinner. heereat master vicar was greatly amazed, because he had never heard such words before, neither could hee finde them in all his _breviarie_. hereupon, he went to the yong scholler, whom he had so lately before abused, and crying him mercy, with many impudent and shallow excuses, desired him to reveale the meaning of those words, and what he should understand by _bonum & commodum_. the scholler (with a sober and modest countenance) made answere; that he had bin over-much abused, which (neverthelesse) he tooke not so impaciently, but hee had already both forgot and forgiven it, with promise of comfort in this his extraordinary distraction, and greefe of minde. when he had perused the suffraganes letter, well observing the blushlesse ignorance of the priest: seeming (by outward appearance) to take it strangely, he cryed out alowd, saying; in the name of vertue, what may be this mans meaning? how? (quoth the priest) what manner of demand do you make? alas, replyed the scholler, you have but one poore asse, which i know you love deerely, and yet you must stew his genitories very daintily, for your patron will have no other meat to his dinner. the genitories of mine asse, answered the priest? passion of me, who then shall carrie my corne to the mill? there is no remedie, sayde the scholler, for he hath so set it downe for an absolute resolution. after that the priest had considered thereon a while by himselfe, remembring the yearely revennewes, which clearely hee put up into his purse, to be ten times of farre greater worth then his asse: he concluded to have him gelded, what danger soever should ensue thereon, preparing them in readinesse against his comming. so soone as the suffragan was there arrived, heavily hee complained to him for his asse: which kinde of language he not understanding, knew not what he meant, nor how he should answer. but beeing (by the scholler) acquainted with the whole history, he laughed heartily at the priests ignorant folly, wishing that all such bold bayards (from time to time) might be so served. likewise, that all ignorant priests, vicars, and other grashoppers of townes or villages, who sometimes have onely seene _partes orationis quod sunt_, not to stand over-much on their owne sufficiency, grounded soly upon their grammar; but to beware whom they jest withall, without medling with schollers, who take not injuries as dullards doe, least they prove infamous by their disputations. madam phillippa, _being accused by her husband_ rinaldo de pugliese, _because he tooke her in adulterie, with a yong gentleman named_ lazarino de guazzagliotori: _caused her to bee cited before the judge. from whom she delivered her selfe, by a sodaine, witty and pleasant answer, and moderated a severe strict statute, formerly made against women._ the seventh novell. _wherein is declared, of what worth it is to confesse a trueth, with a facetious and witty excuse._ after that madame _fiammetta_ had given over speaking, and all the auditory had sufficiently applauded the schollers honest revenge, the queene enjoyned _philostratus_, to proceede on next with his novell, which caused him to begin thus. beleeve me ladies, it is an excellent & most commendable thing, to speak well, and to all purposes: but i hold it a matter of much greater worth, to know how to do it, and when necessity doth most require it. which a gentlewoman (of whom i am now to speake) was so well enstructed in, as not onely it yeelded the hearers mirthfull contentment, but likewise delivered her from the danger of death, as (in few words) you shall heare related. in the citie of _prato_, there was an edict or statute, no lesse blameworthy (to speake uprightly) then most severe and cruell, which (without making any distinction) gave strict command; that everie woman should be burned with fire, whose husband found her in the acte of adultery, with any secret or familiar friend, as one deserving to bee thus abandoned, like such as prostituted their bodies to publike sale or hire. during the continuance of this sharpe edict, it fortuned that a gentlewoman, who was named _phillippa_, was found in her chamber one night, in the armes of a yong gentleman of the same city, named _lazarino de guazzagliotori_, and by her owne husband, called _rinaldo de pugliese_, shee loving the young gallant, as her owne life, because hee was most compleate in all perfections, and every way as deerely addicted to her. this sight was so irkesome to _rinaldo_, that, being overcom with extreame rage, hee could hardly containe from running on them, with a violent intent to kill them both: but feare of his owne life caused his forbearance, meaning to be revenged by some better way. such was the heate of his spleene and fury, as, setting aside all respect of his owne shame: he would needs prosecute the rigour of the deadly edict, which he held lawfull for him to do, although it extended to the death of his wife. heereupon, having witnesses sufficient, to approove the guiltinesse of her offence: a day being appointed (without desiring any other counsell) he went in person to accuse her, and required justice against her. the gentlewoman, who was of an high and undauntable spirite, as all such are, who have fixed their affection resolvedly, and love uppon a grounded deliberation: concluded, quite against the counsell and opinion of her parents, kindred, and friends; to appeare in the court, as desiring rather to dye, by confessing the trueth with a manly courage, then by denying it, and her love unto so worthy a person as he was, in whole arms she chanced to be taken; to live basely in exile with shame, as an eternall scandall to her race. so, before the potestate, shee made her apparance, worthily accompanied both with men and women, all advising her to deny the acte: but she, not minding them or their perswasions, looking on the judge with a constant countenance, and a voyce of setled resolve, craved to know of him, what hee demaunded of her? the potestate well noting her brave carriage, her singular beautie and praise-worthy parts, her words apparantly witnessing the heighth of her minde: beganne to take compassion on her, and doubted, least shee would confesse some such matter, as should enforce him to pronounce the sentence of death against her. but she boldly scorning all delayes, or any further protraction of time; demanded again, what was her accusation? madame, answered the potestate, i am sorry to tel you, what needs i must, your husband (whom you see present heere) is the complainant against you, avouching, that he tooke you in the act of adultery with another man: and therefore he requireth, that, according to the rigour of the statute heere in force with us, i should pronounce sentence against you, and (consequently) the infliction of death. which i cannot do, if you confesse not the fact, and therefore be well advised, how you answer me, and tell me the truth, if it be as your husband accuseth you, or no. the lady, without any dismay or dread at all, pleasantly thus replied. my lord, true it is, that _rinaldo_ is my husband, and that he found me, on the night named, betweene the armes of _lazarino_, where many times heeretofore he hath embraced mee, according to the mutuall love re-plighted together, which i deny not, nor ever will. but you know well enough, and i am certaine of it, that the lawes enacted in any countrey, ought to be common, and made with consent of them whom they concerne, which in this edict of yours is quite contrarie. for it is rigorous against none, but poore women onely, who are able to yeeld much better content and satisfaction generally, then remaineth in the power of men to do. and moreover, when this law was made, there was not any woman that gave consent to it, neither were they called to like or allow thereof: in which respect, it may deservedly be termed, an unjust law. and if you will, in prejudice of my bodie, and of your owne soule, be the executioner of so unlawfull an edict, it consisteth in your power to do as you please. but before you proceede to pronounce any sentence, may it please you to favour me with one small request, namely, that you would demand of my husband, if at all times, and whensoever he tooke delight in my company, i ever made any curiosity, or came to him unwillingly. whereto _rinaldo_, without tarrying for the potestate to moove the question, sodainly answered; that (undoubtedly) his wife at all times, and oftner then he could request it, was never sparing of her kindnesse, or put him off with any deniall. then the lady, continuing on her former speeches, thus replyed. let me then demand of you my lord, being our potestate and judge, if it be so, by my husbands owne free confession, that he hath alwaies had his pleasure of me, without the least refusall in me, or contradiction; what should i doe with the over-plus remaining in mine owne power, and whereof he had no need? would you have mee cast it away to the dogges? was it not more fitting for me, to pleasure therewith a worthy gentleman, who was even at deaths doore for my love, then (my husbands surfetting, and having no neede of me) to let him lye languishing, and dye? never was heard such an examination before, and to come from a woman of such worth, the most part of the honourable _pratosians_ (both lords and ladies) being there present, who hearing her urge such a necessary question, cryed out all aloud together with one voice (after they had laughed their fill) that the lady had saide well, and no more then she might. so that, before they departed thence, by comfortable advice proceeding from the potestate: the edict (being reputed overcruell) was modified, and interpreted to concerne them onely, who offered injurie to their husbands for money. by which meanes, _rinaldo_ standing as one confounded, for such a foolish and unadvised enterprize, departed from the auditorie: and the ladie, not a little joyfull to bee thus freed and delivered from the fire, returned home with victorie to her owne house. fresco da celatico, _counselled and advised his neece_ cesca: _that if such as deserved to be looked on, were offensive to her eyes, as she had often told him; she should forbeare to looke on any._ the eighth novell. _in just scorne of such unsightly and ill-pleasing surly sluts, who imagine none to be faire or well-favoured, but themselves._ all the while as _philostratus_ was re-counting his novell; it seemed, that the ladies (who heard it) found themselves much mooved thereat, as by the wanton blood monting up into their cheekes, it plainly appeared. but in the end, looking on each other with strange behaviour, they could not forbeare smiling: which the queene interrupting by a command of attention, turning to madame _Ã�millia_, willed her to follow next. when she, puffing and blowing, as if she had bene newly awaked from sleepe, began in this manner. faire beauties; my thoughts having wandred a great distance hence, and further then i can easily collect them together againe; in obedience yet to our queene, i shall report a much shorter novell, then otherwise (perhappes) i should have done, if my minde had beene a little neerer home. i shall tell you the grosse fault of a foolish damosell, well corrected by a witty reprehension of her uncle; if shee had bin endued but with so much sence, as to have understood it. an honest man, named _fresco da celatico_, had a good fulsom wench to his neece, who for her folly and squemishnes, was generally called _cesca_, or nice _francesca_. and althogh she had stature sufficient, yet none of the handsomest, & a good hard favourd countenance, nothing nere such angelical beauties as we have seen: yet she was endued with such height of minde, and so proud an opinion of her selfe, that it appeared as a custome bred in hir, or rather a gift bestowed on hir by nature (though none of the best) to blame and despise both men and women, yea whosoever she lookt on; without any consideration of her self, she being as unsightly, ill shaped, and ugly faced, as a worse was very hardly to be found. nothing could be done at any time, to yeilde her liking or content: moreover, she was so waspish, nice, & squemish, that when she cam into the royall court of _france_, it was hatefull & contemptible to hir. whensoever she went through the streets, every thing stunke and was noisome to her; so that she never did any thing but stop her nose; as if all men or women she met withall; and whatsoever else she lookt on, were stinking and offensive. but let us leave all further relation of her ill conditions, being every way (indeed) so bad, and hardly becomming any sensible body, that we cannot condemne them so much as we should. it chanced upon a day, that shee comming home to the house where her uncle dwelt, declared her wonted scurvy and scornfull behaviour; swelling, puffing, and pouting extreamly, in which humour she sat downe by her uncle, who desiring to know what had displeased her, said. why how now _francesca_? what may the meaning of this bee? this being a solemne festivall day, what is the reason of your so soone returning home? she coily biting the lip, and brideling her head, as if she had bene some mans best gelding, sprucely thus replyed. indeede you say true uncle, i am come home verie earely, because, since the day of my birth, i never saw a city so pestered with unhandsome people, both men and women, and worse this high holyday then ever i did observe before. i walked thorow some store of streetes, and i could not see one proper man: and as for the women, they are the most misshapen and ugly creatures, that, if god had made me such an one, i should be sorry that ever i was borne. and being no longer able to endure such unpleasing sights; you will not thinke (uncle) in what an anger i am come home. _fresco_, to whome these stinking qualities of his neece seemed so unsufferable, that hee could not (with patience) endure them any longer, thus short and quickely answered. _francesca_, if all people of our citie (both men and women) be so odious in thy eyes, and offensive to thy nose, as thou hast often reported to me: bee advised then by my counsell. stay still at home, and look upon none but thy selfe onely, and then thou shalt be sure that they cannot displease thee. but she, being as empty of wit as a pith-lesse cane, and yet thought her judgement to exceed _salomons_, could not understand the lest part of hir uncles meaning, but stood as senselesse as a sheepe. onely she replyed, that she would resort to some other parts of the country, which if shee found as weakly furnished of handsome people, as heere shee did, shee would conceive better of her selfe, then ever she had done before. signior guido cavalcante, _with a sodaine and witty answer, reprehended the rash folly of certaine florentine gentlemen, that thought to scorne and flout him._ the ninth novell. _notably discovering the great difference that is betweene learning and ignorance, upon judicious apprehension._ when the queene perceived, that madame _Ã�millia_ was discharged of her novell, and none remained now to speake next, but onely her selfe, his priviledge alwayes remembred, to whom it belonged to be the last, she began in this manner. faire company, you have this day disappointed me of two novells at the least, whereof i had intended to make use. neverthelesse, you shall not imagine mee so unfurnished, but that i have left one in store; the conclusion whereof, may minister such instruction, as will not bee reputed for ydle and impertinent: but rather of such materiall consequence, as better hath not this day past among us. understand then (most faire ladies) that in former times long since past, our cittie had many excellent and commendable customes in it; whereof (in these unhappy dayes of ours) we cannot say that poore one remaineth, such hath beene the too much encrease of wealth and covetousnesse, the onely supplanters of all good qualities whatsoever. among which lawdable and friendly observations, there was one well deserving note, namely, that in divers places of _florence_, men of the best houses in every quarter, had a sociable and neighbourly assemblie together, creating their company to consist of a certaine number, such as were able to supply their expences as this day one, and to morrow another: and thus in a kinde of friendly course, each daily furnished the table, for the rest of the company. oftentimes, they did honour to divers gentlemen and strangers, upon their arrivall in our citty, by inviting them into their assembly, and many of our worthiest citizens beside; so that it grew to a customary use, and one especially day in the yeare appointed, in memory of this so loving a meeting, when they would ride (triumphally as it were) on horsebacke thorow the cittie, sometimes performing tilts, tourneyes, and other martiall exercises, but they were reserved for feastivall dayes. among which company, there was one called, _signior betto bruneleschi_, who was earnestly desirous, to procure _signior guido cavalcante de cavalcanti_, to make one in this their friendly society. and not without great reason: for, over and beside his being one of the best logitians as those times could not yeeld a better: he was also a most absolute naturall philosopher (which worthy qualities were little esteemed among these honest meeters) a very friendly gentleman, singularly well spoken, and whatsoever else was commendable in any man, was no way wanting in him, being wealthy withall, and able to returne equall honors, where he found them to be duly deserved, as no man therein could go beyond him. but _signior betto_, notwithstanding his long continued importunitie, could not draw him into their assembly, which made him and the rest of his company conceive, that the solitude of _guido_, retiring himselfe alwaies from familiar conversing with men: provoked him to many curious speculations: and because he retained some part of the _epicurean_ opinion, their vulgare judgement passed on him, that his speculations tended to no other end, but onely to finde out that which was never done. it chanced upon a day, that _signior guido_ departing from the church of saint _michaell d'horta_, and passing along by the _adamari_, so farre as to saint _johns_ church, which evermore was his customarie walke: many goodly marble tombes were then about the saide church, as now adayes are at saint _reparata_, and divers more beside. he entring among the collumbes of porphiry, and the other sepulchers being there, because the doore of the church was shut: _signior betto_ & his companie, came riding from s. _reparata_, & espying _signior guido_ among the graves and tombes, said. come, let us go make some jests to anger him. so putting the spurs to their horses, they rode apace towards him: and being upon him before he perceived them, one of them said. _guido_ thou refusest to be one of our society, & seekest for that which never was: when thou hast found it, tell us, what wilt thou do with it? _guido_ seeing himselfe round engirt with them, sodainly thus replyed: gentlemen, you may use mee in your owne house as you please. and setting his hand on one of the tombes (which was some-what great) he tooke his rising, and leapt quite over it on the further side, as being of an agile and sprightly body, and being thus freed from them, he went away to his owne lodging. they stoode all like men amazed, strangely looking one upon another, and began afterward to murmure among themselves: that _guido_ was a man without any understanding, and the answer which he had made unto them, was to no purpose, neither savoured of any discretion, but meerely came from an empty brain because they had no more to do in the place where now they were, then any of the other citizens, and signior _guido_ (himselfe) as little as any of them; whereto signior _betto_ thus replyed. alas gentlemen, it is you your selves that are void of understanding: for, if you had but observed the answer which he made unto us: hee did honestly, and (in verie few words) not onely notably expresse his owne wisedome, but also deservedly reprehend us. because, if wee observe things as we ought to doe, graves and tombes are the houses of the dead, ordained and prepared to be their latest dwellings. he tolde us moreover, that although we have heere (in this life) other habitations and abidings; yet these (or the like) must at last be our houses. to let us know, and all other foolish, indiscreete, and unlearned men, that we are worse then dead men, in comparison of him, and other men equall to him in skill and learning. and therefore, while wee are heere among these graves and monuments, it may well be said, that we are not farre from our owne houses, or how soone we shall be possessors of them, in regard of the frailty attending on us. then every one could presently say, that signior _guido_ had spoken nothing but the truth, and were much ashamed of their owne folly, and shallow estimation which they had made of _guido_, desiring never more after to meddle with him so grossely, and thanking signior _betto_, for so well reforming their ignorance, by his much better apprehension. _fryer_ onyon, _promised certaine honest people of the countrey, to shew them a feather of the same phoenix, that was with_ noah _in his arke. in sted whereof, he found coales, which he avouched to be those very coals, wherewith the same phoenix was roasted._ the tenth novell. _wherein may be observed, what palpable abuses do many times passe, under the counterfeit cloake of religion._ when all of them had delivered their novels, _dioneus_ knowing that it remained in him to relate the last for this day: without attending for any solemne command (after he had imposed silence on them, that could not sufficiently commend the witty reprehension of _guido_) thus he began. wise and worthy ladies, although by the priviledge you have granted, it is lawfull for me to speake any thing best pleasing to my self: yet notwithstanding, it is not any part of my meaning, to varrie from the matter and method, whereof you have spoken to very good purpose. and therefore, following your footsteppes, i entend to tell you, how craftily, and with a rampiar sodainly raised in his owne defence: a religious frier of saint _anthonies_ order, shunned a shame, which two wily companions had prepared for him. nor let it offend you, if i run into more large discourse, then this day hath bene used by any, for the apter compleating of my novell: because, if you well observe it, the sun is as yet in the middest of heaven, and therefore you may the better forbeare me. _certoldo_, as (perhaps) you know, or have heard, is a village in the vale of _elsa_, and under the authority and commaund of our _florence_, which although it be but small: yet (in former times) it hath bin inhabited with gentlemen, and people of especiall respect. a religious friar of s. _anthonies_ order, named friar _onyon_, had long time used to resort thither, to receive the benevolent almes, which those charitably affected people in simplicity gave him, & chiefly at divers daies of the year, when their bounty and devotion would extend themselves more largely then at other seasons. and so much the rather, because they thought him to be a good pastor of holy life in outward appearance, & carried a name of much greater matter, then remained in the man indeed; beside, that part of the country yeilded far more plentifull abundance of onyons, then all other in _tuscany_ elsewhere, a kinde of foode greatly affected by those friars, as men alwaies of hungry & good appetite. this friar _onyon_ was a man of little stature, red haire, a chearfull countenance, and the world afforded not a more crafty companion, then he. moreover, albeit he had very little knowledge or learning, yet he was so prompt, ready & voluble of speech, uttering often he knew not what himselfe: that such as were not wel acquainted with his qualities, supposed him to be a singular rhetoritian, excelling _cicero_ or _quintilian_ themselves; & he was a gossip, friend, or deerely affected, by every one dwelling in those parts. according to his wonted custome, one time he went thither in the month of august, and on a sunday morning, when all the dwellers thereabout, were present to heare masse, and in the chiefest church above all the rest: when the friar saw time convenient for his purpose, he advanced himselfe, and began to speake in this manner. gentlemen and gentlewomen, you know you have kept a commendable custom, in sending yeerly to the poore brethren of our lord baron s. _anthony_, both of your corne and other provision, some more, some lesse, all according to their power, means, and devotion, to the end that blessed s. _anthony_ should be the more carefull of your oxen, sheep, asses, swine, pigs, and other cattle. moreover, you have used to pay (especially such as have their names registred in our fraternity) those duties which annually you send unto us. for the collection whereof, i am sent by my superior, namely our l. abbot, & therefore (with gods blessing) you may come after noone hither, when you shal heare the bels of the church ring: then will i make a predication to you; you shall kisse the crosse, and beside, because i know you al to be most devout servants to our lord baron s. _anthony_, in especiall grace and favor, i will shew you a most holy and goodly relique, which i my selfe (long since) brought from the holy land beyond the seas. if you desire to know what it is, let me tell you, that it is one of the feathers of the same _phoenix_, which was in the arke with the patriarch _noah_. and having thus spoken, he became silent, returning backe to heare masse. while hee delivered these and the like speeches, among the other people then in the church, there were two shrewde and crafty companions; the one, named _john de bragoniero_, and the other, _biagio pizzino_. these subtile fellowes, after they had heard the report of fryer _onyons_ relique: althogh they were his intimate friends, and came thither in his company; yet they concluded betweene themselves, to shew him a tricke of legierdumaine, and to steale the feather from him. when they had intelligence of friar _onyons_ dining that day at the castle, with a worthy friend of his: no sooner was he set at the table, but away went they in all haste, to the inne where the fryar frequented, with this determination, that _biagio_ should hold conference with the friars boy, while his fellow ransackt the wallet, to finde the feather, and carry it away with him, for a future observation, what the friar would say unto the people, when he found the losse of the feather, and could not performe his promise to them. the fryars boy, whom some called _guccio balena_, some _guccio imbrata_, and others _guccio porco_, was such a knavish lad, and had so many bad qualities, as _lippo topo_ the cunning painter, or the most curious poeticall wit, had not any ability to describe them. friar _onyon_ himself did often observe his behaviour, and would make this report among his friends. my boy (quoth he) hath nine rare qualities in him, and such they are, as if _salomon, aristotle,_ or _seneca_ had onely but one of them: it were sufficient to torment and trouble all their vertue, all their senses, & all their sanctity. consider then, what manner of man he is like to be, having nine such rarities, yet voide of all vertue, wit, or goodnes. and when it was demaunded of friar _onyon_, what these nine rare conditions were: hee having them all readie by heart, and in rime, thus answered: _boyes i have knowne, and seene, and heard of many:_ but, _for lying, loytring, lazinesse, for facing, filching, filthinesse; for carelesse, gracelesse, all unthriftinesse, my boy excelleth any._ now, over and beside all these admirable qualities, hee hath manie more such singularities, which (in favour towards him) i am faine to conceale. but that which i smile most at in him, is that he would have a wife in every place where he commeth, yea, and a good house to boot too: for, in regard his beard beginneth to shew it selfe, rising thicke in haire, blacke and amiable, he is verily perswaded, that all women will fall in love with him; and if they refuse to follow him, he will in all hast run after them. but truly, he is a notable servant to mee, for i cannot speake with any one, and in never so great secrecy, but he will be sure to heare his part; and when any question is demanded of me, he standes in such awe and feare of my displeasure: that he will bee sure to make the first answer, yea or no, according as he thinketh most convenient. now, to proceede where we left, friar _onyon_ having left this serviceable youth at his lodging, to see that no bodie should meddle with his commodities, especially his wallet, because of the sacred things therein contained: _guccio imbrata_, who as earnestly affected to be in the kitchin, as birds to hop from branch to branch, especially, when anie of the chamber-maides were there, espyed one of the hostesses female attendants, a grosse fat trugge, low of stature, ill faced, and worse formed, with a paire of brests like two bumbards, smelling loathsomely of grease and sweate; downe shee descended into the kitchin, like a kite upon a peece of carion. this boy, or knave, chuse whither you will style him, having carelesly left fryar _onyons_ chamber doore open, and all the holy things so much to be neglected, although it was then the moneth of august, when heate is in the highest predominance, yet hee would needs sit downe by the fire, and began to conferre with this amiable creature, who was called by the name of _nuta_. being set close by her, he told her, that he was a gentleman by atturniship, and that he had more millions of crownes, then all his life time would serve him to spend; beside those which he payed away dayly, as having no convenient imployment for them. moreover, he knew how to speake, and do such things, as were beyond wonder or admiration. and, never remembring his olde tatterd friars cowle, which was so snottie and greazie, that good store of kitchin stuffe might have beene boiled out of it; as also a foule slovenly trusse or halfedoublet, all baudied with bowsing, fat greazie lubberly sweating, and other drudgeries in the convent kitchin, where he was an officer in the meanest credite. so that to describe this sweet youth in his lively colours, both for naturall perfections of body, and artificiall composure of his garments; never came the fowlest silks out of _tartaria_ or _india_, more ugly or unsightly to bee lookt upon. and for a further addition to his neate knavery, his breeches were so rent betweene his legges, his shooes and stockings had bin at such a mercilesse massacre: that the gallantest _commandador_ of _castile_ (though he had never so lately bin releast out of slavery) could have wisht for better garments, then he; or make larger promises, then he did to his _nuta_. protesting to entitle her as his onely, to free her from the inne and chamber thraldomes, if she would live with him, be his love, partaker of his present possessions, and so to succeed in his future fortunes. all which bravadoes, though they were belcht foorth with admirable insinuations: yet they converted into smoke, as all such braggadochio behaviours do, and he was as wise at the ending, as when he began. our former named two craftie companions, seeing _guccio porco_ so seriously employed about _nuta_, was there-with not a little contented, because their intended labour was now more then halfe ended. and perceiving no contradiction to crosse their proceeding, into friar _onyons_ chamber entred they, finding it ready open for their purpose: where the first thing that came into their hand in search, was the wallet. when they had opened it, they found a small cabinet, wrapped in a great many foldings of rich taffata; and having unfolded it, a fine formall key was hanging thereat: wherewith having unlockt the cabinet, they found a faire feather of a parrots taile, which they supposed to bee the verie same, that he meant to shew the people of _certaldo_. and truly (in those dayes) it was no hard matter to make them beleeve anything, because the idle vanities of _Ã�gypt_ and those remoter parts, had not (as yet) bin seene in _tuscany_, as since then they have bin in great abundance, to the utter ruine (almost) of _italy_. and although they might then be knowne to very few, yet the inhabitants of the country generally, understoode little or nothing at all of them. for there, the pure simplicitie of their ancient predecessours still continuing; they had not seene any parrots, or so much as heard any speech of them. wherefore the two crafty consorts, not a little joyfull of finding the feather, tooke it thence with them, and because** they would not leave the cabinet empty, espying char-coales lying in a corner of the chamber, they filled it with them, wrapping it up againe in the taffata, and in as demure manner as they found it. so, away came they with the feather, neither seene or suspected by any one, intending now to heare what friar _onyon_ would say, uppon the losse of his precious relique, and finding the coales there placed insted thereof. the simple men and women of the country, who had bin at morning masse in the church, and heard what a wonderfull feather they should see in the after noone; returned in all hast to their houses, where one telling this newes to another, and gossip with gossip consulting thereon; they made the shorter dinner, and afterward flocked in maine troopes to the castle, contending who shold first get entrance, such was their devotion to see the holy feather. friar _onyon_ having dined, and reposed a little after his wine, he arose from the table to the window, where beholding what multitudes came to see the feather, he assured himselfe of good store of mony. hereupon, he sent to his boy _guccio imbrata_, that uppon the bels ringing, he should come and bring the wallet to him. which (with much ado) he did, so soone as his quarrell was ended in the kitchin, with the amiable chamber-maid _nuta_, away then he went with his holy commodities: where he was no sooner arrived, but because his belly was readie to burst with drinking water, he sent him to the church to ring the bels, which not onely would warme the cold water in his belly, but likewise make him run as gaunt as a grey-hound. when all the people were assembled in the church together, friar _onyon_ (never distrusting any injurie offered him, or that his close commodities had bin medled withall) began his predication, uttering a thousand lies to fit his purpose. and when he came to shew the feather of the phoenix (having first in great devotion finisht the confession) he caused two goodly torches to be lighted, & ducking downe his head three severall times, before hee would so much as touch the taffata, he opened it with much reverence. so soone as the cabinet came to be seen, off went his hood, lowly he bowed downe his body, and uttering especial praises of the phoenix, and sacred properties of the wonderfull relique, the cover of the cabinet being lifted uppe, he saw the same to bee full of coales. he could not suspect his villaine boy to do this deede, for he knew him not to be endued with so much wit, onely hee curst him for keeping it no better, and curst himselfe also, for reposing trust in such a careles knave, knowing him to be slothfull, disobedient, negligent, and void of all honest understanding or grace. sodainly (without blushing) lest his losse should be discerned, he lifted his lookes and hands to heaven, speaking out so loude, as every one might easily heare him, thus: o thou omnipotent providence, for ever let thy power be praised. then making fast the cabinet againe, and turning himselfe to the people, with lookes expressing admiration, he proceeded in this manner. lords, ladies, and you the rest of my worthy auditors: you are to understand, that i (being then very young) was sent by my superiour, into those parts, where the sun appeareth at his first rising. and i had received charge by expresse command, that i should seeke for (so much as consisted in my power to do) the especiall vertues and priviledges belonging to porcellane, which although the boyling thereof bee worth but little, yet it is very profitable to any but us. in regard whereof, being upon my journey, and departing from _venice_, passing along the _borgo de grecia_, i proceeded thence (on horseback) through the realme of _garbo_, so to _baldacca_, till i came to _parione_; from whence, not without great extremity of thirst, i arrived in _sardignia_. but why do i trouble you with the repetition of so many countries? i coasted on still, after i had past saint _georges arme_, into _trussia_, and then into _bussia_, which are countries much inhabited, and with great people. from thence i went into the _land of lying_, where i found store of the brethren of our religion, and many other beside, who shunned all paine and labour, onely for the love of god, and cared as little, for the paines and travailes which others tooke, except some benefit arised thereby to them; nor spend they any money in this country, but such as is without stampe. thence i went into the land of _abruzzi_, where the men and women goe in galoches over the mountaines, and make them garments of their swines guts. not farre from thence, i found people, that carried bread in their staves, and wine in satchels, when parting from them, i arrived among the mountaines of _bacchus_, where all the waters run downe with a deepe fall, and in short time, i went on so far, that i found my selfe to be in _india pastinaca_; where i swear to you by the holy habit which i weare on my body, that i saw serpents flye, things incredible, and such as were never seene before. but because i would be loth to lye, so soone as i departed thence, i met with _maso de saggio_, who was a great merchant there, and whom i found cracking nuts, and selling cockles by retale. neverthelesse, al this while i could not finde what i sought for, and therefore i was to passe from hence by water, if i intended to travaile thither, and so in returning back, i came into the _holy land_, where coole fresh bread is sold for fourepence, and the hot is given away for nothing. there i found the venerable father (blame me not i beseech you) the most woorthie patriarch of _jerusalem_, who for the reverence due to the habite i weare, and love to our lord baron saint _anthony_, would have me to see al the holy reliques, which he had there under his charge: whereof there were so many, as if i should recount them all to you, i never could come to a conclusion. but yet, not to leave you discomforted, i will relate some few of them to you. first of all, he shewed me the finger of the holy ghost, so whole and perfect, as ever it was. next, the nose of the cherubin, which appeared to saint _frances_; with the payring of the naile of a seraphin; and one of the ribbes of _verbum caro_, fastened to one of the windowes, covered with the holy garments of the catholique faith. then he tooke me into a darke chappel, where he shewed me divers beames of the starre that appeared to the three kings in the east. also a violl of saint _michaels_ sweate, when he combatted with the divell: and the jaw-bone of dead _lazarus_, with many other precious things beside. and because i was liberall to him, giving him two of the plaines of _monte morello_, in the vulgare edition, and some of the chapters _del caprezio_, which he had long laboured in search of; he bestowed on me some of his reliques. first, he gave me one of the eye-teeth of _santa crux_; and a little violl, filled with some part of the sound of those belles, which hung in the sumptuous temple of _salomon_. next, he gave mee the feather of the phoenix, which was with _noah_ in the arke, as before i told you. and one of the woodden pattens, which the good saint _gerrard de magnavilla_ used to weare in his travailes, and which i gave (not long since) to _gerrardo di bousy_ at _florence_, where it is respected with much devotion. moreover, he gave me a few of those coales, wherewith the phoenix of _noah_ was roasted; all which things i brought away thence with me. now, most true it is, that my superiour would never suffer mee to shew them any where, untill he was faithfully certified, whether they were the same precious reliques, or no. but perceyving by sundrie myracles which they have wrought, and letters of sufficient credence receyved from the reverend patriarch, that all is true, he hath graunted me permission to shew them, and because i wold not trust any one with matters of such moment, i my selfe brought them hither with me. now i must tell you, that the feather of the same phoenix, i conveyed into a small cabinet or casket, because it should not be bent or broken. and the coales wherewith the said phoenix was roasted, i put into another casket, in all respects so like to the former, that many times i have taken one for another. as now at this instant it hath bin my fortune: for, imagining that i brought the casket with the feather, i mistooke my self, & brought the other with the coales. wherein doubtles i have not offended, because i am certaine, that we of our order do not any thing, but it is ordred by divine direction, and our blessed patron the lorde baron saint _anthony_. and so much the rather, because about a senight hence, the feast of saint _anthony_ is to bee solemnized, against the preparation whereof, and to kindle your zeale with the greater fervencie: he put the casket with the coales into my hand, meaning, to let you see the feather, at some more fitting season. and therefore my blessed sonnes and daughters, put off your bonnets, and come hither with devotion to looke upon them. but first let me tell you, whosoever is marked by any of these coales, with the signe of the crosse: he or she shall live all this yeare happily, and no fire whatsoever shall come neere to touch or hurt them. so, singing a solemne antheme in the praise of s. _anthony_, he unveyled the casket, and shewed the coales openly. the simple multitude, having (with great admiration and reverence) a long while beheld them, they thronged in crouds to fryar _onyon_, giving him farre greater offerings, then before they had, and entreating him to marke them each after other. whereupon, he taking the coales in his hand, began to marke their garments of white, and the veyles on the womens heads, with crosses of no meane extendure: affirming to them, that the more the coales wasted with making those great crosses, the more they still encreased in the casket, as often before hee had made triall. in this manner, having crossed all the _certaldanes_ (to his great benefit) and their abuse: he smiled at his sodaine and dexterious devise, in mockery of them, who thought to have made a scorne of him, by dispossessing him of the feather. for _bragoniero_ and _pizzino_, being present at his learned predication, and having heard what a cunning shift he found, to come off cleanly, without the least detection, and all delivered with such admirable protestations: they were faine to forsake the church, least they should have burst with laughing. but when all the people were parted and gone, they met friar _onyon_ at his inne, where closely they discovered to him, what they had done, delivering him his feather againe: which the yeare following, did yeeld him as much money, as now the coales had done. * * * * * this novell affoorded equall pleasing to the whole companie, friar _onyons_ sermon being much commended, but especially his long pilgrimage, and the reliques he had both seene, and brought home with him. afterward, the queene perceiving, that her reigne had now the full expiration, graciously she arose, and taking the crowne from off her owne head, placed on the head of _dioneus_, saying. it is high time _dioneus_, that you should taste part of the charge & paine, which poore women have felt and undergone in their soveraigntie and government: wherefore, be you our king, and rule us with such awefull authority, that the ending of your dominion may yeelde us all contentment. _dioneus_ being thus invested with the crowne, returned this answer. i make no doubt (bright beauties) but you many times have seene as good, or a better king among the chesse-men, then i am. but yet of a certainty, if you would be obedient to me, as you ought in dutie unto a true king: i should grant you a liberall freedome of that, wherein you take the most delight, and without which, our choisest desires can never be compleate. neverthelesse, i meane, that my government shall be according to mine owne minde. so, causing the master of the houshold to be called for, as all the rest were wont to do for conference with him: he gave him direction, for al things fitting the time of his regiment, and then turning to the ladies, thus he proceeded. honest ladies, we have alreadie discoursed of variable devises, and so many severall manners of humane industry, concerning the busines wherewith _licisca_ came to acquaint us: that her very words, have ministred me matter, sufficient for our morrowes conference, or else i stand in doubt, that i could not have devised a more convenient theame for us to talke on. she (as you have all heard) saide, that shee had not anie neighbour, who came a true virgin to her husband, and added moreover, that she knew some others, who had beguiled their husbandes, in very cunning and crafty manner. but setting aside the first part, concerning the proofe of children, i conceive the second to bee more apte for our intended argument. in which respect, my will is (seeing _licisca_ hath given us so good an occasion) that our discoursing to morrow,** may onely concerne such slye cunning and deceits, as women have heeretofore used, for satisfying their owne appetites, and beguiling their husbands, without their knowledge, or suspition, and cleanly escaping with them, or no. this argument seemed not very pleasing to the ladies, and therefore they urged an alteration thereof, to some matter better suting with the day, and their discoursing: whereto thus he answered. ladies, i know as well as your selves, why you would have this instant argument altered: but, to change me from it you have no power, considering the season is such, as shielding all (both men and women) from medling with any dishonest action; it is lawfull for us to speake of what wee please. and know you not, that through the sad occasion of the time, which now over-ruleth us, the judges have forsaken their venerable benches, the lawes (both divine and humane) ceasing, granting ample license to every one, to do what best agreeth with the conservation of life? therefore, if your honesties doe straine themselves a little, both in thinking and speaking, not for prosecution of any immodest deede, but onely for familiar and blamelesse entercourse: i cannot devise a more convenient ground, at least that carrieth apparant reason, for reproofe of perils, to ensue by any of you. moreover, your company, which hath bin most honest, since the first day of our meeting, to this instant: appeareth not any jot to be disgraced, by any thing either said or done, neither shall be (i hope) in the meanest degree. and what is he, knowing your choise and vertuous dispositions, so powerfull in their owne prevailing, that wanton words cannot misguide your wayes, no nor the terror of death it selfe, that dare insinuate a distempred thought? but admit, that some slight or shallow judgements, hearing you (perhaps sometimes) talke of such amorous follies, should therefore suspitiously imagine you to be faulty, or else you would bee more sparing of speech? their wit and censure are both alike, favouring rather of their owne vile nature, who would brand others with their basebred imperfections. yet there is another consideration beside, of some great injury offered to mine honor, and whereof i know not how you can acquit your selves. i that have bin obedient to you all, and borne the heavy load of your businesse, having now (with full consent) created mee your king, you would wrest the law out of my hands, and dispose of my authoritie as you please. forbeare (gentle ladies) all frivolous suspitions, more fit for them that are full of bad thoughts, then you, who have true vertue shining in your eyes; and therefore, let every one freely speake their minde, according as their humours best pleaseth them. when the ladies heard this, they made answer, that all should bee answerable to his minde. whereupon, the king gave them all leave to dispose of themselves till supper time. and because the sun was yet very high, in regard all the re counted novels had bin so short: _dioneus_ went to play at the tables with another of the yong gentlemen, & madame _eliza_, having withdrawne the ladies aside, thus spake unto them. during the time of our being heere, i have often bene desirous to let you see a place somwhat neere at hand, and which i suppose you have never seene, it being called _the valley of ladies_. till now, i could not finde any convenient time to bring you thither, the sunne continuing still aloft, which fitteth you with the apter leysure, and the sight (i am sure) can no way discontent you. the ladies replyed, that they were all ready to walk with her thither: and calling one of their women to attend on them, they set on, without speaking a word to any of the men. and within the distance of halfe a mile, they arrived at the _valley of ladies_, whereinto they entred by a strait passage at the one side, from whence there issued forth a cleare running river. and they found the saide valley to bee so goodly and pleasant, especially in that season, which was the hottest of all the yeare; as all the world was no where able to yeeld the like. and, as one of the said ladies (since then) related to mee, there was a plaine in the valley so directly round, as if it had beene formed by a compasse, yet rather it resembled the workmanship of nature, then to be made by the hand of man: containing in circuite somewhat more then the quarter of a mile, environed with sixe small hils, of no great height, and on each of them stood a little palace, shaped in the fashion of castles. the ground-plots descending from those hils or mountaines, grew lesse and lesse by variable degrees, as wee observe at entering into our theaters, from the highest part to the lowest, succinctly to narrow the circle by order. now, concerning these ground-plottes or little meadowes, those which the sun southward looked on, were full of vines, olive-trees, almond-trees, cherry-trees, and figge-trees, with divers other trees beside, so plentifully bearing fruites, as you could not discerne a hands bredth of losse. the other mountaines, whereon the northerne windes blow, were curiously covered with small thickets or woods of oakes, ashes, and other trees so greene and straite, as it was impossible to behold fairer. the goodly plaine it selfe, not having any other entrance, but where the ladies came in, was planted with trees of firre, cipresse, laurell, and pines; so singularly growing in formall order, as if some artificiall or cunning hand had planted them, the sun hardly piercing through their branches, from the top to the bottome, even at his highest, or any part of his course. all the whole field was richly spred with grasse, and such variety of delicate flowers, as nature yeilded out of her plenteous store-house. but that which gave no lesse delight then any of the rest, was a small running brooke, descending from one of the vallies, that divided two of the little hils, and fell through a veine of the intire rocke it selfe, that the fall and murmure thereof was most delightfull to heare, seeming all the way in the descent, like quicke-silver, weaving it selfe into artificiall workes, and arriving in the plaine beneath, it was there receyved into a small channell, swiftly running through the midst of the plaine, to a place where it stayed, and shaped it selfe into a lake or pond, such as our citizens have in their orchards or gardens, when they please to make use of such a commodity. this pond was no deeper, then to reach the breast of a man, and having no mud or soyle in it, the bottome thereof shewed like small beaten gravell, with prety pibble stones intermixed, which some that had nothing else to do, would sit downe and count them as they lay, as very easily they might. and not onely was the bottome thus apparantly seene, but also such plenty of fishes swimming every way, as the mind was never to be wearied in looking on them. nor was this water bounded in with any bankes, but onely the sides of the plain medow, which made it appeare the more sightly, as it arose in swelling plenty. and alwayes as it super-abounded in his course, least it should overflow disorderly: it fell into another channell, which conveying it along the lower valley, ran forth to water other needfull places. when the ladies were arrived in this goodly valley, and upon advised viewing it, had sufficiently commended it: in regard the heat of the day was great, the place tempting, and the pond free from sight of any, they resolved there to bathe themselves. wherefore they sent the waiting gentlewoman to have a diligent eye on the way where they entered, least any one should chance to steale upon them. all seven of them being stript naked, into the water they went, which hid their delicate white bodies, like as a cleare glasse concealeth a damask rose within it. so they being in the pond, and the water nothing troubled by their being there, they found much prety pastime together, running after the fishes, to catch them with their hands, but they were over-quicke and cunning for them. after they had delighted themselves there to their owne contentment, and were cloathed with their garments, as before: thinking it fit time for their returning backe againe, least their over-long stay might give offence, they departed thence in an easie pace, dooing nothing else all the way as they went, but extolling the _valley of ladies_ beyond all comparison. at the palace they arrived in a due houre, finding the three gentlemen at play, as they left them, to whom madame _pampinea_ pleasantly thus spake. now trust me gallants, this day wee have very cunningly beguiled you. how now? answered _dioneus_, begin you first to act, before you speake? yes truly sir, replyed madame _pampinea_: relating to him at large, from whence they came, what they had done there, the beautie of the place, and the distance thence. the king (upon hir excellent report) being very desirous to see it; sodainely commaunded supper to be served in, which was no sooner ended, but they and their three servants (leaving the ladies) walked on to the _valley_, which when they had considered, no one of them having ever bin there before; they thought it to be the paradise of the world. they bathed themselves there likewise, as the ladies formerlie had done, and being re-vested, returned backe to their lodgings, because darke night drew on apace: but they found the ladies dauncing, to a song which madame _fiammetta_ sung. when the dance was ended, they entertained the time with no other discourse, but onely concerning the _valley of ladies_, whereof they all spake liberally in commendations. whereupon, the king called the master of the houshold, giving him command, that (on the morrow) dinner should be readie betimes, and bedding to be thence carried, if any desired rest at mid-time of the day. all this being done, variety of pleasing wines were brought, banquetting stuffe, and other dainties; after which they fell to dauncing. and _pamphilus_, having receyved command, to begin an especial dance, the king turned himselfe unto madame _eliza_, speaking thus. faire lady, you have done me so much honour this day, as to deliver mee the crowne: in regard whereof, be you this night the mistresse of the song: and let it be such as best may please your selfe. whereunto madam _eliza_, with a modest blush arising in her face, replyed; that his will should be fulfilled, and then (with a delicate voyce) she beganne in this manner. _the song._ the chorus sung by all. _love, if i can scape free from forth thy holde, beleeve it for a truth, never more shall thy falshoode me enfolde._ _when i was yong, i entred first thy fights, supposing there to finde a solemne peace: i threw off all my armes, and with delights fed my poore hopes, as still they did encrease. but like a tyrant, full of rancorous hate thou tookst advantage: and i sought refuge, but it was too late. love, if i can scape free, &c._ _but being thus surprized in thy snares, to my misfortune, thou madst me her slave; was onely borne to feede me with despaires, and keepe me dying in a living grave. for i saw nothing dayly fore mine eyes, but rackes and tortures: from which i could not get in any wise. love, if i can scape free, &c._ _my sighes and teares i vented to the winde, for none would heare or pittie my complaints; my torments still encreased in this kinde, and more and more i felt these sharpe restraints. release me now at last from forth this hell. asswage thy rigour, delight not thus in cruelty to dwell, love, if i can scape free, &c._ _if this thou wilt not grant, be yet so kinde, release me from these worse then servile bands, which new vaine hopes have bred, wherein i finde; such violent feares, as comfort quite withstands. be now (at length) a little moov'd to pittie, be it nere so little: or in my death listen my swan-like dittie._ _love, if i can scape free from forth thy holde, beleeve it for a truth, never more shall thy falshood me enfolde._ after that madame _eliza_ had made an end of her song, which shee sealed up with an heart-breaking sigh: they all sate amazedly wondering at her moanes, not one among them being able to conjecture, what should be the reason of her singing in this manner. but the king being in a good and pleasing temper, calling _tindaro_, commaunded him to bring his bagge-pipe, by the sound whereof they danced divers daunces: and a great part of the night being spent in this manner, they all gave over, and departed to their chambers. _the end of the sixth day._ the seventh day. _when the assembly being met together, and under the regiment of_ dioneus: _the discourses are directed, for the discoverie of such policies and deceites, as women have used for beguiling of their husbandes, either in respect of their love, or for the prevention of some blame or scandal, escaping without sight, knowledge or otherwise._ the induction to the dayes discourses. all the starres were departed out of the east, but onely that, which we commonly cal bright _lucifer_, or the day-star, gracing the morning very gloriously: when the master of the household, being risen, went with all the provision, to the _valley of ladies_, to make everie thing in due and decent readines, according as his lord over-night had commanded him. after which departure of his, it was not long before the king arose, beeing awaked with the noise which the carriages made; and when he was up, the other two gentlemen and the ladies were quickly readie soone after. on they set towards the _valley_, even as the sunne was rising: and all the way as they went, never before had they heard so many sweete nightingales, and other pretty birds melodiously singing, as they did this morning, which keeping them company thoroughout the journey, they arrived at the _valley of ladies_, where it seemed to them, that infinit quires of delicate nightingales, and other birds, had purposely made a meeting, even as it were to give them a glad welcome thither. divers times they walked about the _valley_, never satisfied with viewing it from one end to the other; because it appeared farre more pleasing unto them, then it had done the precedent day: and because the dayes splendour was much more conforme to the beauty thereof. after they had broken their fast, with excellent wines and banquetting stuffe, they began to tune their instruments and sing; because (therein) the sweet birds should not excell them, the _valley_ (with delicate echoes) answering all their notes. when dinner time drew neere, the tables were covered under the spreading trees, and by the goodly ponds side, where they sate downe orderly by the kings direction: and all dinner while, they saw the fishes swimme by huge shoales in the pond, which sometimes gave them occasion to talke, as well as gaze on them. when dinner was ended, and the tables withdrawne, in as jocond manner as before, they renewed againe their hermonious singing. in divers places of this pleasant _valley_, were goodly field-beds readily furnished, according as the master of the houshold gave enstruction, enclosed with pavillions of costly stuffes, such as are sometimes brought out of _france_. such as were so disposed, were licensed by the king to take their rest: and they that would not, he permitted them to their wonted pastimes, each according to their minds. but when they were risen from sleepe, and the rest from their other exercises, it seemed to be more then high time, that they should prepare for talke and conference. so, sitting downe on turky carpets, which were spred abroad on the green grasse, and close by the place where they had dined: the king gave command, that madam _Ã�millia_ should first begin, whereto she willingly yeelding obedience, and expecting such silent attention, as formerly had bin observed, thus she began. john _of_ lorraine _heard one knocke at his doore in the night time, whereuppon he awaked his wife_ monna tessa. _she made him beleeve, that it was a spirit which knocked at the doore, and so they arose, going both together to conjure the spirit with a prayer; and afterwardes, they heard no more knocking._ the first novell. _reprehending the simplicity of some sottish husbands: and discovering the wanton subtilties of some women, to compasse their unlawfull desires._ my gracious lord (quoth madame _Ã�millia_) it had bene a matter highly pleasing to mee, that any other (rather than my selfe) should have begun to speake of this argument, which it hath pleased you to apoint. but seeing it is your highnesse pleasure, that i must make a passage of assurance for all the rest; i will not be irregular, because obedience is our cheefe article. i shall therefore (gracious ladies) strive, to speake something, which may bee advantageable to you heereafter, in regard, that if other women bee as fearfull as we, especially of spirits, of which all our sexe have generally bin timorous (although, upon my credite, i know not what they are, nor ever could meete with any, to tell me what they be) you may by the diligent observation of my novell: learne a wholesome and holy prayer, very availeable, and of precious power, to conjure and drive them away, whensoever they shall presume to assault you in any place. there dwelt sometime in _florence_, and in the street of saint _brancazio_, a woollen weaver, named _john_ of _lorrayne_; a man more happy in his art, then wise in any thing else beside: because, favouring somewhat of the _gregorie_, and (in very deede) little lesse then an ideot; hee was many times made captain of the woollen-weavers, in the quarters belonging to _santa maria novella_, and his house was the schoole or receptacle, for all their meetings and assemblies. he had divers other petty offices beside, by the dignity and authority whereof, hee supposed himselfe much exalted or elevated, above the common pitch of other men. and this humour became the more tractable to him, because he addicted himselfe oftentimes (as being a man of an easie inclination) to be a benefactor to the holy fathers of _santa maria novella_, giving (beside his other charitable almes) to someone a paire of breeches, to another a hood, and to another a whole habit. in reward whereof, they taught him (by heart) many wholesome prayers, as the _pater noster_ in the vulgar tongue; the song of saint _alexis_; the lamentations of saint _bernard_, the hymne of madame _matilda_, and many other such like matters, which he kept charily, and repeated usually, as tending to the salvation of his soule. this man, had a very faire and lovely wife, named _monna tessa_, the daughter of _manuccio della cuculia_, wise and well advised; who knowing the simplicity of her husband, and affecting _frederigo di neri pegolotti_, who was a comely yong gentleman, fresh, and in the floure of his time, even as she was, therefore they agreed the better together. by meanes of her chamber-maid, _frederigo_ and shee met often together, at a countrie farme of _john_ of _lorraynes_, which hee had neere to _florence_, and where she used to lodge all the summer time, called _camerata_, whether _john_ resorted somtimes to supper, and lodge for a night, returning home againe to his city house the next morning; yet often he would stay there longer with his owne companions. _frederigo_, who was no meane man in his mistresses favor, and therefore these private meetings the more welcome to him; received a summons or assignation from her, to be there on such a night, when hir husband had no intent of comming thither. there they supped merrily together, and (no doubt) did other things, nothing appertaining to our purpose, she both acquainting, and well instructing him, in a dozen (at the least) of her husbands devout prayers. nor did shee make any account, or _frederigo_ either, that this should be the last time of their meeting, because (indeede) it was not the first: and therefore they set down an order and conclusion together (because the chambermaide must be no longer the messenger) in such manner as you shall heare. _frederigo_ was to observe especially, that alwayes when hee went or came from his owne house, which stood much higher then _john_ of _lorraynes_ did, to looke upon a vine, closely adjoyning to her house, where stood the scull of an asses head, advanced upon an high pole; & when the face thereof looked towards _florence_, he might safely come, it being an assured signe, that _john_ kept at home. and if he found the doore fast shut, he should softly knocke three severall times, and thereon bee admitted entrance. but if the face stood towards _fiesola_; then he might not come, for it was the signe of _johns_ being there, and then there might be no medling at all. having thus agreed upon this conclusion, and had many merry meetings together: one night above the rest, where _frederigo_ was appointed to suppe with _monna tessa_, who had made ready two fat capons, drest in most dainty and delicate manner: it fell out so unfortunately, that _john_ (whose kue was not to come that night) came thither very late, yet before _frederigo_, wherewith she being not a little offended, gave _john_ a slight supper, of lard, bacon, and such like coarse provision, because the other was kept for a better guest. in the meane time, and while _john_ was at supper, the maide (by her mistresses direction) had conveighed the two capons, with boyled egges, bread and a bottle of wine (all folded up in a faire cleane table cloth) into her garden, that had a passage to it, without entering into the house, and where shee had divers times supt with _frederigo_. she further willed the maide, to set all those things under a peach-tree, which adjoyned to the fields side: but, so angry she was at her husbands unexpected comming, that shee forgot to bid her tarrie there, till _frederigoes_ comming; and to tell him of _johns_ being there: as also, to take what he found prepared readie for his supper. _john_ and she being gone to bed together, and the maide likewise, it was not long after, before _frederigo_ came, and knocking once softly at the doore, which was very neere to their lodging chamber, _john_ heard the noise, and so did his wife. but to the end, that _john_ might not have the least scruple of suspition, she seemed to be fast asleepe; and _frederigo_ pausing a while, according to the order directed, knockt againe the second time. _john_ wondering thereat very much, jogd his wife a little, and saide to her: _tessa_, hearest thou nothing? me thinkes one knocketh at our doore. _monna tessa_, who was better acquainted with the knocke, then plaine honest meaning _john_ was, dissembling as if shee awaked out of a drowsie dreame, saide: alas husband, dost thou know what this is? in the name of our blessed ladie, be not affraid, this is but the spirit which haunts our countrey houses, whereof i have often told thee, and it hath many times much dismayed me, living heere alone without thy comfort. nay, such hath bin my feare, that in divers nights past, so soone as i heard the knockes: i was feigne to hide my selfe in the bedde over-head and eares (as we usually say) never daring to be so bold, as to looke out, untill it was broad open day. arise good wife (quoth _john_) and if it be such a spirit of the countrey, as thou talkest of, never be affraid; for before we went to bed, i said the _telucis_, the _intemerata_, with many other good prayers beside. moreover, i made the signe of the crosse at every corner of our bed, in the name of the father, son, and holy ghost, so that no doubt at all needs to be made, of any power it can have to hurt or touch us. _monna tessa_, because (perhaps) _frederigo_ might receive some other suspition, and so enter into distaste of her by anger or offence: determined to arise indeede, and to let him covertly understand, that _john_ was there, and therefore saide to her husband. beleeve me _john_, thy counsell is good, and every one of thy words hath wisedome in it: but i hold it best for our owne safety, thou being heere; that wee should conjure him quite away, to the end he may never more haunt our house. conjure him wife? quoth _john_, by what meanes? and how? bee patient good man (quoth _tessa_) and i will enstruct thee. i have learned an excellent kinde of conjuration; for, the last weeke, when i went to procure the pardons at _fiesola_, one of the holy recluse nuns, who (indeede _john_) is my indeered sister and friend, and the most sanctimonius in life of them all; perceiving me to be troubled and terrified by spirits; taught me a wholesome and holy prayer, and protested withall, that shee had often made experiment thereof, before she became a recluse, & found it (alwayes) a present helpe to her. yet never durst i adventure to essay it, living heere by my selfe all alone: but honest _john_, seeing thou art heere with me, we will go both together, and conjure this spirit. _john_ replyed, that he was very willing; and being both up, they went fayre and softly to the doore, where _frederigo_ stoode still without, and was growne somewhat suspitious of his long attendance. when they were come to the doore, _monna tessa_ said to _john_: thou must cough and spet, at such time as i shall bid thee. well (quoth _john_) i will not faile you. immediately she beganne her prayer in this manner. _spirit, that walkst thus in the night, poore countrey people to affright: thou hast mistane thy marke and ayme, the head stood right, but_ john _home came, and therefore thou must packe away, for i have nothing else to say: but to my garden get the gone, under the peach-tree stands alone, there shalt thou finde two capons drest, and egges laide in mine owne hennes nest, bread, and a bottle of good wine, all wrapt up in a cloath most fine. is not this good goblins fare? packe and say you have your share; not doing harme to_ john _or me, who this night keepes me companie._ no sooner had she ended her devoute conjuring prayer, but she saide to her husband: now _john_, cough and spet: which _john_ accordingly did. and _frederigo_, being all this while without, hearing her witty conjuration of a spirit, which he himselfe was supposed to be, being ridde of his former jealous suspition: in the middst of all his melancholy, could very hardly refraine from laughing, the jest appeared so pleasing to him: but when _john_ cought and spet, softly he said to himselfe: when next thou spetst, spet out all thy teeth. the woman having three severall times conjured the spirite, in such manner you have already heard; returned to bed againe with her husband: and _frederigo_, who came as perswaded to sup with her, being supperlesse all this while; directed by the words of _monna tessa_ in hir praier, went into the garden. at the foot of the peach-tree, there he found the linnen cloth, with the two hot capons, bread, egges, and a bottle of wine in it, all which he carried away with him, and went to supper at better leysure. oftentimes afterward, upon other meetings of _frederigo_ and she together, they laughed heartily at her enchantment, and the honest beleefe of silly _john_. i cannot deny, but that some do affirme, that the woman had turned the face of the asses head towards _fiesola_, and a country travailer passing by the vine, having a long piked staffe on his necke; the staffe, (by chance) touched the head, and made it turne divers times about, & in the end faced _florence_, which being the cal for _frederigoes_ comming, by this meanes he was disappointed. in like manner some say, that _monna tessaes_ prayer for conjuring the spirit, was in this order. _spirit, spirit, go thy way, and come againe some other day, it was not i that turnd the head, but some other. in our bed are john and i: go from our dore, and see thou trouble us no more._ so that _frederigo_ departed thence, both with the losse of his labour & supper. but a neighbour of mine, who is a woman of good yeares, told me, that both the one and other were true, as she her selfe heard, when she was a little girle. and concerning the latter accident, it was not to _john_ of _lorrayne_, but to another, named _john de nello_, that dwelt at s. _peters_ gate, and of the same profession as _john_ of _lorrayne_ was. wherefore (faire ladies) it remaineth in your owne choice, to entertain which of the two prayers you please, or both together if you will: for they are of extraordinary vertue in such strange occurrences, as you have heeretofore heard, and (upon doubt) may prove by experience. it shall not therefore be amisse for you, to learne them both by hart, for (peradventure) they may stand you in good sted, if ever you chance to have the like occasion. peronella _hid a yong man her friend and lover, under a great brewing fat, upon the sodaine returning home of her husband; who told her, that hee had solde the saide fat, and brought him that bought it, to carry it away._ peronella _replyed, that shee had formerly solde it unto another, who was nowe underneath it, to see whether it were whole and sound, or no. whereupon, he being come forth from under it; she caused her husband to make it neate and cleane, and so the last buyer carried it away._ the second novell. _wherein is declared, what hard and narrow shifts and distresses, such as bee seriously linked in love, are many times enforced to undergo: according as their owne wit, and capacitie of their surprizers, drive them to in extremities._ not without much laughter and good liking, was the tale of madame _Ã�millia_ listened unto, and both the prayers commended to be sound and soveraigne: but it being ended, the king commaunded _philostratus_, that hee should follow next in order, whereupon thus he began. deare ladies, the deceites used by men towards your sexe, but especially husbands, have bene so great and many, as when it hath sometime happened, or yet may, that husbands are requited in the self-same kinde: you need not finde fault at any such accident, either by knowledge thereof afterward, or hearing the same reported by any one; but rather you should referre it to generall publication, to the end, that immodest men may know, and finde it for trueth, that if they have apprehension and capacity; women are therein not a jote inferiour to them. which cannot but redound to your great benefite, because, when any one knoweth, that another is as cunning and subtile as himselfe; he will not be so rashly adventurous in deceite. and who maketh any doubt, that if those sleights and trickes, whereof this dayes argument may give us occasion to speake, should afterwardes be put in execution by men: would it not minister just reason, of punishing themselves for beguiling you, knowing, that (if you please) you have the like abilitie in your owne power? mine intent therefore is to tell you, what a woman (though but of meane quality) did to her husband, upon a sodaine, and in a moment (as it were) for her owne safety. not long since, there lived in _naples_, an honest meane man, who did take to wife, a fayre and lustie young woman, being named _peronella_. he professing the trade of a mason, and shee carding and spinning, maintained themselves in a reasonable condition, abating and abounding as their fortunes served. it came to passe, that a certayne young man, well observing the beauty and good parts of _peronella_, became much addicted in affection towardes her: and by his often and secret sollicitations, which he found not to be unkindly entertayned; his successe proved answerable to his hope, no unindifferencie appearing in their purposes, but where her estate seemed weakest, his supplies made an addition of more strength. now, for their securer meeting, to stand cleare from all matter of scandal or detection, they concluded in this order between themselves. _lazaro_, for so was _peronellaes_ husband named, being an earely riser every morning, either to seeke for worke, or to effect it being undertaken: this amorous friend being therewith acquainted, and standing in some such convenient place, where hee could see _lazaroes_ departure from his house, and yet himselfe no way discerned; poore _lazaro_ was no sooner gone, but presently he enters the house, which stood in a verie solitarie street, called the _avorio_. many mornings had they thus met together, to their no meane delight and contentation, till one especiall morning among the rest, when _lazaro_ was gone forth to worke, and _striguario_ (so was the amorous young man named) visiting _peronella_ in the house: upon a very urgent occasion, _lazaro_ returned backe againe, quite contrary to his former wont, keeping foorth all day, and never comming home till night. finding his doore to be fast lockt, and he having knockt softlie once or twice, he spake in this manner to himselfe. fortune i thanke thee, for albeit thou hast made mee poore, yet thou hast bestowed a better blessing on me, in matching me with so good, honest, & loving a wife. behold, though i went early out of my house, her selfe hath risen in the cold to shut the doore, to prevent the entrance of theeves, or any other that might offend us. _peronella_ having heard what her husband sayde, and knowing the manner of his knocke, said fearfully to _striguario_. alas deare friend, what shall wee doe? i am little lesse then a dead woman: for, _lazaro_ my husband is come backe again, and i know not what to do or say. he never returned in this order before now, doubtlesse, hee saw when you entred the doore; and for the safety of your honour and mine: creepe under this brewing fat, till i have opened the doore, to know the reason of his so soone returning. _striguario_ made no delaying of the matter, but got himselfe closelie under the fat, and peronella opening the doore for her husbands enterance, with a frowning countenance, spake thus unto him. what meaneth this so early returning home againe this morning? it seemeth, thou intendest to do nothing to day, having brought backe thy tooles in thy hands. if such be thine intent, how shall we live? where shall we have bread to fill our bellies? dooest thou thinke, that i will suffer thee to pawne my gowne, and other poore garments, as heeretofore thou hast done? i that card and spinne both night and day, till i have worne the flesh from my fingers; yet all will hardly finde oyle to maintaine our lampe. husband, husband, there is not one neighbour dwelling by us, but makes a mockerie of me, and tels me plainly, that i may be ashamed to drudge and moyle as i do; wondering not a little, how i am able to endure it; and thou returnest home with thy hands in thy hose, as if thou hadst no worke at all to do this day. having thus spoken, she fell to weeping, and then thus began again. poore wretched woman as i am, in an unfortunate houre was i borne, and in a much worse, when i was made thy wife. i could have had a proper, handsome yong man; one, that would have maintained mee brave and gallantly: but, beast as i was, to forgoe my good, and cast my selfe away on such a beggar as thou art, and whom none wold have had, but such an asse as i. other women live at hearts ease, and in jollity, have their amorous friends and loving paramours, yea, one, two, three at once, making their husbands looke like a moone cressent, whereon they shine sun-like, with amiable lookes, because they know not how to helpe it: when i (poore foole) live heere at home a miserable life, not daring once to dreame of such follies, an innocent soule, heartlesse and harmelesse. many times, sitting and sighing to my selfe: lord, thinke i, of what mettall am i made? why should not i have a friend in a corner, as well as others have? i am flesh and blood, as they are, not made of brasse or iron, and therefore subject to womens frailty. i would thou shouldest know it husband, and i tell it thee in good earnest; that if i would doe ill, i could quickely finde a friend at a neede. gallants there are good store, who (of my knowledge) love me dearely, and have made me very large and liberall promises, of golde, silver, jewels, and gay garments, if i would extend them the least favour. but my heart will not suffer me, i never was the daughter of such a mother, as had so much as a thought of such matters: no, i thanke our blessed ladie, and s. _friswid_ for it: and yet thou returnest home againe, when thou shouldst be at worke. _lazaro_, who stoode all this while like a well-beleeving logger-head, demurely thus answered. alas good wife! i pray you bee not so angry, i never had so much as an ill thought of you, but know wel enough what you are, and have made good proofe thereof this morning. understand therefore patiently (sweet wife) that i went forth to my work as dayly i use to do, little dreaming (as i thinke you doe not) that it had bene holy-day. wife, this is the feast day of saint _galeone_; whereon we may in no wise worke, and this is the reason of my so soone returning. neverthelesse (deare wife) i was not carelesse of our houshold provision: for, though we worke not, yet we must have foode, which i have provided for more then a moneth. wife, i remembred the brewing fat, whereof wee have little or no use at all, but rather it is a trouble to the house, then otherwise. i met with an honest friend, who stayeth without at the doore, to him i have sold the fat for ten _gigliatoes_, and he tarrieth to take it away with him. how husband? replied _peronella_, why now i am worse offended then before. thou that art a man, walkest every where, and shouldst be experienced in worldly affaires: wouldst thou bee so simple, as to sell such a brewing fat for ten _gigliatoes_? why, i that am a poore ignorant woman, a house-dove, sildome going out of my doore: have sold it already for twelve _gigliatoes_, to a very honest man, who (even a little before thy comming home) came to me, we agreed on the bargaine, and he is now underneath the fat, to see whether it be sound or no. when credulous _lazaro_ heard this, he was better contented then ever, and went to him that taried at the doore, saying. good man, you may goe your way, for, whereas you offered me but ten _gigliatoes_ for the fat, my loving wife hath sold it for twelve, and i must maintaine what shee hath done: so the man departed, and the variance ended. _peronella_ then saide to her husband. seeing thou art come home so luckily, helpe me to lift up the fat, that the man may come foorth, and then you two end the bargaine together. _striguario_, who though he was mewed up under the tubbe, had his eares open enough; and hearing the witty excuse of _peronella_, tooke himselfe free from future feare: and being come from under the fat, pretending also, as if he had herd nothing, nor saw _lazaro_, looking round about him, said. where is this good woman? _lazaro_ stepping forth boldly like a man, replyed: heere am i, what wold you have sir? thou? quoth _striguario_, what art thou? i ask for the good wife, with whom i made my match for the fat. honest gentleman (answered _lazaro_) i am that honest womans husband, for lacke of a better, and i will maintaine whatsoever my wife hath done. i crie you mercie sir, replyed _striguario_, i bargained with your wife for this brewing fat, which i finde to be whole and sound: only it is uncleane within, hard crusted with some dry soile upon it, which i know not well how to get off, if you will be the meanes of making it cleane, i have the money heere ready for it. for that sir (quoth _peronella_) take you no care, although no match at all had beene made, what serves my husband for, but to make it cleane? yes forsooth sir, answered sily _lazaro_, you shall have it neate and cleane before you pay the mony. so, stripping himselfe into his shirt, lighting a candle, and taking tooles fit for the purpose; the fat was whelmed over him, and he being within it, wrought untill he sweated, with scraping and scrubbing. so that these poore lovers, what they could not accomplish as they wold, necessity enforced them to performe as they might. and _peronella_, looking in at the vent-hole, where the liquor runneth forth for the meshing; seemed to instruct her husband in the businesse, as espying those parts where the fat was fowlest, saying: there, there _lazaro_, tickle it there, the gentleman payes well for it, and is worthy to have it: but see thou do thy selfe no harme good husband. i warrant thee wife, answered _lazaro_, hurt not your selfe with leaning your stomacke on the fat, and leave the cleansing of it to me. to be breefe, the brewing fat was neatly cleansed, _peronella_ and _striguario_ both well pleased, the money paide, and honest meaning _lazaro_ not discontented. _friar_ reynard, _falling in love with a gentlewoman, wife to a man of good account; found the meanes to become her gossip. afterward, he being conferring closely with her in her chamber, and her husband coming sodainly thither: she made him beleeve, that he came thither for no other end; but to cure his god-sonne by a charme, of a dangerous disease which he had by wormes._ the third novell. _serving as a friendly advertisement to married women, that monks, friars, and priests may be none of their gossips, in regard of unavoydable perilles ensuing thereby._ _philostratus_ told not this tale so covertly, concerning _lazaros_ simplicity, and _peronellaes_ witty policy; but the ladies found a knot in the rush, and laughed not a little, at his queint manner of discoursing it. but upon the conclusion, the king looking upon madam _eliza_, willed her to succeede next, which as willingly she granted, and thus began. pleasant ladies, the charme or conjuration wherewith madam _Ã�millia_ laid her night-walking spirit, maketh me remember a novell of another enchantment; which although it carrieth not commendation equall to the other, yet i intend to report it, because it suteth with our present purpose, and i cannot sodainly be furnisht with another, answerable thereto in nature. you are to understand then, that there lived in _siena_, a proper yong man, of good birth and well friended, being named _reynard_. earnestly he affected his neere dwelling neighbour, a beautifull gentlewoman, and wife to a man of good esteeme: of whom hee grew halfe perswaded, that if he could (without suspition) compasse private conference with her, he should reach the height of his amorous desires. yet seeing no likely meanes wherewith to further his hope, and shee being great with childe, he resolved to become a godfather to the childe, at such time as it should be brought to christening. and being inwardly acquainted with her husband, who was named _credulano_; such familiar entercourses passed betweene them, both of _reynards_ kinde offer, and _credulanoes_ as courteous acceptance, that hee was set downe for a gossippe. _reynard_ being thus embraced for madam _agnesiaes_ gossip, and this proving the onely colourable meanes, for his safer permission of speech with her, to let her now understand by word of mouth, what long before she collected by his lookes and behaviour: it fell out no way beneficiall to him, albeit _agnesia_ seemed not nice or scrupulous in hearing, yet she had a more precious care of her honor. it came to passe, within a while after (whether by seeing his labour vainly spent, or some other urgent occasion moving him thereto, i know not) _reynard_ would needs enter into religion, and whatsoever strictnesse or austeritie hee found to be in that kinde of life, yet he determined to persevere therein, whether it were for his good or ill. and although within a short space, after he was thus become a religious monke, hee seemed to forget the former love which he bare to his gossip _agnesia_, and divers other enormous vanities beside: yet let me tell you, successe of time tutord him in them againe; and, without any respect to his poore holy habite, but rather in contempt thereof (as it were) he tooke an especiall delight, in wearing garments of much richer esteeme, yet favoured by the same monasticall profession, appearing (in all respects) like a court-minion or favourite, of a sprightly and poeticall disposition, for composing verses, sonnets, and canzons, singing them to sundry excellent instruments, and yet not greatly curious of his company, so they were some of the best, and madame _agnesia_ one, his former gossip. but why doe i trouble my selfe, in talking thus of our so lately converted friar, holy father _reynard_, when they of longer standing, and reputed meerely for saints in life, are rather much more vile then hee? such is the wretched condition of this world, that they shame not (fat, soggie, and nastie abbey-lubbers) to shew how full fedde they live in their cloysters, with cherry cheekes, and smooth shining lookes, gay and gaudy garments, far from the least expression of humility, not walking in the streets like doves: but high-crested like cockes, with well cramd gorges. nay, which is worse, if you did but see their chambers furnished with gally-pots of electuaries, precious unguents, apothecary boxes, filled with various confections, conserves, excellent perfumes, and other goodly glasses of artificiall oyles and waters: beside rundlets and small barrels full of greeke wine, _muscatella, lachrime christi,_ and other such like most precious wines, so that (to such as see them) they seeme not to bee chambers of religious men; but rather apothecaries shoppes, or appertaining to druggists, grocers, or perfumers. it is no disgrace to them to be gowty; because when other men know it not, they alledge, that strict fasting, feeding on grosse meates (though never so little,) continuall studying, and such like restraints from the bodies freer exercise, maketh them subject to many infirmities. and yet, when any one of them chanceth to fall sicke, the physitian must minister no such counsell to them, as chastity, abstinence from voluptuous meats, discipline of the body, or any of those matters appertaining to a modest religious life. for, concerning the plaine, vulgar, and plebeian people, these holy fathers are perswaded, that they know nothing really belonging to a sanctimonious life; as long watching, praying, discipline and fasting, which (in themselves) are not able, to make men look leane, wretched, and pale. because saint _dominicke_, saint _fraunces_, and divers other holy saints beside, observed the selfesame religious orders and constitutions, as now their carefull successors do. moreover, in example of those fore-named saints, who went wel cloathed, though they had not three garments for one, nor made of the finest woollen excellent cloath: but rather of the very coarsest of all other, and of the common ordinary colour, to expell cold onely, but not to appear brave or gallant, deceyving thereby infinite simple credulous soules, whose purses (neverthelesse) are their best pay-masters. but leave we this, and returne wee backe to vertuous fryar _reynard_, who falling againe to his former appetites; became an often visitant of his gossip _agnesia_, and now hee had learned such a blushlesse kinde of boldnesse; that he durst be more instant with her (concerning his privie sute) then ever formerly he had bin, yea, even to solicite the enjoying of his immodest desires. the good gentlewoman, seeing her selfe so importunately pursued, and fryar _reynard_ appearing now (perhappes) of sweeter and more delicate complexion, then at his entrance into religion: at a set time of his secret communing with her; she answered him in as apt tearmes, as they use to do, who are not greatly squeamish, in granting matters demanded of them. why how now friar _reynard_? quoth shee, doe god-fathers use to move such questions? whereto the friar thus replyed. madam, when i have laide off this holy habite (which is a matter very easie for mee to do) i shall seeme in your eye, in all respects made like another man, quite from the course of any religious life. _agnesia_, biting the lip with a prety smile, said, o my faire starres! you will never bee so unfriendly to me. what? you being my gossip, would you have me consent unto such a sinne? our blessed lady shield mee, for my ghostly father hath often told me, that it is utterly unpardonable: but if it were, i feare too much confiding on mine owne strength. gossip, gossip, answered the friar, you speake like a foole, and feare (in this case) is wholly frivolous, especially, when the motions mooved by such an one as my selfe, who (upon repentance) can grant you pardon and indulgence presently. but i pray you let mee aske you one question, who is the neerest kinsman to your son; either i, that stood at the font for his baptisme, or your husband that begot him? the lady made answere, that it was her husband. you say very true gossip, replyed the friar, and yet notwithstanding, doth not your husband (both at boord and bed) enjoy the sweet benefit of your company? yes, said the lady, why shold he not? then lady (quoth _reynard_) i, who am not so neere a kinsman to your sonne, as your husband is, why may ye not afford mee the like favour, as you do him? _agnesia_, who was no logitian, and therefore could not stand on any curious answer, especially being so cuningly moved; beleeved, or rather made shew of beleeving, that the godfather said nothing but truth, and thus answered. what woman is she (gossip) that knoweth how to answer your strange speeches? and, how it came to passe, i know not, but such an agreement passed betweene them, that, for once onely (so it might not infrindge the league of gossip-ship, but that title to countenance their further intent) such a favour should be affoorded, so it might stand cleare from suspition. an especiall time being appointed, when this amorous combate should be fought in loves field, friar _reynard_ came to his gossips house, where none being present to hinder his purpose, but onely the nursse which attended on the child, who was an indifferent faire & proper woman: his holy brother that came thither in his company (because friars were not allowed to walke alone) was sent aside with her into the pigeon loft, to enstruct her in a new kinde of _pater noster_, lately devised in their holy convent. in the meane while, as friar _reynard_ and _agnesia_ were entring into hir chamber, she leading her little son by the hand, and making fast the doore for their better safety: the friar laide by his holie habit, cowle, hood, booke, and beads, to bee (in all respects) as other men were. no sooner were they thus entred the chamber, but her husband _credulano_, being come into the house, and unseen of any, staid not till he was at the chamber doore, where hee knockt, and called for his wife. she hearing his voice: alas gossip (quoth she) what shall i do? my husband knocketh at the doore, and now he will perceive the occasion of our so familiar acquaintance. _reynard_ being stript into his trusse and straite strouses, began to tremble and quake exceedingly. i heare your husbands tongue gossip, said he, and seeing no harme as yet hath bin done, if i had but my garments on againe; wee would have one excuse or other to serve the turne, but till then you may not open the doore. as womens wits are sildome gadding abroad, when any necessitie concerneth them at home: even so _agnesia_, being sodainly provided of an invention, both how to speake and carry her selfe in this extreamitie, saide to the friar. get on your garments quickely, and when you are cloathed, take your little god-son in your armes, and listning wel what i shall say, shape your answeres according to my words, and then refer the matter to me. _credulano_ had scarsely ended his knocking, but _agnesia_ stepping to the doore said: husband, i come to you. so she opened the doore, and (going forth to him) with a chearefull countenance thus spake. beleeve me husband, you could not have come in a more happy time, for our yong son was sodainly extreamly sicke, and (as good fortune would have it) our loving gossip _reynard_ chanced to come in; and questionlesse, but by his good prayers and other religious paynes, we had utterly lost our childe, for he had no life left in him. _credulano_, being as credulous as his name imported, seemed ready to swoune with sodaine conceit: alas good wife (quoth he) how hapned this? sit downe sweet husband said she, and i will tell you al. our child was sodainly taken with a swouning, wherein i being unskilful, did verily suppose him to be dead, not knowing what to doe, or say. by good hap, our gossip _reynard_ came in, and taking the childe up in his armes, said to me. gossip, this is nothing else but wormes in the bellie of the childe, which ascending to the heart, must needs kill the child, without all question to the contrary. but be of good comfort gossip, and feare not, for i can charme them in such sort, that they shall all die, and before i depart hence, you shall see your son as healthfull as ever. and because the manner of this charm is of such nature, that it required prayer and exorcising in two places at once: nurse went up with his holye brother into our pigeon loft, to exercise their devotion there, while we did the like heere. for none but the mother of the childe must bee present at such a mystery, nor any enter to hinder the operation of the charme; which was the reason of making fast the chamber doore. you shall see husband anon the childe, which is indifferently recovered in his armes, and if nurse and his holy brother were returned from theyr meditations; he saith, that the charme would then be fully effected: for the child beginneth to looke chearefull and merry. so deerely did _credulano_ love the childe, that hee verily beleeved, what his wife had saide, never misdoubting any other treachery: and, lifting up his eyes, with a vehement sigh, said. wife, may not i goe in and take the child into my armes? oh no, not yet good husband (quoth she) in any case, least you should overthrow all that is done. stay but a little while, i will go in againe, and if all bee well, then will i call you. in went _agnesia_ againe, making the doore fast after her, the fryar having heard all the passed speeches, by this time he was fitted with his habite, and taking the childe in his armes, he said to _agnesia_. gossip methought i heard your husbands voice, is hee at your chamber doore? yes gossip _reynard_ (quoth _credulano_ without, while _agnesia_ opened the doore, and admitted him entrance) indeede it is i. come in sir, i pray you, replyed the friar, and heere receive your childe of mee, who was in great danger, of your ever seeing him any more alive. but you must take order, to make an image of waxe, agreeing with the stature of the childe, to be placed on the altar before the image of s. _frances_, by whose merites the childe is thus restored to health. the childe, beholding his father, made signes of comming to him, rejoycing merrily, as yong infants use to do; and _credulano_ clasping him in his armes, wept with conceite of joy, kissing him infinitely, and heartily thanking his gossip _reynard_, for the recovery of his god-son. the friars brotherly companion, who had given sufficient enstructions to the nurse, and a small purse full of sisters white thred, which a nunne (after shrift) had bestowed on him, upon the husbands admittance into the chamber (which they easily heard) came in also to them, and seeing all in very good tearmes, they holpe to make a joyfull conclusion, the brother saying to friar reynard: brother, i have finished all those foure jaculatory prayers, which you commanded me. brother, answered _reynard_, you have a better breath then i, and your successe hath prooved happier then mine, for before the arrivall of my gossip _credulano_, i could accomplish but two jaculatory prayers onely. but it appeareth, that we have both prevailed in our devout desires, because the childe is perfectly cured. _credulano_ calling for wine and good cheare, feasted both the friars very jocondly, and then conducting them forth of his house, without any further intermission, caused the childs image of waxe to be made, and sent it to be placed on the altar of saint _frances_, among many other the like oblations. tofano _in the night season, did locke his wife out of his house, and shee not prevailing to get entrance againe, by all the entreaties she could possiblie use: made him beleeve that she had throwne her selfe into a well, by casting a great stone into the same well_. tofano _hearing the fall of the stone into the well, and being perswaded that it was his wife indeed; came forth of his house, and ran to the welles side. in the meane while, his wife gotte into the house, made fast the doore against her husband, and gave him many reproachfull speeches._ the fourth novell. _wherein is manifested, that the malice and subtilty of a woman, surpasseth all the art or wit in man._ so soone as the king perceyved, that the novell reported by madame _eliza_ was finished: hee turned himselfe to madame _lauretta_, and told her it was his pleasure, that she should now begin the next, whereto she yeelded in this manner. o love: what, and how many are thy prevailing forces? how straunge are thy foresights? and how admirable thine attempts? where is, or ever was the philosopher or artist, that could enstruct the wiles, escapes, preventions, and demonstrations, which sodainly thou teachest such, as are thy apt and understanding schollers indeede? certaine it is, that the documents and eruditions of all other whatsoever, are weak, or of no worth, in respect of thine: as hath notably appeared, by the remonstrances already past, and whereto (worthy ladies) i will adde another of a simple woman, who taught her husband such a lesson, as shee never learned of any, but love himselfe. there dwelt sometime in _arezzo_ (which is a faire village of _tuscany_) a rich man, named _tofano_, who enjoyed in marriage a young beautifull woman, called _cheta_: of whom (without any occasion given, or reason knowne to himselfe) he became exceeding jealous. which his wife perceyving, she grew much offended thereat, and tooke it in great scorne, that she should be servile to so vile and slavish a condition. oftentimes, she demanded of him, from whence this jealousie in him received originall, he having never seene or heard of any; he could make her no other answer, but what his owne bad humour suggested, and drove him every day (almost) to deaths doore, by feare of that which no way needed. but, whether as a just scourge for this his grosse folly, or a secret decree, ordained to him by fortune and the fates, i am not able to distinguish: it came so to passe, that a young gallant made meanes to enjoy her favour, and she was so discreetly wise in judging of his worthinesse; that affection passed so farre mutually betweene them, as nothing wanted, but effects to answere words, suited with time and place convenient, for which order was taken as best they might, yet to stand free from all suspition. among many other evill conditions, very frequent and familiar in her husband _tofano_; he tooke a great delight in drinking, which not only he held to be a commendable quality, but was alwaies so often solicited thereto: that _cheta_ her selfe began to like and allow it in him, feeding his humour so effectually, with quaffing and carowsing, that (at any time when she listed) she could make him bowsie beyonde all measure: and leaving him sleeping in this drunkennesse, would alwayes get her selfe to bed. by helpe heereof, she compassed the first familiarity with her friend, yea, divers times after, as occasion served: and so confidently did she builde on her husbands drunkennesse, that not onely shee adventured to bring her friend home into her owne house; but also would as often go to his, which was some-what neere at hand, and abide with him there, the most part of the night season. while _cheta_ thus continued on these amorous courses, it fortuned, that her slye suspitious husband, beganne to perceive, that though shee drunke very much with him, yea, untill he was quite spent and gone: yet she remained fresh and sober still, and thereby imagined strange matters, that he being fast asleepe, his wife then tooke advantage of his drowsinesse, and might ---- and so forth. beeing desirous to make experience of this his distrust, hee returned home at night (not having drunke any thing all the whole day) dissembling both by his words and behaviour, as if he were notoriously drunke indeede. which his wife constantly beleeving, saide to her selfe: that hee had now more neede of sleepe, then drinke; getting him immediately into his warme bed; and then going downe the staires againe, softly went out of doores unto her friends house, as formerly she had used to do, and there shee remained untill midnight. _tofano_ perceiving that his wife came not to bed, and imagining to have heard his doore both open and shut: arose out of his bed, and calling his wife _cheta_ divers times, without any answere returned: hee went downe the staires, and finding the doore but closed too, made it fast and sure on the inside, and then got him up to the window, to watch the returning home of his wife, from whence shee came, and then to make her conditions apparantly knowne. so long there he stayed, till at the last she returned indeede, and finding the doore so surely shut, shee was exceeding sorrowfull, essaying how she might get it open by strength: which when _tofano_ had long suffered her in vaine to approove, thus hee spake to her. _cheta, cheta,_ all thy labour is meerely lost, because heere is no entrance allowed for thee; therefore return to the place from whence thou camest, that all thy friends may judge of thy behaviour, and know what a night-walker thou art become. the woman hearing this unpleasing language, began to use all humble entreaties, desiring him (for charities sake) to open the doore and admit her entrance, because she had not bin in any such place, as his jelous suspition might suggest to him: but onely to visit a weak & sickly neighbour, the nights being long, she not (as yet) capable of sleepe, nor willing to sit alone in the house. but all her perswasions served to no purpose, he was so setled in his owne opinion, that all the town should now see her nightly gading, which before was not so much as suspected. _cheta_ seeing, that faire meanes would not prevaile, shee entred into roughe speeches and threatnings, saying: if thou wilt not open the doore and let me come in, i will so shame thee, as never base man was. as how i pray thee? answered _tofano_, what canst thou do to me? the woman, whom love had inspired with sprightly counsell, ingeniously enstructing her what to do in this distresse, stearnly thus replyed. before i will suffer any such shame as thou intended towards mee, i will drowne my selfe heere in this well before our doore, where being found dead, and thy villanous jealousie so apparantly knowne, beside thy more then beastly drunkennesse: all the neighbours will constantly beleeve, that thou didst first strangle me in the house, and afterwardes threw me into this well. so either thou must flie upon the supposed offence, or lose all thy goodes by banishment, or (which is much more fitting for thee) have thy head smitten off as a wilfull murtherer of thy wife; for all will judge it to be no otherwise. all which wordes, mooved not _tofano_ a jot from his obstinat determination: but he still persisting therein, thus she spake. i neither can nor will longer endure this base villanie of thine: to the mercy of heaven i commit my soul, and stand there my wheele, a witnesse against so hard-hearted a murtherer. no sooner had she thus spoke, but the night being so extreamly dark, as they could not discerne one another; cheta went to the well, where finding a verie great stone, which lay loose upon the brim of the well, even as if it had beene layde there on purpose, shee cried out aloud, saying. forgive me faire heavens, and so threw the stone downe into the well. the night being very still & silent, the fall of the great stone made such a dreadfull noise in the well; that he hearing it at the windowe, thought verily she had drowned her selfe indeede. whereupon, running downe hastily, and taking a bucket fastened to a strong cord: he left the doore wide open, intending speedily to helpe her. but she standing close at the doores entrance, before he could get to the wels side; she was within the house, softly made the doore fast on the inside, and then went up to the window, where _tofano_ before had stood talking to her. while he was thus dragging with his bucket in the well, crying and calling _cheta_, take hold good _cheta_, and save thy life: she stood laughing in the window, saying. water should bee put into wine before a man drinkes it, and not when he hath drunke too much already. _tofano_ hearing his wife thus to flout him out of his window, went back to the doore, and finding it made fast against him: he willed hir to grant him entrance. but she, forgetting all gentle language, which formerly she had used to him: in meere mockery and derision (yet intermixed with some sighes and teares, which women are saide to have at command) out aloud (because the neighbours should heare her) thus she replyed. beastly drunken knave as thou art, this night thou shalt not come within these doores, i am no longer able to endure thy base behaviour, it is more then high time, that thy course of life should bee publiquely known, and at what drunken houres thou returnest home to thy house. _tofano_, being a man of very impatient nature, was as bitter unto her in words on the other side, which the neighbours about them (both men and women) hearing; looked forth of their windowes, and demaunding a reason for this their disquietnesse, _cheta_ (seeming as if she wept) sayde. alas my good neighbours, you see at what unfitting houres, this bad man comes home to his house, after hee hath lyen in a taverne all day drunke, sleeping and snorting like a swine. you are my honest witnesses, how long i have suffered this beastlinesse in him, yet neyther your good counsell, nor my too often loving admonitions, can worke that good which wee have expected. wherefore, to try if shame can procure any amendment, i have shut him out of doores, until his drunken fit be over-past, and so he shall stand to coole his feet. _tofano_ (but in very uncivill manner) told her being abroad that night, and how she had used him: but the neighbours seeing her to be within the house, and beleeving her, rather then him, in regard of his too wellknowne ill qualities; very sharpely reproved him, gave him grosse speeches, pittying that any honest woman should be so continually abused. now my good neighbours (quoth she) you see what manner of man he is. what would you thinke of me, if i should walk the streets thus in the night time, or be so late out of mine owne house, as this dayly drunkard is? i was affraid least you would have given credit to his dissembling speeches, when he told you, that i was at the welles side, and threw something into the well: but that i know your better opinion of me, and how sildome i am to be seene out of doores, although he would induce your sharper judgement of me, and lay that shame upon me, wherein he hath sinned himselfe. the neighbours, both men and women, were all very severely incensed against _tofano_, condemning him for his great fault that night committed, and avouching his wife to be vertuous and honest. within a little while, the noise passing from neighbour to neighbour, at the length it came to the eares of her kindred, who forthwith resorted thither, and hearing how sharpely the neighbours reprehended _tofano_: they tooke him, soundly bastanadoed him, and hardly left any bone of him unbruised. afterward, they went into the house, tooke all such things thence as belonged to hir, taking hir also with them to their dwelling, and threatning _tofano_ with further infliction of punishment, both for his drunkennesse, and causlesse jealousie. _tofano_ perceyving how curstly they had handled him, and what crooked meanes might further be used against him, in regard her kindred & friends were very mightie: thought it much better, patiently to suffer the wrong alreadie done him, then by obstinate contending, to proceed further, and fare worse. he became a suter to her kindred, that al might be forgotten and forgiven, in recompence whereof; he would not onely refraine from drunkennesse, but also, never more be jelous of his wife. this being faithfully promised, and _cheta_ reconciled to her husband, all strife was ended, she enjoyed her friends favour, as occasion served, but yet with such discretion, as it was not noted. thus the coxcombe foole, was faine to purchase his peace, after a notorious wrong sustained, and further injuries to bee offered. _a jealous man, clouded with the habite of a priest, became the confessour to his owne wife; who made him beleeve, that she was deepely in love with a priest, which came every night, and lay with her. by meanes of which confession, while her jealous husband watched the doore of his house; to surprize the priest when he came: she that never meant to do amisse, had the company of a secret friend, who came over the toppe of the house to visite her, while her foolish husband kept the doore._ the fift novell. _in just scorne and mockery of such jealous husbands, that will be so idle headed upon no occasion. and yet when they have good reason for it, do least of all suspect any such injury._ madam _lauretta_ having ended her novell, and every one commended the woman, for fitting _tofano_ in his kinde; and, as his jealousie and drunkennesse justly deserved: the king (to prevent all losse of time) turned to madame _fiammetta_, commaunding her to follow next: whereuppon, very graciously, shee beganne in this manner. noble ladies, the precedent novell delivered by madame _lauretta_, maketh me willing to speake of another jealous man; as being halfe perswaded, that whatsoever is done to them by their wives, and especially upon no occasion given, they doe no more then well becommeth them. and if those grave heads, which were the first instituters of lawes, had diligently observed all things; i am of the minde, that they would have ordained no other penalty for women, then they appointed against such, as (in their owne defence) do offend any other. for jealous husbands, are meere insidiators of their wives lives, and most diligent pursuers of their deaths, being lockt up in their houses all the weeke long, imployed in nothing but domesticke drudging affayres: which makes them desirous of high festivall dayes, to receive some little comfort abroad, by an honest recreation or pastime, as husbandmen in the fields, artizans in our citie, or governours in our judiciall courtes; yea, or as our lord himselfe, who rested the seaventh day from all his travailes. in like manner, it is so willed and ordained by the lawes, as well divine as humane, which have regard to the glory of god, and for the common good of every one; making distinction betweene those dayes appointed for labour, and the other determined for rest. whereto jealous persons (in no case) will give consent, but all those dayes (which for other women are pleasing and delightfull) unto such, over whom they command, are most irksome, sadde and sorrowfull, because then they are lockt up, and very strictly restrained. and if question were urged, how many good women do live and consume away in this torturing hel of affliction: i can make no other answere, but such as feele it, are best able to discover it. wherefore to conclude the proheme to my present purpose, let none be over rash in condemning women: for what they do to their husbands, being jealous without occasion; but rather commend their wit and providence. somtime (faire ladies) there lived in _arimino_, a merchant, very rich in wealth and worldly possessions, who having a beautifull gentlewoman to his wife, he became extreamly jelous of her. and he had no other reason for this foolish conceit; but, like as he loved hir dearly, and found her to be very absolutely faire: even so he imagined, that althogh she devised by her best meanes to give him content; yet others would grow enamored of her, because she appeared so amiable to al. in which respect, time might tutor her to affect some other beside himselfe: the onely common argument of every bad minded man, being weake and shallow in his owne understanding. this jelous humour** increasing in him more and more, he kept her in such narrow restraint: that many persons condemned to death, have enjoyed larger libertie in their imprisonment. for, she might not bee present at feasts, weddings, nor goe to church, or so much as to be seen at her doore: nay, she durst not stand in her window, nor looke out of her house, for any occasion whatsoever. by means whereof, life seemed most tedious and offensive to her, and she supported it the more impatiently, because shee knew her selfe not any way faulty. seeing her husband still persist in this shamefull course towards her; she studied, how she might best comfort her selfe in this desolate case: by devising some one meane or other (if any at all were to bee founde) whereby he might be requited in his kind, and wear that badge of shame whereof he was now but onely affraid. and because she could not gain so small a permission, as to be seene at any window, where (happily) she might have observed some one passing by in the street, discerning a little parcell of her love: she remembred at length, that, in the next house to her husbands (they both joyning close together) there dwelt a comely yong proper gentleman, whose perfections carried correspondencie with her desires. she also considered with her selfe, that if there were any partition wall; such a chinke or cranny might easily be made therein, by which (at one time or other) she should gaine a sight of the young gentleman, and finde an houre so fitting, as to conferre with him, and bestow her lovely favour on him, if he pleased to accept it. if successe (in this case) proved answerable to her hope, then thus she resolved to outrun the rest of her wearisome dayes, except the frensie of jealousie did finish her husbands loathed life before. walking from one roome to another, thorough every part of the house; and no wall escaping without diligent surveying; on a day, when her husband was absent from home, she espyed in a corner very secret, an indifferent cleft in the wall, which though it yeelded no full view on the other side, yet she plainly perceived it to be an handsome chamber, and grew more then halfe perswaded, that either it might be the chamber of _philippo_ (for so was the neighbouring yong gentleman named) or else a passage guiding thereto. a chambermaid of hers, who compassioned her case very much; made such observance, by her mistresses direction, that she found it to be _philippoes_ bed chamber, and where alwayes he used to lodge alone. by often visiting this rift or chinke in the wall, especially when the gentleman was there; and by throwing in little stones, flowers, and such like things, which fell still in his way as he walked: so farre she prevailed, that he stepping to the chinke, to know from whence they came; shee called softly to him, who knowing her voyce, there they had such private conference together, as was not any way displeasing to either. so that the chinke being made a little larger; yet so, as it could not be easily discerned: their mouthes might meete with kisses together, and their hands folded each in other; but nothing else to be performed, for continuall feare of her jelous husband. now the feast of christmasse drawing neere, the gentlewoman said to her husband; that, if it stood with his liking: she would do such duty as fitted with so solemne a time, by going earely in a morning unto church, there to be confessed, and receive her saviour, as other christians did. how now? replied the jealous asse, what sinnes have you committed, that should neede confession? how husband? quoth she, what do you thinke me to be a saint? who knoweth not, i pray you, that i am as subject to sinne, as any other woman living in the world? but my sins are not to be revealed to you, because you are no priest. these words enflamed his jealousie more violently then before, and needes must he know what sinnes she had committed, & having resolved what to do in this case, made her answer: that hee was contented with her motion, alwaies provided, that she went to no other church, then unto their owne chappel, betimes in a morning; and their own chaplaine to confesse her, or some other priest by him appointed, but not any other: and then she to returne home presently againe. she being a woman of acute apprehension, presently collected his whole intention: but seeming to take no knowledge thereof, replyed, that she would not swerve from his direction. when the appointed day was come, she arose very earely, and being prepared answerable to her owne liking, to the chappell shee went as her husband had appointed, where her jealous husband (being much earlier risen than she) attended for her comming: having so ordred the matter with his chaplaine, that he was cloathed in his cowle, with a large hood hanging over his eyes, that she should not know him, and so he went and sate downe in the confessors place. shee being entred into the chappell, and calling for the priest to heare her confession, he made her answer: that he could not intend it, but would bring her to another holy brother, who was at better leysure than hee. so to her husband he brought her, that seemed (in all respects) like the confessor himselfe: save onely his hood was not so closely veyled, but shee knew his beard, and said to her selfe. what a mad world is this, when jealousie can metamorphose an ordinary man into a priest? but, let me alone with him, i meane to fit him with that which he lookes for. so, appearing to have no knowledge at all of him, downe she fell at his feete, and he had conveyed a few cherry stones into his mouth, to trouble his speech from her knowledge; for, in all things else, he thought himselfe to be sufficiently fitted for her. in the course of her confession, she declared, that she was married to a most wicked jealous husband, and with whom she lead a very hatefull life. neverthelesse (quoth she) i am indifferently even with him, for i am beloved of an holie fryar, that every night commeth and lyeth with me. when the jealous husband heard this, it stabbed him like a dagger to the heart, and, but for this greedy covetous desire to know more; he would faine have broke off confession, and got him gone. but, perceiving that it was his wisest course, he questioned further with his wife, saying: why good woman, doth not your husband lodge with you? yes sir, quoth she. how is it possible then (replyed the husband) that the friar can lodge there with you too? she, dissembling a farre fetcht sigh, thus answered. reverend sir, i know not what skilfull art the fryar useth, but this i am sure, every doore in our house will flye open to him, so soone as he doth but touch it. moreover, he told me, that when he commeth unto my chamber doore, he speaketh certaine words to himselfe, which immediately casteth my husband into a dead sleepe, and, understanding him to bee thus sleepily entranced: he openeth the doore, entreth in, lieth downe by me, and this every night he faileth not to do. the jealous coxcomb angerly scratching his head, and wishing his wife halfe hangd, said: mistresse, this is very badly done, for you should keepe your selfe from all men, but your husband onely. that shall i never doe, answered shee, because (indeed) i love him dearely. why then (quoth our supposed confessor) i cannot give you any absolution. i am the more sorry sir, said she, i came not hither to tell you any leasings, for if i could, yet i would not, because it is not good to fable with such saint-like men as you are. you do therein (quoth hee) the better, and surely i am very sorry for you, because in this dangerous condition, it will bee the utter losse of your soule: neverthelesse, both for your husbands sake and your owne, i will take some paines, and use such especiall prayers in your name, which may (perchance) greatly avayle you. and i purpose now and then, to send you a novice or young clearke of mine, whom you may safely acquaint with your minde, and signifie to me, by him, whether they have done you good, or no: and if they prove helpefull, then will we further proceed therein. alas sir, said she, never trouble your selfe, in sending any body to our house; because, if my husband should know it, he is so extreamly jelous, as all the world cannot otherwise perswade him, but that he commeth thither for no honest intent, and so i shall live worse then now i do. fear not that, good woman, quoth he, but beleeve it certainly, that i will have such a care in this case, as your husband shall never speake thereof to you. if you can doe so sir, sayde she, proceed i pray you, and i am well contented. confession being thus ended, and she receiving such pennance as hee appointed, she arose on her feete, and went to heare masse; while our jealous woodcocke (testily puffing and blowing) put off his religious habite, returning home presently to his house, beating his braines al the the way as he went, what meanes he might best devise, for the taking of his wife and the friar together, whereby to have them both severely punished. his wife being come home from the chappell, discerned by her husbands lookes, that he was like to keepe but a sorry christmasse: yet he used his utmost industry, to conceale what he had done, & which she knew as well as himself. and he having fully resolved, to watch his own street doore the next night ensuing in person, in expectation of the friars comming, saide to his wife. i have occasion both to suppe and lodge out of my house this night, wherefore see you the streete doore to be surely made fast on the inside, and the doore at the middest of the staires, as also your own chamber doore, and then (in gods name) get you to bed. whereto she answered, that all should be done as hee had appointed. afterward, when she saw convenient time, she went to the chink in the wall, and making such a signe as shee was woont to doe: _phillippo_ came thither, to whom she declared all her mornings affayres, & what directions her husband had given her. furthermore she saide, certaine i am, that he will not depart from the house, but sit and watch the doore without, to take one that comes not heere. if therefore, you can climbe over the house top, and get in at our gutter window, you and i may conferre more familiarly together. the young gentleman being no dullard, had his lesson quickly taught him; and when night was come, _geloso_ (for so must wee tearme the cocke-braind husband) armes himselfe at all points, with a browne bill in his hand, and so he sits to watch his owne doore. his wife had made fast all the doores, especially that on the midst of the stayres, because he should not (by any means) come to her chamber; and so, when the houre served, the gentleman adventured over the house top, found the gutter window, and the way conducting him to her chamber, where i leave them to their further amorous conference. _geloso_, more then halfe mad with anger, first, because hee had lost his supper: next, having sitten almost all the night (which was extreamely cold and windie) his armor much molesting him, and yet he could see no friar come: when day drew neere, and hee ashamed to watch there any longer; conveighed himselfe to some more convenient place, where putting off his armes, and seeming to come from the place of his lodging; about the ninth houre, he found his doore open, entred in, & went up the stayres, going to dinner with his wife. within a while after, according as _geloso_ had ordred the businesse, a youth came thither, seeming to be the novice sent from the confessor, and he being admitted to speake with her, demanded, whether shee were troubled or molested that night passed, as formerly she had bin, and whether the partie came or no? the woman, who knew well enough the messenger (notwithstanding all his formall disguise) made answer: that the party expected, came not: but if hee had come, it was to no purpose; because her minde was now otherwise altred, albeit she changed not a jote from her amorous conclusion. what should i now further say unto you? _geloso_ continued his watch many nights afterward, as hoping to surprize the friar at his entrance, and his wife kept still her contented quarter, according as opportunitie served. in the conclusion, _geloso_ being no longer able to endure his bootlesse watching, nor some (more then ordinary) pleasing countenance in his wife: one day demaunded of her (with a very stearne and frowning brow) what secret sinnes shee had revealed to the ghostly father, upon the day of her shrift? the woman replyed, that she would not tell him, neyther was it a matter reasonable, or lawfull for her to doe. wicked woman, answered _geloso_: i knowe them all well enough, even in despight of thee, and every word that thou spakest unto him. but huswife, now i must further know, what the fryar is, with whom you are so farre in love, and (by meanes of his enchantments) lyeth with you every night; tell me what and who he is, or else i meane to cut your throate. the woman immediately made answer, it was not true, that she was in love with any fryar. how? quoth _geloso_, didst thou not thou confesse so much to the ghostly father, the other day when thou wast at shrift? no sir, sayde she, but if i did, i am sure he would not disclose it to you, except hee suffered you to bee there present, which is an article beyonde his dutie. but if it were so, then i confesse freely, that i did say so unto him. make an end then quickely wife (quoth _geloso_) and tell mee who the friar is. the woman fell into a hearty laughter, saying. it liketh me singularly well, when a wise man will suffer himselfe to be ledde by a simple woman, even as a sheepe is to the slaughter, and by the hornes. if once thou wast wise, that wisedome became utterly lost, when thou felst into that divellish frensie of jealousie, without knowing anie reason for it: for, by this beastlike and no manly humour, thou hast eclipsed no meane part of my glory, and womanly reputation. doest thou imagine husband, that if i were so blinded in the eyes of my head, as thou art in them which should informe thine understanding; i could have found out the priest, that would needs bee my confessor? i knew thee husband to be the man, and therefore i prepared my wit accordingly, to fit thee with the foolish imagination which thou soughtest for, and (indeed) gave it thee. for, if thou hadst beene wise, as thou makest the world to beleeve by outward apparance, thou wouldest never have expressed such a basenesse of minde, to borrow the coulour of a sanctified cloake, thereby to undermine the secrets of thine honest meaning wife. wherefore, to feede thee in thy fond suspition, i was the more free in my confession, and tolde thee truely, with whom, and how heinously i had transgressed. did i not tell thee, that i loved a fryar? and art not thou he whom i love, being a fryar, and my ghostly father, though (to thine owne shame) thou madst thy selfe so? i said moreover, that there is not any doore in our house, that can keepe it selfe shut against him, but (when he pleaseth) he comes and lies with me. now tell me husband, what doore in our house hath (at any time) bin shut against thee, but they are freely thine owne, & grant thee entrance? thou art the same friar that confest me, and lieth every night with me, and so often as thou sentst thy yong novice or clearke to me, as often did i truly returne thee word, when the same fryar lay with me. but (by jealousie) thou hast so lost thine understanding, that thou wilt hardly beleeve all this. alas good man, like an armed watchman, thou satst at thine owne doore all a cold winters night, perswading mee (poore silly credulous woman) that, upon urgent occasions, thou must needs suppe and lodge from home. remember thy selfe therefore better heereafter, become a true understanding man, as thou shouldst bee, and make not thy selfe a mocking stocke to them, who knoweth thy jealous qualities, as well as i do, and be not so watchfull over me, as thou art. for i sweare by my true honesty, that if i were but as willing, as thou art suspitious: i could deceive thee, if thou hadst an hundred eyes, as nature affords thee but two, and have my pleasures freely, yet thou be not a jot the wiser, or my credit any way impaired. our wonderfull wise _geloso_, who (very advisedly considred) that he had wholly heard his wives secret confession, and dreamed now on no other doubt beside, but (perceiving by her speeches) how hee was become a scorne to al men: without returning other answer, confirmed his wife to bee both wise and honest, and now when he hadde just occasion to be jealous indeede, hee utterly forsware it, and counted them all coxcombes that would be so misguided. wherefore, she having thus wisely wonne the way to her owne desires, and he reduced into a more humane temper: i hope there was no more neede, of clambring over houses in the night time like cats, nor walking in at gutter windowes, but all abuses were honestly reformed. _madame_ isabella, _delighting in the company of her affected friend, named_ lionello, _and she being likewise beloved by_ signior lambertuccio: _at the same time as shee had entertained_ lionello, _shee was also visited by_ lambertuccio. _her husband returning home in the very instant: shee caused_ lambertuccio _to run forth with a drawne sword in his hand, and (by that meanes) made an excuse sufficient for_ lionello _to her husband._ the sixth novell. _wherein is manifestly discerned, that if love be driven to a narrow straite in any of his attempts, yet hee can accomplish his purpose by some other supply._ wondrously pleasing to all the company, was the reported novell of madame _fiammetta_, every one applauding the womans wisedome, and that she had done no more, then as the jealous foole her husband justly deserved. but shee having ended, the king gave order unto madame _pampinea_, that now it was her turne to speake, whereupon, thus she began. there are no meane store of people who say (though very false and foolishly,) that love maketh many to be out of their wits, and that such as fall in love, do utterly loose their understanding. to mee this appeareth a very ydle opinion, as already hath beene approved by the related discourses, and shall also bee made manifest by another of mine owne. in our city of _florence_, famous for some good, though as many bad qualities, there dwelt (not long since) a gentlewoman, endued with choice beauty and admirable perfections, being wife to signior _beltramo_, a very valiant knight, and a man of great possessions. as oftentimes it commeth to passe, that a man cannot alwayes feede on one kind of bread, but his appetite will be longing after change: so fared it with this lady, named _isabella_, she being not satisfied with the delights of her husband; grew enamoured of a young gentleman, called _lionello_, compleate of person and commendable qualities, albeit not of the fairest fortunes, yet his affection every way sutable to hers. and full well you know (faire ladies) that where the mindes irreciprocally accorded, no dilligence wanteth for the desires execution: so this amorous couple, made many solemne protestations, untill they should bee friended by opportunity. it fortuned in the time of their hopefull expectation a knight, named signior _lambertuccio_, fell likewise in love with _isabella_: but because he was somewhat unsightly of person, and utterly unpleasing in the eye, she grew regardlesse of his frequent solicitings, and would not accept either tokens, or letters. which when hee saw, (being very rich and of great power) hee sought to compasse his intent by a contrary course, threatning her with scandall and disgrace to her reputation, and with his associates to bandie against her best friends. she knowing what manner of man he was, and how able to abuse any with infamous imputations, wisely returned him hopefull promises, though never meaning to performe any, but onely (lady-like) to flatter and foole him therewith. some few miles distant from _florence, beltramo_ had a castle of pleasure, and there his lady _isabella_ used to live all summer, as all other doe the like, being so possessed. on a day, _beltramo_ being ridden from home, and she having sent for _lionello_, to take the advantage of her husbands absence; accordingly he went, not doubting but to winne what he had long expected. signior _lambertuccio_ on the other side, meeting _beltramo_ riding from his castle, and _isabella_ now fit to enjoy his company: gallops thither with all possible speede, because hee would bee no longer delayed. scarcely was _lionello_ entred the castle, and receiving directions by the waiting woman, to her ladies chamber: but _lambertuccio_ gallopped in at the gate, which the woman perceiving, ranne presently and acquainted her lady with the comming of _lambertuccio_. now was shee the onely sorrowfull woman of the world; for nothing was now to bee feared, but stormes and tempests, because _lambertuccio_, spake no other, then lightning and thunder, and _lionello_, (being no lesse affraide then shee) by her perswasion crept behind the bed, where he hid himselfe very contentedly. by this time _lambertuccio_ was dismounted from his courser, which he fastened (by the bridle) to a ring in the wall, and then the waiting woman came to him, to guide him to her lady and mistresse: who stood ready at the staires head, graced him with a very acceptable welcome, yet marvelling much at his so sodaine comming. lady (quoth he) i met your husband upon the way, which granting mine accesse to see you; i come to claime your long delayed promise, the time being now so favourable for it. before he had uttered halfe these words, _beltramo_, having forgot an especiall evidence in his study, which was the onely occasion of his journey, came gallopping backe againe into the castell court, and seeing such a goodly gelding stand fastened there, could not redily imagine who was the owner thereof. the waiting woman, upon the sight of her masters entring into the court, came to her lady, saying: my master _beltramo_ is returned backe, newly alighted, and (questionlesse) comming up the staires. now was our lady _isabella_, ten times worse affrighted then before, (having two severall amourous suters in her house, both hoping, neither speeding, yet her credite lying at the stake for either) by this unexpected returne of her husband. moreover, there was no possible meanes, for the concealing of signior _lambertuccio_, because his gelding stood in the open court, and therefore made a shrewde presumption against her, upon the least doubtfull question urged. neverthelesse, as womens wits are alwayes best upon sudden constraints, looking forth of her window, and espying her husband preparing to come up: she threw her selfe on her day couch, speaking thus (earnestly) to _lambertuccio_. sir, if ever you loved mee, and would have me faithfully to beleeve it, by the instant safety both of your owne honour, and my life, doe but as i advise you. forth draw your sword, and, with a stearne countenance, threatning death and destruction: run downe the staires, and when you are beneath, say. i sweare by my best fortunes, although i misse of thee now heere, yet i will be sure to finde thee some where else. and if my husband offer to stay you, or moove any question to you: make no other answere, but what you formerly spake in fury. beside, so soone as you are mounted on horsebacke, have no further conference with him, upon any occasion whatsoever; to prevent all suspition in him, of our future intendments. _lambertuccio_ sware many terrible oathes, to observe her directions in every part, and having drawne forth his sword, grasping it naked in his hand, and setting worse lookes one the businesse, then ever nature gave him, because he had spent so much labour in vaine; he failed not in a jot of the ladies injunction. _beltramo_ having commanded his horse to safe custody, and meeting _lambertuccio_ discending downe the staires, so armed, swearing, and most extreamely storming, wondring extraordinarily as his threatning words, made offer to imbrace him, and understand the reason of his distemper. _lambertuccio_ repulsing him rudely, and setting foote in the stirrup, mounted on his gelding, and spake nothing else but this. i sweare by the fairest of all my fortunes, although i misse of thee heere: yet i will be sure to find thee some where else, and so he gallopped mainely away. when _beltramo_ was come up into his wives chamber, hee found her cast downe upon her couch, weeping, full of feare, and greatly discomforted; wherefore he said unto her, what is hee that signior _lambertuccio_ is so extreamely offended withall, and threatneth in such implacable manner? the lady arising from her couch, and going neere to the beds, because _lionello_ might the better heare her; returned her husband this answere. husband (quoth she) never was i so dreadfully affrighted till now; for, a young gentleman, of whence, or what he is, i know not, came running into our castle for rescue, being pursued by signior _lambertuccio_; with a weapon ready drawne in his hand. ascending up our stayres, by what fortune, i know not, he found my chamber doore standing open, finding me also working on my sampler, and in wonderfull feare and trembling. good madame (quoth hee) for gods sake helpe to save my life, or else i shall be slaine heere in your chamber. hearing his pittious cry, and compassionating his desperate case; i arose from my worke, and in my demaunding of whence, and what he was, that durst presume so boldly into my bed-chamber: presently came up signior _lambertuccio_ also, in the same uncivill sorte, as before i tolde you, swaggering and swearing, where is this traiterous villaine? heereupon, i stept (somewhat stoutly) to my chamber doore, and as hee offered to enter, with a womans courage i resisted him, which made him so much enraged against mee, that when hee saw mee to debarre his entrance; after many terrible and vile oathes and vowes, hee ranne downe the stayres againe, in such like manner as you chaunced to meete him. now trust mee deare wife (said _beltramo_) you behaved your selfe very well and worthily: for, it would have beene a most notorious scandall to us, if a man should bee slaine in your bed-chamber: and signior _lambertuccio_ carryed himselfe most dishonestly, to pursue any man so outragiously, having taken my castle as his sanctuary. but alas wife, what is become of the poore affrighted gentleman? introth sir (quoth she) i know not, but (somewhere or other) heereabout hee is hidden. where art thou honest friend? said plaine meaning _beltramo_; come forth and feare not, for thine enemy is gone. _lionello_, who had heard all the fore-passed discourse, which shee had delivered to her husband _beltramo_, came creeping forth amazedly (as one now very fearefully affrighted indeede) from under the further side of the bedde, and _beltramo_ saide to him, what a quarrell was this, between thee and furious _lambertuccio_? not any at all sir, replyed _lionello_, to my knowledge, which verily perswadeth me; that either he is not well in his wits, or else he mistaketh me for some other; because, so soone as he saw me on the way, somewhat neere to this your castle, he drew forth his sword, and swearing an horrible oath, said. traitor thou art a dead man. upon these rough words, i stayed not to question the occasion of mine offending him: but fled from him so fast as possibly i could; but confesse my selfe (indeede) over-bold, by presuming into your ladies bed chamber, which yet (equalled with her mercie) hath bin the onely meanes at this time, of saving my life. she hath done like a good lady, answered _beltramo_, and i do verie much commend her for it. but, recollect thy dismayed spirits together, for i will see thee safely secured hence, afterward, looke to thy selfe so well as thou canst. dinner being immediately made ready, and they having merrily feasted together: he bestowed a good gelding on _lionello_, and rode along with him to _florence_, where he left him quietly in his owne lodging. the selfe-same evening (according as _isabella_ had given enstruction) _lionello_ conferred with _lambertuccio_: and such an agreement passed betweene them, that though some rough speeches were noised abroad, to set the better colour on the businesse; yet al matters were so cleanly carried, that _beltramo_ never knew this queint deceitfull policy of his wife. lodovico _discovered to his mistresse madame_ beatrix, _how amorously he was affected to her. she cunningly sent_ egano _her husband into his garden, in all respects disguised like herselfe, while (friendly)_ lodovico _conferred with her in the meane while. afterward,_ lodovico _pretending a lascivious allurement of his mistresse, thereby to wrong his honest master, insted of her, beateth_ egano _soundly in the garden._ the seventh novell. _whereby is declared, that such as keepe many honest seeming servants, may sometime finde a knave among them, and one that proves to be over-sawcy with his master._ this so sodaine dexterity of wit in _isabella_, related in verie modest manner by madame _pampinea_, was not onely admired by all the company; but likewise passed with as generall approbation. but yet madam _philomena_ (whom the king had commanded next to succeede) peremptorily sayde. worthy ladies, if i am not deceived; i intend to tell you another tale presently; as much to be commended as the last. you are to understand then, that it is no long while since, when there dwelt in _paris_ a _florentine_ gentleman, who falling into decay of his estate, by over-bountifull expences; undertooke the degree of a merchant, and thrived so well by his trading, that he grew to great wealth, having one onely sonne by his wife, named _lodovico_. this sonne, partaking somewhat in his fathers former height of minde, and no way inclineable to deale in merchandize, had no meaning to be a shop-man, and therefore accompanied the gentlemen of _france_, in sundry services for the king; among whom, by his singular good carriage and qualities, he happened to be not meanly esteemed. while thus he continued in the court, it chanced, that certaine knights, returning from _jerusalem_, having there visited the holy sepulcher, and comming into company where _lodovico_ was: much familiar discourse passed amongst them, concerning the faire women of _france, england,_ and other parts of the world where they had bin, and what delicate beauties they had seene. one in the company constantly avouched, that of all the women by them so generally observed, there was not any comparable to the wife of _egano de galluzzi_, dwelling in _bologna_, and her name madam _beatrix_, reputed to be the onely faire woman of the world. many of the rest maintained as much, having bin at _bologna_, and likewise seene her. _lodovico_ hearing the woman to be so highly commended, and never (as yet) feeling any thought of amorous inclination; became sodainely toucht with an earnest desire of seeing her, and his minde could entertaine no other matter, but onely of travailing thither to see her, yea, and to continue there, if occasion so served. the reason for his journey urged to his father, was to visit _jerusalem_, and the holy sepulcher, which with much difficulty, at length he obtained his leave. being on his journey towards _bologna_, by the name of _anichino_, and not of _lodovico_, and being there arrived; upon the day following, and having understood the place of her abiding: it was his good happe, to see the lady at her window; she appearing in his eye farre more faire, then all reports had made her to be. heereupon, his affection became so enflamed to her, as he vowed, never to depart from _bologna_, untill he had obtained her love. and devising by what meanes he might effect his hopes, he grew perswaded (setting all other attempts aside) that if he could be entertained into her husbands service, and undergo some businesse in the house, time might tutor him to obtaine his desire. having given his attendants sufficient allowance, to spare his company, and take no knowledge of him, selling his horses also, and other notices which might discover him: he grew into acquaintance with the hoste of the house where he lay, revealing an earnest desire in himselfe, to serve some lord or worthy gentleman, if any were willing to give him entertainment. now beleeve me sir (answered the hoste) you seeme worthy to have a good service indeede, and i know a noble gentleman of this cittie, who is named _egano_: he will (without all question) accept your offer, for hee keepeth many men of verie good deserving, and you shall have my furtherance therein so much as may be. as he promised, so he performed, and taking _anichino_ with him unto _egano_: so farre he prevailed by his friendly protestations, and good opinion of the young gentleman; that _anichino_ was (without more ado) accepted into _eganoes_ service, then which, nothing could be more pleasing to him. now had he the benefit of dayly beholding his hearts mistresse, and so acceptable proved his service to _egano_, that he grew very farre in love with him: not undertaking any affayres whatsoever, without the advice and direction of _anichino_, so that he reposed his most especiall trust in him, as a man altogether governed by him. it fortuned upon a day, that _egano_ being ridden to flye his hawke at the river, and _anichino_ remaining behinde at home, madame _beatrix_, who (as yet) had taken no notice of _anichinoes_ love to her (albeit her selfe, observing his fine carriage and commendable qualities, was highly pleased to have so seeming a servant) called him to play at the chesse with her: and _anichino_, coveting nothing more then to content her, carried himselfe so dexteriously in the game, that he permitted hir still to win, which was no little joy to her. when all the gentle-women, and other friends there present, as spectators to behold their play, had taken their farewell, and were departed, leaving them all alone, yet gaming still: _anichino_ breathing forth an intire sigh, madame _beatrix_ looking merrily on him, said. tell me _anichino_, art not thou angrie, to see me win? it should appeare so by that solemne sigh. no truly madame, answered _anichino_, a matter of farre greater moment, then losse of infinite games at the chesse, was the occasion why i sighed. i pray thee (replyed the lady) by the love thou bearest me, as being my servant (if any love at all remain in thee towards me) give me a reason for that harty sigh. when he heard himselfe so severely conjured, by the love he bare to her, and loved none else in the world beside: he gave a farre more hart-sicke sigh, then before. then his lady and mistresse entreated him seriously, to let her know the cause of those two deepe sighes: whereto _anichino_ thus replyed. madam, if i should tell you, i stand greatly in feare of offending you: and when i have told you, i doubt your discovery thereof to some other. beleeve me _anichino_ (quoth she) therein thou neither canst, or shalt offend me. moreover, assure thy selfe, that i will never disclose it to any other, except i may do it with thy consent. madame (saide hee) seeing you have protested such a solemne promise to mee, i will reveale no meane secret unto you. so, with teares standing in his eyes, he told her what he was; where he heard the first report of her singular perfections, and instantly became** enamored of her, as the maine motive of his entring into her service. then, most humbly he entreated her, that if it might agree with her good liking, she would be pleased to commisserate his case; and grace him with her private favours. or, if shee might not be so mercifull to him; that yet she would vouchsafe, to let him live in the lowly condition as he did, and thinke it a thankefull duty in him, onely to love her. o singular sweetnesse, naturally living in faire feminine blood! how justly art thou worthy of praise in the like occasions? thou couldst never be wonne by sighes and teares; but hearty imprecations have alwayes prevailed with thee, making thee apt and easie to amorous desires. if i had praises answerable to thy great and glorious deservings, my voice should never faint, nor my pen waxe weary, in the due and obsequious performance of them. madam _beatrix_, well observing _anichino_ when he spake, and giving credit to his so solemne protestations; they were so powerfull in prevailing with her, that her senses (in the same manner) were enchanted; and sighes flew as violently from her, as before he had vented them: which stormy tempest being a little over-blowne, thus she spake. _anichino_, my hearts deere affected friend, live in hope, for i tell thee truly, never could gifts, promises, nor any courtings used to me by lords, knights, gentlemen, or other (although i have bin solicited by many) winne the lest grace or favour at my hand, no, nor move me to any affection. but thou, in a minute of time (compared with their long and tedious suing) hast expressed such a soveraigne potency in thy sweet words, that thou hast made me more thine, then mine owne: and beleeve it unfeinedly, i hold thee to be worthy of my love. wherefore, with this kisse i freely give it thee, and make thee a further promise, that before this night shall be fully past, thou shalt in better manner perceive it. adventure into my chamber about the houre of midnight, i will leave the doore open: thou knowest, on which side of the bed i use to rest, come thither and feare not: if i sleep, the least gentle touch of thy hand will wake me, and then thou shalt see how much i love thee. so, with a kinde kisse or two, the bargaine was concluded, she licensing his departure for that time, and he staying in hope of his hearts happinesse, till when, he thought every houre a yeare. in the meane while, _egano_ returned home from hawking, and so soone as he had supt (being very weary) he went to bed, and his ladie likewise with him, leaving her chamber doore open, according as she had promised. at the houre appointed, _anichino_ came, finding the doore but easily put too, which (being entred) softly he closed againe, in the same manner as he found it. going to the beds side where the lady lay, and gently touching her brest with his hand, he found her to be awake, and perceiving he was come according unto promise, shee caught his hand fast with hers, and held him very strongly. then, turning (as she could) towards _egano_, she made such meanes, as hee awaked, whereupon she spake unto him as followeth. sir, yesternight i would have had a fewe speeches with you: but, in regard of your wearinesse and early going to bed, i could not have any opportunity. now, this time and place being most convenient, i desire to bee resolved by you: among all the men retained into your service; which of them you do thinke to be the best, most loyall, and worthiest to enjoy your love? _egano_ answered thus: wife, why should you move such a question to me? do not you know, that i never had any servant heeretofore, or ever shall have heereafter, in whom i reposed the like trust as i have done, and do in _anichino_? but to what end is this motion of yours? i will tell you sir (quoth she) and then be judge yourself, whether i have reason to move this question, or no. mine opinion every way equalled yours, concerning _anichino_, & that he was more just and faithfull to you, then any could be amongest all the rest: but husband, like as where the water runneth stillest, the foord is deepest, even so, his smooth lookes have beguiled both you and me. for, no longer agoe, then this verie day, no sooner were you ridden foorth on hauking, but he (belike purposely) tarrying at home, watching such a leysure as best fitted his intent: was not ashamed to solicite mee, both to abuse your bed, and mine owne spotlesse honor. moreover, he prosecuted his impious purpose with such alluring perswasions: that being a weake woman, and not willing to endure over many amorous proofes (onely to acquaint you with his most sawcie immodestie, and to revenge your selfe uppon him as best you may; your selfe beeing best able to pronounce him guiltie) i made him promise, to meete him in our garden, presently after midde-night, and to finde mee sitting under the pine-tree, never meaning (as i am vertuous) to be there. but, that you may know the deceite and falshoode of your servant, i would have you to put on my night-gowne, my head attire, and chinne-cloath, and sitting but a short while there underneath the pine-tree: such is his insatiate desire, as he will not faile to come, and then you may proceede, as you finde occasion. when _egano_ heard these words, sodainely hee started out of bed, saying. doe i foster such a snake in mine owne bosome? gramercie wife for this politicke promise of thine, and beleeve mee, i meane to follow it effectually. so, on he put his ladies night-gown, her formall head attire and chin-cloth, going presently downe into the garden, to expect _anichinoes_ comming to the pine-tree. but before the matter grew to this issue, let me demand of you faire ladies, in what a lamentable condition (as you may imagine) was poore _anichino_; to bee so strongly detained by her, heare all his amorous suite discovered, and likely to draw very heavy afflictions on him? undoubtedly, he looked for immediate apprehension by _egano_, imprisonment and publike punishment for his so malapert presumption: and had it proved so, she had much renowned her selfe, and dealt with him but as he had justlie deserved. but frailtie in our feminine sex is too much prevalent, and makes us wander from vertuous courses, when we are wel onward in the way to them. madam _beatrix_, whatsoever passed betweene her and _anichino_, i know not, but, either to continue this new begunne league for further time, or, to be revenged on her husbands simplicity, in over-rashlie giving credit to so smooth a ly; this was her advise to him. _anichino_ quoth she, take a good cudgell in thy hand, then go into the garden so farre as the pine; and there, as if formerly thou hadst solicited mee unto this secret meeting, only but by way of approving my honestie: in my name, revile thy master so bitterly as thou canst, bestowing manie sound blowes on him with thy cudgell; yet urge the shame still (as it were) to mee, and never leave him, till thou hast beaten him out of the garden, to teach him keepe his bed another time. such an apt scholler as _anichino_ was in this kind, needs no tuturing, but a word is enough to a ready wit. to the garden goes he, with a good willow cudgell in his hand, and comming neere to the pine-tree, there he found _egano_ disguised like to his lady, who arising from the place where he sate, went with chearefull gesture to welcome him; but _anichino_ (in rough and stearne manner) thus spake unto him. wicked, shamelesse, and most immodest woman, art thou come, according to thine unchaste and lascivious promise? couldest thou so easily credite, (though i tempted thee, to trie the vertue of thy continencie) i would offer such a damnable wrong to my worthy master, that so deerely loves me, and reposeth his especiall confidence in me? thou art much deceived in me, and shalt finde, that i hate to be false to him. so lifting up the cudgell, he gave him therewith halfe a score good bastinadoes, laying them on soundly, both on his armes and shoulders: and _egano_ feeling the smart of them, durst not speake one worde, but fled away from him so fast as hee could, _anichino_ still following, and multiplying many other injurious speeches against him, with the epithites of strumpet, lustfull and insatiate woman. go thou lewde beast (quoth he) most unworthy the title of a lady, or to be wife unto so good a natured man, as my mayster is, to whom i will reveale thy most ungracious incivility to morrow, that he may punish thee a little better then i have done. _egano_ being thus well beaten for his garden walke, got within the doore, and so went up to his chamber againe: his lady there demanding of him, whether _anichino_ came according to his promise, or no? come? quoth egano, yes wife, he came, but deerely to my cost: for hee verily taking me for thee, hath beaten me most extreamly, calling me an hundred whores and strumpets, reputing thee to bee the wickedest woman living. in good sadnesse _beatrix_, i wondred not a little at him, that he would give thee any such vile speeches, with intent to wrong mee in mine honour. questionlesse, because hee saw thee to be joviall spirited, gracious and affable towardes all men; therefore hee intended to make triall of thine honest carriage. well sir (sayde shee) twas happy that hee tempted mee with words, and let you taste the proofe of them by deeds: and let him thinke, that i brooke those words as distastably, as you do or can, his ill deeds. but seeing he is so just, faithfull, and loyall to you, you may love him the better, and respect him as you finde occasion. whereto _egano_ thus replyed. now trust me wife, thou hast said very well: and drawing hence the argument of his setled perswasion; that he had the chastest woman living to his wife, and so just a servant, as could not be fellowed: there never was any further discoverie of this garden-night accident. perhaps, madame _beatrix_ and _anichino_ might subtilly smile thereat in secret, in regard that they knew more then any other else beside did. but, as for honest meaning _egano_, hee never had so much as the verie least mistrust of ill dealing, either in his lady, or _anichino_; whom hee loved and esteemed farre more respectively uppon this proofe of his honestie towards him, then hee would or could possibly have done, without a triall so playne and pregnant. arriguccio berlinghieri, _became immeasurably jelous of his wife_ simonida, _who fastened a thred about her great toe, for to serve as a signall, when her amorous friend should come to visite her._ arriguccio _findeth the fallacie, and while he pursueth the amorous friend, shee causeth her maide to lye in her bed against his returne: whom he beateth extreamly, cutting away the lockes of her haire (thinking he had doone all this violence to his wife_ simonida:) _and afterward fetcheth her mother & brethren, to shame her before them, and so be rid of her. but they finding all his speeches to be utterly false; and reputing him to bee a drunken jealous foole; all the blame and disgrace falleth on himselfe._ the eight novell. _whereby appeareth, that an husband ought to be very well advised, when he meaneth to discover any wrong offered his wife; except hee himselfe do rashly run into all the shame and reproach._ it seemed to the whole assembly, that madam _beatrix_, dealte somewhat strangely, in the manner of beguiling her husband; and affirmed also, that _anichino_ had great cause of fear, when she held him so strongly by her beds side, and related all his amorous temptation. but when the king perceyved, that madame _philomena_ sate silent, he turned to madam _neiphila_, willing her to supply the next place; who modestly smiling, thus began. faire ladies, it were an heavy burthen imposed on me, and a matter much surmounting my capacity, if i should vainely imagine, to content you with so pleasing a novell, as those have already done, by you so singularly reported: neverthelesse, i must discharge my dutie, and take my fortune as it fals, albeit i hope to finde you mercifull. you are to know then, that sometime there lived in our citie, a very welthy merchant, named _arriguccio berlinghieri_, who (as many merchants have done) fondly imagined, to make himselfe a gentleman by marriage. which that he might the more assuredly do, he took to wife a gentlewoman, one much above his degree or element, she being named _simonida_. now, in regard that he delighted (as it is the usuall life of a merchant) to be often abroad, and little at home, whereby shee had small benefit of his company; shee grew very forward in affection with a young gentleman, called signior _roberto_, who had solicited hir by many amorous meanes, and (at length) prevailed to win her favor. which favour being once obtained; affection gaddes so farre beyond al discretion, and makes lovers so heedelesse of their private conversations: that either they are taken tardy in their folly, or else subjected to scandalous suspition. it came to passe, that _arriguccio_, either by rumour, or some other more sensible apprehension, had received such intelligence concerning his wife _simonida_, as he grew into extraordinarie jealousie of her, refraining travaile abroad, as formerly he was wont to doe, and ceassing from his verie ordinary affayres, addicting all his care and endeavour, onely to be watchfull of his wife; so that he never durst sleepe, untill she were by him in the bed, which was no meane molestation to her, being thus curbd from her familiar meetings with _roberto_. neverthelesse, having a long while consulted with her wittes, to find some apte meanes for conversing with him, being thereto also very earnestlie still solicited by him; you shall heare what course she undertooke. her chamber being on the streete side, and somewhat juttying over it, she observed the disposition of her husband, that every night it was long before he fell asleepe: but beeing once falne into it, no noyse whatsoever, could easily wake him. this his solemne and sound sleeping, emboldned her so farre, as to meete with _roberto_ at the streete doore, which (while her husband slept) softly she would open to him, and there in private converse with him. but, because shee would know the certaine houre of his comming, without the least suspition of any: she hung a thred forth of her chamber window, descending downe, within the compasse of _robertoes_ reach in the street, and the other end thereof, guided from the window to the bed, being conveyed under the cloathes, and shee being in bed, she fastned it about her left great toe, wherewith _roberto_ was sufficiently acquainted, and thus enstructed withall; that at his comming, he should plucke the thred, & if her husband was in his dead sleep, she would let go the thred, and come downe to him: but if he slept not, she would hold it strongly, and then his tarrying would prove but in vaine; there could be no meeting that night. this devise was highly pleasing both to _roberto_ and _simonida_, being the intelligencer of their often meeting, and many times also advising the contrary. but in the end, as the quaintest cunning may faile at one time or another; so it fortuned one night, that _simonida_ being in a sound sleepe, and _arriguccio_ waking, because his drowsie houre was not as yet come: as he extended forth his legge in the bed, he found the thred, which feeling in his hand, and perceiving it was tyed to his wives great toe; it prooved apt tinder to kindle further jealousie, and now hee suspected some treachery indeede, and so much the rather because the thred guided (under the cloathes) from the bed to the window, and there hanging downe into the streete, as a warning to some further businesse. now was _arriguccio_ so furiously enflamed, that hee must needes bee further resolved in this apparant doubt: and because therein hee would not be deceived, softly he cut the thred from his wives toe, and made it fast about his owne; to trye what successe would ensue thereon. it was not long before _roberto_ came, and according as hee used to doe, hee pluckt the thred, which _arriguccio_ felt, but because hee had not tyed it fast, and _roberto_ pulling it over-hardly, it fell downe from the window into his hand, which he understood as his lesson, to attend her comming, and so hee did. _arriguccio_ stealing softly out of bed from his wife, and taking his sword under his arme, went downe to the doore, to see who it was, with full intent of further revenge. now, albeit he was a merchant, yet he wanted not courage, and boldnesse of spirit, and opening the doore without any noyse, onely as his wife was wont to doe: _roberto_, there waiting his entrance, perceived by the doores unfashionable opening, that it was not _simonida_, but her husband, whereupon he betooke himselfe to flight, and _arriguccio_ fiercely followed him. at the length, _roberto_ perceiving that flight avayled him not, because his enemy still pursued him: being armed also with a sword, as _arriguccio_ was; he returned backe upon him, the one offering to offend, as the other stood upon his defence, and so in the darke they fought together. _simonida_ awaking, even when her husband went foorth of the chamber, and finding the thred to be cut from her toe; conjectured immediately, that her subtle cunning was discovered, and supposing her husband in pursuite of _roberto_, presently she arose; and, considering what was likely to ensue thereon, called her chamber-maide (who was not ignorant in the businesse) and by perswasions prevailed so with her, that she lay downe in her place in the bed, upon solemne protestations and liberall promises, not to make her selfe knowne, but to suffer all patiently, either blowes, or other ill usage of her husband, which shee would recompence in such bountifull sort, as she should have no occasion to complaine. so, putting out the watch-light, which every night burned in the chamber, she departed thence, and sate downe in a close corner of the house, to see what would be the end of all this stirre, after her husbands comming home. the fight (as you have formerly heard) continuing betweene _roberto_ and _arriguccio_, the neighbours hearing of the clashing of their swords in the streets; arose out of their beds, and reproved them in very harsh manner. in which respect _arriguccio_, fearing to be knowne, and ignorant also what his adversary was (no harme being as yet done on either side) permitted him to depart; and extreamely full of anger, returned backe againe to his house. being come up into his bed-chamber, thus he began; where is this lewde and wicked woman? what? hast thou put out the light, because i should not finde thee? that shall not avayle thee, for i can well enough finde a drab in the darke. so, groping on to the beds side, and thinking hee had taken hold on his wife, he grasped the chamber-maide, so beating her with his fists, and spurning her with his feet, that all her face was bloody & bruised. next, with his knife he cut off a great deal of her haire: giving her the most villanous speeches as could be devised: swearing, that he would make her a shame to all the world. you need make no doubt, but the poore maide wept exceedingly, as she had good occasion to doe: and albeit many times she desired mercy, and that hee would not bee so cruell to her: yet notwithstanding, her voyce was so broken with crying, and his impacience so extreame, that rage hindered all power of distinguishing, or knowing his wives tongue from a strangers. having thus madly beaten her, and cut the lockes off from her head, thus he spake to her. wicked woman, and no wife of mine, be sure i have not done with thee yet; for, although i meane not now to beate thee any longer: i will goe to thy brethren, and they shall understand thy dishonest behaviour. then will i bring them home with me, and they perceiving how much thou hast abused both their honour and thine owne; let them deale with thee as they finde occasion, for thou art no more a companion for me. no sooner had he uttered these angry words, but hee went forth of the chamber, bolting it fast on the outward side, as meaning to keepe her safely inclosed, & out of the house he went alone by himselfe. _simonida_, who had heard all this tempestuous conflict, perceiving that her husband had lockt the streete doore after him, and was gone whether he pleased: unbolted the chamber doore, lighted a waxe candle, and went in to see her poore maide, whom she found to be most pittifully misused. she comforted her as well as she could, brought her into her owne lodging chamber, where washing her face and hurts in very soveraigne waters, and rewarding her liberally with _arriguccioes_ owne gold; she held her selfe to bee sufficiently satisfyed. so, leaving the maide in her lodging, and returning againe to her owne chamber: she made up the bed in such former manner, as if no body had lodged therein that night. then hanging up her lampe fresh fild with oyle, and clearly lighted, she deckt her selfe in so decent sort, as if she had bin in no bed all that night. then taking sowing worke in her hand, either shirts or bands of her husbands; hanging the lampe by her, and sitting downe at the stayres head, she fell to worke in very serious manner, as if shee had undertaken some imposed taske. on the other side, _arriguccio_ had travelled so farre from his house, till he came at last to the dwelling of _simonidaes_ brethren: where hee knockt so soundly, that he was quickely heard, and (almost as speedily) let in. _simonidaes_ brethren, and her mother also, hearing of _arriguccioes_ comming thither so late. rose from their beds, and each of them having a waxe candle lighted came presently to him, to understand the cause of this his so unseasonable visitation. _arriguccio_, beginning at the originall of the matter, the thred found tyed about his wives great toe, the fight and houshold conflict after following: related every circumstance to them. and for the better proofe of his words, he shewed them the thred it selfe, the lockes supposed of his wives haire, and adding withall; that they might now dispose of _simonida_ as themselves pleased, because she should remaine no longer in his house. the brethren to _simonida_ were exceedingly offended at this relation, in regard they beleeved it for truth, and in this fury, commanded torches to be lighted, preparing to part thence with _arriguccio_ home to his house, for the more sharpe reprehension of their sister. which when their mother saw, she followed them weeping, first entreating one, and then the other, not to be over rash in crediting such a slander, but rather to consider the truth thereof advisedly: because the husband might be angry with his wife upon some other occasion, and having outraged her, made this the meanes in excuse of himselfe. morever she said, that she could not chuse but wonder greatly, how this matter should thus come to passe; because she had good knowledge of her daughter, during the whole course of her education, faultlesse and blamelesse in every degree; with many other good words of her beside, as proceeding from naturall affection of a mother. being come to the house of _arriguccio_, entring in, and ascending up the stayres: they heard _simonida_ sweetly singing at her working; but pausing, upon hearing their rude trampling, shee demaunded, who was there. one of the angry brethren presently answered: lewde woman as thou art, thou shalt know soone enough who is heere: our blessed lady be with us (quoth _simonida_) and sweet saint frances helpe to defend me, who dare use such unseemely speeches? starting up and meeting them on the staire head: kinde brethren, (said she) is it you? what, and my loving mother too? for sweet saint charities sake, what may be the reason of your comming hither in this manner. shee being set downe againe to her worke, so neatly apparelled, without any signe of outrage offered her, her face unblemished, her haire comely ordered, and differing wholly from the former speeches of her husband: the brethren marvelled thereat not a little; and asswaging somewhat the impetuous torrent of their rage; began to demaund in coole blood, (as it were) from what ground her husbands complaints proceeded, and threatning her roughly, if she would not confesse the truth intirely to them. ave maria (quoth _simonida_, crossing her selfe) alas deare brethren, i know not what you say, or meane, nor wherein my husband should bee offended, or make any complaint at all of me. _arriguccio_ hearing this, looked on her like a man that had lost his senses: for well he remembred, how many cruell blowes he had given her on the face, beside scratches of his nailes, and spurnes of his feet, as also the cutting of her haire, the the least shew of all which misusage, was not now to be seene. her brethren likewise briefly told her, the whole effect of her husbands speeches, shewing her the thred, and in what cruell manner he sware hee did beate her. _simonida_, turning then to her husband, and seeming as confounded with amazement, said. how is this husband? what doe i heare? would you have me supposed (to your owne shame and disgrace) to be a bad woman, and your selfe a cruell curst man, when (on either side) there is no such matter? when were you this night heere in the house with mee? or when should you beate mee, and i not feele nor know it. beleeve me (sweete heart) all these are meerely miracles to me. now was _arriguccio_ ten times more mad in his minde, then before, saying. divell, and no woman, did wee not this night goe both together to bed? did not i cut this thred from thy great toe, tyed it to mine, and found the craftie compact betweene thee and thy minnion? did not i follow and fight with him in the streets? came i not backe againe, and beate thee as a strumpet should be? and are not these the locks of haire, which i my selfe did cut from thy head? alas sir (quoth she) where have you been? doe you know what you say? you did not lodge in this house this night, neither did i see you all the whole day and night, till now. but leaving this, and come to the matter now in question, because i have no other testimony then mine owne words. you say, that you did beate me, and cut those lockes of haire from my head. alas sir, why should you slander your selfe? in all your life time you did never strike me. and to approve the truth of my speeches, doe you your selfe, and all else heere present, looke on me advisedly, if any signe of blow or beating is to be seene on me. nor were it an easie matter for you to doe either to smite, or so much as lay your hand (in anger) on me, it would cost dearer then you thinke for. and whereas you say, that you did cut those lockes of haire from my head; it is more then either i know, or felt, nor are they in colour like to mine: but, because my mother and brethren shall be my witnesses therein, and whether you did it without my knowledge; you shall all see, if they be cut, or no. so, taking off her head attyre, she displayed her hayre over her shoulders, which had suffered no violence, neither seemed to bee so much as uncivilly or rudely handled. when the mother and brethren saw this, they began to murmure against _arriguccio_, saying, what thinke you of this sir? you tell us of strange matters which you have done, and all proving false, we wonder how you can make good the rest. _arriguccio_ looked wilde, and confusedly, striving still to maintaine his accusation: but seeing every thing to bee flatly against him, he durst not attempt to speake one word. _simonida_ tooke advantage of this distraction in him, and turning to her brethren, saide. i see now the marke whereat he aymeth, to make me doe what i never meante: namely, that i should acquaint you with his vile qualities, and what a wretched life i leade with him, which seeing hee will needes have me to reveale; beare with me if i doe it upon compulsion. mother and brethren, i am verily perswaded, that those accidents which he disclosed to you, hath doubtlesse (in the same manner) happened to him, and you shall heare how. very true it is, that this seeming honest man, to whom (in a lucklesse houre) you married me, stileth himselfe by the name of a merchant, coveting to be so accounted and credited, as holy in outward appearance, as a religious monke, and as demure in lookes, as the modestest maide: like a notorious common drunkard, is a taverne hunter, where making his luxurius matches, one while with one whore, then againe with another; hee causeth mee every night to sit tarrying for him, even in the same sort as you found me: sometimes till midnight, and otherwhiles till broad day light in the morning. and questionlesse, being in his wounted drunken humour, hee hath lyen with one of his sweet consorts, about whose toe he found the thred, and finding her as false to him, as he hath alwayes been to me: did not onely beat her, but also cut the haire from her head. and having not yet recovered his sences, is verily perswaded, and cannot be altered from it; but that hee performed all this villany to me. and if you doe but advisedly observe his countenance, he appeareth yet to be more then halfe drunke. but whatsoever he hath said concerning me, i make no account at all thereof, because he spake it in his drunkennesse, and as freely as i forgive him, even so (good mother and kinde brethren) let mee entreate you to do the like. when the mother had heard these words, and confidently beleeved her daughter: she began to torment her selfe with anger, saying. by the faith of my body daughter, this unkindnesse is not be endured, but rather let the dogge be hanged, that his qualities may be knowne, he being utterly unworthy, to have so good a woman to his wife, as thou art. what could he have done more, if he had taken thee in the open streete, and in company of some wanton gallants? in an unfortunate houre wast thou married to him, base jealous coxecombe as he is, and it is quite against sense, or reason, that thou shouldest be subject to his fooleries. what was hee, but a merchant of eale-skinnes or orenges; bred in some paltry countrey village; taken from hogge-rubbing; clothed in sheepes-sattin, with clownish startops, leather stockings, and caddies garters: his whole habite not worth three shillings: and yet he must have a faire gentlewoman to his wife, of honest fame, riches and reputation; when, comparing his pedegree with hers, hee is farre unfit to wipe her shooes. oh my deare sonnes, i would you had followed my counsell, and permitted her to match in the honourable family of _count guido_, which was much mooved, and seriously pursued. but you would needs bestow her on this goodly jewell; who, although shee is one of the choysest beauties in florence, chaste, honest and truely vertuous: is not ashamed at midnight, to proclaime her for a common whore, as if we had no better knowledge of her. but by the blessed mother of saint _john_, if you would be ruled by mine advise; our law should make him dearely smart for it. alas my sonnes, did i not tell you at home in our owne house, that his words were no way likely to prove true? have not your eyes observed his unmannerly behaviour to your sister? if i were as you are, hearing what he hath said, and noting his drunken carriage beside; i should never give over, as long as he had any life left in him. and were i a man, as i am a woman; none other then my selfe should revenge her wrongs, making him a publike spectacle to all drabbing drunkards. when the brethren had heard and observed all these occurrences; in most bitter manner they railed on _arriguccio_, bestowing some good bastinadoes on him beside, concluding thus with him in the end. quoth one of them, wee will pardon this shamefull abusing of our sister, because thou art a notorious drunkard: but looke to it (on perill of thy life) that we have no more such newes hereafter; for, beleeve it unfainedly, if any such impudent rumours happen to our eares, or so much as a flying fame thereof; thou shalt surely be paide for both faults together. so home againe went they, and _arriguccio_ stood like one that had neither life or motion, not knowing (whether what he had done) was true, or no, or if he dreamed all this while, and so (without uttering any word) he left his wife, and went quietly to bed. thus by her wisdome, she did not onely prevent an imminent perill: but also made a free and open passage, to further contentment with her amourous friend, yet dreadlesse of any distaste or suspition in her husband. lydia, _a lady of great beauty, birth, and honor, being wife to_ nicostratus, _governour of_ argos, _falling in love with a gentleman, named_ pyrrhus; _was requested by him (as a true testimony of her unfeigned affection) to performe three severall actions of her selfe. she did accomplish them all, and imbraced and kissed_ pyrrhus _in the presence of_ nicostratus; _by perswading him, that whatsoever he saw, was meerely false._ the ninth novell. _wherein is declared, that great lords may sometime be deceived by their wives, as well as men of meaner condition._ the novell delivered, by madame _neiphila_ seemed so pleasing to all the ladies; as they could not refraine from hearty laughter, beside much liberality of speech. albeit the king did oftentimes urge silence, and commanded _pamphilus_ to follow next. so, when attention was admitted, _pamphilus_ began in this order. i am of opinion, faire ladies, that there is not any matter, how uneasie or doubtfull soever it may seeme to be; but the man or woman that affecteth fervently, dare boldly attempt, and effectually accomplish. and this perswasion of mine, although it hath beene sufficiently approved, by many of our passed novels: yet notwithstanding, i shall make it much apparent to you, by a present discourse of mine owne. wherein i have occasion to speake of a lady, to whom fortune was more favourable, then either reason or judgement, could give direction. in which regard, i would not advise any of you, to entertaine so high an imagination of minde, as to tracke her footsteps of whom i am now to speake: because fortune containeth not alwayes one and the same disposition, neither can all mens eyes be blinded after one manner. and so proceed we to our tale. in _argos_, a most ancient citie of _achaya_, much more renowned by her precedent kings, then wealth, or any other great matter of worth: there lived as lieutenant or governour thereof, a noble lord, named _nicostratus_, on whom (albeit hee was well stept into yeares) fortune bestowed in a marriage a great lady, no lesse bold of spirit, then choisely beautifull. _nicostratus_, abounding in treasure and wealthy possessions, kept a goodly trains of servants, horses, houndes, hawkes, and what else not, as having an extraordinary felicity in all kinds of game, as singular exercises to maintaine his health. among his other servants and followers, there was a yong gentleman, gracefull of person, excellent in speech, and every way as active as no man could be more: his name _pyrrhus_, highly affected of _nicostratus_, and more intimately trusted then all the rest. such seemed the perfections of this _pyrrhus_, that _lydia_ (for so was the lady named) began to affect him very earnestly, and in such sort, as day or night shee could take no rest, but devised all meanes to compasse her harts desire. now, whether he observed this inclination of her towards him, or else would take no notice thereof, it could not be discerned by any outward apprehension: which moved the more impatiency in her, & drove her hopes to dispairing passions. wherein to finde some comfort and ease, she called an ancient gentlewoman of her chamber, in whom shee reposed especiall confidence, and thus she spake to her. _lesca_, the good turnes and favours thou hast received from me, should make thee faithfull and obedient to me: and therefore set a locke uppon thy lippes, for revealing to any one whatsoever, such matters as now i shall impart to thee; except it be to him that i command thee. thou perceivest _lesca_, how youthfull i am, apt to all sprightly recreations, rich, and abounding in all that a woman can wish to have, in regard of fortunes common & ordinary favours: yet i have one especiall cause of complaint: namely, the inequality of my mariage, my husband being over-ancient for me; in which regard, my youth finds it selfe too highly wronged, being defeated of those duties and delights, which women (farre inferiour to me) are continuallie cloyed withall, and i am utterly deprived of. i am subject to the same desires they are, and deserve to taste the benefit of them, in as ample manner, as they do or can. hitherto i have lived with the losse of time, which yet (in some measure) may be releeved and recompenced: for, though fortune were mine enemy in mariage, by such a disproportion of our conditions: yet she may befriend in another nature, and kindely redeeme the injury done me. wherefore _lesca_, to be as compleate in this case, as i am in all the rest beside; i have resolved upon a private friend, and one more worthy then any other; namely, my servant _pyrrhus_, whose youth carieth some correspondency with mine; and so constantly have i setled my love to him, as i am not well, but when i thinke on him, or see him: and (indeede) shall dye, except the sooner i may enjoy him. and therefore, if my life and well-fare be respected by thee, let him understand the integrity of mine affection, by such good means as thou findest it most expedient to be done: entreating him from me, that i may have some conference with him, when he shall thereto be solicited by me. the chamber-gentlewoman _lesca_, willingly undertooke the ladies embassie; and so soone as opportunity did favor her: having withdrawne _pyrrhus_ into an apt and commodious place, shee delivered the message to him, in the best manner she could devise. which _pyrrhus_ hearing, did not a little wonder thereat, never having noted any such matter; and therefore sodainly conceyved, that the lady did this onely to try him; whereupon, somewhat roundly and roughly, hee returned this answere. _lesca_, i am not so simple, as to credite any such message to be sent from my lady, and therefore be better advised of thy words. but admit that it should come from her, yet i cannot be perswaded, that her soule consented to such harsh language, far differing from a forme so full of beauty**. and yet admit againe, that her hart and tongue herein were relatives: my lord and master hath so farre honoured mee, and so much beyond the least part of merite in mee: as i will rather dye, then any way offer to disgrace him: and therefore i charge thee, never more to move mee in this matter. _lesca_, not a jot danted at his stearne words, presently she saide. _pyrrhus_, both in this and all other messages my lady shall command me, i will speake to thee whensoever shee pleaseth, receive what discontent thou canst thereby; or make presumption of what doubts thou maist devise. but as i found thee a senselesse fellow, dull, and not shaped to any understanding, so i leave thee: and in that anger parted from him, carrying backe the same answer to her lady. she no sooner heard it, but instantly shee wished her selfe to be dead; and within some few dayes after, she conferred againe with her chamber-woman, saying. _lesca_, thou knowest well enough, that the oxe falleth not at the first blow of the axe, neither is the victory won, upon a silly and shallow adventure: wherefore, i thinke it convenient, that once more thou shouldst make another tryall of him, who (in prejudice to me) standeth so strictly on his loyalty, and choosing such an houre as seemeth most commodious, soundly possesse him with my tormenting passions. bestirre thy wittes, and tippe thy tongue with a womans eloquence, to effect what i so earnestly desire: because, by languishing in this love-sicke affliction, it well bee the danger of my death, and some severe detriment to him, to be the occasion of so great a losse. _lesca_, comforted her lady, so much as lay in her power to doe, and having sought for _pyrrhus_, whom she found at good leysure; and, in a pleasing humour, thus she beganne. _pyrrhus_, some few dayes since i tolde thee, in what extreame agonies thy lady and mine was, onely in regarde of her love to thee: and now againe i come once more, to give thee further assurance thereof: wherefore, beleeve it unfeignedly, that if thy obstinacie continue still, in like manner as the other day it did, expect very shortly to heare the tydings of her death. it is my part therefore, to entreat thee, to comfort her long languishing desires: but if thou persist in thy harsh opinion, in stead of reputing thee a wise and fortunate yong man, i shall confesse thee to bee an ignoraunt asse. what a glorie is it to thee, to be affected of so faire and worthy a lady, beyond all men else whatsoever? next to this, tell me, how highly maist thou confesse thy selfe beholding to fortune, if thou but duly consider, how shee hath elected thee as sole soveraigne of her hopes, which is a crowne of honour to thy youth, and a sufficient refuge against all wants and necessities? where is any to thy knowledge like thy selfe, that can make such advantage of his time, as thou maist do, if thou wert wise? where canst thou find any one to go beyond thee in armes, horses, sumptuous garments, and gold, as will be heaped on thee, if _lydia_ may be the lady of thy love? open then thine understanding to my words, returne into thine owne soule, and bee wise for thy selfe. remember (_pyrrhus_) that fortune presents her selfe but once before any one, with cheerefull lookes, and her lappe wide open of richest favours, where if choice be not quickely made, before she folde it up, and turn her backe: let no complaint afterward be made of her, if the fellow that had so faire an offer, proove to be miserable, wretched, and a beggar, only thorow his owne negligence. beside, what else hath formerly bin saide, there is now no such neede of loyaltie in servants to their ladies, as should be among deare friends and kindred: but servants ought rather (as best they may) be such to their masters, as they are to them. doest thou imagine, that if thou hadst a faire wife, mother, daughter, or sister, pleasing in the eye of our _nicostratus_; he would stand on such nice tearmes of duty or loyaltie, as now thou doest to his ladie? thou wert a verie foole to rest so perswaded. assure thy selfe, that if entreaties and faire meanes might not prevaile, force, and compulsion (whatsoever ensued thereon) woulde winne the masterie. let us then use them, and the commodities unto them belonging, as they would us and ours. use the benefit of thy fortune, & beware of abusing her favour. she yet smiles on thee; but take heede least she turne her backe, it will then be over-late to repent thy folly. and if my ladie die through thy disdaine, be assured, that thou canst not escape with life, beside open shame and disgrace for ever. _pyrrhus_, who had often considered on _lescaes_ first message, concluded with himselfe; that if any more she moved the same matter: hee would returne her another kinde of answere, wholly yeelding to content his lady; provided, that he might remaine assured, concerning the intyre truth of the motion, and that it was not urged onely to trie him, wherefore, thus he replyed. _lesca_, do not imagine mee so ignorant, as not to know the certaintie of all thy former allegations, confessing them as freely as thou doest, or canst. but yet let mee tell thee withall, that i knowe my lord to be wise and judicious, and having committed all his affaires to my care and trust: never blame mee to misdoubt; least my ladie (by his counsell and advice) make thee the messenger of this motion, thereby to call my fidelitie in question. to cleare which doubt, and for my further assurance of her well meaning toward me; if she will undertake the performance of three such things as i must needes require in this case: i am afterward her owne, in any service she can command me. the first of them, is, that in the presence of my lord and master, she kill his faire faulcon, which so dearly hee affecteth. the second, to send me a locke or tuft of his beard, being puld away with her owne hand. the third and last, with the same hand also, to pluck out one of his best and soundest teeth, and send it mee as her loves true token. when i finde all these three effectually performed, i am wholly hers, & not before. these three strict impositions, seemed to _lesca_, and her ladie likewise, almost beyond the compasse of all possibility. nevertheles love, being a powerfull oratour in perswading, as also adventurous even on the most difficult dangers; gave her courage to undertake them all: sending _lesca_ backe againe to him, with full assurance, of these more then _herculean_ labours. moreover, her selfe did intend to adde a fourth taske, in regard of his strong opinion concerning the great wisedome of his lord and maister. after she had effected all the other three, she would not permit him to kisse her, but before his lords face: which yet should be accomplished in such sort, as _nicostratus_ himselfe should not beleeve it, although apparantly he saw it. well, (quoth _pyrrhus_) when all these wonders are performed, assure my ladie, that i am truelie hers. within a short while after, _nicostratus_ made a solemne feastivall (according as yearely he used to doe) in honour of his birth day, inviting many lords and ladies thereto. on which rejoycing day, so soone as dinner was ended, and the tables withdrawne: _lydia_ came into the great hall, where the feast was solemnly kept; very rich and costly apparrelled; and there, in presence of _pyrrhus_, and the whole assemblie, going to the perch whereon the faulcone sate, wherein her husband tooke no little delight, and having untyed her, as if shee meant to beare her on her fist: tooke her by the jesses, and beating her against the wal, killed her. _nicostratus_ beholding this, called out aloud unto her, saying. alas madame! what have you done? she making him no answere, but turning to the lords and ladies, which had dined there, spake in this manner. ill should i take revenge on a king, that had offended me, if i had not so much heart, as to wreake my spleene on a paltry hawke. understand then, worthy lords and ladies, that this faulcone hath long time robbed me of those delights, which men (in meere equitie) ought to have with their wives: because continually, so soone as breake of day hath appeared, my husband, starting out of bed, makes himselfe readie, presently to horsse, and with this faulcon on his fist, rides abroad to his recreation in the fields. and i, in such forsaken sort as you see, am left all alone in my bed, discontented and despised: often vowing to my selfe, to bee thus revenged as now i am, being with-held from it by no other occasion, but onely want of a fit and apt time, to do it in the presence of such persons, as might bee just judges of my wrongs, and as i conceive you all to be. the lords and ladies hearing these words, and beleeving this deed of hers to be done no otherwise, but out of her entire affection to _nicostratus_, according as her speeches sounded: compassionately turning towards him (who was exceedingly displeased) and all smiling, said. now in good sadnesse sir; madame _lydia_ hath done well, in acting her just revenge upon the hawke, that bereft her of her husbands kinde companie; then which nothing is more precious to a loving wife, and a hell it is to live without it. and _lydia_, being sodainly withdrawne into her chamber; with much other friendly and familiar talke, they converted the anger of _nicostratus_ into mirth and smiling. _pyrrhus_, who had diligently observed the whole cariage of this businesse, saide to himselfe. my ladie hath begun well, and proceeding on with no worse successe, will (no doubt) bring her love to an happy conclusion. as for the lady her selfe, she having thus kild the hawke, it was no long while after, but being in the chamber with her husband, and they conversing familiarly together: she began to jest with him, & hee in the like manner with her, tickling and toying each the other, till at the length she played with his beard, and now she found occasion aptly serving, to effect the second taske imposed by _pyrrhus_. so, taking fast hold on a small tuft of his beard, she gave a sodaine snatch, and plucked it away quite from his chin. whereat _nicostratus_ beeing angerly moved, she (to appease his distaste) pleasantly thus spake. how now my lord? why do you looke so frowningly? what? are you angry for a few loose haires of your beard? how then should i take it, when you plucke mee by the haire of my head, and yet i am not a jot discontented, because i know you do it but in jesting manner? these friendly speeches cut off all further contention, and she kepte charily the tuft of her husbands beard, which (the verie selfe-same day) shee sent to _pyrrhus_ her hearts chosen friend. but now concerning the third matter to be adventured, it drove her to a much more serious consideration, then those two which shee had already so well and exactly performed. notwithstanding, like a ladie of unconquerable spirit, and (in whom) love enlarged his power more and more: she sodainly conceited, what course was best to bee kept in this case, forming her attempt in this manner. upon _nicostratus_ wayted two young gentlemen, as pages of his chamber, whose fathers had given them to his service, to learne the manners of honourable courtship, and those qualities necessarily required in gentlemen. one of them, when _nicostratus_ sate downe to dinner or supper, stood in office of his carver, delivering him all the meats whereon he fed. the other (as taster) attended on his cup, and he dranke no other drinke, but what hee brought him, and they both were highly pleasing unto him. on a day, _lydia_ called these two youths aside; and, among some other speeches, which served but as an induction to her intended policy; she perswaded them, that their mouths yeelded an unsavoury & ill-pleasing smell, whereof their lord seemed to take dislike. wherefore she advised them, that at such times as they attended on him in their severall places: they should (so much as possibly they could) withdraw their heads aside from him, because their breath might not be noyous unto him. but withall, to have an especiall care, of not disclosing to any one, what she had told them; because (out of meere love) she had acquainted them therewith: which very constantly they beleeved, and followed the same direction as she had advised, being loath to displease, where service bound them to obey. choosing a time fitting for her purpose, when _nicostratus_ was in private conference with her, thus she began. sir, you observe not the behaviour of your two pages, when they wait on you at the table? yes but i do wife (quoth he) how squemishly they turn their heads aside from me, and it hath often bin in my minde, to understand a reason why they do so. seating herselfe by him, as if shee had some weighty matter to tell him; she proceeded in this manner. alas my lord, you shall not need to question them, because i can sufficiently resolve you therein: which (neverthelesse) i have long concealed, because i would not be offensive to you. but in regard, it is now manifestly apparant, that others have tasted, what (i immagined) none but my selfe did, i will no longer hide it from you. assuredly sir, there is a most strange and unwonted ill-savour, continually issuing from your mouth, smelling most noysomely, and i wonder what should be the occasion. in former times, i never felt any such foule breathing to come from you: and you, who do daily converse with so many worthy persons, should seeke meanes to be rid of so great an annoyance. you say verie true wife (answered _nicostratus_) and i protest to you on my credite, i feele no such ill smell, neither know what should cause it, except i have some corrupted tooth in my mouth. perhaps sir (quoth she) it may be so, and yet you feele not the savour which others do, yea, very offensively. so, walking with her to a window, he opened wide his mouth, the which nicely shee surveyed on either side, and, turning her head from him, as seeming unable to endure the savour: starting, and shrieking out alowd, she said. santa maria! what a sight is this? alas my good lord, how could you abide this, and for so long a while? heere is a tooth on this side, which (so farre as i can perceive) is not onely hollow and corrupted: but also wholly putrified and rotten, and if it continue still in your head, beleeve it for a truth, that it will infect and spoile all the rest neere it. i would therefore counsell you, to let it be pluckt out, before it breede your further danger. i like your counsell well _lydia_, replyed _nicostratus_, and presently intend to follow it; let therefore my barber be sent for, and, without any longer delay, he shall plucke it forth instantly. how sir? (quoth she,) your barber? uppon mine honour, there shall come no barber heere. why sir, it is such a rotten tooth, and standeth so fairely for my hand: that, without helpe or advice of any barber, let mee alone for plucking it forth, without putting you to any paine at all. moreover, let me tell you sir, those tooth-drawers are so rude and cruell, in performing such offices, as my heart cannot endure, that you should come within compasse of their currish courtesie, neither shall you sir, if you will be ruled by me. if i should faile in the manner of their facilitie, yet love & duty hath enstructed me, to forbeare your least paining, which no unmannerly barber will do. having thus spoken, and he well contented with her kinde offer, the instruments were brought, which are used in such occasions, all being commanded forth of the chamber, but onely _lesca_, who evermore kept still in her company. so, locking fast the doore, and _nicostratus_ being seated, as she thought fittest for her purpose, she put the tanacles into his mouth, catching fast hold on one of his soundest teeth: which, notwithstanding his loud crying, _lesca_ held him so strongly, that forth she pluckt it, and hid it, having another tooth readie made hot & bloody, very much corrupted and rotten, which she helde in the tanacles, and shewed to him, who was well-neere halfe dead with anguish. see sir (quoth she) was this tooth to be suffered in your head, and to yeeld so foule a smell as it did? he verily beleeving what she said, albeit hee had endured extreame paine, and still complained on her harsh and violent pulling it out: rejoyced yet, that he was now ridde of it, and she comforting him on the one side, and the anguish asswaging him on the other, he departed forth of the chamber. in the mean while, by _lesca_ she sent the sound tooth to _pyrrhus_, who (wondering not a little at her so many strange attempts; which hee urged so much the rather, as thinking their performance impossible, and, in meere loyall duty to his lord) seeing them all three to be notably effected; he made no further doubt of her intire love towardes him, but sent her assurance likewise, of his readinesse and serviceable diligence, whensoever she would command him. now, after the passage of all these adventures, hardly to bee undertaken by any other woman: yet she held them insufficient for his security, in the grounded perswasion of her love to him, except shee performed another of her owne, and according as shee had boldly promised. houres do now seeme dayes, and dayes multiplicitie of yeeres, till the kisse may be given, and receyved in the presence of _nicostratus_, yet hee himselfe to avouch the contrary. madam _lydia_ (upon a pretended sicknesse) keepeth her chamber, and as women can hardly be exceeded in dissimulation: so, shee wanted no wit, to seeme exquisitely cunning, in all the outwarde apparances of sicknesse. one day after dinner, shee being visited by _nicostratus_, and none attending on him but _pyrrhus_ onely: she earnestly entreated, that as a mitigation, to some inward afflictions which she felt, they would helpe to guide her into the garden. most gladly was her motion graunted, and _nicostratus_ gently taking her by one arme, and _pyrrhus_ by the other, so they conducted her into the garden, seating her in a faire floury grasse-plot, with her backe leaning to a peare-tree. having sitten there an indifferent while, and _pyrrhus_, being formerly enstructed, in the directions which she had given him, thus shee spake, some-what faintly. _pyrrhus_, i have a kinde of longing desire upon a sodaine, to taste of these peares: wherefore, climbe up into the tree, and cast me downe one or two; which instantly hee did. being aloft in the tree, and throwing downe some of the best and ripest peares; at length (according to his premeditated lesson) looking downe, he said. forbeare my lord, do you not see, in how weake and feeble condition my ladie is, being shaken with so violent a sicknesse? and you madam, how kinde and loving soever you are to my lord, are you so little carefull of your health, being but now come forth of your sicke chamber, to be ruffled and tumbled in such rough manner? though such dalliances are not amisse in you both; being fitter for the private chamber, then an open garden, and in the presence of a servant: yet time and place should alwaies bee respectively considered, for the avoiding of ill example, and better testimonie of your owne wisedomes, which ever should be like your selves. but if so soone, and even in the heate of a yet turbulent sickenesse, your equall love can admit these kisses and embraces: your private lodginges were much more convenient, where no servants eye can see such wantonnesse, nor you be reproved of indiscretion, for being too publique in your familiaritie. madame _lydia_, sodainely starting, and turning unto her husband, sayde. what doth _pyrrhus_ prate? is he well in his wittes? or is he franticke? no madame, replyed _pyrrhus_, i am not franticke. are you so fond as to thinke that i do not see your folly? _nicostratus_ wondering at his words, presently answered. now trust me _pyrrhus_, i think thou dreamest. no my lord, replyed _pyrrhus_, i dreame not a jot, neither do you, or my ladie: but if this tree could affoord the like kindnesse to me, as you do to her, there would not a peare bee left uppon it. how now _pyrrhus_? (quoth _lydia_) this language goeth beyond our understanding, it seemeth thou knowest not what thou saist. beleeve me husband, if i were as well as ever i have bin, i would climb this tree, to see those idle wonders which hee talketh of: for, while he continueth thus above, it appeareth, hee can finde no other prattle, albeit he taketh his marke amisse. heereupon, he commanded _pyrrhus_ to come downe, and being on the ground: now _pyrrhus_ (quoth he) tell me what thou saydst. _pyrrhus_, pretending an alteration into much amazement, straungely looking about him, saide; i know not verie well (my lord) what answere i should make you, fearing least my sight hath bin abused by error: for when i was aloft in that tree, it seemed manifestly to me: that you embraced my lady (though somewhat rudely, in regard of her perillous sicknesse, yet lovingly) and as youthfully as in your yonger daies, with infinite kisses, and wanton dalliances, such as (indeede) deserved a far more private place in my poore opinion. but in my descending downe, mee thought you gave over that amorous familiaritie, and i found you seated as i left you. now trust mee _pyrrhus_, answered _nicostratus_, thy tongue and wit have very strangely wandred, both from reason and all reall apprehension: because we never stirred from hence, since thou didst climbe up into the tree, neither mooved otherwise, then as now thou seest us. alas my lord (saide _pyrrhus_) i humbly crave pardon for my presumption, in reprooving you for medling with your owne: which shall make me hereafter better advised, in any thing what soever i heare or see. mervaile and amazement, encreased in _nicostratus_ far greater then before, hearing him to avouch still so constantly what he had seene, no contradiction being able to alter him, which made him rashly sweare and say. i will see my selfe, whether this peare-tree bee enchanted, or no: and such wonders to be seene when a man is up in it, as thou wouldst have us to beleeve. and being mounted up so hy, that they were safe from his sodaine comming on them, _lydia_ had soone forgotten her sicknes, and the promised kisse cost her above twenty more, beside verie kinde and hearty embraces, as lovingly respected and entertained by _pyrrhus_. which _nicostratus_ beholding aloft in the tree; cryed out to her, saying. wicked woman, what doest thou meane? and thou villain _pyrrhus_, darst thou abuse thy lord, who hath reposed so much trust in thee? so, descending in haste downe againe, yet crying so to them still: _lydia_ replyed, alas my lord, why do you raile and rave in such sort? so, hee found her seated as before, and _pyrrhus_ waiting with dutifull reverence, even as when he climbed up the tree: but yet he thought his sight not deceyved, for all their demure and formall behaviour, which made him walke up and downe, extreamely fuming and fretting unto himselfe, and which in some milder manner to qualifie, _pyrrhus_ spake thus to him. i deny not (my good lord) but freely confesse, that even as your selfe, so i, being above in the tree, had my sight most falsely deluded: which is so apparantly confirmed by you, and in the same sort, as there needeth no doubt of both our beguiling; in one and the same suspitious nature. in which case to be the more assuredly resolved, nothing can be questioned, but whether your beleefe do so farre misleade you, as to thinke, that my ladie (who hath alwayes bene most wise, loyall, and vertuous,) would so shamefullie wrong you: yea, and to performe it before your face, wherein i dare gadge my life to the contrary. concerning my selfe, it is not fit for mee, to argue or contest in mine owne commendation: you that have ever knowne the sincerity of my service, are best able to speake in my behalfe: and rather wold i be drawne in peeces with foure wilde horses, then bee such an injurious slave to my lord and master. now then, it can be no otherwise, but we must needs rest certainely perswaded, that the guile and offence of this false appearance, was occasioned by thee onely. for all the world could not make me otherwise beleeve, but that i saw you kisse and most kindely imbrace my lady: if your owne eyes had not credited the like behaviour in me to her, of which sinne, i never conceived so much as a thought. the lady (on the other side) seeming to be very angerly incensed, starting faintly upon her feet, yet supporting her selfe by the tree, said. it appeareth sir, that you have entertained a goodly opinion of me as, if i were so lewde and lasciviously disposed, or addicted to the very least desire of wantonnesse: that i would bee so forgetfull of mine owne honour, as to adventure it in your sight, and with a servant of my house? oh sir, such women as are so familiarly affected, need learne no wit of men in amourous matters; their private chambers shall be better trusted, then an open blabing and tell-tale garden. _nicostratus_, who verily beleeved what they had both said, and that neither of them would adventure such familiarity before his face: would talke no more of the matter, but rather studyed of the rarity of such a miracle, not seene, but in the height of the tree, and changing againe upon the descent. but _lydia_, containing still her collourable kinde of impatience, and angerly frowning upon _nicostratus_, stearnely saide. if i may have my will, this villanous and deceiving tree, shall never more shame me, or any other woman: and therefore _pyrrhus_, runne for an axe, and by felling it to the ground, in an instant, revenge both thy wrong and mine. doest not thou serve a worthy lord? and have not i a wise husband, who, without any consideration, will suffer the eye of his understanding to be so dazeled, with a foolish imagination beyond all possibility? for, although his eyes did apprehend such a folly, and it seemed to be a truth indeed: yet, in the depth of setled judgement, all the world should not perswade him, that it was so. _pyrrhus_ had quickely brought the axe, and hewing downe the tree, so soone as the lady saw it fall; turning her selfe to _nicostratus_, she said. now that i have seene mine honour and honesties enemy laid along; mine anger is past, and husband, i freely pardon you: intreating you heartily henceforward, not to presume or imagine, that my love eyther is, or can bee altred from you. thus the mocked and derided _nicostratus_, returned in againe with his lady and _pyrrhus_; where perhaps (although the peare-tree was cut downe) they could find as cunning meanes to over-reach him. _two citizens of_ siena, _the one named_ tingoccio mini, _& the other_ meucio di tora, _affected both one woman, called_ monna mita, _to whom the one of them was a gossip. the gossip dyed, and appeared afterward to his companion, according as he had formerly promised him to doe, and tolde him what strange wonders he had seene in the other world._ the tenth novell. _wherein such men are covertly reprehended, who make no care or conscience at all of those things that should preserve them from sinne._ now there remained none but the king himselfe, last of all to recount his novell; who, after hee heard the ladies complaints indifferently pacified, for the rash felling downe of such a precious peare-tree; thus he began. faire ladies, it is a case more then manifest, that every king, who will be accounted just and upright: should first of all, and rather then any other, observe those lawes which he himselfe hath made; otherwise he ought to be reputed as a servant, worthy of punishment, and no king. into which fault and reprehension, i your king, shall well neere be constrained to fall; for yesterday i enacted a law, upon the forme of our discoursing, with full intent, that this day i would not use any part of my priviledge; but being subject (as you all are) to the same law, i should speake of that argument, which already you have done. wherein, you have not onely performed more then i could wish, upon a subject so sutable to my minde: but in every novell, such variety of excellent matter, such singular illustrations, and delicate eloquence hath flowne from you all; as i am utterly unable to invent any thing (notwithstanding the most curious search of my braine) apt or fit for the purpose, to paragon the meanest of them already related. and therefore seeing i must needs sinne in the law established by my selfe; i tender my submission, as worthy of punishment, or what amends else you please to enjoyne mee. now, as returned to my wonted priviledge, i say, that the novell recounted by madame _eliza_, of the fryar godfather and his gossip _agnesia_, as also the sottishnesse of the _senese_ her husband, hath wrought in me (worthy ladies) to such effect; as, forbearing to speake any more of these wily prancks, which witty wives exercise on their simple husbands; i am to tell you a pretty short tale; which, though there is matter enough in it, not worthy the crediting, yet partly it will bee pleasing to heare. sometime there lived in _sienna_ two popular men; the one being named _tingoccio mini_ and the other _meucio de tora_; men simple, and of no understanding, both of them dwelling in _porta salaia_. these two men lived in such familiar conversation together, and expressed such cordiall affection each to other, as they seldome walked asunder; but (as honest men use to doe) frequented churches and sermons, oftentimes hearing, both what miseries and beatitudes were in the world to come, according to the merits of their soules that were departed out of this life, and found their equall repaiment in the other. the manifold repetition of these matters, made them very earnestly desirous to know, by what meanes they might have tydings from thence, for their further confirmation. and finding all their endeavours utterly frustrated, they made a solemne vow and promise (each to other under oath) that hee which first dyed of them two, should returne backe againe (so soone as possibly he could) to the other remaining alive, and tell him such tydings as hee desired to heare. after the promise was thus faithfully made, and they still keeping company, as they were wont to doe: it fortuned, that _tingoccio_ became gossip to one, named _ambrosito anselmino_, dwelling in _camporeggio_, who by his wife, called _monna mita_, had a sweet and lovely sonne. _tingoccio_ often resorting thither, and consorted with his companion _meucio_; the she-gossip, being a woman worthy the loving, faire and comely of her person: _tingoccio_, notwithstanding the gossipship betweene them, had more then a moneths minde to his godchilds mother. _meucio_ also fell sicke of the same disease, because shee seemed pleasing in his eye, and _tingoccio_ gave her no meane commendations; yet, carefully they concealed their love to themselves, but not for one & the same occasion. because _tingoccio_ kept it closely from _meucio_, lest he should hold it disgracefull in him, to beare amourous affection to his gossip, and thought it unfitting to bee knowne. but _meucio_ had no such meaning, for hee knew well enough that _tingoccio_ loved her, and therefore conceived in his minde, that if he discovered any such matter to him: he will (quoth he) be jealous of me, and being her gossip, which admitteth his conference with her when himselfe pleaseth; he may easily make her to distaste me, and therefore i must rest contented as i am. their love continuing on still in this kinde, _tingoccio_ prooved so fortunate in the businesse, that having better meanes then his companion, and more prevayling courses, when, where, and how to court his mistresse, which seemed to forward him effectually. all which _meucio_ plainely perceived, and though it was tedious and wearisome to him, yet hoping to finde some successe at length: he would not take notice of any thing, as fearing to infringe the amity betweene him and _tingoccio_, and so his hope to be quite supplanted. thus the one triumphing in his loves happinesse, and the other hoping for his felicity to come; a lingaring sickenesse seazed on _tingoccio_, which brought him to so low a condition, as at the length he dyed. about some three or foure nights after, _meucio_ being fast asleepe in his bed, the ghoste of _tingoccio_ appeared to him, and called so loude, that _meucio_ awaking, demanded who called him? i am thy friend _tingoccio_, replied the ghoste, who according to my former promise made, am come again in vision to thee, to tell thee tidings out of the nether world. _meucio_ was a while somewhat amazed; but, recollecting his more manly spirits together, boldly he said. my brother and friend, thou art heartily welcome: but i thought thou hadst beene utterly lost. those things (quoth _tingoccio_) are lost, which cannot be recovered againe, and if i were lost, how could i then be heere with thee? alas _tingoccio_, replyed _meucio_, my meaning is not so: but i would be resolved, whether thou art among the damned soules, in the painefull fire of hell torments, or no? no (quoth _tingoccio_) i am not sent thither, but for divers sinnes by mee committed i am to suffer very great and grievous paines. then _meucio_ demaunded particularly, the punishments inflicted there, for the severall sinnes committed heere: wherein _tingoccio_ fully resolved him. and upon further question, what hee would have to be done for him here, made answere, that _meucio_ should cause masses, prayers and almes deeds to be performed for him, which (he said) were very helpefull to the soules abiding there, and _meucio_ promised to see them done. as the ghost was offering to depart, _meucio_ remembred _tingoccioes_ gossip _monna mita_, and raysing himselfe higher upon his pillowe, said. my memorie informeth me, friend _tingoccio_, of your kinde gossip _monna mita_, with whom (when you remained in this life) i knew you to be very familiar: let me intreat you then to tell me, what punishment is inflicted on you there, for that wanton sinne committed heere? oh brother _meucio_, answered _tingoccio_, so soone as my soule was landed there, one came immediately to me, who seemed to know all mine offences readily by heart, and forthwith commanded, that i should depart thence into a certaine place, where i must weepe for my sinnes in very grievous paines. there i found more of my companions, condemned to the same punishment as i was, and being among them, i called to minde some wanton dalliances, which had passed betweene my gossip and me, and expecting therefore farre greater afflictions, then as yet i felt (although i was in a huge fire, and exceedingly hot) yet with conceite of feare, i quaked and trembled wondrously. one of my other consorts being by me, and perceiving in what an extreame agony i was; presently said unto me. my friend, what hast thou done more, then any of us here condemned with thee, that thou tremblest and quakest, being in so hot a fire? oh my friend (quoth i) i am in feare of a greater judgement then this, for a grievous offence by mee heretofore committed while i lived. then hee demaunded of mee what offence it was, whereto thus i answered. it was my chance in the other world, to be godfather at a childs christning, and afterward i grew so affectionate to the childs mother, as (indeed) i kissed her twice or thrise. my companyon laughing at me in mocking manner, replyed thus. goe like an asse as thou art, and be no more afraid hereafter, for here is no punishment inflicted, in any kinde whatsoever, for such offences of frailty committed, especially with gossips, as i my selfe can witnesse. now day drew on, and the cockes began to crow, a dreadfull hearing to walking spirits, when _tingoccio_ said to _meucio_. farewell my friendly companion, for i may tarry no longer with thee, and instantly hee vanished away. _meucio_ having heard this confession of his friend, and verily beleeving it for a truth, that no punishment was to be inflicted in the future world, for offences of frailty in this life, and chiefly with gossips: began to condemne his owne folly, having bin a gossip to many wives, yet modesty restrained him from such familiar offending. and therefore being sorry for this grosse ignorance, hee made a vowe to be wiser hereafter. and if fryar _reynard_ had been acquainted with this kind of shrift (as doubtlesse he was, though his gossip _agnesia_ knew it not) he needed no such syllogismes, as he put in practise, when he converted her to his lustfull knavery, in the comparison of kinred by him moved, concerning her husband, the childe and himselfe. but, these are the best fruits of such fryerly confessions, to compasse the issue of their inordinate appetites; yet clouded with the cloake of religion, which hath beene the overthrow of too many. * * * * * by this time the gentle blast of _zephirus_ began to blow, because the sunne grew neere his setting, wherewith the king concluded his novell, and none remaining more to be thus imployed: taking the crowne from off his owne head, he placed it on madame _laurettaes_, saying, madame, i crowne you with your owne crowne, as queene of our company. you shall henceforth command as lady and mistresse, in such occasions as shall be to your liking, and for the contentment of us all; with which words he set him downe. and madame _lauretta_ being now created queene, shee caused the master of the houshold to bee called, to whom she gave command, that the tables should be prepared in the pleasant vally, but at a more convenient houre, then formerly had beene, because they might (with better ease) returne backe to the pallace. then shee tooke order likewise, for all such other necessary matters, as should bee required in the time of her regiment: and then turning her selfe to the whole company, she began in this manner. it was the will of _dioneus_ yesternight, that our discourses for this day, should concerne the deceits of wives to their husbands. and were it not to avoyde taxation, of a spleenitive desire to be revenged, like the dog being bitten, biteth againe: i could command our to morrows conference, to touch mens treacheries towards their wives. but because i am free from any such fiery humour, let it be your generall consideration, to speake of such queint beguylings, as have heretofore past, either of the woman to the man, the man to the woman, or of one man to another: and i am of opinion, that they will yeeld us no lesse delight, then those related (this day) have done. when she had thus spoken, she rose; granting them all liberty, to goe recreate themselves untill supper time. the ladies being thus at their owne disposing, some of them bared their legges and feete, to wash them in the coole current. others, not so minded, walked on the greene grasse, and under the goodly spreading trees. _dioneus_ and madame _fiammetta_, they sate singing together, the love-warre betweene _arcit_ and _palemon_. and thus with diversity of disports, in choice delight and much contentment, all were imployed, till supper drew neere. when the houre was come, and the tables covered by the ponds side: we need not question their dyet and dainties, infinite birds sweetly singing about them, as no musicke in the world could be more pleasing; beside calme windes, fanning their faces from the neighbouring hilles (free from flyes, or the least annoyance) made a delicate addition to their pleasure. no sooner were the tables withdrawne, and all risen: but they fetcht a few turnings about the vally, because the sunne was not (as yet) quite set. then in the coole evening, according to the queenes appointment: in a soft and gentle pace, they walked homeward: devising on a thousand occasions, as well those which the dayes discourses had yeelded, as others of their owne inventing beside. it was almost darke night, before they arrived at the pallace; where, with variety of choice wines, and abounding plenty of rare banquetting, they out-wore the little toile and wearinesse, which the long walke had charged them withall. afterward, according to their wonted order, the instruments being brought and played on, they fell to dancing about the faire fountaine; _tindaro_ intruding (now and then) the sound of his bagpipe, to make the musicke seeme more melodious. but in the end, the queene commanded madame _philomena_ to sing; whereupon the instruments being tuned fit for the purpose, thus she began. the song. the chorus sung by the whole company. _wearisome is my life to me, because i cannot once againe returne; unto the place which made me first to mourne._ _nothing i know, yet feele a powerfull fire, burning within my brest, through deepe desire; to be once more where first i felt unrest, which cannot be exprest. o my sole good! o my best happinesse! why am i thus restrainde? is there no comfort in this wretchednesse? then let me live content, to be thus painde. wearisome is my life to me, &c._ _i cannot tell what was that rare delight, which first enflamde my soule, and gave command in spight, that i should find no ease by day or night, but still live in controule. i see, i heare, and feele a kinde of blisse, yet find no forme at all: other in their desire, finde blessednesse, but i have none, nor thinke i ever shall. wearisome is my life to me, &c._ _tell me if i may hope in following dayes, to have but one poore sight, of those bright sunny rayes, dazeling my sence, did o'recome me quite, bequeath'd to wandring wayes. if i be posted off and may not prove. to have the smallest grace: or but to know, that this proceeds from love, why should i live despisde in every place? wearisome is my life to me, &c._ _me thinkes milde favour whispers in mine eare, and bids me not despaire; there will a time appeare to quell and quite confound consuming care, and joy surmount proud feare. in hope that gracious time will come at length, to cheare my long dismay: my spirits reassume your former strength, and never dread to see that joyfull day. wearisome is my life to me, because i cannot once againe returne; unto the place which made me first to mourne._ this song gave occasion to the whole company, to imagine, that some new and pleasing apprehension of love, constrained madame _philomena_ to sing in this manner. and because (by the discourse thereof) it plainely appeared, that shee had felt more then shee saw, shee was so much the more happy, and the like was wished by all the rest. wherefore, after the song was ended; the queene remembring, that the next day following was friday, turning her selfe graciously to them all, thus she spake. you know noble ladies, and you likewise most noble gentlemen, that to morrow is the day consecrated to the passion of our blessed lord and saviour, which (if you have not forgotten it, as easily you cannot) we devoutly celebrated, madame _neiphila_ being then queene, ceasing from all our pleasant discoursing, as we did the like on the saturday following, sanctifying the sacred sabboth, in due regard of it selfe. wherefore, being desirous to imitate precedent good example, which in worthy manner shee began to us all: i hold it very decent and necessary, that we should asttaine to morrow, and the day ensuing, from recounting any of our pleasant novels, reducing to our memories, what was done (as on those dayes) for the salvation of our soules. this holy and religious motion made by the queene, was commendably allowed by all the assembly, and therefore, humbly taking their leave of her, and an indifferent part of the night being already spent; severally they betooke themselves to their chambers. _the end of the seaventh day._ the eight day. whereon all the discourses, passe under the rule and government, of the honourable ladie lauretta. and the argument imposed, is, concerning such wittie deceyvings; as have, or may be put in practise, by wives to their husbands; husbands to their wives: or one man towards another. the induction. earely on the sonday morning, _aurora_ shewing her selfe bright and lovely; the sunnes golden beames beganne to appeare, on the toppes of the neere adjoyning mountaines; so, that hearbes, plants, trees, and all things else, were verie evidently to be discerned. the queene and her companie, being all come foorth of their chambers, and having walked a while abroad, in the goodly greene meadowes, to taste the sweetnesse of the fresh and wholesome ayre, they returned backe againe into the palace, because it was their dutie so to do. afterward, betweene the houres of seaven and eight, they went to heare masse, in a faire chappell neere at hand, and thence returned to their lodgings. when they had dined merrily together, they fell to their wonted singing and dauncing: which beeing done, such as were so pleased (by license of the queene first obtained) went either to their rest, or such exercises as they tooke most delight in. when midday, and the heate thereof was well over-past, so that the aire seemed mild and temperate: according as the queene had commanded; they were all seated againe about the fountaine, with intent to prosecute their former pastime. and then madame _neiphila_, by the charge imposed on her, as first speaker for this day, beganne as followeth. gulfardo _made a match or wager, with the wife of_ gasparuolo, _for the obtaining of her amorous favour, in regard of a summe of money first to be given her. the money hee borrowed of her husband, and gave it in payment to her, as in case of discharging him from her husbands debt. after his returne home from_ geneway, _hee told him in the presence of his wife, how he had payde the whole summe to her, with charge of delivering it to her husband, which she confessed to be true, albeit greatly against her will._ the first novell. _wherein is declared, that such women as will make sale of their honestie, are sometimes over-reached in their payment, and justly served as they should be._ seeing it is my fortune, gracious ladies, that i must give beginning to this dayes discoursing, by some such novel which i thinke expedient; as duty bindeth me, i am therewith well contented. and because the deceits of women to men, have beene at large and liberally related; i will tell you a subtile tricke of a man to a woman. not that i blame him for the deede, or thinke the deceyte not well fitted to the woman: but i speake it in a contrarie nature, as commending the man, and condemning the woman very justly, as also to shew, how men can as well beguile those crafty companions, which least beleeve any such cunning in them, as they that stand most on their artificiall skill. howbeit, to speake more properly, the matter by me to be reported, deserveth not the reproachfull title of deceite, but rather of a recompence duly returned: because women ought to be chaste and honest, & to preserve their honour as their lives, without yeelding to the contamination thereof, for any occasion whatsoever. and yet (neverthelesse, in regard of our frailty) many times we proove not so constant as we should be: yet i am of opinion, that she which selleth her honestie for money, deserveth justly to be burned. whereas on the contrary, she that falleth into the offence, onely through intire affection (the powerfull lawes of love beeing above all resistance) in equity meriteth pardon, especially of a judge not over-rigorous: as not long since wee heard from _philostratus_, in revealing what hapned to madam _phillippa de prato_, upon the dangerous edict. understand then, my most worthy auditors, that there lived sometime in _millaine_ an _almaigne_ soldiour, named _gulfardo_, of commendable carriage in his person, and very faithfull to such as he served, a matter not common among the _almaignes_. and because he made just repayment, to every one which lent him monies; he grew to such especiall credit, and was so familiar with the very best marchants; as (manie times) he could not be so ready to borrow, as they were willing alwaies to lend him. he thus continuing in the cittie of _millaine_, fastened his affection on a verie beautifull gentlewoman, named mistresse _ambrosia_, wife unto a rich merchant, who was called signior _gasparuolo sagastraccio_, who had good knowledge of him, and respectively used him. loving this gentlewoman with great discretion, without the least apprehension of her husband: he sent upon a day to entreate conference with her, for enjoying the fruition of her love, and she should find him ready to fulfill whatsoever she pleased to command him, as, at any time he would make good his promise. the gentlewoman, after divers of these private solicitings, resolutely answered, that she was as ready to fulfill the request of _gulfardo_, provided, that two especiall considerations might ensue thereon. first, the faithfull concealing thereof from any person living. next, because she knew him to be rich, and she had occasion to use two hundred crowns, about businesse of important consequence: he should freely bestow so many on her, and (ever after) she was to be commanded by him. _gulfardo_ perceiving the covetousnesse of this woman, who (notwithstanding his doting affection) he thought to be intirely honest to her husband: became so deepely offended at her vile answere, that his fervent love converted into as earnest loathing her; determining constantlie to deceive her, and to make her avaritious motion, the only means whereby to effect it. he sent her word, that he was willing to performe her request, or any farre greater matter for her: in which respect, he onely desired for to know, when she would be pleased to have him come see her, and to receive the money of him? no creature hee acquainted with his setled purpose, but onely a deere friend and kinde companion, who alwayes used to keepe him company, in the neerest occasions that concerned him. the gentlewoman, or rather most disloyall wife, uppon this answer sent her, was extraordinarily jocond and contented, returning him a secret letter, wherein she signified: that _gasparuolo_ her husband, had important affaires which called him to _geneway_: but he should understand of his departure, and then (with safety) he might come see her, as also his bringing of the crownes. in the meane while, _gulfardo_ having determined what he would do, watched a convenient time, when he went unto _gasparuolo_, and sayde: sir, i have some businesse of maine importance, and shall neede to use but two hundred crownes onely: i desire you to lend me so many crownes, upon such profite as you were wont to take of mee, at other times when i have made use of you, and i shall not faile you at my day. _gasparuolo_ was well contented with the motion, and made no more adoe, but counted downe the crownes: departing thence (within few dayes after) for _geneway_, according** to his wives former message; she giving _gulfardo_ also intelligence of his absence, that now (with safety) hee might come see her, and bring the two hundred crownes with him. _gulfardo_, taking his friend in his company, went to visite mistresse _ambrosia_, whom he found in expectation of his arrivall, and the first thing he did, he counted downe the two hundred crownes; and delivering them to her in the presence of his friend, saide: mistresse _ambrosia_, receive these two hundred crownes, which i desire you to pay unto your husband on my behalfe, when he is returned from _geneway. ambrosia_, receyved the two hundred crownes, not regarding wherefore _gulfardo_ used these words: because shee verily beleeved, that hee spake in such manner, because his friend should take no notice, of his giving them to her, upon any covenant passed betweene them; whereuppon, she sayde. sir, i will pay them to my husband for you; and cause him to give you a sufficient discharge: but first i will count them over my selfe, to see whether the summe be just, or no. and having drawne them over upon the table, the summe containing truly two hundred crownes (wherewith she was most highly contented) she lockt them safe uppe in her cuppe-boord, and _gulfardoes_ friend being gone (as formerly it was compacted betweene them) shee came to converse more familiarly with him, having provided a banquet for him. what passed between them afterward, both then, and oftentimes beside, before her husbande returned home, is a matter out of my element, and rather requires my ignorance then knowledge. when _gasparuolo_ was come from _geneway, gulfardo_ observing a convenient time, when he was sitting at the doore with his wife; tooke his friend with him, and comming to _gasparuolo_, said. worthy sir, the two hundred crownes which you lent me, before your journy to _geneway_, in regard they could not serve my turne, to compasse the businesse for which i borrowed them: within a day or two after, in the presence of this gentleman my friend, i made repayment of them to your wife, and therefore i pray you crosse me out of your booke. _gasparuolo_ turning to his wife, demanded; whether it was so, or no? she beholding the witnesse standing by, who was also present at her receyving them: durst not make deniall, but thus answered. indeede husband, i received two hundred crownes of the gentleman, and never remembred, to acquaint you therewith since your comming home: but hereafter i will be made no more your receiver, except i carried a quicker memory. then saide _gasparuolo_: signior _gulfardo_, i finde you alwaies a most honest gentleman, and will be readie at any time, to doe you the like, or a farre greater kindnesse; depart at your pleasure, and feare not the crossing of my booke. so _gulfardo_ went away merrily contented, and _ambrosia_ was served as she justly merited; she paying the price of her owne leudnesse to her husband, which she had a more covetous intent to keepe, questionlesse, not caring how many like lustfull matches shee coulde make, to be so liberally rewarded, if this had succeeded to her minde: whereas he shewed himselfe wise and discreete, in paying nothing for his pleasure, and requiting a covetous queane in her kinde. _a lustie youthfull priest of_ varlungo, _fell in love with a pretty woman, named_ monna belcolore. _to compasse his amorous desire, hee lefte his cloake (as a pledge of further payment) with her. by a subtile sleight afterward, he made meanes to borrow a morter of her, which when hee sent home againe in the presence of her husband; he demaunded to have his cloake sent him, as having left it in pawne for the morter. to pacifie her husband, offended that shee did not lend the priest the morter without a pawne: she sent him backe his cloake againe, albeit greatly against her will._ the second novell. _approving, that no promise is to be kept with such women as will make sale of their honesty for coyne. a warning also for men, not to suffer priests to be over familiar with their wives._ both the gentlemen and ladies gave equall commendations, of _gulfardoes_ queint beguiling the _millaine_ gentlewoman _ambrosia_, and wishing all other (of her minde) might alwaies be so served. then the queene, smiling on _pamphilus_, commaunded him to follow next: whereupon, thus he began. i can tell you (faire ladies) a short novell, against such as are continually offensive to us, yet we being no way able to offend him; at least, in the same manner as they do injurie us. and for your better understanding what and who they be, they are our lusty priests, who advance their standard, and make their publike predications against our wives, winning such advantage over them, that they can pardon them both of the sinne and punishment, whensoever they are once subjected unto theyr perswasions, even as if they brought the soldane bound and captived, from _alexandria_ to _avignon_. which imperious power, we (poore soules) cannot exercise on them, considering, we have neither heart nor courage, to do our devoire in just revenge on their mothers, sisters, daughters, and friends, with the like spirit as they rise in armes against our wives. and therefore, i meant to tell you a tale of a country mans wife, more to make you laugh at the conclusion thereof; then for any singularity of words or matter: yet this benefite you may gaine thereby, of an apparant proofe that such sinamon, amorous and perswading priests, are not alwayes to be credited on their words or promises. let me then tell you, that at _varlungo_, which you know to bee not farre distant hence, there dwelt an youthfull priest, lustie, gallant, and proper of person (especially for womens service) commonly called by the name of sweet sir _simon_. now, albeit he was a man of slender reading, yet notwithstanding, he had store of latine sentences by heart; some true, but twice so many maimed and false, saint-like shewes, holy speeches, and ghostly admonitions, which hee would preach under an oake in the fields, when he had congregated his parishioners together. when women lay in childe-bed, hee was their daily comfortable visitant, and would man them from their houses, when they had any occasion to walke abroad: carrying alwaies a bottle of holy water about him, wherewith he would sprinkle them by the way, peeces of hallowed candles, and chrisome cakes, which pleased women extraordinarily, and all the country affoorded not such another frolicke priest, as this our nimble and active sweet sir _simon_. among many other of his feminine parishioners, all of them being hansome and comely women: yet there was one more pleasing in his wanton eye, then any of the rest, named _monna belcolore_, and wife to a plaine mecanicke man, called _bentivegna del mazzo_. and, to speake uprightly, few countrey villages yeelded a woman, more fresh and lovely of complexion, although not admirable for beauty, yet sweete sir _simon_ thought her a saint, and faine would be offering at her shrine. divers prety pleasing qualities she had, as sounding the cymball, playing artificially on the timbrill, and singing thereto as it had beene a nightingale, dancing also so dexteriously, as happy was the man that could dance in her company. all which so enflamed sweet sir _simon_, that he lost his wonted sprightly behaviour, walked sullen, sad and melancholly, as if he had melted all his mettall, because hee could hardly have a sight of her. but on the sonday morning, when hee heard or knew that she was in the church, hee would tickle it with a _kyrie_ and a _sanctus_, even as if hee contended to shewe his singular skill in singing, when it had beene as good to heare an asse bray. whereas on the contrary, when she came not to church, masse, and all else were quicklie shaken uppe, as if his devotion waited onely on her presence. yet he was so cunning in the carriage of his amorous businesse, both for her credite and his owne; as _bentivegna_ her husband could not perceive it, or any neighbour so much as suspect it. but, to compasse more familiar acquaintance with _belcolore_, hee sent her sundry gifts and presents, day by day, as sometime a bunch of dainty greene garlicke, whereof he had plenty growing in his garden, which he manured with his owne hands, and better then all the countrey yeelded; otherwhiles a small basket of pease or beanes, and onyons or scallions, as the season served. but when he could come in place where she was; then he darted amourous wincks and glances at her, with becks, nods, and blushes, loves private ambassadours, which shee (being but countrey-bred) seeming by outward appearance, not to see, retorted disdainefully, and forthwith would absent her selfe, so that sweet sir _simon_ laboured still in vaine, and could not compasse what he coveted. it came to passe within a while after, that on a time, (about high noone) sir _simon_ being walking abroad, chanced to meete with _bentivegna_, driving an asse before him, laden with divers commodities, and demaunding of him, whither he went, _bentivegna_, thus answered. in troth sir _simon_, i am going to the city, about some especiall businesse of mine owne, and i carry these things to signior _bonacorci da cinestreto_, because he should helpe me before the judge, when i shall be called in question concerning my patrimony. sir _simon_ looking merrily on him, said. thou doest well _bentivegna_, to make a friend sure before thou need him; goe, take my blessing with thee, and returne againe with good successe. but if thou meet with _laguccio_, or _naldino_, forget not to tell them, that they must bring me my shooe-tyes before sunday. _bentivegna_ said, hee would discharge his errand, and so parted from him, driving his asse on towards _florence_. now began sir _simon_ to shrug, and scratch his head, thinking this to be a fit convenient time, for him to goe visite _belcolore_, and to make triall of his fortune: wherefore, setting aside all other businesse, he stayed no where till he came to the house, whereinto being entred, he saide: all happinesse be to them that dwell heere. _belcolore_ being then above in the chamber, when she heard his tongue, replyed. sweet sir _simon_! you are heartely welcome, whether are you walking, if the question may bee demaunded? beleeve me dainty ducke, answered sir _simon_, i am come to sit a while with thee, because i met thy husband going to the citie. by this time, _belcolore_ was descended downe the stayres, and having once againe given welcome to sir _simon_, she sate downe by him, cleansing of colewort seeds from such other course chaffe, which her husband had prepared before his departure. sir _simon_ hugging her in his armes, and fetching a vehement sigh, said. my _belcolore_, how long shall i pine and languish for thy love? how now sir _simon_? answered she, is this behaviour fitting for an holy man? holy-men _belcolore_, (quoth sir _simon_) are made of the same matter as others be, they have the same affections, and therefore subject to their infirmities. santa maria, answered _belcolore_, dare priests doe such things as you talke of? yes _belcolore_ (quoth he) and much better then other men can, because they are made for the very best businesse, in which regard they are restrained from marriage. true (quoth _belcolore_) but much more from medling with other mens wives. touch not that text _belcolore_, replyed sir _simon_, it is somewhat above your capacity: talke of that i come for, namely thy love, my ducke, and my dove. sir _simon_ is thine, i pray thee be mine. _belcolore_ observing his smirking behaviour, his proper person, pretty talke, and queint insinuating; felt a motion to female frailty, which yet she would withstand so long as she could, and not be over-hasty in her yeelding. sir _simon_ promiseth her a new paire of shoes, garters, ribbands, girdles, or what else she would request. sir _simon_ (quoth she) all these things which you talke of, are fit for women: but if your love to mee be such as you make choice of, fulfill what i will motion to you, and then (perhaps) i shall tell you more. sir _simons_ heate made him hasty to promise whatsoever she would desire; whereupon, thus shee replyed. on saturday, said she, i must goe to _florence_, to carry home such yarne as was sent me to spinne, and to amend my spinning wheele: if you will lend mee ten florines, wherewith i know you are alwayes furnished, i shall redeeme from the usurer my best petticote,** and my wedding gowne (both well neere lost for lacke of repaiment) without which i cannot be seene at church, or in any other good place else, and then afterward other matters may be accomplished. alas sweet _belcolore_ answered sir _simon_, i never beare any such sum about me, for men of our profession, doe seldome carry any money at all: but beleeve me on my word, before saturday come, i will not faile to bring them hither. oh sir (quoth _belcolore_) you men are quicke promisers, but slow performers. doe you thinke to use me, as poore _billezza_ was, who trusted to as faire words, and found her selfe deceived? now sir _simon_, her example in being made scandall to the world, is a sufficient warning for me: if you be not so provided, goe and make use of your friend, for i am not otherwise to be moved. nay _belcolore_ (quoth he) i hope you will not serve me so, but my word shall be of better worth with you. consider the conveniency of time, wee being so privately here alone: whereas at my returning hither againe, some hinderance may thwart me, and the like opportunity be never obtained. sir, sir, (said she) you have heard my resolution; if you will fetche the florines, doe; otherwise, walke about your businesse, for i am a woman of my word. sir _simon_ perceiving, that she would not trust him upon bare words, nor any thing was to be done, without _salvum me fac_, whereas his meaning was _sine custodia_; thus answered. well _belcolore_, seeing you dare not credit my bringing the tenne florines, according to my promised day: i will leave you a good pawne, my very best cloake, lyned quite thorough with rich silke, and made up in the choysest manner. _belcolore_ looking on the cloake, said. how much may this cloake bee worth? how much? quoth sir _simon_, upon my word _belcolore_, it is of a right fine flanders serdge, and not above eight dayes since, i bought it thus (ready made) of _lotto_ the fripperer, and payed for it sixe and twenty florines, a pledge then sufficient for your ten. is it possible, said shee, that it should cost so much? well, sir _simon_, deliver it me first, i will lay it up safe for you against saturday, when if you fetch it not; i will redeeme mine owne things with it, and leave you to release it your selfe. the cloake is laid up by _belcolore_, and sir _simon_ so forward in his affection; that (in briefe) he enjoyed what hee came for; and departed afterward in his light tripping cassocke, but yet thorow by-lanes, and no much frequented places, smelling on a nosegay, as if hee had beene at some wedding in the countrey, and went thus lightly without his cloake, for his better ease. as commonly after actions of evill, repentance knocketh at the doore of conscience, and urgeth a guilty remembrance, with some sence of sorrow: so was it now with sweet sir _simon_, who survaying over all his vailes of offering candles, the validity of his yearely benefits, and all comming nothing neere the summe of (scarce halfe) sixe and twenty florines; he began to repent his deed of darkenesse, although it was acted in the day-time, and considered with himselfe, by what honest (yet unsuspected meanes) hee might recover his cloake againe, before it went to the broaker, in redemption of _belcolores_ pawned apparrell, and yet to send her no florines neither. having a cunning reaching wit, especially in matters for his owne advantage, and pretending to have a dinner at his lodging, for a few of some invited friends: he made use of a neighbours boy, sending him to the house of _belcolore_, with request of lending him her stone morter, to make greene-sawce in for his guests, because hee had meate required such sawce. _belcolore_ suspecting no treachery, sent him the stone morter with the pestell, and about dinner time, when he knew _bentivegna_ to bee at home with his wife, by a spye which was set for the purpose; hee called the clearke (usually attending on him) and said. take this morter and pestell, beare them home to _belcolore_, and tell her: sir _simon_ sends them home with thankes, they having sufficiently served his turne, and desire her likewise, to send me my cloake, which the boy left as a pledge for better remembrance, and because she would not lend it without a pawne. the clearke comming to the house of _belcolore_, found her sitting at dinner with her husband, and delivering her the pestell and morter, performed the rest of sir _simons_ message. _belcolore_ hearing the cloake demaunded, stept up to make answere: but _bentivegna_, seeming (by his lookes) to be much offended, roughly replyed. why how now wife? is not sir _simon_ our especiall friend, and cannot be be pleasured without a pawne? i protest upon my word, i could find in my heart to smite thee for it. rise quickely thou wert best, and send him backe his cloake; with this warning hereafter, that whatsoever he will have, be it your poore asse, or any thing else being ours, let him have it: and tell him (master clearke) he may command it. _belcolore_ rose grumbling from the table, and fetching the cloake forth of the chest, which stood neere at hand in the same roome; shee delivered it to the clearke, saying. tell sir _simon_ from me, and boldly say you heard me speake it: that i made a vow to my selfe, he shall never make use of my morter hereafter, to beat any more of his sawcinesse in, let my husband say whatsoever he will, i speake the word, and will performe it. away went the clearke home with the cloake, and told sir _simon_ what she had said, whereto he replyed. if i must make use of her morter no more; i will not trust her with the keeping of my cloake, for feare it goe to gage indeed. _bentivegna_ was a little displeased at his wives words, because hee thought she spake but in jest; albeit _belcolore_ was so angry with sir _simon_, that she would not speake to him till vintage time following. but then sir _simon_, what by sharpe threatenings of her soule to be in danger of hell fire, continuing so long in hatred of a holy priest, which words did not a little terrifie her; besides daily presents to her, of sweet new wines, roasted chesse-nuts, figges and almonds: all unkindnesse became converted to former familiarity; the garments were redeemed; he gave her sonnets which she would sweetly sing to her cimbale, and further friendship increased betweene her and sweet sir _simon._ calandrino, bruno, _and_ buffalmaco, _all of them being painters by profession, travelled to the plaine of_ mugnone, _to finde the precious stone called_ helitropium. calandrino _perswaded himselfe to have found it; returned home to his house heavily loaden with stones. his wife rebuking him for his absence, hee groweth into anger, and shrewdly beateth her. afterward, when the case is debated among his other friends_ bruno _and_ buffalmaco, _all is found to be meere foolery._ the third novell. _justly reprehending the simplicity of such men, as are too much addicted to credulitie, and will give credit to every thing they heare._ _pamphilus_ having ended his novell, whereat the ladies laughed exceedingly, so that very hardly they could give over: the queene gave charge to madame _eliza_, that shee should next succeed in order; when, being scarcely able to refraine from smyling, thus she began. i know not (gracious ladies) whether i can move you to as hearty laughter, with a briefe novell of mine owne, as _pamphilus_ lately did with his: yet i dare assure you, that it is both true and pleasant, and i will relate it in the best manner i can. in our owne citie, which evermore hath contained all sorts of people, not long since there dwelt, a painter, named _calandrino_, a simple man; yet as much addicted** to matters of novelty, as any man whatsoever could be. the most part of his time, he spent in the company of two other painters, the one called _bruno_, and the other _buffalmaco_, men of very recreative spirits, and of indifferent good capacity; often resorting to the said _calandrino_, because they tooke delight in his honest simplicity, and pleasant order of behaviour. at the same time likewise, there dwelt in _florence_, a yong gentleman of singular disposition, to every generous and witty conceite, as the world did not yeeld a more pleasant companion, he being named _maso del saggio_, who having heard somwhat of _calandrinos_ sillinesse: determined to jest with him in merry manner, and to suggest his longing humours after novelties, with some conceit of extraordinary nature. he happening (on a day) to meete him in the church of saint _john_, and seeing him seriously busied, in beholding the rare pictures, and the curious carved tabernacle, which (not long before) was placed on the high altar in the said church: considered with himselfe, that he had now fit place and opportunity, to effect what hee had long time desired. and having imparted his minde to a very intimate friend, how he intended to deale with simple _calandrino_: they went both very neere him, where he sate all alone, and making shew as if they saw him not; began to consult between themselves, concerning the rare properties of precious stones; whereof _maso_ discoursed as exactly, as he had beene a most skilfull lapidarie; to which conference of theirs, _calandrino_ lent an attentive eare, in regard it was matter of singular rarity. soone after, _calandrino_ started up, and perceiving by their loude speaking, that they talked of nothing which required secret counsell: he went into their company (the onely thing which _maso_ desired) and holding on still the former argument; _calandrino_ would needs request to know, in what place these precious stones were to be found, which had such excellent vertues in them? _maso_ made answere, that the most of them were to be had in _berlinzona_, neere to the city of _bascha_, which was in the territory of a countrey, called _bengodi_, where the vines were bound about with sawcidges, a goose was sold for a penny, and the goslings freely given in to boote. there was also an high mountaine, wholly made of _parmezane_, grated cheese, whereon dwelt people, who did nothing else but make _mocharones_ and _raviuolies_, boiling them with broth of capons, and afterward hurled them all about, to whosoever can or will catch them. neere to this mountaine runneth a faire river, the whole streame being pure white bastard, none such was ever sold for any money, and without one drop of water in it. now trust me sir, (said _calandrino_) that is an excellent countrey to dwell in: but i pray you tell me sir, what doe they with the capons after they have boyld them? the _baschanes_ (quoth _maso_) eate them all. have you sir, said _calandrino_, at any time beene in that countrey? how? answered _maso_, doe you demaund if i have beene there? yes man, above a thousand times, at the least. how farre sir, i pray you (quoth _calandrino_) is that worthy countrey, from this our city? in troth replyed _maso_, the miles are hardly to be numbred, for the most part of them we travell when we are nightly in our beddes, and if a man dreame right; he may be there upon a sudden. surely sir, said _calandrino_, it is further hence, then to _abruzzi_? yes questionlesse, replyed _maso_; but, to a willing minde, no travell seemeth tedious. _calandrino_ well noting, that _maso_ delivered all these speeches, with a stedfast countenance, no signe of smyling, or any gesture to urge the least mislike: he gave such credit to them, as to any matter of apparent and manifest truth, and upon this assured confidence, he said. beleeve me sir, the journey is over-farre for mee to undertake, but if it were neerer; i could affoord to goe in your company; onely to see how they make these _macherones_, and to fill my belly with them. but now wee are in talke sir, i pray you pardon mee to aske, whether any such precious stones, as you spake off, are to be found in that countrey, or no? yes indeed, replyed _maso_, there are two kinds of them to be found in those territories, both being of very great vertue. one kind, are gritty stones, of _settignano_, and of _montisca_, by vertue of which places, when any mill-stones or grind-stones are to bee made, they knede the sand as they use to doe meale, and so make them of what bignesse they please. in which respect, they have have a common saying there: that nature maketh common stones, but _montisca_ mill-stones. such plenty are there of these mill-stones, so slenderly here esteemed among us, as emeralds are with them, whereof they have whole mountaines, farre greater then our _montemorello_, which shine most gloriously at midnight. and how meanly soever we account of their mill-stones; yet there they drill them, and enchase them in rings, which afterward they send to the great soldane, and have whatsoever they will demaund for them. the other kinde is a most precious stone indeede, which our best lapidaries call the _helitropium_, the vertue whereof is so admirable; as whosoever beareth it about him, so long as he keepeth it, it is impossible for any eye to discerne him, because he walketh meerely invisible. o lord sir (quoth _calandrino_) these stones are of rare vertue indeede: but where else may a man finde that _helitropium_? whereto _maso_ thus answered: that countrey onely doth not containe the _helitropium_; for they be many times found upon our plaine of _mugnone_. of what bignesse sir (quoth _calandrino_) is the stone, and what coulour? the _helitropium_, answered _maso_, is not alwayes of one quality, because some are bigge, and others lesse; but all are of one coulour, namely blacke. _calandrino_ committing all these things to respective memory, and pretending to be called thence by some other especiall affaires; departed from _maso_, concluding resolvedly with himselfe, to finde this precious stone, if possibly hee could: yet intending to doe nothing, untill hee had acquainted _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_ therewith, whom he loved dearly: he went in all hast to seeke them; because, (without any longer trifling the time) they three might bee the first men, that should find out this precious stone, spending almost the whole morning, before they were all three met together. for they were painting at the monastery of the sisters of _faenza_, where they had very serious imployment, and followed their businesse diligently: where having found them, and saluting them in such kinde manner, as continually he used to doe, thus he began. loving friends, if you were pleased to follow mine advise, wee three will quickely be the richest men in _florence_; because, by information from a gentleman (well deserving to be credited) on the plaine of _mugnone_: there is a precious stone to be found, which whosoever carrieth it about him, walketh invisible, and is not to be seene by any one. let us three be the first men to goe and finde it, before any other heare thereof, and goe about it, and assure our selves that we shall finde it, for i know it (by discription) so soone as i see it. and when wee have it, who can hinder us from bearing it about us. then will we goe to the tables of our bankers, or money changers, which we see daily charged with plenty of gold and silver, where we may take so much as wee list, for they (nor any) are able to descrie us. so, (in short time) shall wee all be wealthy, never needing to drudge any more, or paint muddy walles, as hitherto we have done; and, as many of our poore profession are forced to doe. _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_ hearing this, began to smile, and looking merrily each on other, they seemed to wonder thereat, and greatly commended the counsell of _calandrino. buffalmaco_ demaunding how the stone was named. now it fortuned, that _calandrino_ (who had but a grosse and blockish memory) had quite forgot the name of the stone, and therefore said. what neede have wee of the name, when we know, and are assured of the stones vertue? let us make no more adoe, but (setting aside all other businesse) goe seeke where it is to be found. well my friend (answered _bruno_) you say wee may find it, but how, and by what meanes? there are two sorts of them (quoth _calandrino_) some bigge, others smaller, but all carry a blacke colour: therefore (in mine opinion) let us gather all such stones as are blacke, so shall we be sure to finde it among them, without any further losse of time. _buffalmaco_ and _bruno_, liked and allowed the counsell of _calandrino_, which when they had (by severall commendations) given him assurance of, _bruno_ saide. i doe not thinke it a convenient time now, for us to go about so weighty a businesse: for the sun is yet in the highest degree, and striketh such a heate on the plaine of _mugnone_, as all the stones are extreamly dryed, and the very blackest will nowe seeme whitest. but in the morning, after the dew is falne, and before the sunne shineth forth, every stone retaineth his true colour. moreover, there be many labourers now working on the plaine, about such businesse as they are severally assigned, who seeing us in so serious a search:** may imagine what we seeke for, & partake with us in the same inquisition, by which meanes they may chance to speed before us, and so wee may lose both our trot and amble. wherefore, by my consent, if your opinion jumpe with mine, this is an enterprise onely to be perfourmed in an early morning, when the blacke stones are to be distinguisht from the white, and a festivall day were the best of all other, for then there will be none to discover us. _buffalmaco_ applauded the advice of _bruno_, and _calandrino_ did no lesse, concluding all together; that sunday morning (next ensuing) should be the time, and then they all three would go seeke the stone. but _calandrino_ was verie earnest with them, that they shold not reveale it to any living body, because it was tolde him as an especiall secret: disclosing further to them, what hee had heard concerning the countrey of _bengodi_, maintaining (with solemn oaths and protestations) that every part thereof was true. uppon this agreement, they parted from _calandrino_, who hardly enjoyed anie rest at all, either by night or day, so greedie he was to bee possessed of the stone. on the sonday morning, hee called up his companions before breake of day, and going forth at s. _galls_ port, they stayed not, till they came to the plaine of _mugnone_, where they searched all about to finde this strange stone. _calandrino_ went stealing before the other two, and verilie perswaded himselfe, that he was borne to finde the _helitropium_, and looking on every side about him, hee rejected all other stones but the blacke, whereof first he filled his bosome, and afterwards, both his pockets. then he tooke off his large painting apron, which he fastened with his girdle in the manner of a sacke, and that he filled full of stones likewise. yet not so satisfied, he spred abroad his cloake, which being also full of stones, hee bound it up carefully, for feare of loosing the very least of them. all which _buffalmaco_ and _bruno_ well observing (the day growing on, and hardly they could reach home by dinner time) according as merrily they had concluded, and pretending not to see _calandrino_, albeit he was not farre from them: what is become of _calandrino_? saide _buffalmaco. bruno_ gazing strangely every where about him, as if hee were desirous to finde him, replyed. i saw him not long since, for then he was hard by before us; questionlesse, he hath given us the slippe, is privilie gone home to dinner, and making starke fooles of us, hath lefte us to picke up blacke stones, upon the parching plaines of _mugnone_. well (quoth _buffalmaco_) this is but the tricke of an hollow-hearted friend, and not such as he protested himselfe to be, to us. could any but wee have bin so sottish, to credit his frivolous perswasions, hoping to finde any stones of such vertue, and here on the fruitlesse plains of _mugnone_? no, no, none but we would have beleeved him. _calandrino_ (who was close by them) hearing these wordes, and seeing the whole manner of their wondering behaviour: became constantly perswaded, that hee had not onely founde the precious stone; but also had some store of them about him, by reason he was so neere to them, and yet they could not see him, therefore he walked before them. now was his joy beyond all compasse of expression, and being exceedingly proud of so happy an adventure: did not meane to speake one word to them, but (heavily laden as hee was) to steale home faire and softly before them, which indeede he did, leaving them to follow after, if they would. _bruno_ perceiving his intent, said to _buffalmaco_: what remaineth now for us to doe? why should not we go home, as well as hee? and reason too, replyed _bruno_, it is in vaine to tarry any longer heere: but i solemnly protest, _calandrino_ shall no more make an asse of me: and were i now as neere him, as not long since i was, i would give him such a remembrance on the heele with this flint stone, as should sticke by him this moneth, to teach him a lesson for abusing his friends. hee threw the stone, and hit him shrewdly on the heele therewith; but all was one to _calandrino_, whatsoever they saide, or did, as thus they still followed after him. and although the blow of the stone was painfull to him; yet he mended his pace so wel as he was able, in regard of beeing over-loaden with stones, and gave them not one word all the way, because he tooke himselfe to bee invisible, and utterly unseene of them. _buffalmaco_ taking uppe another flint-stone, which was indifferent heavie and sharp, said to _bruno_. seest thou this flint? casting it from him, he smote _calandrino_ just in the backe therewith, saying. oh that _calandrino_ had bin so neere, as i might have hit him on the backe with the stone. and thus all the way on the plaine of _mugnone_, they did nothing else but pelt him with stones, even so farre as the port of s. _gall_, where they threwe downe what other stones they had gathered, meaning not to molest him any more, because they had done enough already. there they stept before him unto the port, and acquainted the warders with the whole matter, who laughing heartily at the jest, the better to upholde it; would seeme not to see _calandrino_ in his passage by them, but suffered him to go on, sore wearied with his burthen, and sweating extreamly. without resting himselfe in any place, he came home to his house, which was neere to the corner of the milles, fortune being so favourable to him in the course of this mockery, that as he passed along the rivers side, and afterward through part of the city; he was neither met nor seen by any, in regard they were all in their houses at dinner. _calandrino_, every minute ready to sinke under his weightie burthen, entred into his owne house, where (by great ill luck) his wife, being a comely and very honest woman, and named _monna trista_, was standing aloft on the stayres head. she being somewhat angry for his so long absence, and seeing him come in grunting and groaning, frowningly said. i thought that the divell would never let thee come home, all the whole citie have dined, and yet wee must remaine without our dinner. when _calandrino_ heard this, & perceived that he was not invisible to his wife: full of rage and wroth, hee began to raile, saying. ah thou wicked woman, where art thou? thou hast utterly undone me: but (as i live) i will pay thee soundly for it. up the staires he ascended into a small parlour, where when he hadde spred all his burthen of stones on the floore: he ran to his wife, catching her by the haire of the head, and throwing her at his feete; giving her so many spurns and cruel blowes, as shee was not able to moove either armes or legges, notwithstanding all her teares, and humble submission. now _buffalmaco_ and _bruno_, after they had spent an indifferent while, with the warders at the port in laughter; in a faire & gentle pace, they followed _calandrino_ home to his house, and being come to the doore, they heard the harsh bickering betweene him and his wife, and seeming as if they were but newly arrived, they called out alowd to him. _calandrino_ being in a sweate, stamping and raving still at his wife: looking forth of the window, entreated them to ascend up to him, which they did, counterfetting greevous displeasure against him. being come into the roome, which they saw all covered over with stones, his wife sitting in a corner, all the haire (well-neere) torne off her head, her face broken and bleeding, and all her body cruelly beaten; on the other side, _calandrino_ standing unbraced and ungirded, strugling and wallowing, like a man quite out of breath: after a little pausing, _bruno_ thus spake. why how now _calandrino_? what may the meaning of this matter be? what, art thou preparing for building, that thou hast provided such plenty of stones? how sitteth thy poore wife? how hast thou misused her? are these the behaviours of a wise or honest man? _calandrino_, utterly over-spent with travaile, and carrying such an huge burthen of stones, as also the toylesome beating of his wife, (but much more impatient and offended, for that high good fortune, which he imagined to have lost:) could not collect his spirits together, to answer them one ready word, wherefore hee sate fretting like a mad man. whereupon, _buffalmaco_ thus began to him. _calandrino_, if thou be angry with any other, yet thou shouldest not have made such a mockery of us, as thou hast done: in leaving us (like a couple of coxcombes) to the plaine of _mugnone_, whether thou leddest us with thee, to seeke a precious stone called _helitropium_. and couldst thou steale home, never bidding us so much as farewell? how can we but take it in very evill part, that thou shouldest so abuse two honest neighbours? well, assure thy selfe, this is the last time that ever thou shalt serve us so. _calandrino_ (by this time) being somewhat better come to himselfe, with an humble protestation of courtesie, returned them this answer. alas my good friends, be not you offended, the case is farre otherwise then you immagine. poore unfortunate man that i am, i found the rare precious stone that you speake of: and marke me well, if i do not tell you the truth of all. when you asked one another (the first time) what was become of me; i was hard by you: at the most, within the distance of two yards length; and perceiving that you saw mee not, (being still so neere, and alwaies before you:) i went on, smiling to my selfe, to heare you brabble and rage against me. so, proceeding on in his discourse, he recounted every accident as it hapned, both what they had saide and did unto him, concerning the severall blowes, with the two flint-stones, the one hurting him greevously in the heele, and the other paining him as extreamly in the backe, with their speeches used then, and his laughter, notwithstanding hee felt the harme of them both, yet beeing proud that he did so invisibly beguile them. nay more (quoth he) i cannot forbeare to tell you, that when i passed thorow the port, i saw you standing with the warders; yet, by vertue of that excellent stone, undiscovered of you all. beside, going along the streets, i met many of my gossips, friends, and familiar acquaintance, such as used daylie to converse with me, and drinking together in every tavern: yet not one of them spake to me, neyther used any courtesie or salutation; which (indeede) i did the more freely forgive them, because they were not able to see me. in the end of all, when i was come home into mine owne house, this divellish and accursed woman, being aloft uppon my stayres head, by much misfortune chanced to see me; in regard (as it is not unknowne to you) that women cause all things to lose their vertue. in which respect, i that could have stild my selfe the onely happy man in _florence_, am now made most miserable. and therefore did i justly beate her, so long as she was able to stand against mee, and i know no reason to the contrary, why i should not yet teare her in a thousand peeces: for i may well curse the day of our mariage, to hinder and bereave me of such an invisible blessednesse. _buffalmaco_ and _bruno_ hearing this, made shew of verie much mervailing thereat, and many times maintained what _calandrino_ had said; being well neere ready to burst with laughter; considering, how confidently he stood upon it, that he had found the wonderfull stone, and lost it by his wives speaking onely to him. but when they saw him rise in fury once more, with intent to beat her againe: then they stept betweene them; affirming, that the woman had no way offended in this case, but rather he himself: who knowing that women cause all things to lose their vertue, had not therefore expresly commanded her, not to be seene in his presence all that day, untill he had made full proofe of the stones vertue. and questionles, the consideration of a matter so availeable and important, was quite taken from him, because such an especiall happinesse, should not belong to him only; but (in part) to his friends, whom he had acquainted therewith, drew them to the plaine with him in companie, where they tooke as much paines in search of the stone, as possibly he did, or could; and yet (dishonestly) he would deceive them, and beare it away covetously, for his owne private benefit. after many other, as wise and wholesome perswasions, which he constantly credited, because they spake them, they reconciled him to his wife, and she to him: but not without some difficulty in him; who falling into wonderfull greefe and melancholy, for losse of such an admirable precious stone, was in danger to have dyed, within lesse then a month after. _the provost belonging to the cathedrall church of_ fiesola, _fell in love with a gentlewoman, being a widdow, and named_ piccarda, _who hated him as much as he loved her. he imagining, that he lay with her: by the gentlewomans bretheren, and the byshop under whom he served, was taken in bed with her mayde, an ugly, foule, deformed slut._ the fourth novell. _wherein is declared, how love oftentimes is so powerfull in aged men, and driveth them to such doating, that it redoundeth to their great disgrace and punishment._ ladie _eliza_ having concluded her novell, not without infinite commendations of the whole company: the queen turning her lookes to madame _Ã�millia_, gave her such an expresse signe, as she must needs follow next after madame _eliza_, whereupon she began in this manner. vertuous ladies, i very well remember (by divers novels formerly related) that sufficient hath beene sayde, concerning priests and religious persons, and all other carrying shaven crownes, in their luxurious appetites and desires. but because no one can at any time say so much, as thereto no more may be added: beside them alreadie spoken of, i will tel you another concerning the provost of a cathedrall church, who would needes (in despight of all the world) love a gentlewoman whether she would or no: and therefore, in due chastisement both unto his age and folly, she gave him such entertainment as he justly deserved. it is not unknowne unto you all, that the cittie of _fiesola_, the mountaine whereof we may very easily hither discerne, hath bene (in times past) a very great and most ancient city: although at this day it is well-neere all ruined: yet neverthelesse, it alwaies was, and yet is a byshops see, albeit not of the wealthiest. in the same citie, and no long while since, neere unto the cathedrall church, there dwelt a gentlewoman, being a widdow, and commonlie there stiled by the name of madame _piccarda_, whose house and inheritance was but small, wherewith yet she lived very contentedly (having no wandering eye, or wanton desires) and no company but her two brethren, gentlemen of especiall honest and gracious disposition. this gentlewoman, being yet in the flourishing condition of her time, did ordinarily resort to the cathedrall church, in holie zeale, and religious devotion; where the provost of the place, became so enamored of her, as nothing (but the sight of her) yeelded him any contentment. which fond affection of his, was forwarded with such an audacious and bold carriage, as hee dared to acquaint her with his love, requiring her enterchange of affection, and the like opinion of him, as he had of her. true it is, that he was very farre entred into yeares, but yong and lustie in his own proud conceite, presuming strangely beyond his capacity, and thinking as well of his abilitie, as the youthfullest gallant in the world could doe. whereas (in verie deede) his person was utterly displeasing, his behaviour immodest and scandalous, and his usuall language, favouring of such sensualitie, as, very fewe or none cared for his company. and if any woman seemed respective of him, it was in regard of his outside and profession, and more for feare, then the least affection, and alwayes as welcome to them, as the head-ake. his fond and foolish carriage still continuing to this gentlewoman; she being wise and vertuously advised, spake thus unto him. holy sir, if you love me according as you protest, & manifest by your outward behaviour: i am the more to thanke you for it, being bound in dutie to love you likewise. but if your love have any harshe or unsavourie taste, which mine is no way able to endure, neyther dare entertaine in anie kinde whatsoever: you must and shall hold mee excused, because i am made of no such temper. you are my ghostly and spirituall father, an holy priest. moreover, yeares have made you honorably aged; all which severall weighty considerations, ought to confirme you in continency & chastity. remember withall (good sir) that i am but a child to you in years, & were i bent to any wanton appetites, you shold justly correct me by fatherly counsell, such as most beautifieth your sacred profession. beside, i am a widdow, and you are not ignorant, how requisite a thing honestie is in widdowes. wherefore, pardon mee (holy father:) for, in such manner as you make the motion: i desire you not to love mee, because i neither can or will at any time so affect you. the provoste gaining no other grace at this time, would not so give over for this first repulse, but pursuing her still with unbeseeming importunity; many private meanes he used to her by letters, tokens, and insinuating ambassages; yea, whensoever shee came to the church, he never ceased his wearisome solicitings. whereat she growing greatly offended, and perceyving no likelyhood of his desisting; became so tyred with his tedious suite, that she considered with her selfe, how she might dispatch him as he deserved, because she saw no other remedy. yet shee would not attempte anie thing in this case, without acquainting her bretheren first therewith. and having tolde them, how much shee was importuned by the provost, and also what course she meant to take (wherein they both counselled and encouraged her:) within a few daies after, shee went to church as she was wont to do; where so soone as the provost espyed her: forthwith he came to her, and according to his continued course, he fell into his amorous courting. she looking upon him with a smiling countenance, and walking aside with him out of any hearing: after he had spent many impertinent speeches, shee (venting foorth manie a vehement sighe) at length returned him this answer. reverend father, i have often heard it saide: that there is not any fort or castle, how strongly munited soever it bee; but by continuall assayling, at length (of necessity) it must and will be surprized. which comparison, i may full well allude to my selfe. for, you having so long time solicited me, one while with affable language, then againe with tokens and entisements, of such prevailing power: as have broken the verie barricado of my former deliberation, and yeelded mee uppe as your prisoner, to be commanded at your pleasure, for now i am onely devoted yours. well may you (gentle ladies) imagine, that this answere was not a little welcome to the provost; who, shrugging with conceyte of joy, presently thus replyed. i thanke you madame _piccarda_, and to tell you true, i held it almost as a miracle, that you could stand upon such long resistance, considering, it never so fortuned to mee with anie other. and i have many times saide to my selfe, that if women were made of silver, they hardly could be worth a pennie, because there can scarsely one be found of so good allay, as to endure the test and essay. but let us breake off this frivolous conference, and resolve upon a conclusion; how, when and where we may safely meete together. worthy sir, answered _piccarda_, your selfe may appoint the time whensoever you please, because i have no husband, to whom i should render any account of my absence, or presence: but i am not provided of any place. a pretty while the provoste stood musing, and at last saide. a place madame? where can be more privacie, then in your owne house? alas sir (quoth she) you know that i have two gentlemen my brethren who continually are with me, & other of their friends beside: my house also is not great, wherefore it is impossible to be there, except you could be like a dumbe man, without speaking one word, or making the very least noyse; beside, to remaine in darkenesse, as if you were blinde, and who can be able to endure all these? and yet (without these) there is no adventuring, albeit they never come into my chamber: but their lodging is so close to mine, as there cannot any word be spoken, be it never so low or in whispering manner, but they heare it very easily. madame said the provoste, for one or two nights, i can make hard shift. why sir (quoth she) the matter onely remaineth in you, for if you be silent and suffering, as already you have heard, there is no feare at all of safty. let me alone madame, replyed the provoste, i will bee governed by your directions: but, in any case, let us begin this night. with all my heart, saide shee. so appointing him how and when hee should come; hee parted from her, and shee returned home to her house. heere i am to tell you, that this gentlewoman had a servant, in the nature of an old maide, not indued with any well featured face, but instead thereof, she had the ugliest and most counterfeit countenance, as hardly could be seene a worse. she had a wrie mouth, huge great lippes, foule teeth, great and blacke, a monstrous stinking breath, her eyes bleared, and alwayes running, the complexion of her face betweene greene and yellow, as if shee had not spent the summer season in the citie, but in the parching countrey under a hedge; and beside all these excellent parts, shee was crooke backt, poult footed, and went like a lame mare in fetters. her name was _ciuta_, but in regard of her flat nose, lying as low as a beagles, shee was called _ciutazza_. now, notwithstanding all this deformity in her, yet she had a singuler opinion of her selfe, as commonly all such foule sluts have: in regard whereof, madame _piccarda_ calling her aside, thus began. _ciutazza_, if thou wilt doe for me one nights service, i shall bestow on thee a faire new smocke. when _ciutazza_ heard her speake of a new smocke, instantly she answered. madame, if you please to bestow a new smocke on me, were it to runne thorow the fire for you, or any businesse of farre greater danger, you onely have the power to command me, and i will doe it. i will not (said _piccarda_) urge thee to any dangerous action, but onely to lodge in my bed this night with a man, and give him courteous entertainement, who shall reward thee liberally for it. but have an especiall care that thou speake not one word, for feare thou shouldst be heard by my brethren, who (as thou knowest) lodge so neere by: doe this, and then demaund thy smocke of me. madame (quoth _ciutazza_) if it were to lye with sixe men, rather then one; if you say the word, it shall be done. when night was come, the provoste also came according to appointment, even when the two brethren were in their lodging, where they easily heard his entrance, as _piccarda_ (being present with them) had informed them. in went the provoste without any candle, or making the least noise to be heard, & being in _piccardaes_ chamber, went to bed: _ciutazza_ tarrying not long from him, but (as her mistresse had instructed her) she went to bed likewise, not speaking any word at all, and the provoste, imagining to have her there, whom he so highly affected, fell to imbracing and kissing _ciutazza_, who was as forward in the same manner to him, and there for a while i intend to leave them. when _piccarda_ had performed this hot piece of businesse, she referred the effecting of the remainder to her brethren, in such sort as it was compacted betweene them. faire and softly went the two brethren forth of their chamber, and going to the market place, fortune was more favourable to them then they could wish, in accomplishing the issue of their intent. for the heat being somwhat tedious, the lord bishop was walking abroad very late, with purpose to visit the brethren at the widdowes house, because he tooke great delight in their company, as being good schollers, and endued with other singular parts beside. meeting with them in the open market place, he acquainted them with his determination; whereof they were not a little joyfull, it jumping so justly with their intent. being come to the widdowes house, they passed through a small nether court, where lights stood ready to welcome him thither; and entring into a goodly hall, there was store of good wine and banquetting, which the bishop accepted in very thankefull manner: and courteous complement being overpassed, one of the brethren, thus spake. my good lord, seeing it hath pleased you to honour our poore widdowed sisters house with your presence, for which wee shall thanke you while we live: we would intreate one favour more of you, onely but to see a sight which we will shew you. the lord bishop was well contented with the motion: so the brethren conducting him by the hand, brought him into their sisters chamber, where the the provoste was in bed with _ciutazza_, both soundly sleeping, but enfolded in his armes, as wearied (belike) with their former wantonning, and whereof his age had but little need. the courtaines being close drawne about the bed, although the season was exceeding hot, they having lighted torches in their hands; drew open the curtaines, and shewed the bishop his provoste, close snugging betweene the armes of _ciutazza_. upon a sudden the provoste awaked, and seeing so great a light, as also so many people about him: shame and feare so daunted him, that hee shrunke downe into the bed, and hid his head. but the bishop being displeased at a sight so unseemely, made him to discover his head againe, to see whom he was in bed withall. now the poore provoste perceiving the gentlewomans deceite, and the proper hansome person so sweetly embracing him: it made him so confounded with shame, as he had not the power to utter one word: but having put on his cloathes by the bishops command, hee sent him (under sufficient guard) to his pallace, to suffer due chastisement for his sinne committed; and afterward he desired to know, by what meanes hee became so favoured of _ciutazza_, the whole historie whereof, the two brethren related at large to him. when the bishop had heard all the discourse, highly he commended the wisedome of the gentlewoman, and worthy assistance of her brethren, who contemning to soile their hands in the blood of a priest, rather sought to shame him as hee deserved. the bishop enjoyned him a pennance of repentance for forty dayes after, but love and disdaine made him weepe nine and forty: moreover, it was a long while after, before he durst be seene abroad. but when he came to walke the streets, the boyes would point their fingers at him, saying. behold the provoste that lay with _ciutazza_: which was such a wearisome life to him, that he became (well neere) distracted in his wits. in this manner the honest gentlewoman discharged her dutie, and rid her selfe of the provosts importunity: _ciutazza_ had a merry night of it, and a new smocke also for her labour. _three pleasant companions, plaide a merry pranke with a judge (belonging to the marquesate of_ ancona) _at_ florence, _at such time as he sate on the bench, and hearing criminall causes._ the fift novell. _giving admonition, that for the mannaging of publique affaires, no other persons are or ought to be appointed, but such as be honest, and meet to sit on the seate of authority._ no sooner had madam _Ã�millia_ finished her novell, wherein, the excellent wisedome of _piccarda_, for so worthily punishing the luxurious old provoste, had generall commendations of the whole assembly: but the queene, looking on _philostratus_, said. i command you next to supply the place: whereto he made answere, that hee was both ready and willing, and then thus began. honourable ladies, the merry gentleman, so lately remembred by madame _eliza_, being named _maso del saggio_; causeth me to passe over an intended tale, which i had resolved on when it came to my turne: to report another concerning him, and two men more, his friendly companions, which although it may appeare to you somewhat unpleasing, in regard of a little grosse and unmannerly behavior: yet it will move merriment without any offence, and that is the maine reason why i relate it. it is not unknowne to you, partly by intelligence from our reverend predecessours, as also some understanding of your owne, that many time have resorted to our city of _florence_, potestates and officers, belonging to the marquesate of _anconia_; who commonly were men of lowe spirit, and their lives so wretched and penurious, as they rather deserved to be tearmed misers, then men. and in regard of this their naturall covetousnesse and misery, the judges would bring also in their company, such scribes or notaries, as being paralelde with their masters: they all seemed like swaines come from the plough, or bred up in some coblers quality, rather then schollers, or students of law. at one time (above all the rest) among other potestates and judges, there came an especiall man, as pickt out of purpose, who was named _messer niccolao da san lepidio_, who (at the first beholding) looked rather like a tinker, then any officer in authority. this hansome man (among the rest) was deputed to heare criminall causes. and, as often it happeneth, that citizens, although no businesse inviteth them to judiciall courts, yet they still resort thither, sometimes accidentally: so it fortuned, that _maso del saggio_, being one morning in search of an especiall friend, went to the court-house, and being there, observed in what manner _messer niccolao_ was seated; who looking like some strange fowle, lately come forth of a farre countrey; he began to survay him the more seriously, even from the head to the foot, as we use to say. and albeit he saw his gowne furred with miniver, as also the hood about his necke, a penne and inkehorne hanging at his girdle, and one skirt of his garment longer then the other, with more misshapen sights about him, farre unfitting for a man of so civill profession: yet he spyed one errour extraordinary, the most notable (in his opinion) that ever he had seene before. namely, a paultry paire of breeches, wickedly made, and worse worne, hanging downe so lowe as halfe his legge, even as he sate upon the bench, yet cut so sparingly of the cloath, that they gaped wide open before, as a wheele-barrow might have full entrance allowed it. this strange sight was so pleasing to him; as leaving off further search of his friend, and scorning to have such a spectacle alone by himselfe: hee went upon another inquisition; namely, for two other merry lads like himselfe, the one being called _ribi_, and the other _matteuzzo_, men of the same mirth-full disposition as he was, and therefore the fitter for his company. after he had met with them, these were his salutations: my honest boyes, if ever you did me any kindnesse, declare it more effectually now, in accompanying me to the court-house, where you shall behold such a singular spectacle, as (i am sure) you never yet saw the like. forthwith they went along altogether, and being come to the court-house, he shewed them the judges hansome paire of breeches, hanging down in such base and beastly manner; that (being as yet farre off from the bench) their hearts did ake with extreamity of laughter. but when they came neere to the seat whereon _messer niccolao_ sate, they plainely perceived, that it was very easie to be crept under, and withall, that the board whereon he set his feet, was rotten and broken, so that it was no difficult matter, to reach it, and pull it downe as a man pleased, and let him fall bare breecht to the ground. cheare up your spirits (my hearts) quoth _maso_, and if your longing be like to mine; we will have yonder breeches a good deale lower, for i see how it may be easily done. laying their heads together, plotting and contriving severall wayes, which might be the likelyest to compasse their intent: each of them had his peculiar appointment, to undertake the businesse without fayling, and it was to be performed the next morning. at the houre assigned, they met there againe, and finding the court well filled with people, the plaintiffes and defendants earnestly pleading: _matteuzzo_ (before any body could descry him) was cunningly crept under the bench, and lay close by the board whereon the judge placed his feete. then stept in _maso_ on the right hand of _messer niccolao_, and tooke fast hold on his gowne before; the like did _ribi_ on the left hand, in all respects answerable to the other. oh my lord judge (cryed _maso_ out aloud) i humbly intreat you for charities sake, before this pilfering knave escape away from hence; that i may have justice against him, for stealing my drawing-over stockeings, which he stoutly denyeth, yet mine owne eyes beheld the deed, it being now not above fifteene dayes since, when first i bought them for mine owne use. worthy lord judge (cryed _ribi_, on the other side) doe not beleeve what he saith, for he is a paltry lying fellow, and because hee knew i came hither to make my complaint for a male or cloakebag which he stole from me: hee urgeth this occasion for a paire of drawing stockeings, which he delivered me with his owne hands. if your lordship will not credit me, i can produce as witnesses, _trecco_ the shoemaker, with _monna grassa_ the souse-seller, and he that sweepes the church of _santa maria a verzaia_, who saw him when he came posting hither. _maso_ haling and tugging the judge by the sleeve, would not suffer him to heare _ribi_, but cryed out still for justice against him, as he did the like on the contrary side. during the time of this their clamourous contending, the judge being very willing to heare either party: _matteuzzo_, upon a signe received from the other, which was a word in _masoes_ pleading, laide holde on the broken boord, as also on the judges low-hanging breech, plucking at them both so strongly, that they fell downe immediately, the breeches being onely tyed but with one poynt before. he hearing the boards breaking underneath him, and such maine pulling at his breeches; strove (as he sate) to make them fast before, but the poynt being broken, and _maso_ crying in his eare on the one side, as _ribi_ did the like in the other; hee was at his wits end to defend himselfe. my lord (quoth _maso_) you may bee ashamed that you doe me not justice, why will you not heare mee, but wholly lend your eare to mine adversary? my lord (said _ribi_) never was libell preferd into this court, of such a paltry trifling matter, and therefore i must, and will have justice. by this time the judge was dismounted from the bench, and stood on the ground, with his slovenly breeches hanging about his heeles; _matteuzzo_ being cunningly stolne away, and undiscovered by anybody. _ribi_, thinking he had shamed the judge sufficiently, went away, protesting, that he would declare his cause in the hearing of a wiser judge. and _maso_ forbearing to tugge his gowne any longer, in his departing, said. fare you well sir, you are not worthy to be a magistrate, if you have no more regard of your honour and honesty, but will put off poore mens suites at your pleasure. so both went severall wayes, and soone were gone out of publike view. the worshipfull judge _messer niccolao_ stood all this while on the ground; and, in presence of all the beholders, trussed up his breeches, as if hee were new risen out of his bed: when better bethinking himselfe on the matters indifference, he called for the two men, who contended for the drawing stockings and the cloake-bag; but no one could tell what was become of them. whereupon, he rapt out a kinde of judges oath, saying: i will know whether it be law or no heere in _florence_, to make a judge sit bare breecht on the bench of justice, and in the hearing of criminall causes; whereat the chiefe potestate, and all the standers by laughed heartily. within fewe dayes after, he was informed by some of his especiall friends, that this had never happened to him, but onely to testifie, how understanding the _florentines_ are, in their ancient constitutions and customes, to embrace, love and honour, honest, discreet worthy judges and magistrates; whereas on the contrary, they as much condemne miserable knaves, fooles, and dolts, who never merit to have any better entertainment. wherefore, it would be best for him, to make no more enquiry after the parties; lest a worse inconvenience should happen to him. bruno _and_ buffalmaco, _did steale a young brawne from_ calandrino, _and for his recovery thereof, they used a kinde of pretended conjuration, with pilles made of ginger and strong malmesey. but instead of this application, they gave him two pilles of a dogges dates, or dowsets, confected in alloes, which he received each after the other; by meanes whereof they made him beleeve, that hee had robde himselfe. and for feare they should report this theft to his wife; they made him to goe buy another brawne._ the sixt novell. _wherein is declared, how easily a plaine and simple man may be made a foole, when he dealeth with crafty companions._ _philostratus_ had no sooner concluded his novell, and the whole assembly laughed heartily thereat: but the queen gave command to madame _philomena_, that shee should follow next in order; whereupon thus shee began. worthy ladies, as _philostratus_, by calling to memorie the name of _maso del saggio_, hath contented you with another merry novell concerning him: in the same manner must i intreat you, to remember once againe _calandrino_ and his subtle consorts, by a pretty tale which i meane to tell you; how, and in what manner they were revenged on him, for going to seeke the invisible stone. needlesse were any fresh relation to you, what manner of people those three men were, _calandrino, bruno,_ and _buffalmaco,_ because already you have had sufficient understanding of them. and therefore, as an induction to my discourse, i must tell you, that _calandrino_ had a small country-house, in a village some-what neere to _florence_, which came to him by the marriage of his wife. among other cattle and poultry, which he kept there in store, hee had a young boare readie fatted for brawne, whereof yearly he used to kill one for his owne provision; and alwaies in the month of december, he and his wife resorted to their village house, to have a brawne both killed and salted. it came to passe at this time concerning my tale, that the woman being somewhat crazie and sickly, by her husbands unkinde usage, whereof you heard so lately; _calandrino_ went alone to the killing of his boare, which comming to the hearing of _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_, and that the woman could by no meanes be there: to passe away the time a little in merriment, they went to a friendlie companion of theirs, an honest joviall priest, dwelling not farre off from _calandrinoes_ countrey house. the same morning as the boare was kilde, they all three went thither, and _calandrino_ seeing them in the priests companie: bad them all heartily welcome; and to acquaint them with his good husbandry, hee shewed them his house, and the boare where it hung. they perceyving it to be faire and fat, knowing also, that _calandrino_ intended to salt it for his owne store, _bruno_ saide unto him: thou art an asse _calandrino_, sell thy brawne, and let us make merrie with the money: then let thy wife know no otherwise, but that it was stolne from thee, by those theeves which continually haunt country houses, especially in such scattering villages. oh mine honest friends, answered _calandrino_, your counsell is not to be followed, neither is my wife so easie to be perswaded: this were the readiest way to make your house a hell, and she to become the master-divell: therefore talke no further, for flatly i will not doe it. albeit they laboured him very earnestly, yet all proved not to anie purpose: onely he desired them to suppe with him, but in so colde a manner, as they denyed him, and parted thence from him. as they walked on the way, _bruno_ saide to _buffalmaco_. shall we three (this night) rob him of his brawne? yea marry (quoth _buffalmaco_) how is it to be done? i have (saide _bruno_) alreadie found the meanes to effect it, if he take it not from the place where last we saw it. let us doe it then (answered _buffalmaco_) why should we not do it? sir domine heere and we, will make good cheare with it among our selves. the nimble priest was as forward as the best; and the match being fully agreed on, _bruno_ thus spake. my delicate sir domine, art and cunning must be our maine helps: for thou knowest _buffalmaco_, what a covetous wretch _calandrino_ is, glad and readie to drink alwaies on other mens expences: let us go take him with us to the tavern, where the priest (for his owne honour and reputation) shall offer to make paiment of the whole reckoning, without receiving a farthing of his, whereof he will not be a little joyfull, so shall we bring to passe the rest of the businesse, because there is no body in the house, but onely himselfe: for he is best at ease without company. as _bruno_ had propounded, so was it accordingly performed, & when _calandrino_ perceyved, that the priest would suffer none to pay, but himselfe, he dranke the more freely; and when there was no neede at all, tooke his cuppes couragiously, one after another. two or three houres of the night were spent, before they parted from the taverne, _calandrino_ going directly home to his house, and instantly to bed, without any other supper, imagining that he had made fast his doore, which (indeede) he left wide open: sleeping soundly, without suspition of any harme intended unto him. _buffalmaco_ and _bruno_ went and supt with the priest, and so soone as supper was ended, they tooke certaine engines, for their better entering into _calandrinoes_ house, and so went on to effect theyr purpose. finding the doore standing readie open, they entered in, tooke the brawne, carried it with them to the priests house, and afterward went all to bed. when _calandrino_ had well slept after his wine, he arose in the morning, and being descended downe the staires, finding the street doore wide open, he looked for the brawne, but it was gone. enquiring of the neighbours dwelling neere about him, hee could heare no tydings of his brawne, but became the wofullest man in the world, telling every one that his brawne was stolne. _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_ being risen in the morning, they went to visite _calandrino_, to heare how he tooke the losse of his brawne: and hee no sooner had a sight of them, but he called them to him; and with the teares running downe his cheekes, sayde: ah my deare friendes, i am robde of my brawne. _bruno_ stepping closely to him, sayde in his eare: it is wonderfull, that once in thy life time thou canst bee wise. how? answered _calandrino_, i speake to you in good earnest. speake so still in earnest (replied _bruno_) and cry it out so loud as thou canst, then let who list beleeve it to be true. _calandrino_ stampt and fretted exceedingly, saying: as i am a true man to god, my prince, and countrey, i tell thee truly, that my brawne is stolne. say so still i bid thee (answered _bruno_) and let all the world beleeve thee, if they list to do so, for i will not. wouldst thou, (quoth _calandrino_) have me damne my selfe to the divell? i see thou dost not credit what i say: but would i were hanged by the necke, if it be not true, that my brawne is stolne. how can it possible be, replyed _bruno_? did not i see it in thy house yesternight? wouldst thou have me beleeve, that it is flowne away? although it is not flowne away (quoth _calandrino_) yet i am certain, that it is stolne away: for which i am weary of my life, because i dare not go home to mine owne house, in regard my wife will never beleeve it; and yet if she should credite it, we are sure to have no peace for a twelvemonths space. _bruno_, seeming as if he were more then halfe sorrowfull, yet supporting still his former jesting humour, saide: now trust mee _calandrino_, if it be so; they that did it are much too blame. if it be so? answered _calandrino_, belike thou wouldst have mee blaspheme heaven, and all the saints therein: i tell thee once againe _bruno_, that this last night my brawne was stolne. be patient good _calandrino_, replyed _buffalmaco_, and if thy brawne be stolne from thee, there are means enow to get it againe. meanes enow to get it againe? said _calandrino_, i would faine heare one likely one, and let all the rest go by. i am sure _calandrino_, answered _buffalmaco_, thou art verily perswaded, that no theefe came from _india_, to steale thy brawne from thee: in which respect, it must needes then be some of thy neighbours: whom if thou couldst lovingly assemble together, i knowe an experiment to be made with bread and cheese, whereby the party that hath it, will quickly be discovered. i have heard (quoth _bruno_) of such an experiment, and helde it to be infallible; but it extendeth onely unto persons of gentilitie, whereof there are but few dwelling heere about, and in the case of stealing a brawne, it is doubtfull to invite them, neither can there be any certainty of their comming. i confesse what you say, aunswered _buffalmaco_, to be very true: but then in this matter, so nerely concerning us to be done, and for a deare friend, what is your advice? i would have pilles made of ginger, compounded with your best and strongest _malmesey_,** then let the ordinary sort of people be invited (for such onely are most to be mistrusted) and they will not faile to come, because they are utterly ignorant of our intention. besides, the pilles may as well bee hallowed and consecrated, as bread and cheese on the like occasion. indeede you say true (replyed _buffalmaco_) but what is the opinion of _calandrino_? is he willing to have this tryall made, or no? yes, by all meanes, answered _calandrino_, for gladly i would know who hath stolne my brawne, and your good words have (more then halfe) comforted me already in this case. well then (quoth _bruno_) i will take the paines to go to _florence_, to provide all things necessarie for this secret service; but i must bee furnished with money to effect it. _calandrino_ had some forty shillings then about him, which he delivered to _bruno_, who presently went to _florence_, to a frend of his an apothecarie, of whom he bought a pound of white ginger, which hee caused him to make uppe in small pilles: and two other beside of a dogges-dates or dowsets, confected all over with strong aloes, yet well moulded in sugare, as all the rest were: and because they should the more easily bee knowne from the other, they were spotted with gold, in verie formall and physicall manner. he bought moreover, a big flaggon of the best malmesey, returning backe with all these things to _calandrino_, and directing him in this order. you must put some friend in trust, to invite your neighbours (especially such as you suspect) to a breakfast in the morning: and because it is done as a feast in kindnesse, they will come to you the more willingly. this night will i and _buffalmaco_ take such order, that the pilles shall have the charge imposed on them, and then wee will bring them hither againe in the morning: and i my selfe (for your sake) will deliver them to your guests, and performe whatsoever is to bee sayde or done. on the next morning, a goodly company being assembled, under a faire elme before the church; as well young _florentynes_ (who purposely came to make themselves merry) as neighbouring husbandmen of the village: _bruno_ was to begin the service, with the pils in a faire cup, and _buffalmaco_ followed him with another cup, to deliver the wine out of the flaggon, all the company beeing set round, as in a circle; and _bruno_ with _buffalmaco_ being in the midst of them, _bruno_ thus spake. honest friends, it is fit that i should acquaint you with the occasion, why we are thus met together, and in this place: because if anie thing may seeme offensive to you; afterward you shall make no complaint of me. from _calandrino_ (our loving friend heere present) yesternight there was a new-kild fat brawne taken, but who hath done the deede, as yet he knoweth not; and because none other, but some one (or more) heere among us, must needs offend in this case: he, desiring to understand who they be, would have each man to receive one of these pilles, and afterward to drinke of this wine; assuring you all, that whosoever stole the brawne hence, cannot be able to swallow the pill: for it will be so extreme bitter in his mouth, as it will enforce him to coughe and spet extraordinarily. in which respect, before such a notorious shame be received, and in so goodly an assembly, as now are heere present: it were much better for him or them that have the brawne, to confesse it in private to this honest priest, and i will abstaine from urging anie such publike proofe. every one there present answered, that they were well contented both to eate and drinke, and let the shame fall where it deserved; whereupon, _bruno_ appointing them how they should sit, and placing _calandrino_ as one among them: he began his counterfeite exorcisme, giving each man a pill, and _buffalmaco_ a cup of wine after it. but when he came to _calandrino_, hee tooke one of them, which was made of the dogges dates or dowsets, and delivering it into his hand, presently hee put it into his mouth and chewed it. so soone as his tongue tasted the bitter aloes, he began to coughe and spet extreamly, as being utterly unable, to endure the bitternesse and noysome smell. the other men that had receyved the pils, beganne to gaze one upon another, to see whose behaviour should discover him; and _bruno_ having not (as yet) delivered pils to them all, proceeded on still in his businesse, as seeming not to heare any coughing, till one behinde him, saide. what meaneth _calandrino_ by this spetting and coughing? _bruno_ sodainely turning him about, and seeing _calandrino_ to cough and spet in such sort, saide to the rest. be not too rash (honest friends) in judging of any man, some other matter (then the pille) may procure this coughing, wherefore he shall receive another, the better to cleare your beleefe concerning him. he having put the second prepared pill into his mouth, while _bruno_ went to serve the rest of the guests: if the first was exceeding bitter to his taste, this other made it a great deale worse, for teares streamed forth of his eyes as bigge as cherry-stones, and champing and chewing the pill, as hoping it would overcome his coughing; he coughed and spette the more violently, and in grosser manner then he did before, nor did they give him any wine to helpe it. _buffalmaco, bruno,_ and the whole company, perceiving how he continued still his coughing and spetting; saide all with one voyce, that _calandrino_ was the theefe to himselfe: and gave him manie grosse speeches beside, all departing home into their houses, very much displeased and angry with him. after they were gone, none remained with him but the priest, _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_, who thus spake to _calandrino_. i did ever thinke, that thou wast the theefe thy selfe, yet thou imputedst thy robbery to some other, for feare we should once drinke freely of thy purse, as thou hast done many times of ours. _calandrino_, who had not yet ended his coughing and spetting, sware many bitter oathes, that his brawne was stolne from him. talke so long as thou wilt, quoth _buffalmaco_, thy knavery is both knowne and seene, and well thou mayst be ashamed of thy selfe. _calandrino_ hearing this, grew desperately angry; and to incense him more, _bruno_ thus pursued the matter. hear me _calandrino_, for i speake to thee in honest earnest, there was a man in the company, who did eate and drinke heere among thy neighbours, and plainly told me, that thou keptst a young lad heere to do thee service, feeding him with such victuals as thou couldst spare, by him thou didst send away thy brawne, to one that bought it of thee for foure crownes, onely to cousen thy poore wife and us. canst thou not yet learne to leave thy mocking and scorning? thou hast forgotte, how thou broughtst us to the plaine of _mugnone_, to seeke for black invisible stones: which having found, thou concealedst them to thy selfe, stealing home invisibly before us, and making us follow like fooles after thee. now likewise, by horrible lying oathes, and perjured protestations, thou wouldst make us to beleeve, that the brawne (which thou hast cunningly sold for ready money) was stolne from thee out of thy house, when thou art onely the theefe to thy selfe, as by that excellent rule of art (which never faileth) hath plainly, to thy shame, appeared. wee being so well acquainted with thy delusions, and knowing them perfectly; now do plainly tell thee, that we mean not to be foold any more. nor is it unknowne to thee, what paines wee have taken, in making this singular peece of proofe. wherefore we inflict this punishment on thee, that thou shalt bestow on this honest priest and us, two couple of capons, and a flaggon of wine, or else we will discover this knavery of thine to thy wife. _calandrino_ perceiving, that all his protestations could winne no credit with them, who had now the law remaining in their owne hands, and purposed to deale with him as they pleased: apparently saw, that sighing and sorrow did nothing availe him. moreover, to fall into his wives tempestuous stormes of chiding, would bee worse to him then racking or torturing: he gladly therefore gave them money, to buy the two couple of capons and wine, being heartily contented likewise, that hee was so well delivered from them. so the merry priest, _bruno_, and _buffalmaco_, having taken good order for salting the brawne; closely carried it with them to _florence_, leaving _calandrino_ to complaine of his losse, and well requited, for mocking them with the invisible stones. _a young gentleman being a scholler, fell in love with a ladie, named_ helena, _she being a widdow, and addicted in affection to another gentleman. one whole night in cold winter, she caused the scholler to expect her comming, in an extreame frost and snow. in revenge whereof, by his imagined art and skill, he made her to stand naked on the top of a tower, the space of a whole day, and in the hot moneth of july, to be sun-burnt and bitten with waspes and flies._ the seventh novell. _serving as an admonition to all ladies and gentlewomen, not to mock or scorne gentlemen-schollers, when they make meanes of love to them; except they intend to seeke their owne shame, by disgracing them._ greatly did the ladies commend madame _philomenaes_ novell, laughing heartily at poore _calandrino_, yet grieving withall, that he should be so knavishly cheated, not onely of his brawne, but two couple of capons, and a flaggon of wine beside. but the whole discourse being ended; the queene commanded madame _pampinea_, to follow next with her novell, and presently she thus began. it hapneth oftentimes, (bright beauties) that mockery falleth onto him, that intended the same unto another: and therefore i am of opinion, that there is very little wisedom declared on him or her, who taketh delight in mocking any person. i must needs confesse, that we have smiled at many mockeries and deceits, related in those excellent novels, which we have already heard; without any due revenge returned, but onely in this last of silly _calandrino_. wherefore, it is now my determination, to urge a kind of compassionate apprehension, upon a very just retribution, happening to a gentlewoman of our citie, because her scorne fell deservedly upon her selfe, remaining mocked, and to the perill of her life. let me then assure you, that your diligent attention may redound to your benefit, because if you keepe your selves (henceforward) from being scorned by others: you shall expresse the greater wisedome, and be the better warned by their mishaps. as yet there are not many yeares over-past, since there dwelt in _florence_, a yong lady, descended of noble parentage, very beautifull, of sprightly courage, and sufficiently abounding in the goods of fortune, she being named madame _helena_. her delight was to live in the estate of widdow-hood, desiring to match her selfe no more in marriage, because she bare affection to a gallant young gentleman, whom she had made her private election of, and with whom (having excluded all other amorous cares and cogitations) by meanes of her waiting-woman, she had divers meetings, and kinde conferences. it chanced at the verie same time, another young gentleman of our citie, called _reniero_, having long studied in the schooles at _paris_, returned home to _florence_, not to make sale of his learning and experience, as many doe: but to understand the reason of things, as also the causes and effects of them, which is mervailously fitting for any gentleman. being greatly honoured and esteemed of everyone, as well for his courteous carriage towards all in generall, as for his knowledge and excellent parts: he lived more like a familiar citizen, then in the nature of a courtly gentleman, albeit he was choisely respected in either estate. but, as oftentimes it commeth to passe, that such as are endued with the best judgement and understanding in naturall occasions, are soonest caught and intangled in the snares of love: so fel it out with our scholler _reniero_, who being invited to a solemne feast, in company of other his especiall friends; this lady _helena_, attyred in her blacke garments (as widdowes commonly use to wear) was likewise there a guest. his eye observing her beauty and gracious demeanour, she seemed in his judgement, to be a woman so compleate and perfect, as he had never seene her equall before: & therefore, he accounted the man more then fortunate, that was worthy to embrace her in his armes. continuing this amorous observation of her from time to time, and knowing withall, that rare and excellent things are not easily obtained, but by painefull study, labour, and endeavour: hee resolved with himselfe constantly, to put in practise all his best parts of industry, onely to honour and please her, and attaining to her contentation, it would be the means to winne her love, and compasse thereby his hearts desire. the yong lady, who fixed not her eyes on inferiour subjects (but esteemed her selfe above ordinary reach or capacity) could moove them artificially, as curious women well know how to doe, looking on every side about her, yet not in a gadding or grosse manner; for she was not ignorant in such darting glaunces, as proceeded from an enflamed affection, which appearing plainely in _reniero_; with a pretty smile, shee said to her selfe. i am not come hither this day in vaine; for, if my judgement faile me not, i thinke i have caught a woodcocke by the bill. and lending him a cunning looke or two, queintly caried with the corner of her eye; she gave him a kinde of perswading apprehension, that her heart was the guide to her eye. and in this artificiall** schoole-tricke of hers, shee carryed therewith another consideration, to wit, that the more other eyes fedde themselves on her perfections, and were (well-neere) lost in them beyond recovery: so much the greater reason had he to account his fortune beyond comparison, that was the sole master of her heart, and had her love at his command. our witty scholler having set aside his philosophicall considerations, strove how he might best understand her carriage toward him, and beleeving that she beheld him with pleasing regards; hee learned to know the house where shee dwelt, passing daily by the doore divers times, under colour of some more serious occasions: wherein the lady very proudly gloried, in regard of the reasons before alleadged, and seemed to affoord him lookes of good liking. being led thus with a hopefull perswasion, hee founde the meanes to gaine acquaintance with her waiting-woman, revealing to her his intire affection, desiring her to worke for him in such sort with her lady, that his service might be gracious in her acceptance. the gentlewoman made him a very willing promise, and immediately did his errand to her lady; who heard her with no small pride and squemishnesse, and breaking forth into a scornefull laughter, thus she spake. _ancilla_ (for so she was named) dost thou not observe, how this scholler is come to lose all the wit heere, which he has studyed so long for in the university of _paris_? let us make him our onely table argument, and seeing his folly soareth so high, we will feed him with such a dyet as hee deserveth. yet when thou speakest next with him, tell him, that i affect him more then he can doe me: but it becommeth me to be carefull of mine honour, and to walke with an untainted brow, as other ladies and gentlewomen doe: which he is not to mislike, if he be so wise as he maketh shew of, but rather will the more commend me. alas good lady lack-wit, little did she understand (faire assembly) how dangerous a case it is to deale with schollers. at his next meeting with the waiting woman, shee delivered the message, as her lady had command her, whereof poore _reniero_ was so joyfull: that hee pursued his love-suite the more earnestly, and began to write letters, send gifts, and tokens, all which were still received, yet without any other answere to give hope, but onely in generall, and thus shee dallied with him a long while. in the end, she discovered this matter to her secret chosen friend, who fell suddenly sicke of the head-ake, onely through meere conceit of jealousie: which she perceiving, and grieving to be suspected without any cause, especially by him whom shee esteemed above all other; shee intended to rid him quickely of that idle disease. and being more and more solicited by the scholler, she sent him word by her maide _ancilla_, that (as yet) she could find no convenient opportunity, to yeeld him such assurance, as hee should not any way be distrustfull of her love. but the feast of christmas was now neere at hand, which afforded leisures much more hopefull, then any other formerly passed. and therefore, the next night after the first feasting day, if he pleased to walke in the open court of her house: she would soone send for him, into a place much better beseeming, and where they might freely converse together. now was our scholler the onely jocond man of the world, and failed not the time assigned him, but went unto the ladies house, where _ancilla_ was ready to give him entertainment, conducting him into the base court, where she lockt him up fast, untill her lady should send for him. this night shee had privately sent for her friend also, and sitting merrily at supper with him, told him, what welcome she had given the scholler, and how she further meant to use him, saying. now sir, consider with yourselfe, what hot affection i beare to him, of whom you became so fondly jealous. the which words were very welcome to him, and made him extraordinarily joyfull; desiring to see them as effectually performed, as they appeared to him by her protestations. heere you are to understand (gracious ladies) that according to the season of the yeare, a great snow had falne the day before, so as the whole court was covered therewith, and being an extreame frost upon it, our scholler could not boast of any warme walking, when the teeth quivered in his head with cold, as a dog could not be more discourteously used: yet hope of enjoying loves recompence at length, made him to support all this injury with admirable patience. within a while after, madame _helena_ said to her friend. walke with me (deare heart) into my chamber, and there at a secret little window, i shall shew thee what he doth, that drove thee to such a suspition of me, and we shall heare beside, what answere he will give my maide _ancilla_, whom i will send to comfort him in his coldnesse. when she had so said, they went to the appointed chamber window, where they could easily see him, but he not them: and then they heard _ancilla_ also, calling to him forth of another windowe, saying. signior _reniero_, my lady is the wofullest woman in the world, because (as yet) she cannot come to you, in regard that one of her brethren came this evening to visite her, and held her with much longer discourse then she expected: whereby she was constrained to invite him to sup with her, and yet he is not gone; but shortly i hope hee will, and then expect her comming presently; till when, she entreateth your gentle sufferance. poore _reniero_, our over-credulous scholler, whose vehement affection to madame _helena_, so hood-winkt the sight of his understanding, as he could not be distrustfull of any guilt; returned this answere to _ancilla_. say to your lady that i am bound in duty, to attend the good houre of her leisure, without so much as the very least prejudicate conceite in me: neverthelesse, entreat her, to let it bee so soone as she possibly may, because here is miserable walking, and it beginneth againe to snow extreamely. _ancilla_ making fast the casement, went presently to bed; when _helena_ spake thus to her amorous friend. what saist thou now? doest thou thinke that i loved him, as thou wast afraid of? if i did, he should never walke thus in the frost and snow. so, away went they likewise from their close gazing window, and spent wanton dalliances together, laughing, and deriding (with many bitter taunts and jests) the lamentable condition of poore _reniero_. about the court walked hee numberlesse times, finding such exercises as he could best devise, to compasse warmth in any manner: no seate or shelter had he any where, either to ease himselfe by sitting downe a while, or keepe him from the snow, falling continually on him, which made him bestow many curses on the ladies brother, for his so long tarrying with her, as beleeving him verily to be in the house, else she would (long before) have admitted his entrance, but therein his hope was meerely deceived. it grew now to be about the houre of midnight, and _helena_ had delighted her selfe with her friend extraordinarily, till at last she spake to him. what is thine opinion of my amourous scholler? which dost thou imagine to be the greatest, either his sense and judgement, or the affection i beare to him? is not this cold sufferance of this, able to quench the violent heate of his loves extremitie, and having so much snow broth to helpe it? beleeve me (sweet lady) quoth her friend, as hee is a man, and a learned scholler, i pitty that he should bee thus ungently dealt withall: but as he is my rivall and loves enemy, i cannot allow him the least compassion, resting the more confidently assured of your love to me, which i will alwayes esteeme most precious. when they had spent a long while in this or the like conference, with infinite sweet kisses and embraces intermixed; then she began againe in this manner. deare love (quoth she) cast thy cloake about thee, as i intend to doe with my night mantle, and let us step to the little window once more, to see whether the flaming fire, which burned in the schollers brest (as daily avouched to me in his love letters) be as yet extinct or no. so going to the window againe, and looking downe into the court; there they saw the scholler dancing in the snow, to the cold tune of his teeths quivering and chattering, and clapping his armes about his body, which was no pleasing melody to him. how thinkest thou now sweet heart (saide shee) cannot i make a man daunce without the sound of a taber, or of a bagpipe? yes beleeve me lady (quoth he) i plaine perceive you can, and would be very lothe, that you should exercise your cunning on me. nay, said shee, we will yet delight our selves a little more; let us softly descend downe the stayres, even so farre as to the court doore; thou shalt not speake a word, but i will talke to him, and heare some part of his quivering language, which cannot choose but bee passing pleasing for us to heare. out of the chamber went they, and descended downe the stayres to the court doore; where, without opening it, she laide her mouth to a small cranny, and in a low soft kinde of voyce, called him by his name: which the scholler hearing, was exceeding joyfull, as beleeving verily, that the houre of his deliverance was come, and entrance now should be admitted him. upon the hearing of her voyce, hee stept close to the doore, saying. for charities sake, good lady, let me come in, because i am almost dead with cold; whereto thus she answered in mocking manner. i make no doubt (my deare friend _reniero_) but the night is indifferent colde, and yet somewhat the warmer by the snowes falling: and i have heard that such weather as this, is tenne-times more extreame at _paris_, then heere in our warmer countrey. and trust me, i am exceeding sorrowfull, that i may not (as yet) open the door, because mine unhappy brother, who came (unexpected) yester-night to suppe with mee, is not yet gone, as within a short while (i hope) he will, and then shall i gladly set open the doore to you, for i made an excuse to steale a little from him, onely to cheare you with this small kind of comfort, that his so long tarrying might be the lesse offensive to you. alas sweet madame, answered quaking and quivering _reniero_, bee then so favourable to me, as to free me from forth this open court, where there is no shelter or helpe for me, the snow falling still so exceedingly, as a man might easily be more then halfe buried in it: let me be but within your doore, and there i will wait your own good leisure. alas deare _reniero_ (answered _helena_) i dare not doe it, because the doore maketh such a noyse in the opening, as it will be too easily heard by my brother: but i will goe and use such meanes, as shortly hee shall get him gone, and then i dare boldly give you entrance. doe so good madame, replyed _reniero_, and let there be a faire fire made ready, that when i am within, i may the sooner warme my selfe; for i am so strangely benummed with colde, as well neere i am past all sence of feeling. can it be possible (quoth _helena_) that you should be so benummed with colde? then i plainely perceive, that men can lye in their love letters, which i can shew under your own hand, how you fryed in flames, and all for my love, and so have you written to me in every letter. poore credulous women are often thus deluded, in beleeving what men write and speake out of passion: but i will returne backe to my brother, and make no doubt of dispatch, because i would gladly have your company. the amourous friend to _helena_, who stood by all this while, laughing at the schollers hard usage, returned up againe with her to her chamber, where they could not take a jote of rest, for flouting and scorning the betrayed scholler. as for him poore man, hee was become like the swanne, coldly chattering his teeth together, in a strange new kinde of harmony to him. and perceiving himselfe to be meerely mocked, he attempted to get open the doore, or how he might passe forth at any other place: but being no way able to compasse it, he walked up and downe like an angry lyon, cursing the hard quality of the time, the discourtesie of the lady, the over-tedious length of the night; but (most of all) his owne folly and simplicity, in being so basely abused and gulde. now began the heat of his former affection to _helena_, altered into as violent a detestation of her; yea, extremity of hatred in the highest degree; beating his braines, and ransacking every corner of invention, by what meanes he might best be revenged on her, which now he more earnestly desired to effect, then to enjoy the benefit of her love, or to be embraced betweene her armes. after that the sad and discomfortable night had spent it selfe, & the break of day was beginning to appeare; _ancilla_ the waiting-woman, according as she was instructed by her lady, went downe and opened the court doore, and seeming exceedingly to compassionate the schollers unfortunate night of sufferance, saide unto him. alas courteous gentleman, in an unblessed houre came my ladyes brother hither yester-night, inflicting too much trouble upon us, and a grievous time of affliction to you. but i am not ignorant, that you being vertuous, and a judicious scholler, have an invincible spirit of pacience, and sufficient understanding withall; that what this night could not affoord, another may make a sound amends for. this i can and dare sufficiently assure you, that nothing could be more displeasing to my lady, neither can she well be quieted in her mind: untill she have made a double and treble requitall, for such a strange unexpected inconvenience, whereof she had not the very least suspition. _reniero_ swelling with discontentment, yet wisely clouding it from open apprehension, and knowing well enough, that such golden speeches and promises, did alwaies favour of what intemperate spleene would more lavishly have vented foorth, and therefore in a modest dissembling manner; without the least shew of any anger, thus he answered. in good sadnesse _ancilla_, i have endured the most miserablest night of colde, frost and snow, that ever any poore gentleman suffered; but i know well enough, your lady was not in any fault thereof, neither meriteth to be blamed, for in her owne person (as being truely compassionate of my distresse) she came so farre as the doore of this court, to excuse her selfe, and comfort mee. but as you saide, and very well too, what hath failed this night, another hereafter may more fortunately performe: in hope whereof, commend my love and duteous service to her, and (what else remaineth mine) to your gentle selfe. so our halfe frozen scholler, scarcely able to walke upon his legges, returned home, (so well as hee could) to his owne lodging; where, his spirits being grievously out of order, and his eyes staring gastly through lacke of sleepe: he lay downe on his bed, and after a little rest, he found himselfe in much worse condition then before, as meerely taken lame in his armes and his legges. whereupon he was inforced to send for phisitions, to be advised by their councell, in such an extremity of cold received. immediately, they made provision for his healthes remedie (albeit his nerves and sinewes could very hardly extend themselves) yet in regard he was yong, & summer swiftly drawing on; they had the better hope of affecting his safty, out of so great and dangerous a cold. but after he was become almost well and lusty againe, hee used to be seldome seene abroad for an indifferent while; concealing his intended revenge secret to himselfe, yet appearing more affectionate to madame _helena_, then formerly he had beene. now, it came to passe (within no long while after) that fortune being favourable to our injured scholler, prepared a new accident, whereby he might fully effect his harts desire. for the lusty yong gallant, who was madame _helenaes_ deare darling and delight, and (for whose sake) she dealt so inhumanely with poore _reniero_: became weary of her amourous service, and was falne in liking of another lady, scorning and disdaining his former mistresse; whereat shee grew exceedingly displeased, and began to languish in sighes and teares. but _ancilla_ her waiting-woman, compassionating the perilous condition of her lady, and knowing no likely meanes whereby to conquer this oppressing melancholly, which shee suffered for the losse of her hearts chosen friend: at length she began to consider, that the scholler still walked daily by the doore, as formerly hee was wont to doe, and (by him) there might some good be done. a fond and foolish opinion overswayed her, that the scholler was extraordinarily skilfull in the art of nigromancy, and could thereby so over-rule the heart of her lost friend, as hee should bee compelled to love her againe, in as effectuall manner as before; herewith immediately she acquainted her lady, who being as rashly credulous, as her maide was opinionative (never considring, that if the scholler had any experience in negromancy, hee would thereby have procured his owne successe) gave releefe to her surmise, in very joviall and comfortable manner, and entreated her in all kindnes, to know of him, whether he could worke such a businesse, or no, and (upon his undertaking to effect it) shee would give absolute assurance, that (in recompence thereof) he should unfainedly obtaine his hearts desire. _ancilla_ was quicke and expeditious, in delivering this message to discontented _reniero_, whose soule being ready to mount out of his body, onely by conceit of joy; chearefully thus he said within himselfe. gracious fortune! how highly am i obliged to thee for this so great a favour? now thou hast blest me with a happy time, to be justly revenged on so wicked a woman, who sought the utter ruine of my life, in recompence of the unfaigned affection i bare her. returne to thy lady (quoth he) and saluting her first on my behalfe, bid her to abandon all care in this businesse; for, if her amourous friend were in india, i would make him come (in meere despight of his heart) and crave mercy of her for his base transgression. but concerning the meanes how, and in what manner it is to bee done, especially on her owne behalfe: i will impart it to her so soone as she pleaseth: faile not to tell her so constantly from me, with all my utmost paines at her service. _ancilla_ came jocondly home with her answere, and a conclusion was set downe for their meeting together at _santa lucia del prato_, which accordingly was performed, in very solemne conference between them. her fond affection had such power over her, that shee had forgot, into what peril she brought his life, by such an unnatural night-walke: but disclosed all her other intention to him, how loth she was to lose so deare a friend, and desiring him to exercise his utmost height of skil, with large promises of her manifold favours to him, whereto our scholler thus replyed. very true it is madam, that among other studies at _paris_, i learned the art of negromancy, the depth whereof i am as skilful in, as anie other scholler whatsoever. but, because it is greatly displeasing unto god, i made a vow never to use it, either for my selfe, or anie other. neverthelesse, the love i beare you is of such power, as i know not well how to denie, whatsoever you please to command me: in which respect, if in doing you my very best service, i were sure to bee seized on by all the divels: i will not faile to accomplish your desire, you onely having the power to command me. but let me tell you madame, it is a matter not so easie to be performed, as you perhaps may rashly imagine, especially, when a woman would repeale a man to love her, or a man a woman: because, it is not to be done, but by the person whom it properly concerneth. and therefore it behoveth, that such would have this businesse effected, must be of a constant minde, without the least scruple of feare: because it is to be accomplished in the darke night season, in which difficulties i doe not know, how you are able to warrant your selfe, or whether you have such courage of spirit, as (with boldnes) to adventure. madame _helena_, more hot in pursuite of her amorous contentment, then any way governed by temperate discretion, presently thus answered. sir, love hath set such a keene edge on my unconquerable affection, as there is not any daunger so difficult, but i dare resolutely undertake it, for the recovery of him, who hath so shamefully refused my kindnesse: wherefore (if you please) shew mee, wherein i must be so constant and dreadlesse. the scholler, who had (more then halfe) caught a right ninny-hammer by the beake; thus replyed. madame, of necessity i must make an image of tin, in the name of him whom you desire to recall. which when i have sent you, the moone being then in her full, and your selfe stript starke naked: immediately after your first sleepe, seaven times you must bathe your selfe with it in a swift running river. afterward, naked as you are, you must climbe up upon some tree, or else upon an uninhabited house top, where standing dreadlesse of any perill, and turning your face to the north, with the image in your hand, seaven times you must speake such wordes, as i will deliver to you in writing. after you have so often spoken them, two goodly ladies (the very fairest that ever you beheld) will appeare unto you, very graciously saluting you, and demanding what you would have them to performe for you. safely you may speake unto them, and orderly tel them what you desire: but be very carefull, that you name not one man insted of another. when you have uttered your mind, they will depart from you, and then you may descend againe, to the place where you did leave your garments, which having putte on, then returne to your house. and undoubtedly, before the midst of the next night following, your friend will come in teares to you, and humbly crave your pardon on his knees; beeing never able afterward to be false to you, or leave your love for any other whatsoever. the lady hearing these words, gave very setled beleefe to them, imagining unfainedly, that shee had (more then halfe) recovered her friend already, and held him embraced betweene her armes: in which jocond perswasion, the chearfull** blood mounted up into hir cheekes, and thus she replyed. never make you any doubt sir, but that i can sufficiently performe whatsoever you have said, and am provided of the onely place in the world, where such a weighty businesse is to be effected. for i have a farme or dairy house, neere adjoyning to the vale of _arno_, & closely bordering upon the same river. it beeing now the moneth of july, the most convenientest time of all the yeare to bathe in; i can bee the easier induced thereunto. moreover, there is hard by the rivers side a small tower or turret uninhabited; whereinto few people do sildome enter, but onely heardsmen or flocke-keepers, who ascend uppe (by the helpe of a wodden ladder) to a tarrasse on the top of the saide tower, to looke all about for their beasts, when they are wandred astray: it standing in a solitary place, and out of the common way or resort. there dare i boldly adventure to mount up, and with the invincible courage of a wronged lady (not fearing to looke death himself in the face) do al that you have prescribed, yea, and much more, to recover my deare lost lover againe, whom i value equal with my owne life. _reniero_, who perfectly knew both the dairy farme, and the old smal turret, not a little joyfull, to heare how forward shee was to shame her selfe, answered in this manner. madame, i was never in those parts of the country, albeit they are so neere to our city, & therefore i must needs be ignorant, not onely of your farme, but the turret also. but if they stand in such convenient manner as you have described, all the world could not yeelde the like elsewhere, so apt and sutable to your purpose: wherefore, with such expedition as possibly i can use, i will make the image, and send it you, as also the charme, verie fairely written. but let me entreate you, that when you have obtayned your hearts desire, and are able to judge truely of my love and service: not to be unmindfull of me, but (at your best leysure) to performe what you have with such protestations promised; which shee gave him her hand and faith to do, without any impeach or hindrance: and so parting, she returned home to her house. our over-joyed scholler, applauding his happy starres, for furthering him with so faire a way to his revenge; immagining that it was already halfe executed, made the image in due forme, & wrote an old fable, in sted of a charme; both which he sent to the lady, so soone as he thought the time to be fitting: and this admonition withall, that the moone being entering into the full, without any longer delay, she might venter on the businesse the next night following, and remaine assured to repossesse her friend. afterward for the better pleasing of himselfe, he went secretly attended, onely by his servant, to the house of a trusty frend of his, who dwelt somwhat neere to the turret, there to expect the issue of this lady-like enterprize. and madam _helena_ accompanied with none but _ancilla_, walked on to her dairy farme, where the night ensuing, pretending to take her rest sooner then formerly she used to doe, she commanded _ancilla_ to go to bed, referring her selfe to her best liking. after she had slept her first sleepe (according to the schollers direction) departing softly out of her chamber, she went on towards the ancient tower, standing hard by the river of _arno_, looking every way heedfully about hir, least she should be spied by any person. but perceiving hir selfe to be so secure as she could desire; putting off all her garments, she hid them in a small brake of bushes: afterward, holding the image in hir hand, seven times she bathd hir body in the river, and then returned back with it to the tower. the scholler, who at the nights closing up of day, had hid himselfe among the willowes & other trees, which grew very thick about the tower, saw both hir going and returning from the river, and as she passed thus naked by him, he plainly perceyved, that the nights obscurity could not cloud the delicate whitenes of hir body, but made the starres themselves to gaze amorously on her, even as if they were proud to behold her bathing, and (like so many twinkling tapers) shewed hir in emulation of another _diana_. now, what conflicts this sight caused in the mind of our scholler, one while, quenching his hatefull spleen towards hir, al coveting to imbrace a piece of such perfection: another while, thinking it a purchase fit for one of _cupids_ soldiers, to seize and surprize hir uppon so faire an advantage, none being neere to yeild her rescue: in the fiery triall of such temptations, i am not able to judge, or to say, what resistance flesh and blood could make, being opposed with such a sweet enemy. but he well considering what she was, the greatnes of his injury, as also how, and for whom: he forgot all wanton allurements of love, scorning to entertaine a thought of compassion, continuing constant in his resolution, to let her suffer, as he himselfe had done. so, _helena_ being mounted up on the turret, and turning her face towards the north; she repeated those idle frivolous words (composed in the nature of a charme) which shee had received from the scholler. afterward, by soft and stealing steps, hee went into the old tower, and tooke away the ladder, whereby she ascended to the tarras, staying and listening, how shee proceeded in her amorous exorcisme. seven times she rehearsed the charme to the image, looking still when the two ladies would appeare in their likenesse, and so long she held on her imprecations (feeling greater cold, then willinglie she would have done) that breake of day began to shew it selfe, and halfe despairing of the ladies comming, according as the scholler had promised, she said to her selfe: i much misdoubt, that _reniero_ hath quitted me with such another peece of night-service, as it was my lucke to bestow on him: but if he have done it in that respect, hee was but ill advised in his revenge, because the night wants now three parts of the length, as then it had: and the cold which he suffered, was far superior in quality to mine, albeit it is more sharp now in the morning, then all the time of night it hath bin. and, because day-light should not discover her on the tarrasse, she went to make her descent downe againe: but finding the ladder to be taken away, & thinking how her publike shame was now inevitable, her heart dismayed, and shee fell downe in a swoune on the tarras: yet recovering her senses afterward, her greefe and sorrow** exceeded all capacity of utterance. for, now she became fully perswaded, that this proceeded from the schollers malice, repenting for her unkinde usage towards him, but much more condemning her selfe, for reposing any trust in him, who stood bound (by good reason) to be her enemy. continuing long in this extreame affliction, and surveighing all likely meanes about her, whereby she might descend from the tarras, whereof she was wholly disappointed: she began to sighe and weepe exceedingly, and in this heavy perplexity of spirit, thus shee complained to her selfe. miserable and unfortunate _helena_, what will be saide by thy bretheren, kindred, neighbours, and generallie throughout all _florence_, when they shall know, that thou wast founde heere on this turret, starke naked? thine honourable carriage, and honesty of life, heeretofore free from a thought of suspition, shall now be branded with detestation; and if thou wouldst cloud this mishappe of thine, by such lies and excuses, as are not rare amongst women: yet _reniero_ that wicked scholler, who knoweth all thy privy compacting, will stand as a thousand witnesses against thee, and shame thee before the whole city, so both thine honor and loved friend are lost for ever. having thus consulted with her selfe, many desperate motions entred her minde, to throw her selfe headlong from off the tarras; till better thoughts wone possession of her soule. and the sunne being risen, shee went to every corner of the tarras, to espye any lad come abroad with his beasts, by whom she might send for her waiting-woman. about this instant, the scholler who lay sleeping (all this while) under a bush, suddenly awaking; saw her looke over the wall, and she likewise espyed him; whereupon hee said unto her. good morrow madame _helena_, what? are the ladies come yet or no? _helena_ hearing his scorning question, and grieving that hee should so delude her; in teares and lamentations, she intreated him to come neere the tower, because she desired to speake with him. which courtesie he did not deny her, and she lying groveling upon her brest on the tarras, to hide her body that no part thereof might be seene, but her head; weeping, she spake thus to him. _reniero_, upon my credit, if i gave thee an ill nights rest, thou hast well revenged that wrong on me; for, although wee are now in the moneth of _july_, i have beene plagued with extremity of colde (in regard of my nakednesse) even almost frozen to death: beside my continuall teares and lamenting, that folly perswaded me to beleeve thy protestations, wherein i account it well-neere miraculous, that mine eyes should be capable of any sight. and therefore i pray thee, not in respect of any love which thou canst pretend to beare me; but for regard of thine owne selfe, being a gentleman and a scholler, that this punishment which thou hast already inflicted upon me, may suffise for my former injuries towards thee, and to hold thy selfe revenged fully, as also permit my garments to be brought me, that i may descend from hence, without taking that from me, which afterward (although thou wouldst) thou canst never restore me, i meane mine honour. and consider with thy selfe, that albeit thou didst not injoy my company that unhappy night, yet thou hast power to command me at any time whensoever, with making many diversities of amends, for one nights offence only committed. content thy selfe then good _reniero_, and as thou art an honest gentleman, say thou art sufficiently revenged on me, in making me dearely confesse mine owne errour. never exercise thy malice upon a poore weake woman, for the eagle disdaineth to pray on the yeelding dove: and therefore in meere pitty, and for manhoods sake, be my release from open shame and reproch. the scholler, whose envious spleene was swolne very great, in remembring such a malicious cruelty exercised on him, beholding her to weepe and make such lamentations; found a fierce conflict in his thoughts, betweene content and pitty. it did not a little joy and content him, that the revenge which hee so earnestly desired to compasse, was now by him so effectually inflicted. and yet (in meere humanity) pitty provoked him to commisserate the ladies distressed condition: but clemency being over-weake to withstand his rigor, thus he replied. madame _helena_, if my entreaties (which, to speake truly, i never knew how to steepe in tears, nor wrap up my words in sugar candie, so cuningly as you women know how to do) could have prevailed, that miserable night, when i was well-neere frozen to death with cold, and meerly buried with snow in your court, not having anie place of rescue or shelter; your complaints would now the more easily over-rule me. but if your honor in estimation, bee now more precious to you then heretofore, and it seemeth so offensive to stand there naked: convert your perswasions & prayers to him, in whose armes you were that night imbraced, both of your triumphing in my misery, when poor i, trotted about your court, with the teeth quivering in my head, and beating mine armes about my body, finding no compassion in him, or you. let him bring thee thy garments, let him come helpe thee down with the ladder, and let him have the care of thine honour, on whom thou hast bene so prodigall heretofore in bestowing it, and now hast unwomanly throwne thy selfe in perill, onely for the maintenance of thine immodest desires. why dost thou not call on him to come helpe thee? to whom doeth it more belong, then to him? for thou art his, and he thine, why then shold any other but he help thee in this distresse? call him (foole as thou art) and try, if the love he beareth thee, and thy best understanding joyned with his, can deliver thee out of my sottish detaining thee. i have not forgot, that when you both made a pastime of my misery, thou didst demand of him, which seemed greatest in his opinion, either my sottish simplicity, or the love thou barest him. i am not now so liberall or courteous, to desire that of thee, which thou wouldst not grant, if i did request it: no, no, reserve those night favours for thy amorous friend, if thou dost escape hence alive to see him againe. as for my selfe, i leave thee freely to his use and service: because i have sufficiently payde for a womans falshood, & wise men take such warning, that they scorne to bee twice deceived, & by one woman. proceed on still in thy flattering perswasions, terming me to be a gentleman and a scholler, thereby to win such favor from me, that i should think thy villany toward me, to be already sufficiently punished. no, trecherous _helena_, thy blandishments cannot now hoodwink the eies of my understanding, as when thou didst out-reach me with thy disloyall promises and protestations. and let me now tell thee plainely, that all the while i continued in the universitie of _paris_, i never attained unto so perfect an understanding of my selfe, as in that one miserable night thou diddest enstruct mee. but admit, that i were enclined unto a mercifull and compassionate minde, yet thou art none of them, on whome milde and gracious mercy should any way declare her effects. for, the end of pennance among savage beasts, such as thou art, and likewise of due vengeance, ought to be death: whereas among men, it should suffice according to thine owne saying. wherefore, in regard that i am neither an eagle, nor thou a dove, but rather a most venomous serpent: i purpose with my utmost hatred, and as an ancient enemy to all such as thou art, to make my revenge famous on thee. i am not ignorant, that whatsoever i have already done unto thee, cannot properly be termed revenge, but rather chastisement; because revenge ought alwayes to exceede the offence, which (as yet) i am farre enough from. for, if i did intend to revenge my wrongs, and remembred thy monstrous cruelty to me: thy life, if i tooke it from thee, and an hundred more such as thy selfe, were farre insufficient, because in killing thee, i should kill but a vile inhumane beast, yea, one that deserved not the name of a woman. and, to speake truely, art thou any more, or better (setting aside thy borrowed haire, and painted beauty, which in few yeares will leave thee wrinkled and deformed) then the basest beggarly chamber-stuffe that can bee? yet thou soughtest the death of a gentleman and scholler as (in scorne) not long since, thou didst terme me: whose life may hereafter be more beneficiall unto the world, then millions of such as thou art, to live in the like multiplicity of ages. therefore, if this anguish be sensible to thee, learne what it is to mocke men of apprehension, and (amongst them especially) such as are schollers: to prevent thy falling hereafter into the like extremity, if it be thy good lucke to escape out of this. it appeareth to me, that thou art verie desirous to come downe hither on the ground; the best counsell that i can give thee, is to leape downe headlong, that by breaking thy necke (if thy fortune be so faire) thy life and lothsome qualities ending together, i may sit and smile at thy deserved destruction. i have no other comfort to give thee, but only to boast my happinesse, in teaching thee the way to ascend that tower, and in thy descending downe (even by what means thy wit can best devise) make a mockery of me, and say thou hast learned more, then all my schollership could instruct thee. all the while as _reniero_ uttered these speeches, the miserable lady sighed and wept very grievously, the time running on, and the sunne amending higher and higher; but when she heard him silent, thus she answered. unkinde and cruell man, if that wretched night was so greevous to thee, and mine offence appeared so great, as neither my youth, beautie, teares, and humble intercessions, are able to derive any mercy from thee; yet let the last consideration moove thee to some remorse: namely, that i reposed new confidence in thee (when i had little or no reason at all to trust thee) and discovered the integritie of my soule unto thee, whereby thou didst compasse the meanes, to punish me thus deservedly for my sinne. for, if i had not reposed confidence in thee, thou couldst not (in this manner) have wrought revenge on me, which although thou didst earnestly covet, yet my rash credulitie was thy onely helpe. asswage then thine anger, and graciously pardon me, wherein if thou wilt be so mercifull to me, and free me from this fatall tower: i do heere faithfully promise thee, to forsake my most false and disloyall friend, electing thee as my lord and constant love for ever. moreover, although thou condemnest my beauty greatly, esteeming it as a trifle, momentary, and of slender continuance; yet, such as it is (being comparable with any other womans whatsoever) i am not so ignorant, that were there no other reason to induce liking thereof: yet men in the vigour of their youth (as i am sure you think yourselfe not aged) do hold it for an especiall delight, ordained by nature for them to admire and honour. and notwithstanding all thy cruelty extended to mee, yet i cannot be perswaded, that thou art so flinty or iron-hearted, as to desire my miserable death, by casting my selfe headlong downe (like a desperate madde woman) before thy face so to destroy that beauty, which (if thy letters lyed not) was once so highly pleasing in thine eyes. take pitty then on mee for charities sake, because the sunne beginneth to heate extreamely: and as over-much colde (that unhappy night) was mine offence, so let not over-violent warmth be now my utter ruine and death. the scholler, who (onely to delight himselfe) maintained this long discoursing with her, returned her this answere. madame, you did not repose such confidence in me, for any good will or affection in you towards me, but in hope of recovering him whom you had lost; wherein you merit not a jot of favour, but rather the more sharpe and severe infliction. and whereas you inferre, that your over-rash credulity, gave the onely meanes to my revenge: alas! therein you deceive your selfe; for i have a thousand crochets working continually in my brain, whereby to entrap a wiser creature then a woman, yet veiled all under the cunning cloake of love, but sauced with the bitter wormewood of hate. so that, had not this hapned as now it doth, of necessity you must have falne into another: but, as it hath pleased my happy stars to favour mee therein, none could proove more to your eternall scandall and disgrace, then this of your owne devising, which i made choise of, not in regard of any ease to you, but onely to content my selfe. but if all other devises els had failed, my pen was and is my prevayling champion, where-with i would have written such and so many strange matters, concerning you in your very dearest reputation; that you should have curst the houre of your conception, & wisht your birth had bin abortive. the powers of the pen are too many & mighty, whereof such weake wits as have made no experience, are the lesse able to use any relation. i sweare to you lady, by my best hopes, that this revenge which (perhappes) you esteeme great and dishonourable, is no way compareable to the wounding lines of a penne, which can carracter downe so infinite infamies (yet none but guilty and true taxations) as will make your owne hands immediate instruments, to teare the eyes from forth your head, and so bequeath your after dayes unto perpetuall darkenesse. now, concerning your lost lover, for whose sake you suffer this unexpected pennance; although your choise hath proved but bad, yet still continue your affection to him: in regard that i have another ladie and mistresse, of higher and greater desert then you, and to whome i will continue for ever constant. and whereas you thinke, the warme beames of the sunne, will be too hot and scorching for your nice bodie to endure: remember the extreame cold which you caused mee to feele, and if you can intermixe some part of that cold with the present heat, i dare assure you, the sun (in his highest heate) will be far more temperate for your feeling. the disconsolate lady perceiving, that the schollers wordes favoured of no mercy, but rather as coveting her desperate ending; with the teares streaming downe her cheekes, thus she replied. wel sir, seeing there is no matter of worth in me, whereby to derive any compassion from you: yet for that ladies sake, whom you have elected worthy to enjoy your love, and so farre excelleth mee in wisedome; vouchsafe to pardon mee, and suffer my garments to be brought me, wherewith to cover my nakednesse, and so to descend downe from this tower, if it may stand with your gentle nature to admit it. now beganne _reniero_ to laughe very heartily, and perceiving how swiftly the day ran on in his course, he saide unto her. beleeve me madame _helena_, you have so conjured me by mine endeered ladie and mistresse, that i am no longer able to deny you; wherefore, tell me where your garments are, and i will bring them to you, that you may come downe from the turret. she beleeving his promise, tolde him where she had hid them, and _reniero_ departing from the tower, commanded his servant, not to stirre thence: but to abide still so neere it, as none might get entrance there till his returning. which charge was no sooner given to his man, but hee went to the house of a neere neighbouring friend, where he dined well, and afterward laid him downe to sleepe. in the meane while, madame _helena_ remaining still on the tower, began to comfort her selfe with a little vaine hope, yet sighing and weeping incessantly, seating her selfe so well as shee could, where any small shelter might yeelde the least shade, in expectation of the schollers returning: one while weeping, then againe hoping, but most of all despairing, by his so long tarrying away with her garments; so that beeing over-wearied with anguish and long watching, she fell into a little slumbering. but the sunne was so extreamly hot, the houre of noone being already past, that it meerly parched her delicate body, and burnt her bare head so violently: as not onely it seared all the flesh it touched; but also cleft & chinkt it strangely, beside blisters and other painfull scorchings in the flesh which hindred her sleeping, to help her self (by all possible means) waking. and the turret being covered with lead, gave the greater addition to her torment; for, as she removed from one place to another, it yeelded no mitigation to the burning heate, but parched and wrinkled the flesh extraordinarily, even as when a piece of parchment is throwne into the fire, and recovered out againe, can never be extended to his former forme. moreover, she was so grievously payned with the head-ake, as it seemed to split in a thousand pieces, whereat there needed no great marvaile, the lead of the turret being so exceedingly hot, that it affoorded not the least defence against it, or any repose to qualifie the torment: but drove her still from one place to another, in hope of ease, but none was there to be found. nor was there any winde at all stirring, whereby to asswage the sunnes violent scalding, or keepe away huge swarmes of waspes, hornets, and terrible byting flyes, which vexed her extreamely, feeding on those parts of her body, that were rifte and chinkt, like crannies in a mortered wall, and pained her like so many points of pricking needles, labouring still with her hands to beate them away, but yet they fastned on one place or other, and afflicted her in grievous manner, causing her to curse her owne life, hir amorous friend, but (most of all) the scholler, that promised to bring her garments, and as yet returned not. now began she to gaze upon every side about her, to espy some labouring husbandmen in the fields, to whom she might call or cry out for helpe, not fearing to discover her desperate condition: but fortune therein also was adverse to her, because the heats extreamity, had driven all the village out of the fields, causing them to feede their cattle about theyr owne houses, or in remote and shadie valleyes: so that shee could see no other creatures to comfort her, but swannes swimming in the river of _arno_, and wishing her selfe there a thousand times with them, for to coole the extreamity of her thirst, which so much the more encreased, onely by the sight thereof, and utterly disabled of having any. she saw beside in many places about her, goodly woods, fayre coole shades, and country houses here and there dispersed; which added the greater violence to hir affliction, that her desires (in all these) could no way be accomplished. what shall i say more concerning this disastrous lady? the parching beames of the sunne above her, the scalding heat of the lead beneath her, the hornets and flyes everie way stinging her, had made such an alteration of her beautifull bodie: that, as it checkt and controlled the precedent nights darkenesse, it was now so metamorphosed with rednesse, yea, and blood issuing forth in infinite places, as she seemed (almost) loathsome to looke on, continuing still in this agonie of torment, quite voyde of all hope, and rather expecting death, then any other comfort. _reniero_, when some three houres of the afternoone were overpast, awaked from sleeping: and remembring madame _helena_, he went to see in what estate she was; as also to send his servant unto dinner, because he had fasted all that day. she perceyving his arrivall, being altogether weake, faint, and wonderously over-wearied, she crept on her knees to a corner of the turret, and calling to him, spake in this manner. _reniero_, thy revenge exceedeth al manhoode and respect: for, if thou wast almost frozen in my court, thou hast roasted me all day long on this tower, yea, meerly broyled my poore naked bodie, beside starving mee thorough want of food and drinke. be now then so mercifull (for manhoods sake) as to come uppe hither, and inflict that on me, which mine owne hands are not strong enough to do, i meane the ending of my loathed and wearisome life, for i desire it beyond all comfort else, and i shall honour thee in the performance of it. if thou deny me this gracious favour; at least send me uppe a glasse of water, onely to moisten my mouth, which my teares (being all meerly dried up) are not able to doe, so extreame is the violence of the sunnes burning heate. well perceived the scholler, by the weaknesse of her voyce, and scorching of her body by the suns parching beames, that shee was brought now to great extremity: which sight, as also her humble intercession, began to touch him with some compassion, nevertheles, thus he replied. wicked woman, my hands shall be no means of thy death, but make use of thine owne, if thou be so desirous to have it: and as much water shalt thou get of me to asswage thy thirst, as thou gavest me fire to comfort my freezing, when thou wast in the luxurious heat of thy immodest desires, and i wel-neere frozen to death with extremity of cold. pray that the evening may raine downe rose-water on thee, because that in the river of _arno_ is not good enough for thee: for as little pitty doe i take on thee now, as thou didst extend compassion to me then. miserable woman that i am, answered _helena_; why did the heavens bestow beautie on mee, which others have admired and honoured, and yet (by thee) is utterly despised? more cruell art thou then any savage beast; thus to vexe and torment mee in such mercilesse manner. what greater extreamity couldst thou inflict on me, if i had bin the destruction of all thy kindred, and lefte no one man living of thy race? i am verily perswaded, that more cruelty cannot be used against a traitor, who was the subversion of a whole cittie, then this tyranny of thine, roasting me thus in the beames of the sun, and suffering my body to be devoured with flies, without so small a mercie; as to give mee a little coole water, which murtherers are permitted to have, being condemned by justice, and led to execution: yea wine also, if they request it. but, seeing thou art so constant in thy pernitious resolve, as neither thine owne good nature, nor this lamentable sufferance in me, are able to alter thee: i will prepare my self for death patiently, to the end, that heaven may be mercifull to my soul, and reward thee justly, according to thy cruelty. which words being ended, she withdrew her selfe towards the middest of the tarras, despairing of escaping (with life) from the heates violence; and not once onely, but infinite times beside (among her other grievous extreamities) she was ready to dye with drought, bemoaning incessantly her dolorous condition. by this time the day was well neere spent, and night beganne to hasten on apace: when the scholler (immagining that he afflicted her sufficiently) tooke her garments, and wrapping them up in his mans cloake, went thence to the ladies house, where he found _ancilla_ the waiting-woman sitting at the doore, sad and disconsolate for her ladies long absence, to whom thus he spake. how now _ancilla_? where is thy lady and mistris? alas sir (quoth she) i know not. i thought this morning to have found her in her bed, as usually i was wont to do, and where i left her yesternight at our parting: but there she was not, nor in any place else of my knowledge, neyther can i imagine what is become of her, which is to me no meane discomfort. but can you (sir) say any thing of her? _ancilla_, said he, i would thou hadst bin in her company, and at the same place where now she is, that some punishment for thy fault might have falne uppon thee, as already it hath done on her. but beleeve it assuredly, that thou shalt not freely escape from my fingers, till i have justly paide thee for thy paines, to teach thee to abuse any gentleman, as thou didst me. having thus spoken, hee called to his servant, saying. give her the garments, and bid her go looke her lady, if she will. the servingman fulfilled his masters command, and _ancilla_ having receyved her ladies cloaths, knowing them perfectly, and remembring (withall) what had bin said: she waxed very doubtfull, least they had slaine her, hardly refraining from exclaiming on them, but that greefe and heavie weeping overcame her; so that uppon the schollers departing, she ranne in all hast with the garments towardes the tower. upon this fatall and unfortunate day to madame _helena_, it chanced, that a clowne or countrey peazant belonging to her farme or dairy house, having two of his young heyfers wandred astray, and he labouring in diligent search to finde them: within a while after the schollers departure, came to seeke them in woods about the tower, and, notwithstanding all his crying and calling for his beasts, yet he heard the ladies greevous moanes and lamentations. wherefore, he cryed out so lowd as he could, saying: who is it that mourneth so aloft on the tower? full well she knew the voyce of her peazant, and therefore called unto him, and sayd in this manner. go (quoth she) i pray thee for my waiting-woman _ancilla_, and bid her make some meanes to come up hither to me. the clowne knowing his lady, sayde. how now madame? who hath carried you up there so high? your woman _ancilla_ hath sought for you all this day, yet no one could ever have immagined you to bee there. so looking about him, he espyed the two sides of the ladder, which the scholler had pulled in sunder; as also the steppes, which he had scattered thereabout; placing them in due order againe as they should bee, and binding them fast with withies and willowes. by this time _ancilla_ was come thither, who so soone as shee was entred into the tower, could not refrain from teares & complaints, beating her hands each against other, and crying out. madam, madam, my deare lady and mistresse! alas, where are you? so soone as she heard the tongue of _ancilla_, she replyed (so well as she could) saying: ah my sweet woman, i am heere aloft uppon the tarras; weepe not, neyther make any noyse, but quickely bring me some of my garments. when shee heard her answer in such comfortable manner, she mounted up the ladder, which the peazant had made very firme and strong, holding it fast for her safer ascending; by which meanes she went upon the tarras. beholding her ladie in so strange a condition, resembling no humane body, but rather the trunke of a tree halfe burned, lying flat on her face, naked, scorched and strangely deformed: shee beganne to teare the lockes of her owne hayre, raving and raging in as pittifull manner, as if her ladie had beene quite dead. which storming tempest, madame _helena_ soone pacified, entreating her to use silence, and helpe to put on her garments. having understood by her, that no one knew of her being there, but such as brought her cloathes, and the poore peazant, attending there still to do her any service: shee became the better comforted, entreating them by all meanes, that it might bee concealed from any further discovery, which was on eyther side, most faithfullie protested. the poore clowne holpe to beare downe his lady uppon his backe, because the ladder stood not conveniently enough for her descending, neither were her limbes plyable for her owne use, by reason of their rifts and smarting. _ancilla_ following after, and being more respective of her lady, then her owne security in descending; missing the step in the midst of the ladder, fell downe to the ground, and quite brake her legge in the fall, the paine whereof was so greevous to her, that she cried and roared extraordinarily, even like a lyon in the desert. when the clowne had set his lady safe on a faire green banke, he returned to see what the waiting woman ayled, and finding her leg to be quite broken: he caried her also to the same banke, & there seated her by her lady: who perceiving what a mischance had hapned, and she, from whom she expected her onely best helpe, to bee now in far greater necessity her selfe: shee lamented exceedingly, complaining on fortunes cruel malice toward her, in thus heaping one misery upon another, and never ceasing to torment her, especially now in the conclusion of all, and when shee thought all future perils to be past. now was the sun upon his setting, when the poore honest country-man, because darke night should not overtake them, conducted the lady home to his owne house: and gaining the assistance of his two brethren and wife, setting the waiting-woman in a chaire, thither they brought her in like manner. and questionles, there wanted no diligence and comfortable language, to pacifie the ladyes continuall lamentations. the good wife, led the lady into hir own poore lodging, where (such cates as they had to feede on) lovingly she set before her: conveying her afterward into her owne bed, and taking such good order, that _ancilla_ was carried in the night time to _florence_, to prevent all further ensuing danger, by reason of her legs breaking. madame _helena_, to colour this misfortune of her owne: as also the great mishap of her woman: forged an artificiall and cunning tale, to give some formall apparance of hir being in the tower, perswading the poore simple country people, that in a straunge accident of thunder and lightning, and by the illusions of wicked spirits, all this adventure hapned to her. then physitians were sent for; who, not without much anguish and affliction to the ladie (by reason of her fleshes flaying off, with the medicines and emplaysters applyed to the body) was glad to suffer whatsoever they did, beside falling into a very dangerous feaver; out of which she was not recovered in a long while after, but continued in daily dispayre of her life; beside other accidents hapning in her time of physicke, utterly unavoydable in such extreamities: and hardly had _ancilla_ her legge cured. by this unexpected pennance imposed on madame _helena_, she utterly forgot her amorous friend, and (from thence forward) carefully kept her selfe from fond loves allurements, and such scornfull behaviour, wherein she was most disorderly faulty. and _reniero_ the scholler, understanding that _ancilla_ had broken her leg, which he reputed as a punishment sufficient for her, held himselfe satisfyed, because neither the mistresse nor her maide, could now make any great boast, of his nights hard entertainment, and so concealed all matters else. thus a wanton-headed lady, could finde no other subject to worke her mocking folly on, but a learned scholler, of whom shee made no more respect, then any other ordinary man. never remembring, that such men are expert (i cannot say all, but the greater part of them) to helpe the frenzie of foolish ladies, that must injoy their loose desires, by negromancy, and the divelles meanes. let it therefore (faire ladies) be my loving admonition to you, to detest all unwomanly mocking and scorning, but more especiallie to schollers. _two neere dwelling neighbours, the one beeing named_ spinelloccio tavena, _and the other_ zeppa di mino, _frequenting each others company daily together;_ spinelloccio _cuckolded his friend and neighbour. which happening to the knowledge of_ zeppa, _he prevailed so well with the wife of_ spinelloccio, _that he being lockt up in a chest, he revenged his wrong at that instant, so that neither of them complained of his misfortune._ the eight novell. _wherein is approved, that he which offereth shame and disgrace to his neighbour; may receive the like injury (if not in worse manner) by the same man._ greevous, and full of compassion, appeared the hard fortunes of madame _helena_ to be, having much discontented, and (well-neere) wearied all the ladies in hearing them recounted. but because they were very justly inflicted upon her, and according as (in equity) shee had deserved, they were the more moderate in their commisseration: howbeit, they reputed the scholler not onely over-obstinate, but also too strict, rigorous and severe. wherefore, when madame _pampinea_ had finished hir novell, the queene gave command to madame _fiammetta_, that she should follow next with her discourse; whereto shee shewing obedience, thus beganne. because it appeareth in my judgement (faire ladyes) that the schollers cruelty hath much displeased you, making you more melancholly then this time requireth: i holde it therefore very convenient, that your contristed spirits should be chearfully revived, with matter more pleasing and delightfull. and therefore, i mean to report a novell of a certaine man, who tooke an injury done him, in much milder manner, and revenged his wrong more moderately, then the furious incensed scholler did. whereby you may comprehend, that it is sufficient for any man, and so he ought to esteeme it, to serve another with the same sawce, which the offending party caused him first to taste of: without coveting any stricter revenge, then agreeth with the quality of the injury received. know then (gracious assembly) that, as i have heretofore heard, there lived not long since in _sienna_, two young men, of honest parentage and equall condition, neither of the best, nor yet the meanest calling in the city: the one being named _spinelloccio tavena_, and the other tearmed _zeppa di mino_, their houses neighbouring together in the streete _camollia_. seldome the one walked abroade without the others company, and their houses allowed equall welcome to them both; so that by outward demonstrations, & inward mutuall affection, as far as humane capacity had power to extend, they lived and loved like two brethren, they both beeing wealthy, and married unto two beautifull women. it came to passe, that _spinelloccio_, by often resorting to the house of _zeppa_, as well in his absence, as when he abode at home; beganne to glance amorous looks on _zeppaes_ wife, and pursued his unneighbourly purpose in such sort: that hee being the stronger perswader, and she (belike) too credulous in beleeving, or else over-feeble in resisting; from private imparlance, they fell to action; and continued their close fight a long while together, unseene and without suspition, no doubt to their equall joy and contentment. but, whether as a just punishment, for breaking so loving a league of friendship and neighbour-hood, or rather a fatall infliction, evermore attending on the closest cuckoldry, their felicity still continuing in this kinde: it fortuned on a day, _zeppa_ abiding within doors, contrary to the knowledge of his wife, _spinelloccio_ came to enquire for him, and she answering (as she verily supposed) that he was gon abroad: uppe they went both together into the hall, and nobodie being there to hinder what they intended, they fell to their wonted recreation without any feare, kissing and embracing as lovers use to do. _zeppa_ seeing all this, spake not one word, neither made any noise at all; but kept himselfe closely hidden, to observe the yssue of this amorous conflict. to be briefe, he saw _spinelloccio_ goe with his wife into the chamber, and make the doore fast after them, whereat he could have beene angry, which he held to be no part of true wisedome. for he knew well enough, that to make an out crie in this case, or otherwise to reveale this kinde of injury, it could no way make it lesse, but rather give a greater addition of shame and scandall: he thought this no course for him to take; wiser considerations entred his braine, to have this wrong fully revenged, yet with such a discreete and orderly carriage, as no neighbours knowledge should by any meanes apprehend it, or the least signe of discontent in himselfe blabbe it, because they were two daungerous evils. many notable courses wheeled about his conceit, every one promising fairely, and ministring meanes of formall apparance, yet one (above the rest) wonne his absolute allowance, which he intended to prosecute as best he might. in which resolution, he kept still very close, so long as _spinelloccio_ was with his wife; but hee being gone, he went into the chamber, where he found his wife, amending the forme of her head attyre, which _spinelloccio_ had put into a disordred fashion. wife (quoth he) what art thou doing? why? do you not see husband? answered she. yes that i do wife, replied _zeppa_, and something else happened to my sight, which i could wish that i had not seene. rougher language growing betweene them, of his avouching, and her as stout denying, with defending her cause over-weakely, against the manifest proofes both of eye and eare; at last she fell on her knees before him, weeping incessantly, and no excuses now availing, she confest her long acquaintance with _spinelloccio_, and most humbly entreated him to forgive her. uppon the which penitent confession and submission, _zeppa_ thus answered. wife, if inward contrition be answerable to thy outward seeming sorrow, then i make no doubt, but faithfully thou dost acknowledge thine owne evill dooing: for which, if thou expectest pardon of me; determine then to fulfill effectually, such a busines as i must enjoyne, and thou performe. i command thee to tell _spinelloccio_, that to morrow morning, about nine of the clocke, we being both abroad walking, he must finde some apt occasion to leave my company, and then come hither to visit thee. when he is here, sodainly will i returne home; and upon thy hearing of my entraunce: to save his owne credite, and thee from detection, thou shalt require him to enter this chest, untill such time as i am gone forth againe; which he doing, for both your safeties, so soon as he is in the chest, take the key and locke him up fast. when thou hast effected this, then shall i acquaint thee with the rest remaining, which also must be done by thee, without dread of the least harme to him or thee, because there is no malicious meaning in me, but such as (i am perswaded) thou canst not justly mislike. the wife, to make some satisfaction for her offence committed, promised that she would performe it, and so she did. on the morrow morning, the houre of nine being come, when _zeppa_ and _spinelloccio_ were walking abroad together, _spinelloccio_ remembring his promise unto his mistresse, and the clocke telling him the appointed houre, hee saide to _zeppa_. i am to dine this day with an especiall friend of mine, who i would be loath should tarry for my comming; and therefore holde my departure excused. how now? answered _zeppa_, the time for dinner is yet farre enough off, wherefore then should we part so soone? yea but _zeppa_, replied _spinelloccio_, wee have weighty matters to confer on before dinner, which will require three houres space at the least, and therefore it behoveth me to respect due time. _spinelloccio_ being departed from zeppa (who followed faire and softly after him) being come to the house, and kindly welcommed by the wife: they were no sooner gone up the staires, and entering in at the chamber doore; but the woman heard her husband cough, and also his comming up the staires. alas deare _spinelloccio_ (quoth she) what shall we do? my husband is comming uppe, and we shall be both taken tardie, step into this chest, lye downe there and stirre not, till i have sent him forth againe, which shall be within a very short while. _spinelloccio_ was not a little joyfull for her good advice; downe in the chest lay he, and she lockt him in: by which time _zeppa_ was entred the chamber. where are you wife? said he, (speaking so loud, as hee in the chest might heare him) what, is it time to go to dinner? it will be anon sir, answered she, as yet it is overearly; but seeing you are come, the more hast shall be made, and every thing will be ready quickly. _zeppa_, sitting downe upon the chest, wherein _spinelloccio_ lay not a little affrighted, speaking still aloud, as formerly he did: come hither wife (quoth he) how shall we do for some good companie to dine with us? mine honest kinde neighbour _spinelloccio_ is not at home, because he dineth forth to day with a deare friend of his, by which meanes, his wife is left at home alone: give her a call out at our window, and desire her to come dine with us: for we two can make no merry musicke, except some more come to fill up the consort. his wife being very timorous, yet diligent to doe whatsoever he commanded, so prevailed with the wife of _spinelloccio_: that she came to them quickely, and so much the rather, because her husband dined abroad. shee being come up into the chamber, _zeppa_ gave her most kinde entertainment, taking her gently by the hand, and winking on his wife, that she should betake her selfe to the kitchin, to see dinner speedily prepared, while he sat conversing with his neighbour in the chamber. his wife being gone, he shut the doore after her, which the new-come neighbour perceyving, she sayde. our blessed lady defend me. _zeppa_, what is your meaning in this? have you caused me to come hither to this intent? is this the love you beare to _spinelloccio_, and your professed loyalty in friendshippe? _zeppa_, seating her downe on the chest, wherein her husband was inclosed, entreating her patience, thus began. kinde and loving neighbour, before you adventure too farre in anger, vouchsafe to heare what i shall tell you. i have loved, and still doe love, _spinelloccio_ as my brother, but yesterday (albeit he knoweth it not) i found, the honest trust i reposed in him, deserved no other, or better recompence, but even to be bold with my wife, in the selfesame manner as i am, and as hee ought to do with none but you. now, in regard of the love which i beare him, i intend to be no otherwise revenged on him, but in the same kinde as the offence was committed. he hath bin more then familiar with my wife, i must borrow the selfe-same courtesie of you, which in equity you cannot deny mee, weighing the wrong you have sustained by my wife. our injuries are alike, in your husband to me, and in my wife to you: let then their punishment and ours be alike also, as they, so we; for in this case there can be no juster revenge. the woman hearing this, and perceiving the manifolde confirmations thereof, protested (on solemne oath) by _zeppa_; hir beliefe grew setled, and thus she answered. my loving neighbour** _zeppa_, seeing this kinde of revenge is (in meere justice) imposed on mee, and ordained as a due scourge, as well to the breach of friendship and neighbour-hood, as abuse of his true and loyall wife: i am the more willing to consent: alwaies provided, that it be no imbarrement of love betweene your wife and mee, albeit i have good reason to alledge, that she began the quarrell first: and what i do is but to right my wrong, as any other woman of spirit would do: afterwards, we may the more easily pardon one another. for breach of peace (answered _zeppa_) between my wife and you, take my honest word for your warrant. moreover, in requitall of this favour to mee, i will bestowe a deare and precious jewell on you, excelling all the rest which you have beside. in delivering these words, he sweetly kissed and embraced her, as she sat on the chest wherein her husband lay: now, what they did else beside, in recompence of the wrong received, i leave to your imagination, as rather deserving silence, then immodest blabbing. _spinelloccio_, being all this while in the chest, hearing easily all the words which _zeppa_ had uttered, the answer of his wife, as also what musicke they made over his head: you may guesse in what a case he was, his heart being ready to split with rage, and, but that hee stood in feare of _zeppa_, he would have railde and exclaimed on his wife, as thus hee lay shut up in the chest. but entering into better consideration, that so great an injury was first begun by himselfe, & _zeppa_ did no more, then in reason and equity he might well do (having evermore carried himselfe like a kinde neighbour and frend towards him, without the least offer of distaste) he faithfully resolved, to be a firmer friend to _zeppa_ then formerly hee had bin, if it might be embraced and accepted on the other side. delights and pleasures, be they never so long in contenting and continuance, yet they come to a period and conclusion at last: so _zeppa_, having ended his amorous combate, and over the head of his perfidious friend, thought himselfe sufficiently revenged. but now, in consideration of a further promise made on the bargaine; _spinelloccioes_ wife challengeth the jewell, then which kind of recompence, nothing can be more welcome to women. heereupon, _zeppa_ calling for his owne wife, commanded her to open the chest; which shee did, and he merrily smiling, saide. well wife, you have given mee a cake insted of bread, and you shall lose nothing for your labour. so _spinelloccio_ comming forth of the chest, it requireth a better witte then mine, to tell you, which of them stood most confounded with shame, either _spinelloccio_ seeing _zeppa_, and knowing well enough what he had done: or the woman beholding her husband, who easily heard all their familiar conference, and the action thereupon so deservedly performed. see neighbour, is not this your dearest jewell? having kept it awhile in my wives custody; according to my promise, here i deliver it you. _spinelloccio_ being glad of his deliverance out of the chest, albeit not a little ashamed of himselfe; without using many impertinent words, saide. _zeppa_, our wrongs are equally requited on each other, and therefore i allow thy former speeches to my wife, that thou wast my friend, as i am the like to thee, and so i pray thee let us still continue. for nothing else is now to bee divided betweene us, seeing we have shared alike in our wives, which none knowing but our selves, let it be as closely kept to our selves. _zeppa_ was wel pleased with the motion, and so all foure dined lovingly together, without any variance or discontentment. and thence forward, each of the women had two husbands, as either husband enjoyed two wives, without further contention or debate. _maestro_ simone, _an ydle-headed doctor of physicke, was throwne by_ bruno _and_ buffalmaco, _into a common leystall of filth: the physitian fondly beleeving, that (in the night time) he should bee made one of a new created company, who usually went to see wonders, at_ corsica; _and there in the leystall they left him._ the ninth novell. _wherein is approved, that titles of honour, learning, and dignity, are not alwayes bestowne on the wisest men._ after that the ladies had a while considered, on the communication betweene the two wives of _sienna_, and the falshood in friendship of their husbands: the queene, who was the last to recount her novell, without offering injurie to _dioneus_, began to speake thus. the reward for a precedent wrong committed, which _zeppa_ retorted upon _spinelloccio_, was answerable to his desert, and no more then equity required, in which respect, i am of opinion, that such men ought not to be over-sharpely reproved, as do injurie to him, who seeketh for it, and justly should have it, althogh madam _pampinea_ (not long since) avouched the contrary. now, it evidently appeareth, that _spinelloccio_ well deserved what was done to him, and i purpose to speake of another, who needs would seeke after his owne disgrace. the rather to confirme my former speeches, that they which beguile such wilfull foolish men; are not to bee blamed, but rather commended. and he unto whom the shame was done, was a physitian, which came from _bologna_ to _florence_; and returned thither againe like unto a beast, notoriously baffulled and disgraced. it is a matter well knowne to us, and (almost) observed day by day, that divers of our citizens, when they returne from their studying at _bologna_: one becommeth an advocate, another a physitian, and a third a notarie, with long & large gowns, some of scarlet, and hoods furred with minever, beside divers other great apparances, succeeding effectually daily in their severall kinds. among whom, there returned (not long since) thence, one master _simon da villa_, more rich in possessions left him by his parents, then anie knowledge thereto obtained: yet cloathed in scarlet, with his miniver hood, and styled a doctor of physicke, which title hee onely bestowed on himselfe, and tooke a goodly house for his dwelling, in the street which wee commonly call _la via del cocomero_. this master doctor _simon_, being thus newly come thither, among other notable qualities in him, had one more especial then any of the rest, namely, to know the names and conditions of such persons, as daily passed by his doore, and what professions they were of, whereby any likelyhood might be gathered of needing his helpe, and being his patients, observing them all with very vigilant care. but, among all the rest by him thus warily noted, he most observed two painters, of whom we have heeretofore twice discoursed, _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_, who walked continually together, and were his neere dwelling neighbours. the matter which most of al he noted in them, was; that they lived merrily, and with much lesse care, then any else in the cittie beside, and verily they did so in deede. wherefore, he demanded of divers persons, who had good understanding of them both, of what estate and condition they were. and hearing by every one, that they were but poore men & painters: he greatly mervailed, how it could be possible for them, that they should live so jocondly, and in such poverty. it was related to him further beside, that they were men of a quicke and ingenious apprehension, whereby hee politikely imagined, that theyr poore condition could not so well maintaine them; without some courses else, albeit not publiquely knowne unto men, yet redounding to their great commoditie and profite. in which regard, he grew exceeding desirous, by what meanes he might become** acquainted, and grow into familiarity with them both, or any of them, at the least; wherein (at the length) he prevailed, and _bruno_ proved to be the man. now _bruno_ plainly perceiving (within a short while of this new begun acquaintance) that the physitian was a logger-head, and meerely no better then a _gregorian_ animall: he beganne to have much good pastime with him, by telling him strange and incredible tales, such as none but a coxcombe would give credit too; yet they delighted doctor dunce extraordinarily, and _brunoes_ familiarity was so highly pleasing to him, that he was a daily guest at dinner and supper with him, and hee was not meanly proud of enjoying his company. one day, as they sate in familiar conference together, he told _bruno_ that he wondred not a little at him and _buffalmaco_, they being both so poore people, yet lived far more jovially then lords, and therefore desired to understand, by what secret meanes they compassed such mirthfull maintenance. _bruno_, hearing the doctors demaund, & perceiving that it favoured more of the foole, then any the very least taste of wisedome: smiled unto himselfe, and determined to returne him such an answere, as might be fitting for his folly, whereupon, thus he replied. beleeve me master doctor, i would not impart to many people, what private helpes we have for our maintenance: but yet i dare boldly acquaint you therewith, in regard you are one of our most intimate friends, and of such secrecie, as (i know) you will not reveale it to any. true it is, that mine honest neighbour and my selfe, do leade our lives in such merry manner as you see, and better then all the world is aware of, for i cannot imagine you to bee so ignorant, but are certainly perswaded: that if we had no better means, then our poore manuall trade and profession; we might sit at home with bread and water, and be nothing so lively spirited as wee are. yet sir, i would not have you to conceive, that wee do eyther rob or steale, or use any other unlawfull courses: onely we travayle to _corsica_, from whence we bring (without the least prejudice to anie other) all things we stand in need of, or whatsoever wee can desire. thus do we maintaine our selves well and honestly, and live in this mirthfull disposition. master doctor hearing this discourse, and beleeving it constantly, without any further instruction or intelligence: became possessed with verie much admiration, and had the most earnest desire in the world, to know what this travailing to _corsica_ might meane: entreating _bruno_ with very great instances, to tell him what it was, and made many protestations never to disclose it to anie one. how now master doctor? answered _bruno_, what a strange motion do you make to mee? it is too great a secret, which you desire to know, yea, a matter of mine owne ruine, and an utter expulsion out of this worlde, with condemnation into the mouth of _lucifer da san gallo_, if any man whatsoever should know it from me, wherefore i pray you to urge it no more. o my deer and honest neighbour _bruno_ (quoth the doctor) assure thy selfe upon my soul, that whatsoever thou revealest to me, shall be under seale from all, but onely our selves. fie, fie master doctor, answered _bruno_, you are too pressing and importunate. so sitting smiling to himselfe, shaking his head, and beating his breast, as if hee were in some straunge distraction of minde, stamping with his feete, and beating his fiste oftentimes on the table, at last he started uppe, and spake in this manner. ah master doctor, the love i beare to your capricious and rarely circumcised experience, and likewise the confidence i repose in your scrutinous taciturnitie, are both of such mighty and prevailing power; as i cannot conceale any thing from you, which you covet to know. and therefore, if you will sweare unto me by the crosse of _monteson_, that never (as you have already faithfully promised) you will disclose a secret so admirable; i will relate it unto you, and not otherwise. the doctor sware, and sware againe, and then _bruno_ thus began. know then my learned and judicious doctor, that it is not long time since, when there lived in this citie of ours, a man very excellent in the art of nigromancie, who named himselfe _michale scoto_, because he was a scottishman borne, of many woorthy gentlemen (very few of them being now living) hee was much honoured and respected. when he grew desirous to depart from hence, upon their earnest motion and entreaty; he left here two of his schollers behinde him, men of absolute skill and experience: giving them especial charge and command, to do all possible services they could devise, for those gentlemen who had so highly honoured him. the two famous schollers, were very helpefull to those gentlemen, in divers of their amorous occasions, and verie many other matters besides. not long after, they finding the citie, and behaviour of the people sufficiently pleasing to them; they resolved on their continuance heere, entering into a league of love and friendshippe with divers, never regarding, whether they were gentlemen, or no, or distinguishing the poore from the rich: but only in being conforme to their complexions, sociable and fit for friendship. they created a kinde society, consisting of about five and twenty men, who should meete together twice in a moneth, & in a place reputed convenient for them: where being so assembled, every man uttered his minde to those two schollers, in such cases as they most desired, to have wherewith they were all satisfied the self-same night. it came so to passe, that _buffalmaco_ and i, grew into acquaintance with those two worthy schollers, and our private familiarity together proved so prosperous, that we were admitted into the same society, and so have ever since continued. now sir, i am to tell you matter deserving admiration, & which (in very good judgements) would seeme to exceed all beleefe. for, at every time when we were assembled together: you are not able to imagine, what sumptuous hangings of tapistrie, did adorne the hall where we sate at meate, the tables covered in such royall manner, waited on by numberlesse noble and goodly attendants, both women and men, serving readily, at each mans command of the company. the basins, ewers, pots, flaggons, & all the vessels else which stood before, and for the service of our diet, being composed onely of gold and silver, and out of no worse did we both eate and drinke: the viands being very rare and dainty, abounding in plenty and variety, according to the appetite of everie person, as nothing could be wished for, but it was instantly obtained. in good sadnesse sir, i am not able to remember and tell you (within the compasse of a thousand yeares) what, and how manie severall kindes of musicall instruments, were continually played on before us; what multiplicity of waxe lights burned in all partes of the roomes; neither the excessive store of rich drugs, marchpanes, comfites, and rare banquetting stuffe, consumed there at one feasting, wherein there wanted no bounty of the best and purest wines. nor do i (master doctor) repute you so weakly witted, as to think, that in the time of our being thus assembled there, any of us al were cloathed in such simple and meane garments, as ordinarily are worne in the streets on mens bodies, or any so silly as the verie best you have: no sir, not any one man among us, but appeared by his apparrell, equall to the greatest emperour on the earth, his robe most sumptuously imbroidered with precious stones, pearles, and carbuncles, as all the world affoordeth not the like. but above all the rest, the delights and pleasures there, are beyond my capacity to expresse, or (indeede) any comparison: as namely, store of goodly and beautifull women, brought thither from all parts of the world; alwayes provided, if men bee desirous of their company: but for your easier comprehension, i will make some briefe relation of them to you, according as i heard them there named. there is the great lady of _barbanicchia_; the queene of _baschia_; the wife to the great _soldane_, the empresse of _osbeccho_; the _ciancianfera_ of _norniera_; the _bemistante_ of _berlinzona_;** and the _scalpedra_ of _narsia_. but why do i breake my braine, in numbering up so many to you? all the queenes of the world are there, even so farre as to the _schinchimurra_ of _prester john_, that hath a horne in the midst of her posteriores, albeit not visible to every eye. now i am further to tell you, that after we have tasted a cup of precious wine, fed on a few delicate comfits, and danced a dance or two to the rare musicke: every one taketh a lady by the hand, of whom he pleaseth to make his election, and she conducteth him to her chamber, in very grave and gracious manner. concerning the chambers there, each of them resembleth a paradise to looke on, they are so faire and goodly; and no lesse odorifferous in smell, then the sweetest perfumes in your apothecaries shoppes, or the rare compounds of spices, when they are beaten in an open morter. and as for the beds, they are infinitely richer, then the verie costliest belonging to the duke of _venice_: yet (in such) each man is appointed to take his rest, the musicke of rare cymbals lasting all night long, much better to be by you considered, then in my rude eloquence expressed. but of all those rich and sumptuous beds (if pride of mine owne opinion do not deceive me) them two provided for _buffalmaco_ and me, had hardly any equall: he having the queene of _france_ as his lady and mistresse, and i, the renowned queene of _england_, the onely two choise beauties of the whole world, and wee appeared so pleasing in their eyes, as they would have refused the greatest monarkes on the earth, rather then to bee rejected by us. now therefore, you may easily consider with your selfe, what great reason we have to live more merrily, then any other men can doe: in regard we enjoy the gracious favour of two such royall queenes, receyving also from them (whensoever wee please to commaund them) a thousand or two thousand florines at the least, which are both truly and duly sent us. enjoying thus the benefit of this high happinesse, we that are companions of this society, do tearme it in our vulgar language, _the pyrats voyage to corsica_. because, as rovers or pyrats robbe and take away the goodes of such as they meete withall, even so do we: only there remaineth this difference betweene us, that they never restore what they have taken: which we do immediately afterward, whether it be required or no. and thus master doctor, as to my most endeered friend, i have now revealed the meaning of sayling to _corsica_, after the manner of our private pyracie, and how important the close retention of the voiage is, you are best able your selfe to judge: in which regarde, remember your oathes and faithfull promises, or else i am undone forever. our worthy wise doctor, whose best skill scarsely extended so farre, as to cure the itch in children; gave such sound beleefe to the relation of _bruno_, as any man could doe, to the most certaine truth of life or death: having his desire immeasurably enflamed, to bee made a member of this straunge societie, which hee more coveted, then any thing in the world beside, accounting it a felicity farre beyond all other. whereupon he answered _bruno_, that it was no great matter of mervaile, if he lived so merrily as he did, having such a singular supply, to avoide all necessities whatsoever: and very hardly could he refraine from immediate request, to be accepted into the company. but yet he thought fit to deferre it further, untill he had made _bruno_ more beholding to him, by friendly entertainments and other courtesies, when he might (with better hope) be bold to move the motion. well may you conceive, that nothing more hammerd in the doctors head, then this rare voyage to _corsica_, and _bruno_ was his daily guest at dinner and supper, with such extraordinary apparances of kindnesse and courtesie, as if the physitian could not live, except he had the company of _bruno_. who seeing himselfe to bee so lovingly respected, and hating ingratitude, for favours so abundantly heaped on him: hee painted the whole story of lent about his hall, and an _agnus dei_ fairely gilt, on the portall of his chamber, as also a goodly urinall on his street doore, to the end, that such as had neede of his counsell, might know where so judicious a doctour dwelt. in a gallery likewise by his garden, he painted the furious battaile betweene the rats and cats, which did (not a little) delight master doctor. moreover, at such times as bruno had not supt with our physitian, he would bee sure to tell him on the morrow, that the night passed, he had bin with the company which he did wot of. and there (quoth he) the queene of _england_ having somewhat offended mee, i commanded, that the _gomedra_, belonging to the _grand cham_ of _tartaria_, should be brought me, and instantly shee was. what may be the meaning of _gomedra_ be? saide the doctor, i understand not those difficult names. i beleeve you sir, answered _bruno_, nor do i need to marvaile thereat: and yet i have heard _porcograsso_ speake, and also _vannacenna_, and both unexperienced in our language. you would say (replyed the doctour) _hippocrates_ and _avicenna_, who were two admirable physitians. it may be so (said _bruno_) & as hardly do i understand your names, as you mine: but _gomedra_, in the _grand chams_ language, signifies empresse in ours. but had you once seene her sir, she would make you forget all physicall observations, your arguments, receits and medicines, onely to be in her heavenly presence, which words he used (perceiving his forward longing) to enflame him the more. not long after, as the doctor was holding the candle to _bruno_, at the perfecting the bloody battayle of the cattes and rattes, because he could never bee wearied in his companie, and therefore was the more willing, to undergoe the office of the candle-holder: he resolved to acquaint him with his minde, and being all alone by themselves, thus he began. _bruno_, as heaven knoweth, there is not this day any creature living, for whom i would gladly do more, then for thee, and the very least word of thy mouth, hath power to commaund mee to goe bare-footed, even from hence so farre as to _peretola_, and account my labour well employed for thy sake: wherefore, never wonder at my continuall kindnesse towards thee, using thee as my domesticke companion, and embracing thee as my bosome friend, and therefore i am the bolder in mooving one request unto thee. as thou well knowest, it is no long while since, when thou diddest acquaint me with the behaviour of the _corsicane_ roving company, to be one in so rare and excellent a society, such hath bin my earnest longing ever since, as day nor night have i enjoyed anie rest, but should thinke my felicity beyond all compare, if i could be entertained in fellowship among you. nor is this desire of mine but upon great occasion, as thou thy selfe shalt perceive, if i prove accepted into your societie, and let me then be made a mocking stocke for ever, if i cause not to come thither, one of the most delicate young women, that ever anie eye beheld, and which i my selfe saw (not above a yeare since) at _cacavinciglia_, on whom i bestowed my intirest affection, and (by the best urinall that ever i gazed on) would have given her tenne faire _bologninaes_, to yeeld the matter i moved to her, which yet i could not (by any meanes) compasse. therefore, with all the flowing faculties of my soule i entreate thee, and all the very uttermost of my all indeede; to instruct me in those wayes and meanes, whereby i may hope to be a member of you. which if thou dooest accomplish for me, and i may finde it effectually performed: i shall not onely be thy true and loyall friend for ever, but will honour thee beside, beyond all men living. i know thee to bee a man of judgement, deepely informed in all well-grounded experience: thou seest what a propper, portly, and comely man i am, how fitly my legges are answerable to my body, my lookes amiable, lovely, and of rosie colour; beside i am a doctor of physicke, of which profession (being only most expedient) i thinke you have not one in your society. i have many commendable qualities in me, as, playing on divers instruments, exquisite in singing, and composing rare ditties, whereof i will instantly sing thee one. and so he began to sing. _bruno_ was swolne so bigge with desire of laughter, that hee had scarsely any power to refraine from it: neverthelesse, he made the best meanes he could devise: and the song being ended, the physition saide. how now _bruno_? what is thine opinion of my singing? beleeve me sir, replyed _bruno_, the vialles of _sagginali_, will loose their very best tunes, in contending against you, so mirilifficially are the sweet accents of your voice heard. i tell thee truly _bruno_ (answered master doctor) thou couldst not by any possibility have beleeved it, if thou hadst not heard it. in good sadness sir (said _bruno_) you speake most truly. i could (quoth the doctor) sing thee infinite more beside, but at this time i must forbeare them. let mee then further informe thee _bruno_, that beside the compleat perfections thou seest in me, my father was a gentleman, althogh he dwelt in a poore country village, and by my mothers side, i am derived from them of _vallecchio_. moreover, as i have formerly shewn thee, i have a goodly library of bookes, yea, and so faire and costly garments, as few physitians in _florence_ have the like. i protest to thee upon my faith, i have one gowne, which cost me (in readie money) almost an hundred poundes in _bagattinoes_, and it is not yet above ten yeares old. wherefore let me prevaile with thee, good _bruno_, to worke so with the rest of thy friends, that i may bee one of your singular society; and, by the honest trust thou reposest in mee, bee boldly sick whensoever thou wilt, my paines and physicke shall be freely thine, without the payment of one single peny. _bruno_ hearing his importunate words, and knowing him (as all men else did beside) to be a man of more words then wit, saide. master doctor, snuffe the candle i pray you, and lend me a little more light with it hitherward, until i have finished the tailes of these rats, and then i will answer you. when the rats tailes were fully finished, _bruno_ declaring by outward behaviour, that he greatly distasted the matter mooved, thus answered. worthy master doctor, the courtesies you have already extended towards me, and the bountifull favours promised beside, i know to be exceeding great, and farre beyond the compasse of any merit in me. but concerning your request, albeit in respect of your admired braine and wisedome, it is of little or no moment at all; yet it appeareth over-mighty to mee, and there is not any man now living in the world, that hath the like authoritie over me, and can more commaund me, then you (with one poore syllable) easily may doe: as well in regarde of my love and dutie, as also your singular and sententious speeches, able not onelie to make me breake a sound and setled resolution, but (almost) to move mountaines out of their places, and the more i am in your learned company, so much the faster am i lincked unto you, in immooveable affection, so farre am i in love with your admirable qualities. and had i no other reason, to affect you in such endeared manner, as i doe; yet because you are enamoured of so rare a beauty, as you have already related to me, it onely were a motive sufficient to compell me. but indeed i must needs tel you, that i have not so much power in this case, as you (perhaps) do imagine, which barreth me from such forward readines, as otherwise needed not to be urged. neverthelesse, having so solemnly ingaged your faith to me, and no way misdoubting your faithfull secrecy, i shall instruct you in some meanes to be observed; and it appeareth plainly to me, that being furnished with such plenty of bookes, as you are, and other rich endowments, as you have before rehersed, you cannot but attaine to the full period of your longing desire. speake boldly thy minde _bruno_, answered the doctour: for, i perceive thou hast no perfect knowledge of me as yet, neither what an especiall gift i have of secrecy. _messer gasparino da salicete_, when he was judge and potestat over the people of _forlini_, made choise of mee (among infinite of his dearest friends) to acquaint with a secret of no meane moment. and such a faithfull secretary he found me, as i was the onely man, that knew his mariage with _bergamino_; why then should any distrust be made of me? if it be so as you say sir (answered _bruno_) your credit is the sounder, and i dare the better adventure on your fidelity: the meanes then which you are to worke by, i shall now direct you in. we have alwayes in this noble society of ours, a captaine, and two counsellors, which are changed at every six months end. and now at christmas next (so neere drawing on) _buffalmaco_ shall be elected captaine, and my selfe one of the counsellers, for so it is already agreed on, and orderly set downe. now, he that is captain, may doe much more then any other can, and appoint matters as himselfe pleaseth. wherefore i thinke it very expedient, that so soone as possibly you may, you procure acquaintance with _buffalmaco_, entreating him with all respective courtesie. hee is a man, who when he perceyveth you to be so wonderfully wise and discreete, he will be immediatly in love with you: so, when you have your best senses about you, and your richest wearing garments on (alwayes remembred, that your acquaintance first be fully confirmed) then never feare to urge your request, for he can have no power at all to denie you; because i have already spoken of you to him, and find him to stand affected unto you verie intirely: thus when you have begunne the businesse, leave me to deale with him in the rest. now trust me kinde friend _bruno_, replyed the physitian, i like your advice exceeding well. for, if hee be a man, that taketh delight to converse with men of skill and judgement, and you have made the way for his knowing me: he will then thirst, and long to follow after mee, to understand the incredible eloquence flowing from me, and the rare composition of my musicall ditties, out of which he may learne no meane wisedome. when the matter was thus agreed on betweene them, _bruno_ departed thence, & acquainted _buffalmaco_ with everie circumstance: which made him thinke everie day a yeare, untill he might joyne in the fooling of mayster doctour, according to his owne fancie. who beeing also as desirous on the other side, to make one in the _corsicane_ voyage; could take no manner of rest either by day or night, till he was linked in friendship with _buffalmaco_, which very quickely after hee compassed. for now there wanted no costly dinners and suppers, with al delicates could be devised, for the entertainement of _buffalmaco_ and _bruno_; who, like guests very easie to be invited, where rich wines and good cheare are never wanting, needed little sending for, because his house was as familiar to them, as their owne. in the end, when the physitian espyed an opportunitie apt for the purpose, he made the same request to _buffalmaco_, as formerly hee had done to _bruno_. whereat _buffalmaco_, sodainly starting, and looking frowningly on _bruno_, as if he were extraordinarily incensed against him: clapping his hand furiously on the table, he sayde. i sweare by the great god of _pasignano_, that i can hardly refrayne from giving thee such a blow on the face, as should make thy nose to fall at thy heeles: vile traitor as thou art: for none beside thy selfe, could discover so rare and excellent a secret unto this famous physitian. the doctour, with verie plausible and pleasing tearmes, excused the matter verie artificially; protesting, that another had revealed it unto him: and after many wise circumstantiall allegations, at length hee prevailed so farre, that _buffalmaco_ was pacified; who afterwardes turning in kinde manner, thus hee beganne. master doctour, you have lived both at _bologna_, and heere in these partes with us, having (no doubt) sufficiently understoode, what it is to carry a close mouth, i meane the true charracter of taciturnitie. questionlesse, you never learned the a. b. c. as now foolish ideots do, blabbing their lessons all about the towne, which is much better apprehended by rumination; and surely (if i be not much deceyved) your nativity happened on a sonday morning, sol being at that time, lord of the ascendent, joyned with _mercurie_ in a fierie triplicitie. by such conference as i have had with _bruno_, i conceyved (as he himselfe also did) that you were verie singular in physicke onely: but it seemeth, your studies reached a higher straine, for you have learned, and know verie skilfullie, how to steale mens hearts from them, yea, to bereave them of their verie soules, which i perceyve that you can farre better doe, then any man else living to my knowledge, only by your wise, witty, judicious, and more then meere _mercurian_ eloquence, such as i never heard before. the physitian interrupting him bashfully, turned himselfe unto _bruno_, saying. did not i tell thee this before? observe what a notable thing it is, to speake well, and to frequent the company of the wise. a thousand other, meerely blockes and dullardes by nature, could never so soone comprehend all the particularities of my knowledge, as this honest and apprehensive man hath done. thou didst not search into it halfe so soone, nor (indeed) did i expresse a quarter of my ingenuity to thee, as (since his comming) hath prodigally flowne from me. well do i remember thy words, that _buffalmaco_ delighted to be among men of wisedome: and have i not now fitted him unto his owne desire? how thinkest thou _bruno_? the best (quoth _bruno_) that any man living in the world could do. ah worthy _buffalmaco_, answered the physitian: what wouldst thou then have sayde, if thou hadst seene me at _bologna_, where there was neyther great nor small, doctor nor scholler, but thought themselves happy by being in my company? if i ought any debts, i discharged them with my very wittie words; and whensoever i spake, i could set them al on a hearty laughter, so much pleasure they tooke in hearing mee. and when i departed thence, no men in the world could bee more sorrowfull then they, as desiring nothing more then my remayning among them, which they expressed so apparantly, that they made humble suite and intercession to me, to bee cheefe reader of the physicke-lecture, to all the schollers studying our profession. but i could not be so perswaded, because my minde was wholly addicted hither, to enjoy those goods, landes, and inheritances, belonging lineally to them of our house, and accordingly i did performe it. how now _buffalmaco_ (quoth _bruno_) what is thine opinion now? thou wouldst not beleeve me when i told thee, that there is not a doctor in all these parts, more skilfull in distinguishing the urine of an asse, from any other, then this most expert and singular man: and i dare boldly maintaine it, that his fellow is not to bee found, from hence to the very gates of _paris_. go then, and doe the uttermost endeavour that thou canst, to grant the request which he hath made. beleeve me _buffalmaco_, saide the doctor, _bruno_ hath spoken nothing but truth, for i am scarsely knowne heere in this city, where (for the most part) they are all grosse-witted people, rather then any jot judicious; but i would thou hadst seene me among the doctors, in manner as i was wont to be. introth sire, replyed _buffalmaco_, you are my much more learned then ever i imagined, in which respect, speaking unto you as it becommeth me, to a man so excellent in wit and understanding: i dare assure you that (without any faile) i will procure you to be one of our company. after this promise thus made, the good cheare, favors and kindnesses done by the doctor to them, was beyond the compasse of all relation: whereof they made no more then a meere mockery, flouting him to his face, and yet his wisedome could not discerne it. moreover, they promised, that they would give him to wife, the faire countesse _di civillari_, who was the onely goodliest creature to be found in the whole _culattario_ of humane generation. the doctor demanded, what countesse that was? oh sir, answered _buffalmaco_, she is a great lady, one worthy to have issue by; and few houses are there in the world, where she hath not some jurisdiction and command: so that not meane people onely, but even the greatest lords, at the sound of her trumpets, do very gladlie pay her tribute. and i dare boldly affirme, that whensoever shee walketh to any place, shee yeeldeth a hot and sensible favour, albeit she keepeth most of all close. yet once every night, shee duely observeth it (as a custome) to passe from her owne house, to bathe her feete in the river of _arno_, and take a little of the sweeter ayre: albeit her continuall residencie, is within the kingdome of _laterino_. she seldome walketh abroad, but goeth with her attending officers about her, who (for more demonstration of her greatnesse) do carry the rod and plummet of lead. store of her lords and barons are every where to be seene; as the _tamagaino della porta, don meta di sirropa; manico di scopa; signior squacchera,_ and others beside, who are (as i suppose) oftentimes your daily visitants, when of necessity they must be remembred. all our care and courtesie shall extend so farre (if we doe not faile in our enterprize) to leave you in the armes of so majestick a ladie, quite forgetting hir of _cacavinciglia_. the physitian, who was borne and brought up at _bologna_, and therefore understoode not these _florentine_ tearmes: became fully contented to enjoy the ladie; and, within some few dayes following, the painters brought him tydings, that they had prepared the way for his entertainment into the societie of rovers. the day being come, when the supposed assembly was to be made the night following: the physitian invited them both to dinner; when he demanding, what provision he shold make for his entrance into their company, _buffalmaco_ returned him this answer, whereto he gave very heedfull attention. master doctor, you must be first of all, strongly armed with resolution and confidence: for if you be not, you may not only receyve hindrance, but also do us great harme beside: and now you shall heare, in what manner, and how you are to be bold and constant. you must procure the meanes, this instant night, when all the people are in their soundest sleepe, to stand upon one of those high exalted tombs or monuments, which are in the churchyard of _santa maria novella_, with the very fairest gowne you have about you, because you may appeare in the more honorable condition, before the assembly seated together, and likewise to make good our speeches already delivered of you, concerning your qualitie & profession: that the countesse, perceyving you to bee a woorthie gentlemen, may have you first honoured with the bathe, and afterward knighted at her owne cost and charge. but you must continue still upon the tombe (dreadlesse of nightly apparitions & visions) untill such time as we send for you. and for your better information in every particulare; a beast, blacke and horned, but of no great stature, will come to fetch you: perhaps he will use some gastly noises, straunge leapes, and loftie trickes, onely to terrifie and affright you: but when he perceiveth that he cannot daunt you, hee will gently come neere you, which when he hath done, you may descend from off the tombe; and, without naming or thinking on god, or any of his saintes, mount boldly on his backe, for he will stand ready to receive you. being so seated, crosse your armes over your brest, without presuming to touch or handle the beast, for he will carry you thence softly, and so bring you along to the company. but if in all this time of your travaile, you call on heaven, any saint, or bee possessed with the least thought of feare: i must plainely tell you, that either hee will cast you dangerously, or throw you into some noysom place. and therefore, if you know your selfe, not to be of a constant courage, and sprightly bold, to undertake such an adventure as this: never presume any further, because you may doe us a great deale of injurie, without any gaine or benefite to your selfe, but rather such wrong, as we would be very sorry should happen unto so deere a friend. alas honest _buffalmaco_, answered the physitian, thou art not halfe acquainted with me as yet: because i walke with gloves upon my hands, and in a long gowne, thou perhappes doest imagine mee a faint-hearted fellow. if thou didst know, what i have heeretofore done at _bologna_ in the night time, when i and my consorts went to visite pretty wenches, thou wouldst wonder at my couragious attempts. as i am a gentleman, one night, we met with a young _bona roba_, a paltry greene-sicknesse baggage, scarsely above a cubite in height, & because she refused to go with us willingly, i gave her a kicke on the bum, and spurnde her more then a crosse-bowe shoote in distance from me, and made her walke with us whether she would, or no. another time i remember, when having no other company but my boy, i went thorow the churchyard of the fryars minors, after the sounding of _ave maria_: a woman hadde beene buried there the very same day, and yet i was not a jotte affraid. wherefore, never be distrustfull of mee, but resolvedly builde upon my courage. and in regard of my more honourable entertainment, i will then weare my scarlet gowne and hood, wherein i receyved my graduation; and then do both of you observe, what a rejoycing will be among the whole company, at the entertaining of such as a man as i am, enough to create me captaine immediatly. you shall perceive also how the case will go, after i have beene there but a while, in regard that the countesse (having as yet never seene me) is so deepely enamored of mee: she cannot choose but bestow the bathe and knight-hood on me, which shee shall have the more honour of, in regard i am well able to maintaine it, therefore referre all the rest to mee, and never misdoubt your injurie or mine. spoken like a gallant, replyed _buffalmaco_, and i feare not now, but we shall winne credite by your company. but be carefull i pray you, that you make not a mockery of us, and come not at all, or fayle to be there, when the beast shall be sent for you; i speake it the rather, because it is cold weather, and you gentlemen physitians can hardly endure it. you are carefull of mee (quoth the doctor) and i thanke you for it, but i applaud my faire starres, i am none of your nice or easie-frozen fellowes, because cold weather is very familiar to me. i dare assure you, when i arise in the night time for that naturall office whereto all men are subject, i weare no warmer defence, then my thin wastcoat over my shirt, and finde it sufficient for the coldest weather at any time. when _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_ had taken their leave, the physitian, so soone as night drew neere, used many apt excuses to his wife, stealing forth his scarlet gowne and hood unseene of any, wherewith being clothed: at the time appointed, he got upon one of the marble tombes, staying there (quaking with cold) awaiting when the beast should come. _buffalmaco_, being a lusty tall man of person, had got an ugly masking suite, such as are made use of in tragedies and playes, the out-side being of black shagged haire, wherewith being cloathed, he seemed like a strange deformed beare, and a divels vizard over his face, with two gastly horrible hornes, and thus disguised, _bruno_ following him, they went to behold the issue of the businesse, so farre as the new market place, closely adjoining to _santa maria novella_. having espyed master doctor uppon the tombe, _buffalmaco_ in his misshapen habite, began to bound, leape, and carriere, snuffling and blowing in mad and raging manner: which when the physitian saw, his haire stood on end, he quaked and trembled, as being more fearfull then a woman, wishing himselfe at home againe in his house, rather then to behold a sight so dreadfull. but because he was come forth, and had such an earnest desire, to see the wonders related to him; he made himselfe so coragious as possibly he could, and bare all out in formall manner. after that _buffalmaco_ had (an indifferent while) plaide his horse-trickes, ramping and stamping somewhat strangely: seeming as become of much milder temper, he went neere to the tomb whereon the physitian stood, and there appeared to stay contentedly. master doctor, trembling and quaking still extreamely, was so farre dismayed, as he knew not what was best to be done, either to mount on the beasts backe, or not to mount at all. in the end, thinking no harme could happen to him, if he were once mounted, with the second feare, hee expelled the former, and descending downe softly from the tombs, mounted on the beast, saying out alowde: god, saint dominicke, and my good angell helpe to defend mee. seating himselfe so well as he could, but trembling still exceedingly; he crossed his armes over his stomacke, according to the lesson given him. then did _buffalmaco_ shape his course in milde manner, toward _santa maria della scala_, and groping to finde his way in the darke, went on so farre as the sisters of _ripole_, commonly called the _virgin sanctuary_. not farre off from thence, were divers trenches & ditches, wherein such men as are imployed in necessary night-services, used to empty the countesse _di civillari_, and afterward imployed it for manuring husbandmens grounds. _buffalmaco_, being come neere one of them, he stayed to breath himselfe awhile, and then catching fast hold on one of the doctours feete, raysed him somewhat higher on his back, for the easier discharging of his burthen, and so pitched him (with his head forwardes) into the lay-stall. then began he to make a dreadfull kinde of noise, stamping and trampling with his feete, passing backe againe to _santa maria della scala_, and to _prato d'ognissanti_, where hee met with _bruno_, who was constrained to forsake him, because he could not refraine from lowde laughter, then both together went backe once more, to see how the physitian would behave himselfe, being so sweetely embrued. master doctor, seeing himselfe to bee in such an abhominable stinking place, laboured with all his utmost endeavour, to get himself released thence: but the more he contended and strove for getting forth, he plunged himselfe the further in, being most pitifully myred from head to foot, sighing and sorrowing extraordinarily, because much of the foule water entred in at his mouth. in the end, being forced to leave his hood behinde him, scrambling both with his hands and feet, he got landing out of his stinking labyrinth, & having no other means, home he returned to his own house, where knocking at the doore, he was at length admitted entrance. the doore being scarse made fast againe after his letting in, _buffalmaco_ and _bruno_ were there arrived, listning how m. doctor should bee welcomd home by his angry wife: who scolding and railing at him with wonderfull impatience, gave him most hard and bitter speeches, terming him the vilest man living. where have you bin sir? quoth she. are you becom** a night-walker after other women? and could no worse garments serve your turne, but your doctors gown of scarlet? am i to suffer this behaviour? or am not i sufficient to content you, but you must be longing after change? i would thou hadst bin stifled in that foule filth, where thy fouler life did justly cast thee. behold goodly master doctor of the leystall, who being maried to an honest woman must yet go abroad in the night time, insatiatly lusting after whores and harlots. with these and the like intemperate speeches, she ceased not to afflict and torment him, till the night was almost spent, and the doctor brought into a sweeter savour. the next morning, _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_, having colourd their bodyes with a strange kinde of painting, resembling blisters, swellings, and bruises, as if they had bin extreamly beaten; came to the physitians house, finding him to be newly up, al the house yet smelling of his foule savour (although it had bin very well perfumed) and being admitted to him in the garden, hee welcommed them with the mornings salutations. but _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_ (being otherwise provided for him) delivering stearne and angry lookes, stamping and chafing, _bruno_ thus replyed. never speake so faire and flattering to us, for we are moved beyond all compasse of patience. all misfortunes in the worlde fall upon you, and an evill death may you dye, like the most false and perfidious traitor living on the earth. we must beate our braines, and move all our most endeared friends, onely for your honor and advancement: while wee were well neere starved to death in the cold like dogs, and, by your breach of promise, have bin this night so extreamly beaten, as if (like asses) we should have beene driven to _rome_. but that which is most greevous of all, is danger of excluding out of the society, where wee tooke good order for your admittance, and for your most honourable entertainment. if you will not credit us, behold our bodies, and let your owne eyes be witnesses, in what cruell manner we have bin beaten. so taking him aside under the gallery, where they might not be discovered by over-much light, they opened their bosomes, shewed him their painted bodies, and sodainly closed them up againe. the physitian laboured to excuse himselfe, declaring his misfortunes at large, and into what a filthy place he was throwne. it maketh no matter (answered _buffalmaco_) i would you had bin throwen from off the bridge into _arno_, where you might have beene recommended to the divell, and all his saints. did not i tell you so much before. in good sadnesse (quoth the doctor) i neyther commended my selfe to god, nor any of his saints. how? sayde _buffalmaco_, i am sure you will maintaine an untrueth, you used a kinde of recommendation: for our messenger told us, that you talked of god, s. _dominicke_, and your good angell, whom you desired to assist you, being so affrighted with feare, that you trembled like a leafe upon a tree, not knowing indeede where you were. thus have you unfaithfully dealt with us, as never any man shall doe the like againe, in seeking honour, and losing it through your own negligence. master doctor humbly entreated pardon, and that they would not revile him any more, labouring to appease them by the best words he could use, as fearing least they should publish this great disgrace of him. and whereas (before) he gave them gracious welcomes; now he redoubled them with farre greater courtesies, feasting them daily at his own table, and evermore delighting in their company. thus (as you have heard) two poore painters of _florence_, taught master doctor better wit, then all the learned at _bologna_. _a cicilian courtezane, named madame_ biancafiore, _by her craftie wit and policie, deceived a young merchant, called_ salabetto, _of all the money he had taken for his wares at_ palermo. _afterward, he making shew of comming hither againe, with farre richer merchandises then hee brought before: made the meanes to borrow a great summe of money of her, leaving her so base a pawne, as well requited her for her former cozenage._ the tenth novell. _whereby appeareth, that such as meet with cunning harlots, and suffer themselves to be deceived by them: must sharpen their wits, to make them requitall in the selfesame kinde._ needlesse it were to question, whether the novell related by the queene, in divers passages thereof, mooved the ladies to hearty laughter, and likewise to compassionate sighes and teares; as pittying madame _helena_ in her hard misfortune, and yet applauding the scholler for his just revenge. but the discourse being ended, _dioneus_, who knew it was his office to be the last speaker every day, after silence was commanded, he began in this manner. worthy ladies, it is a matter very manifest, that deceits do appeare so much the more pleasing, when (by the selfe-same meanes) the subtle deceyver is artificially deceived. in which respect, though you all have reported very singular deceits: yet i meane to tel you one, that may prove as pleasing to you, as any of your owne. and so much the rather, because the woman deceived, was a great and cunning mistris in beguiling others; equalling (if not excelling) any of your former beguilers. it hath bene observed heretofore, and (happily) at this very day it is as frequent, that in all cities and townes upon the sea-coasts, having ports for the benefit and venting merchandises; merchants use to bring their wealthy laden vessels thither. and when they unlade any ship of great fraught, there are prepared store-houses, which in many places are called _magazines_ or _doganaes_, at the charge of the communalty, or lord of the towne or city, for the use whereof, they receive yearly gain and benefit. into those warehouses, they deliver (under writing, and to the owners of them in especiall charge) all their goods and merchandises, of what price or valew soever they are. such as be the owners of these magazines, when the wares are thus stored uppe in them, doe safely locke them up there with their keyes, having first registred downe truly all the goods, in the register belonging to the custome-house, that the merchant may have a just account rendred him, and the rights payed to the custome-house, according to the register, and as they are either in part, or in all made sale of. brokers are continually there attending, being informed in the quality of the merchandises stored, and likewise to what merchants they appertaine: by meanes of these men, and according as the goods come to their hands, they devise to have them exchaunged, trucked, vented, and such other kinds of dispatches, answerable to the mens minds, and worth of the commodities. as in many other kingdomes and countries, so was this custome observed at _palermo_ in _sicily_, where likewise then were, and (no doubt) now a-dayes are, store of women, faire and comely of person, but yet vowed enemies to honesty. neverthelesse, by such as know them not, they are held and reputed to be blamelesse women, and by yeilding their bodyes unto generall use, are the occasion of infinite misfortunes to men. for so soone as they espy a merchant-stranger there arrived, they win information from the booke belonging to the magazin, what wares are therein stored, of what valew they bee, and who is the owner of them. afterwards, by amorous actions, and affable speeches, they allure yong merchants to take knowledge of them, to bee familiar in their company, till from some they get most part of their wealth, from others all. nay, divers have gone so farre, as to make port-sale of ship, goods, and person, so cunningly they have bene shaven by these barbers, and yet without any razor. it came to passe, and no long time since, that a young _florentine_ of ours, named _niccolo da cignano_, but more usually called _salabetto_, imployed as factor for his maister, arrived at _palermo_; his ship stored with many woollen cloathes, a remainder of such as had bin sold at the mart of _salerno_, amounting in valew to above five hundred florines of gold. when he had given in his packet to the custome-house, and made them up safe in his ware-house; without making shew of desiring any speedy dispatch, he delighted to view all parts of the city, as mens minds are continuallie addicted to novelties. he being a very faire and affable yong man, easie to kindle affection in a very modest eie: it fortuned, that a courtezane, one of our before remembred shavers, who termed hir selfe madame _biancafiore_, having heard somewhat concerning his affairs, beganne to dart amorous glances at him. which the indiscreete youth perceyving, and thinking her to be some great lady: began also to grow halfe perswaded, that his comely person was pleasing to her, and therefore he would carrie this good fortune of his somewhat cautelously. without imparting his mind unto any one, he would daily passe too and fro before her doore; which she observing, and having indifferently wounded him with her wanton piercing lookes: she began to use the first tricke of her trade, by pretending her enflamed affection towards him, which made her pine and consume away in care, except he might be moved to pitty her. whereupon, she sent one of her _pandoraes_ unto him, perfectly instructed in the art of a _maquerella_, who (after many cunning counterfetted sighes, and teares, which she had alwayes ready at command) told him; that his comely person and compleate perfections, had so wounded the very soule of her mistresse, as she could enjoy no rest in any place, either by day or night. in regard whereof, she desired (above all things else) to meete with him privately in a bathe: with which wordes, she straightway tooke a ring forth of her pursse, and in most humble manner, delivered it unto him, as a token from her mistresse. _salabetto_ having heard this message, was the onely joyfull man that could be: and having receyved the ring, looking on it advisedly; first kissed it, and then put it upon his finger. then in answer to the messenger, he sayd: that if her mistresse _biancafiore_ affected him, she sustained no losse thereby, in regard he loved her as fervently, and was ready to be commanded by her, at any time whensoever she pleased. she having delivered this message to her mistresse, was presently returned backe againe to him, to let him understand, in which of the bathes she meant to meet him, on the next morrow in the evening. this being counsell for himselfe onely to keepe, he imparted it not to any friend whatsoever; but when the houre for their meeting was come, he went unto the place where he was appointed, a bathe (belike) best agreeing with such businesse. not long had he taried there, but two women slaves came laden to him, the one bearing a mattresse of fine fustian on hir head, and the other a great basket filled with many things. having spred the mattresse in a faire chamber on a couch-bed, they covered it with delicate white linnen sheets, all about embroidred with faire fringes of gold, then laid they on costly quilts of rich silkes, artificially wrought with gold and silver knots, having pearles and precious stones interwoven among them, and two such rich pillowes, as sildome before had the like bin seene. _salabetto_ putting off his garments, entred the bath prepared for him, where the two slaves washed his body very neatly. soone after came _biancafiore_ hirselfe, attended on by two other women slaves, and seeing _salabetto_ in the bathe; making him a lowly reverence, breathing forth infinite dissembled sighes, and teares trickling downe her cheekes, kissing and embracing him, thus she spake. i know not what man else in the worlde, beside thy selfe, could have the power to bring me hither: the fire flew from thy faire eies (o thou incompareable lovely _tuscane_) that melted my soule, and makes me onely live at thy command. then hurling off her light wearing garment (because she came prepared for the purpose) shee stept into the bathe to him, and, not permitting the slaves a-while to come neere, none but her selfe must now lave his body, with muske compounded sope and gilly-floures. afterward, the slaves washed both him and her, bringing two goodly sheetes, softe and white, yeelding such a delicate smell of roses, even as if they had bene made of rose-leaves. in the one, they folded _salabetto_, and her in the other, and so conveyed them on their shoulders unto the prepared bed-couch, where because they should not sweate any longer, they tooke the sheets from about them, and laid them gently in the bed. then they opened the basket, wherein were divers goodly silver bottles, some filled with rosewaters, others with flowers of orenges, and waters distilled of gelsomine, muske, and amber-greece, wherewith (againe) the slaves bathed their bodyes in the bed, & afterward presented them with variety of comfites, as also very precious wines, serving them in stead of a little collation. _salabetto_ supposed himself to be in paradise: for this appeared to be no earthly joy, bestowing a thousand gladsome gazes on her, who (questionlesse) was a most beautifull creature, and the tarrying of the slaves, seemed millions of yeares to him, that hee might more freely embrace his _biancafiore_. leaving a waxe taper lighted in the chamber, the slaves departed, and then shee sweetly embracing _salabetto_, bestowed those further favours on him, which hee came for, and she was not squeamish in the affoording; whereof he was exceedingly joyfull, because he imagined, that they proceeded from the integrity of her affection towards him. when she thought it convenient time to depart thence, the slaves returned; they cloathed themselves, and had a banquet standing ready prepared for them; where-with they cheared their wearyed spirits, after they had first washed in odorifferous waters. at parting: _salabetto_ (quoth she) whensoever thy leysures shall best serve thee, i will repute it as my cheefest happinesse, that thou wilt accept a supper and lodging in my house, which let it be this instant night, if thou canst. he being absolutely caught, both by hir beauty and flattering behaviour: beleeved faithfully, that he was as intirely beloved of her, as the heart is of the body: whereuppon hee thus answered. madame, whatsoever pleaseth you, must needes be much more acceptable unto mee: and therefore, not onely may command my service this night, but likewise the whole employment of my life, to be onely yours in my very best studies and endeavours. no sooner did she heare this answer, but she returned home to her owne house, which she decked in most sumptuous manner, and also made ready a costly supper, expecting the arrivall of _salabetto_: who when the darke night was indifferently well entred, went thither, and was welcommed with wonderfull kindnesse, wanting no costly wines and delicates all the supper while. being afterward conducted into a goodly chamber, he smelt there admirable sweete senting savours, such as might well beseeme a princes pallace. he beheld a most costly bed, and very rich furniture round about the roome: which when he had duly considered to himself, he was constantly perswaded, that she was a lady of infinit wealth. and although he had heard divers flying reports concerning her life, yet hee would not credite any thing amisse of her, for albeit she might (perhappes) beguile some other; yet shee affected him (he thought) in better manner, and no such misfortune could happen to him. having spent all the night with her in wanton dalliances, & being risen in the morning; to enflame his affection more and more towards her, and to prevent any ill opinion he might conceyve of her, she bestowed a rich and costly girdle on him, as also a pursse most curiously wrought, saying to him. my sweet _salabetto_, with these testimonies of my true affection to thee, i give thee faithfully to understand, that as my person is onely subjected thine; so this house and all the riches in it, remaineth absolutely at thy disposition, or whatsoever hereafter shall happen within the compasse of my power. he being not a little proud of this her bountifull offer (having never bestowed any gift on her, because by no meanes shee would admit it) after many sweet kisses and embraces; departed thence, to the place where the merchants usually frequented: resorting to her (from time to time) as occasion served, and paying not one single peny for all his wanton pleasure, by which cunning baytes (at length) she caught him. it came to passe, that having made sale of all his clothes, whereby hee had great gaines, and the moneyes justly payed him at the times appointed: _biancafiore_ got intelligence thereof; yet not by him, but from one of the brokers. _salabetto_ comming one night to sup with her, she embraced and kissed him as she was wont to doe, and seemed so wonderfully addicted in love to him, even as if shee would have dyed with delight in his armes. instantly, shee would needs bestow two goodly gilt standing cuppes on him, which _salabetto_ by no meanes would receive, because she had formerly bin very bountifull to him, to above the value of an hundred crowns, and yet she would not take of him so much as a mite. at length, pressing still more tokens of her love and bounty on him, which he as courteously denied, as she kindly offered: one of her women-slaves (as shee had before cunningly appointed) sodainely calling her, forthwith she departed out of her chamber. and when she had continued a pretty while absent, she returned againe weeping; and throwing her selfe downe upon her pallet, breathed forth such sighes and wofull lamentations, as no woman could possibly doe the like. _salabetto_ amazedly wondering thereat, tooke her in his armes, and weeping also with her, said. alas my deare love, what sodain accident hath befalne you, to urge this lamentable alteration? if you love me, hide it not from me. after he had often entreated her in this manner, casting her armes about his necke, and sighing as if her heart would breake, thus she replyed. ah _salabetto_, the onely jewell of my joy on earth, i knowe not what to do, or say, for (even now) i received letters from _messina_, wherein my brother writes to me, that although it cost the sale of all my goods, or whatsoever else i have beside, i must (within eight dayes space) not faile to send him a thousand florins of gold, or else he must have his head smitten off, and i know not by what meanes to procure them so soone. for, if the limitation of fifteene dayes might serve the turne; i could borrow them in a place, where i can command a farre greater summe, or else i would sell** some part of our lands. but beeing no way able to furnish him so soone, i would i had died before i heard these dismall tydings. and in the uttering of these words, she graced them with such cunning dissembled sorrow, as if she had meant truly indeed. _salabetto_, in whom the fury of his amorous flames, had consumed a great part of his necessary understanding; beleeving these counterfetted tears and complaints of hers, to proceed from an honest meaning soule; rashly and foolishly thus replied. deare _biancafiore_, i cannot furnish you with a thousand golden florines, but am able to lend you five hundred, if i were sure of their repayment at fifteene dayes, wherein you are highly beholding to fortune, that i have made sale of all my cloathes; which if they had lyen still on my hand, my power could not stretch to lend you five florines. alas deare heart (quoth she) would you be in such want of money, and hide it from her that loves you so loyally? why did you not make your need knowne to me? although i am not furnished of a thousand florines; yet i have alwaies ready three or foure hundred by me, to do any kinde office for my friend. in thus wronging me, you have robd me of all boldnes, to presume upon your offer made me. _salabetto_, far faster inveigled by these words then before, said. let not my folly (bright _biancafiore_) cause you to refuse my friendly offer, in such a case of extreme necessity: i have them ready prepared for you, and am heartily sorry, that my power cannot furnish you with the whole summe. then catching him fast in her armes, thus she answered. now i plainly perceive, my dearest _salabetto_, that the love thou bearest me is true and perfect; when, without expectation of being requested, thou art readie to succour me in such an urgent neede, & with so faire a summe of florines. sufficiently was i thine owne before, but now am much more ingaged by so high deserving; with this particular acknowledgement for ever, that my brothers head was redeemed by thy goodnesse onely. heaven beareth me record, how unwilling i am to be beholding in this kind, considring that you are a merchant, & merchants furnish al their affairs with ready monis: but seeing necessity constraineth me, and i make no doubt of repaiment at the time appointed: i shall the more boldly accept your kindnes, with this absolute promise beside, that i will rather sell all the houses i have, then breake my honest word with you. counterfeit teares still drayning downe her cheeks, and _salabetto_ kindly comforting her; he continued there with hir all that night, to expresse himselfe her most liberall servant. and, without expecting any more requesting, the next morning he brought her the five hundred florines, which she received with a laughing heart, but outward dissembled weeping eies; _salabetto_ never demanding any other security, but onely her single promise. _biancafiore_, having thus received the five hundred florines, the indiction of the almanacke began to alter: and whereas (before) _salabetto_ could come see her whensoever he pleased, many occasions now happened, whereby he came seven times for once, and yet his entrance was scarsely admitted, neither was his entertainment so affable, or his cheare so bountifull, as in his former accesses thither. moreover, when the time for repaiment was come, yea a moneth or two over-past, and he demanded to have his money; hee could have nothing but words for paiment. now he began to consider on the craft and cunning of this wicked woman, as also his owne shallow understanding, knowing he could make no proofe of his debt, but what her selfe listed to say, having neither witnes, specialty, bill or bond to shew: which made his folly so shamefull to him, that he durst not complaine to any person, because he had received some advertisements before, whereto he wold by no means listen, and now should have no other amends, but publike infamie, scorne and disgrace, which made him almost weary of his life, and much to bemoane his owne unhappinesse. he received also divers letters from his master, to make returne of the . florines over by way of banke, according as he had used to do: but nowe could performe no such matter. hereupon, because his error should not be discovered, he departed in a small vessell thence, not making for _pisa_, as he should have done, but directly for _naples_ hee shaped his course. at that instant lodged there, _don pietro della canigiano_, treasurer of the empresse of _constantinople_, a man of great wisedome and understanding, as also very ingenious and politike, he being an especiall favourer of _salabetto_ and all his friendes, which made him presume the more boldly (being urged thereto by meere necessity, the best corrector of wandering wits) to acquaint him with his lamentable misfortune, in every particular as it had hapned, requesting his aid and advice, how he might best weare out the rest of his dayes, because hee never meant to visit _florence_ any more. _canigiano_ being much displeased at the repetition of his follie, sharply reproved him, saying. thou hast done leudly, in carying thy selfe so loosely, and spending thy masters goods so carelesly, which though i cannot truly tearme spent, but rather art meerely cousened and cheated of them, yet thou seest at what a deere rate thou hast purchased pleasure, which yet is not utterly helplesse, but may by one meanes or other be recovered. and being a man of woonderfull apprehension, advised him instantly what was to bee done, furnishing him also with a summe of money, wherewith to adventure a second losse, in hope of recovering the first againe: he caused divers packes to be well bound up, with the merchants markes orderly made on them, and bought about twenty buttes or barrelles, all filled (as it were) with oyle, and these pretended commodities being shipt, _salabetto_ returned with them to _palermo_. where having given in his packets to the custome-house, and entred them all under his owne name, as being both owner and factor: all his wares were lockt up in his _magazine_,** with open publication, that he would not vent any of them, before other merchandises (which he daily expected) were there also arrived. _biancafiore_ having heard thereof, and understanding withall, that he had brought merchandises now with him, amounting to above two thousand florins, staying also in expectation of other commodities, valewing better then three thousand more, she beganne to consider with her selfe, that she had not yet gotten money enough from him, and therefore would cast a figure for a farre bigger booty. which that she might the more fairely effect, without so much as an imagination of the least mistrust: she would repay him backe his five hundred florines, to winne from him a larger portion of two or three thousand at the least, and having thus setled her determination, she sent to have him come speake with her. _salabetto_, having bene soundly bitten before, and therefore the better warranted from the like ranckling teeth; willingly went to her, not shewing any signe of former discontent: & she, seeming as if she knew nothing of the wealth he brought with him; gracing him in as loving manner as ever she had done, thus she spake. i am sure _salabetto_, you are angry with mee, because i restored not your florines at my promised day. _salabetto_ smiling, presently answered. beleeve me lady (quoth he) it did a little distast me, even as i could have bin offended with him, that should plucke out my heart to bestow it on you, if it would yeelde you any contentment. but to let you know unfainedly, how much i am incensed with anger against you: such and so great is the affection i beare you, that i have solde the better part of my whole estate, converting the same into wealthy merchandises, which i have alreadie brought hither with mee, and valewing above two thousand florines, all which are stored up in in my _magazine_. there must they remaine, till another ship come forth of the western parts, wherein i have a much greater adventure, amounting unto more then three thousand florines. and my purpose is, to make my aboade heere in this city, which hath won the sole possession of my heart, onely in regard of my _biancafiore_, to whom i am so intirely devoted, as both my selfe, and whatsoever else is mine (now or hereafter) is dedicated onely to her service; whereto thus she replyed. now trust me _salabetto_, whatsoever redoundeth to thy good and benefite, is the cheefest comfort of my soule, in regard i prize thy love dearer then mine owne life, and am most joyfull of thy returne hither againe; but much more of thy still abiding heere, because i intend to live onely with thee, so soone as i have taken order for some businesse of import. in the meane while, let me entreate thee to hold me excused, because before thy departure hence, thou camest sometimes to see me, without thy entrance admitted; and other-whiles againe, found not such friendly entertainement, as formerly had bene affoorded. but indeede, and above all the rest, in not re-paying thy money according to my promise. but consider good _salabetto_, in what great trouble and affliction of minde i then was, both in regard of my brothers danger, and other important occurrences beside, which molestations do much distract the senses, and hinder kinde courtesies, which otherwise would bee extended liberally. last of all consider also, how difficult a thing it is for a woman, so sodainly to raise the summe of a thousand golden florines, when one friend promiseth, and performeth not; another protesteth, yet hath no such meaning; a third sweareth, and yet proveth a false lyar: so that by being thus ungently used, a breach is made betweene the best friends** living. from hence it proceeded, and no other defect else, that i made not due returne of your five hundred florins. no sooner were you departed hence, but i had them readie, and as many more, and could i have knowne whither to send them, they had bene with you long time since, which because i could not (by any meanes) compasse, i kept them still for you in continuall readinesse, as hoping of your comming hither againe. so causing a purse to be brought, wherein the same florines were, which hee had delivered her; she gave it into his hand, and prayed him to count them over, whether there were so many, or no. never was _salabettoes_ heart halfe so joyfull before; and having counted them, found them to be his owne five hundred florines: then, putting them up into his pocket, he saide. comfort of my life, full well i know that whatsoever you have saide, is most certaine; but let us talke no more of falshood in friendship, or casuall accidents happening unexpected: you have dealt with mee like a most loyall mistresse, and heere i protest unfainedly to you, that as well in respect of this kinde courtesie, as also the constancy of mine affection to you, you cannot request hereafter a far greater summe of me, to supply any necessarie occasion of yours; but (if my power can performe it) you shall assuredly finde it certaine: make proofe thereof whensoever you please, after my other goods are landed, and i have established my estate here in your city. having in this manner renewed his wonted amity with her, and with words farre enough off from all further meaning: _salabetto_ began againe to frequent her company, she expressing all former familiarity, and shewing her selfe as lavishly bountifull to him, in all respects as before she had done, nay, many times in more magnificent manner. but he intending to punish her notorious trechery towards him, when she left him as an open scorne to the world, wounded with disgrace, and quite out of credit with all his friends: she having (on a day) solemnly invited him, to suppe and lodge in her house all night; he went, both with sad and melancholly lookes, seeming as overcome with extreamity of sorrow. _biancafiore_ mervayling at this strange alteration in him, sweetly kissing and embracing him: would needs know the reason of his passionate affliction, & he permitting her to urge the question oftentimes together, without returning any direct answere; to quit her in her kind, and with coine of her owne stampe, after a few dissembled sighes, he began in this manner. ah my dearest love, i am utterly undone, because the shippe containing the rest of mine expected merchandises, is taken by the pyrates of _monago_, and put to the ransome of tenne thousand florines of gold, and my part particularly, is to pay one thousand. at this instant i am utterly destitute of money, because the five hundred florines which i received of you, i sent hence the next daie day following to _naples_, to buy more cloathes, which likewise are to be sent hither. and if i should now make sale of the merchandizes in my magazine (the time of generall utterance being not yet come) i shall not make a pennyworth for a penny. and my misfortune is the greater, because i am not so well knowne heere in your city, as to find some succour in such an important distresse; wherefore i know not what to do or say. moreover, if the money be not speedily sent, our goods will be carried into _monago_, and then they are past all redemption utterly. _biancafiore_ appearing greatly discontented, as one verily perswaded, that this pretended losse was rather hers, then his, because she aymed at the mainest part of all his wealth: began to consider with her selfe, which was the likeliest course to be taken, for saving the goods from carriage to _monago_: whereupon thus she replied. heaven knoweth (my dearest _salabetto_) how thy love maketh me sorrowfull for this misfortune, and it greeveth me to see thee any way distressed: for if i had mony lying by mee (as many times i have) thou shouldst finde succour from my selfe onely, but indeede i am not able to helpe thee. true it is, there is a friend of mine, who did lend me five hundred florines in my need, to make uppe the other summe which i borrowed of thee: but he demandeth extreme interest, because he will not abate any thing of thirty in the hundred, and if you should bee forced to use him, you must give him some good security. now for my part, the most of my goods here i will pawne for thee: but what pledge can you deliver in to make up the rest? wel did _salabetto_ conceive, the occasion why she urged this motion, and was so diligent in doing him such a pleasure: for it appeared evidently to him, that herselfe was to lend the mony, whereof he was not a little joyfull, seeming very thankfull to hir. then he told her, that being driven to such extremity, how unreasonable soever the usury was, yet he would gladly pay for it. and for her friends further security, hee would pawne him all the goods in his _magazine_, entering them downe in the name of the party, who lent the money. onely he desired to keepe the keyes of the ware-house, as well to shew his merchandises, when any merchant should bee so desirous: as also to preserve them from ill using, transporting or changing, before his redemption of them. she found no fault with his honest offer, but sayde, hee shewed himselfe a well-meaning man, and the next morning shee sent for a broker, in whom she reposed especiall trust; and after they had privately consulted together, shee delivered him a thousand golden florines, which were caried by him presently to _salabetto_, and the bond made in the brokers name, of all the goods remaining in _salabettoes_ ware-house, with composition and absolute agreement, for the prefixed time of the monies repaiment. no sooner was this tricke fully accomplished, but _salabetto_ seeming as if he went to redeeme his taken goods: set saile for _naples_ towards _pietro della canigiano_, with fifteene hundred florines of gold: from whence also he sent contentment to his master at _florence_ (who imployd him as his factor at _palermo_) beside his owne packes of cloathes. he made repayment likewise to _canigiano_, for the monies which furnished him in this last voyage, and any other to whom hee was indebted. so there he stayed awhile with _canigiano_, whose counsell thus holpe him to out-reach the _sicillian_ courtezane: and meaning to deale in merchandise no more, afterward he returned to _florence_ and there lived in good reputation. now as concerning _biancafiore_, when she saw that _salabetto_ returned not againe to _palermo_, she beganne to grow somewhat abashed, as halfe suspecting that which followed. after she had tarried for him above two moneths space, and perceived hee came not, nor any tydings heard of him: shee caused the broker to breake open the magazine, casting forth the buttes or barrels, which shee beleeved to bee full of good oyles. but they were all filled with sea-water, each of them having a small quantity of oyle floating on the toppe, onely to serve when a tryall should bee made. and then unbinding the packes, made up in formall and merchantable manner: there was nothing else in them, but logges and stumpes of trees; wrapt handsomely in hurdles of hempe and tow; onely two had cloathes in them. so that (to bee briefe) the whole did not value two hundred crownes: which when she saw, and observed how cunningly she was deceived: a long while after shee sorrowed, for repaying backe the five hundred florines, and folly in lending a thousand more, using it as a proverbe alwaies after to hir selfe: _that whosoever dealt with a tuscane, had neede to have found sight and judgement._ so remaining contented (whither she would or no) with her losse: she plainly perceyved, that although she lived by cheating others, yet now at the length she had mette with her match. * * * * * so soone as _dioneus_ had ended his novell, madame _lauretta_ also knew, that the conclusion of her regiment was come; whereupon, when the counsell of _canigiano_ had past with generall commendation, and the wit of _salabetto_ no lesse applauded, for fitting it with such an effectuall prosecution; shee tooke the crowne of laurell from her owne head, and set it upon madame _�milliaes_, speaking graciously in this manner. madam, i am not able to say, how pleasant a queene we shall have of you, but sure i am, that we shall enjoy a faire one: let matters therefore be so honourably carried; that your government may be answerable to your beautifull perfections; which words were no sooner delivered, but she sate downe in her mounted seate. madame _�millia_ being somewhat bashfull, not so much of hir being created queene, as to heare her selfe thus publikely praysed, with that which women do most of all desire: her face then appearing, like the opening of the damaske rose, in the goodlyest morning. but after she had a while dejected her lookes, and the vermillion blush was vanished away: having taken order with the master of the houshold, for all needefull occasions befitting the assembly, thus she began. gracious ladies, wee behold it daily, that those oxen which have laboured in the yoake most part of the day, for their more convenient feeding, are let forth at liberty, and permitted to wander abroad in the woods. we see moreover, that gardens and orchards, being planted with variety of the fairest fruit trees, are equalled in beauty by woods and forrests, in the plentifull enjoying of as goodly spreading branches. in consideration whereof, remembring how many dayes wee have already spent (under the severitie of lawes imposed) shaping all our discourses to a forme of observation: i am of opinion, that it will not onely well become us, but also prove beneficiall for us, to live no longer under such restraint, and like enthralled people, desirous of liberty, wee should no more be subjected to the yoke, but recover our former strength in walking freely. wherefore, concerning our pastime purposed for to morrow, i am not minded to use any restriction, or tye you unto any particular ordination: but rather do liberally graunt, that every one shall devise and speake of arguments agreeing with your owne dispositions. besides, i am verily perswaded, that variety of matter uttered so freely, will be much more delightfull, then restraint to one kinde of purpose onely. which being thus granted by me, whosoever shall succeede me in the government may (as being of more power and preheminence) restraine all backe againe to the accustomed lawes. and having thus spoken, she dispensed with their any longer attendance, untill it should be supper time. every one commended the queenes appointment, allowing it to rellish of good wit and judgement; and being all risen, fell to such exercises as they pleased. the ladies made nosegaies and chaplets of flowers, the men played on their instruments, singing divers sweete ditties to them, and thus were busied untill supper time. which beeing come, and they supping about the beautifull fountains: after supper, they fell to singing and dauncing. in the end, the queene, to imitate the order of her predecessors, commanded _pamphilus_, that notwithstanding all the excellent songs formerly sung: he should now sing one, whereunto dutifully obeying, thus he began. the song. the chorus sung by all. _love, i found such felicitie, and joy, in thy captivitie: as i before did never prove, and thought me happy, being in love._ _comfort abounding in my hart, joy and delight in soule and spright i did possesse in every part; o soveraigne love by thee. thy sacred fires, fed my desires, and still aspires, thy happy thrall to bee. love, i found such felicity, &c._ _my song wants power to relate, the sweets of minde which i did finde in that most blissefull state, o soveraigne love by thee. no sad despaire, or killing care could me prepare; still thou didst comfort me. love, i found such felicity, &c._ _i hate all such as do complaine, blaspheming thee with cruelty, and sleights of coy disdaine. o soveraigne love, to mee thou hast bene kinde: if others finde. thee worse inclinde, yet i will honour thee._ _love, i found such felicitie, and joy in thy captivitie: as i before did never prove, but thought me happie, being in love._ thus the song of _pamphilus_ ended, whereto all the rest (as a chorus) answered with their voyces, yet every one particularly (according as they felt their love-sicke passions) made a curious construction thereof, perhaps more then they needed, yet not divining what _pamphilus_ intended. and although they were transported with variety of imaginations; yet none of them could arrive** at his true meaning indeed. wherefore the queene, perceiving the song to be fully ended, and the ladies, as also the young gentlemen, willing to go take their rest: she commaunded them severally to their chambers. _the end of the eight day._ the ninth day. _whereon, under the government of madame_ �millia, _the argument of each severall discourse, is not limitted to any one peculiar subject: but every one remaineth at liberty, to speak of whatsoever themselves best pleaseth._ the induction. faire _aurora_, from whose bright and chearefull lookes, the duskie darke night flyeth as an utter enemy, had already reached so high as the eight heaven, converting it all into an azure colour, and the pretty flowrets beganne to spred open their leaves: when madame _�millia_, beeing risen, caused all her female attendants, and the yong gentlemen likewise, to be summoned for their personall appearance. who being all come, the queen leading the way, and they following her majesticke pace, walked into a little wood, not farre off distant from the palace. no sooner were they there arrived, but they beheld store of wilde beasts, as hindes, hares, goats, and such like; so safely secured from the pursuite of huntsmen (by reason of the violent pestilence then reigning) that they stood gazing boldly at them, as dreadlesse of any danger, or as if they were become tame and domesticke. approaching neerer them, first to one, then unto another, as if they purposed to play gently with them, they then beganne to skippe and runne, making them such pastime with their pretty tripping, that they conceyved great delight in beholding of them. but when they beheld the sunne to exalt itselfe, it was thought convenient to return back again, shrouding themselves under the trees spreading armes, their hands full of sweete flowers and odorifferous hearbes, which they had gathered in their walking. so that such as chanced to meete them, could say nothing else: but that death knew not by what meanes to conquer them, or els they had set down an absolute determination, to kill him with their joviall disposition. in this manner, singing, dancing, or prettily pratling, at length they arrived at the palace, where they found all things readily prepared, and their servants duly attending for them. after they hadde reposed themselves awhile, they would not (as yet) sit downe at the table, untill they had sung halfe a dozen of canzonets, some more pleasant then another, both the women and men together. then they fell to washing hands, and the maister of the houshold caused them to sit downe, according as the queene had appointed, and dinner was most sumptuously served in before them. afterward, when the tables were with-drawne, they all tooke handes to dance a roundelay; which being done, they plaied on their instruments a while; and then, such as so pleased, tooke their rest. but when the accustomed houre was come, they all repaired to the place of discoursing, where the queen, looking on madam _philomena_, gave her the honor of beginning the first novell for that day: whereto shee dutifully condiscending, began as followeth. _madam_ francesca, _a widdow of_ pistoya, _being affected by two_ florentine _gentlemen, the one named_ rinuccio palermini, _and the other_ alessandro chiarmontesi, _and she bearing no good will to eyther of them; ingeniously freed her selfe from both their importunate suites. one of them she caused to lye as dead in a grave, and the other to fetch him from thence: so neither of them accomplishing what they were enjoyned, fayled of obtaining his hoped expectation._ the first novell. _approving, that chaste and honest women, ought rather to deny importunate suiters, by subtile and ingenious meanes, then fall into the danger of scandall and slander._ madame, it can no way discontent mee (seeing it is your most gracious pleasure) that i should have the honour, to breake the first staffe of freedome in this faire company (according to the injunction of your majesty) for liberty of our own best liking arguments: wherein i dismay not (if i can speake well enough) but to please you all as well, as any other that is to follow me. nor am i so oblivious (worthy ladies) but full well i remember, that many times hath bene related in our passed demonstrations, how mighty and variable the powers of love are: and yet i cannot be perswaded, that they have all bene so sufficiently spoken of, but something may bee further added, and the bottome of them never dived into, although we should sit arguing a whole yeare together. and because it hath beene alreadie approved, that lovers have bene led into divers accidents, not onely inevitable dangers of death, but also have entred into the verie houses of the dead, thence to convey their amorous friends: i purpose to acquaint you with a novell, beside them which have bene discoursed; whereby you may not onely comprehend the power of love, but also the wisedome used by an honest gentlewoman, to rid her selfe of two importunate suiters, who loved her against her owne liking, yet neither of them knowing the others affection. in the city of _pistoya_, there dwelt sometime a beautifull gentlewoman, being a widdow, whom two of our _florentines_ (the one named _rinuccio palermini_, and the other _alessandro chiarmontesi_), having withdrawne themselves to _pistoya_ desperately affected, the one ignorant of the others intention, but each carrying his case closely, as hoping to be possessed of her. this gentlewoman, named madame _francesca de lazzari_, being often solicited by their messages, and troublesomely pestered with their importunities: at last (lesse advisedly then she intended) shee granted admittance to heare either of them speake. which she repenting, and coveting to be rid of them both, a matter not easie to be done: she wittily devised the onely meanes, namely, to move such a motion to them, as neither would willingly undertake, yet within the compasse of possibility; but they failing in the performance, shee might have the more honest occasion, to bee free from all further molestation by them, and her politike intention was thus projected. on the same day, when she devised this peece of service, a man was buried in _pistoya_, and in the church-yard belonging unto the gray friars, who being descended of good and worthie parentage: yet himselfe was very infamous, and reputed to be the vilest man living, not onely there in _pistoya_, but throughout the whole world beside. moreover, while he lived, he had such a strange misshapen body, and his face so ugly deformed, that such as knew him not, would stand gastly affrighted at the first sight of him. in regarde whereof, shee considered with her selfe, that the foule deformitie of this loathed fellow, would greatly avayle in her determination, and consulting with her chamber-maid, thus she spake. thou knowest (my most true and faithfull servant) what trouble and affliction of minde i suffer dayly, by the messages and letters of the two _florentines, rinuccio_ and _alessandro,_ how hatefull their importunity is to me, as being utterly unwilling to hear them speake, or yeeld to any thing which they desire. wherefore, to free my selfe from them both together, i have devised (in regard of their great and liberall offers) to make triall of them in such a matter, as i am assured they will never performe. it is not unknowne to thee, that in the church-yard of the gray friars, and this instant morning, _scannadio_ (for so was the ugly fellow named) was buried; of whom, when he was living, as also now being dead, both men, women, and children, doe yet stand in feare, so gastly and dreadfull alwayes was his personall appearance to them. wherefore, first of all go thou to _alessandro_, and say to him thus. my mistris _francesca_ hath sent me to you, to tell you, that now the time is come, wherein you may deserve to enjoy her love, and gaine the possession of her person, if you will accomplish such a motion as she maketh to you. for some especiall occasion, wherewith hereafter you shall bee better acquainted, a neere kinsman of hers, must needs have the body of _scannadio_ (who was buried this morning) brought to her house. and she, being as much affraid of him now he is dead, as when he was living, by no meanes would have his body brought thither. in which respect, as a token of your unfeigned love to her, and the latest service you shall ever do for her: shee earnestly entreateth you, that this night, in the very deadest time thereof, you would go to the grave, where _scannadio_ lyeth yet uncovered with earth untill to morrow, and attyring your selfe in his garments, even as if you were the man himselfe, so to remaine there untill her kinsman doe come. then, without speaking any one word, let him take you foorth of the grave, & bring you thence (insted of _scannadio_) to hir house: where she will give you gentle welcome, and disappoint her kinsman in his hope, by making you lord of her, and all that is hers, as afterward shall plainly appeare. if he say he will do it, it is as much as i desire: but if hee trifle and make deniall, then boldly tell him, that he must refraine all places wheresoever i am, and forbeare to send me any more letters, or messages. having done so, then repaire to _rinuccio palermini_, and say. my mistresse _francesca_ is ready to make acceptance of your love; provided, that you will do one thing for her sake. namely, this ensuing night, in the midst & stillest season thereof, to go to the grave where _scannadio_ was this morning buried, & (without making any noise) or speaking one word, whatsoever you shall heare or see: to take him forth of the grave, and bring him home to her house, where you shall know the reason of this strange businesse, and enjoy her freely as your owne for ever. but if he refuse to do it, then i commaund him, never hereafter to see me, or move further suite unto mee, by any meanes whatsoever. the chamber-maide went to them both, and delivered the severall messages from her mistresse, according as she had given her in charge; whereunto each of them answered, that they woulde (for her sake) not onely descend into a grave, but also into hell, if it were her pleasure. she returning with this answer unto her mistresse, _francesca_ remained in expectation, what the issue of these fond attemptes in them, would sort unto. when night was come, and the middle houre thereof already past, _alessandro chiarmontesi_, having put off all other garments to his doublet and hose, departed secretly from his lodging, walking towards the church-yard, where _scannadio_ lay in his grave: but by the way as he went, hee became surprized with divers dreadfull conceites and imaginations, and questioned with himselfe thus. what a beast am i? what a businesse have i undertaken? and whither am i going? what do i know, but that the kinsman unto this woman, perhappes understanding mine affection to her, and crediting some such matter, as is nothing so; hath laide this politicke traine for me, that he may murther me in the grave? which (if it should so happen) my life is lost, and yet the occasion never knowne whereby it was done. or what know i, whether some secret enemy of mine (affecting her in like manner, as i do) have devised this stratagem (out of malice) against mee, to draw my life in danger, and further his owne good fortune? then, contrary motions, overswaying these suspitions, he questioned his thoughts in another nature. let me (quoth he) admit the case, that none of these surmises are intended, but her kinsman (by and in this manner devised) must bring me into her house: i am not therefore perswaded, that he or they do covet, to have the body of _scannadio_, either to carry it thither, or present it to her, but rather do aime at some other end. may not i conjecture, that my close murthering is purposed, and this way acted, as on him that (in his life time) had offended them? the maid hath straitly charged me, that whatsoever is said or done unto me, i am not to speake a word. what if they pul out mine eies, teare out my teeth, cut off my hands, or do me any other mischiefe: where am i then? shall all these extremities barre me of speaking? on the other side, if i speake, then i shall be knowne, and so much the sooner (perhaps) be abused. but admit that i sustaine no injurie at all, as being guilty of no transgression: yet (perchance) i shall not be carried to her house, but to some other baser place, and afterward she shall reprove me, that i did not accomplish what shee commanded, and so all my labour is utterly lost. perplexed with these various contradicting opinions, he was willing divers times to turne home backe againe: yet such was the violence of his love, and the power thereof prevailing against all sinister arguments; as he went to the grave, and removing the boordes covering it, whereinto he entred; and having despoiled _scannadio_ of his garments, cloathed himselfe with them, & so laid him down, having first covered the grave againe. not long had hee tarryed there, but he began to bethinke him, what manner of man _scannadio_ was, and what strange reports had bene noised of him, not onely for ransicking dead mens graves in the night season, but many other abhominable villanies committed by him, which so fearfully assaulted him; that his haire stoode on end, every member of him quaked, and every minute he imagined _scannadio_ rising, with intent to strangle him in the grave. but his fervent affection overcoming all these idle feares, and lying stone still, as if he had beene the dead man indeede; he remained to see the end of his hope. on the contrary side, after midnight was past, _rinuccio palermini_ departed from his lodging, to do what hee was enjoyned by his hearts mistresse, and as hee went along, divers considerations also ran in his minde, concerning occasions possible to happen. as, falling into the hands of justice, with the body of _scannadio_ upon his backe, and being condemned for sacriledge, in robbing graves of the dead; either to be burned, or otherwise so punished, as might make him hatefull to his best friends, and meerely a shame to himselfe. many other the like conceits molested him, sufficient to alter his former determination: but affection was much more prevayling in him, and made him use this consultation. how now _rinuccio_? wilt thou dare to deny the first request, being mooved to thee by a gentlewoman, whom thou dearly lovest, and is the onely meanes, whereby to gaine assurance of her gracious favour? undoubtedly, were i sure to die in the attempt, yet i will accomplish my promise. and so he went on with courage to the grave. _alessandro_ hearing his arrivall, and also the removall of the bords, although he was exceedingly affraid; yet he lay quietly still, and stirred not, and _rinuccio_ beeing in the grave, tooke _alessandro_ by the feete, haling him forth, and (mounting him uppon his backe) went on thus loden, towards the house of madam _francesca_. as he passed along the streets, unseene or unmet by any, _alessandro_ suffered many shrewd rushings and punches, by turnings at the streets corners, and jolting against bulkes, poasts, and stalles, which _rinuccio_ could not avoyd, in regard the night was so wonderfully darke, as hee could not see which way he went. being come somewhat neere to the gentlewomans house, and she standing readie in the window with her maide, to see when _rinuccio_ should arrive there with _alessandro_, provided also of an apt excuse, to send them thence like a couple of coxcombes; it fortuned, that the watchmen, attending there in the same streete, for the apprehension of a banished man, stolne into the city contrarie to order; hearing the trampling of _rinuccioes_ feete, directed their course as they heard the noise, having their lanthorne and light closely covered, to see who it should be, and what he intended, and beating their weapons against the ground, demanded, who goes there? _rinuccio_ knowing their voyces, and that now was no time for any long deliberation: let fall _alessandro_, and ran away as fast as his legs could carry him. _alessandro_ being risen againe (although he was cloathed in _scannadioes_ garments, which were long and too bigge for him) fledde away also as _rinuccio_ did. all which madame _francesca_ easily discerned by helpe of the watchmens lanthorne, and how _rinuccio_ carried _alessandro_ on his backe, beeing attired in the garments of _scannadio_: whereat she mervailed not a little, as also the great boldnesse of them both. but in the midst of her mervailing, she laughed very heartily, when she saw the one let the other fall, and both to runne away so manfully. which accident pleasing her beyond all comparison, and applauding her good fortune, to bee so happily delivered from their daily molestation: she betooke herselfe to hir chamber with the maide, avouching solemnly to her, that (questionlesse) they both affected her dearely, having undertaken such a straunge imposition, and verie neere brought it to a finall conclusion. _rinuccio_, being sadly discontented, and curssing his hard fortune, would not yet returne home to his lodging: but, when the watch was gone forth of that streete, came backe to the place where he let fall _alessandro_, purposing to accomplish the rest of his enterprize. but not finding the body, and remaining fully perswaded, that the watchmen were possessed thereof; hee went away, greeving extreamly. and _alessandro_, not knowing now what should become of him: confounded with the like griefe and sorrow, that all his hope was thus utterly overthrowne, retired thence unto his owne house, not knowing who was the porter which carried him. the next morning, the grave of _scannadio_ being found open, & the body not in it, because _alessandro_ had thrown it into a deep ditch neere adjoyning: all the people of _pistoya_ were possessed with sundry opinions, some of the more foolish sort verily beleeving, that the divell had caried away the dead body. neverthelesse, each of the lovers, severally made knowne to madam _francesca_, what he had done, and how disappointed, either excusing himselfe, that though her command had not bin fully accomplished, yet to continue her favour towards him. but she, like a wise and discreet gentlewoman, seeming not to credit either the one or other: discharged her selfe honestly of them both, with a cutting answere, that shee would never (afterward) expect any other service from them, because they had fayled in their first injunction. _madame_ usimbalda, _lady abbesse of a monastery of nuns in_ lombardie, _arising hastily in the night time without a candle, to take one of her daughter nunnes in bed with a yong gentleman, whereof she was enviously accused, by certaine of her other sisters: the abbesse her selfe (being at the same time in bed with a priest) imagining to have put on her head her plaited vayle, put on the priests breeches. which when the poore nunne perceyved; by causing the abbesse to see her owne error, she got her selfe to be absolved, and had the freer liberty afterward, to be more familiar with her frend, then formerly she had bin._ the second novell. _whereby is declared, that whosoever is desirous to reprehend sinne in other men, should first examine himselfe, that he be not guiltie of the same crime._ by this time, madame _philomena_ sate silent, and the wit of _francesca_, in freeing her selfe from them whom she could not fancie, was generally commended: as also on the contrary, the bold presumption of the two amorous suiters, was reputed not to be love, but meerely folly. and then the queene, with a gracious admonition, gave way for madam eliza to follow next; who presently thus began. worthy ladies, madame _francesca_ delivered her selfe discreetly from trouble, as already hath bin related: but a yong nun, by the helpe and favour of fortune, did also free her selfe (in speaking advisedly) from an inconvenience sodainly falling on her. and as you well know, there wants none of them, who (like bold bayards) will be very forward in checking other mens misdemeanours, when themselves, as my novell will approve, deserve more justly to bee corrected. as hapned to a lady abbesse, under whose governement the same young nunne was, of whom i am now to speake. you are then to understand (gracious auditors) that in _lombardie_ there was a goodly monastery, very famous for holinesse and religion, where, among other sanctified sisters, there was a yong gentlewoman, endued with very singular beautie, being named _isabella_, who on a day, when a kinsman of hers came to see her at the grate, became enamored of a young gentleman, being then in his company. he likewise, beholding her to be so admirably beautifull, & conceyving by the pretty glances of her eye, that they appeared to bee silent intelligencers of the hearts meaning, grew also as affectionately inclined towards her, and this mutuall love continued thus concealed a long while, but not without great affliction unto them both. in the end, either of them being circumspect and provident enough, the gentleman contrived a meanes, whereby he might secretly visite his nunne, wherewith she seemed no way discontented: and this visitation was not for once or twice, but verie often, and closely concealed to themselves. at length it came to passe, that either through their owne indiscreete carriage, or jelous suspition in some others: it was espied by one of the sisters, both the gentlemans comming and departing, yet unknowne to him or _isabella_. the saide sister, disclosing the same to two or three more: they agreed together, to reveale it to the lady abbesse, who was named madame _usimbalda_, a holy and devout lady, in common opinion of all the nunnes, and whosoever else knew her. they further concluded (because _isabella_ should not deny theyr accusation) to contrive the businesse so cunningly: that the ladie abbesse should come her selfe in person, and take the yong gentleman in bed with the nun. and uppon this determination, they agreed to watch nightly by turnes, because by no meanes they wold be prevented: so to surprise poore _isabella_, who beeing ignorant of their treachery, suspected nothing. presuming thus still on this secret felicitie, and fearing no disaster to befall her: it chaunced (on a night) that the yong gentleman being entred into the nuns dorter, the scowts had descried him, & intended to be revenged on her. after some part of the night was overpast, they divided themselves into two bands, one to guard _isabellaes_ dorter doore, the other to carry newes to the abbesse, and knocking at her closet doore, saide. rise quickely madame, and use all the hast you may, for we have seene a man enter our sister _isabellaes_ dorter, and you may take her in bed with him. the lady abbesse, who (the very same night) had the company of a lusty priest in bed with her selfe, as oftentimes before she had, and he being alwayes brought thither in a chest: hearing these tidings, and fearing also, lest the nunnes hastie knocking at her doore, might cause it to fly open, and so (by their entrance) have her owne shame discovered: arose very hastily, and thinking she had put on her plaited vaile, which alwayes she walked with in the night season, and used to tearme her psalter; she put the priests breeches upon her head, and so went away in all hast with them, supposing them verily to be her psalter: but making fast the closet doore with her keye, because the priest should not be discovered. away shee went in all haste with the sisters, who were so forward in the detection of poore _isabella_, as they never regarded what manner of vaile the lady abbesse wore on her head. and being come to the dorter doore, quickly they lifted it off from the hookes, and being entred, found the two lovers sweetly imbracing: but yet so amazed at this sudden surprisall, as they durst not stirre, nor speake one word. the young nunne _isabella_, was raised forthwith by the other sisters, and according as the abbesse had commaunded, was brought by them into the chapter-house: the young gentleman remaining still in the chamber, where he put on his garments, awaiting to see the issue of this businesse, and verily intending to act severe revenge on his betrayers, if any harme were done to _isabella_, and afterward to take her thence away with him, as meaning to make her amends by marriage. the abbesse being seated in the chapter house, and all the other nunnes then called before her, who minded nothing else but the poore offending sister: she began to give her very harsh and vile speeches, as never any transgressor suffered the like, and as to her who had (if it should be openly knowne abroad) contaminated by her lewde life and actions, the sanctity and good renowne of the whole monastery, and threatned her with very severe chastisement. poore _isabella_, confounded with feare and shame, as being no way able to excuse her fault, knew not what answer to make, but standing silent, made her case compassionable to all the rest, even those hard-hearted sisters which betrayed her. and the abbesse still continuing her harsh speeches, it fortuned, that _isabella_, raising her head, which before she dejected into hir bosome, espied the breeches on her head, with the stockings hanging on either side of her; the sight whereof did so much encourage her, that boldly she said. madam, let a poore offender advise you for to mend your veile, and afterward say to me what you will. the abbesse being very angry; and not understanding what she meant, frowningly answered. why how now saucy companion? what vaile are you prating of? are you so malapert, to bee chatting already? is the deed you have done, to be answered in such immodest manner? _isabella_ not a jot danted by her sterne behaviour, once againe said. good madam let me perswade you to sette your vaile right, and then chide me as long as you will. at these words, all the rest of the nunnes exalted their lookes, to behold what vaile the abbesse wore on her head, wherewith _isabella_ should finde such fault, and she her selfe lift up her hand to feele it: and then they all perceyved plainly, the reason of _isabellas_ speeches, and the abbesse saw her owne error. hereupon, when the rest observed, that she had no help to cloud this palpable shame withall, the tide began to turne, and hir tongue found another manner of language, then her former fury to poore _isabella_, growing to this conclusion, that it is impossible to resist against the temptations of the flesh. and therefore she saide: let all of you take occasion, according as it offereth it selfe, as both we and our predecessors have done: to be provident for your selves, take time while you may, having this sentence alwaies in remembrance, _si non caste, tamen caute_. so, having granted the yong nunne _isabella_ free absolution: the lady abbesse returned backe againe to bed to the priest, and _isabella_ to the gentleman. as for the other sisters, who (as yet) were without the benefit of friends; they intended to provide themselves so soone as they could, being enduced thereto by so good example. _master_ simon _the physitian, by the perswasions of_ bruno, buffalmaco, _and a third companion, named_ nello, _made_ calandrino _to beleeve, that he was conceived great with childe. and having physicke ministred to him for the disease: they got both good fatte capons and money of him, and so cured him, without any other manner of deliverance._ the third novell. _discovering the simplicity of some silly witted men, and how easie a matter it is to abuse and beguile them._ after that madame _eliza_ had concluded her novell, and every one of the company given thankes to fortune, for delivering poore _isabella_ the faire young nunne, from the bitter reprehensions of the as faulty abbesse, as also the malice of her envious sisters: the queene gave command unto _philostratus_, that he should be the next in order, and hee (without expecting anie other warning) began in this manner. faire ladies, the paltry judge of the marquisate, whereof yesterday i made relation to you; hindred mee then of another novell, concerning silly _calandrino_, wherewith i purpose now to acquaint you. and because whatsoever hath already bin spoken of him, tended to no other end but matter of meriment, hee and his companions duly considered: the novel which i shall now report, keepeth within the selfesame compasse, and aimeth also at your contentment, according to the scope of imposed variety. you have already heard what manner of man _calandrino_ was, and likewise the rest of his pleasant companions, who likewise are now againe to be remembred, because they are actors in our present discourse. it came so to passe, that an aunt of _calandrinoes_ dying, left him a legacy of two hundred florines, wherewith he purposed to purchase some small farme-house in the countrey, or else to enlarge the other, whereof he was possessed already. and, as if hee were to disburse some ten thousand florines, there was not a broker in all _florence_, but understood what he intended to doe; and all the worst was, that the strings of his purse could stretch no higher. _bruno_, and _buffalmaco_ (his auncient confederates) who heard of this good fortune befalne him, advised him in such manner as they were wont to do; allowing it much better for him, to make merrie with the money in good cheare among them, then to lay it out in paltry land, whereto he would not by any meanes listen, but ridde himselfe of them with a dinners cost, as loath to bee at anie further charge with them. these merry laddes meant not to leave him so; but sitting one day in serious consultation, and a third man in their companie, named _nello_; they all three layde their braines in steep, by what means to wash their mouths well, and _calandrino_ to bee at the cost thereof. and having resolved what was to bee done, they met togither the next morning, even as _calandrino_ was comming foorth of his house, and sundering themselves, to avoyd all suspition, yet beeing not farre distant each from other; _nello_ first met him, and saide unto him, good morrow _calandrino_: which he requited backe agayne with the same salutation. but then _nello_ standing still, looked him stedfastly in the face: whereat _calandrino_ mervailing, sayd: _nello_, why dost thou behold me so advisedly? whereunto _nello_ answered, saying hast thou felt any paine this last night past? thou lookest nothing so well, as thou didst yesterday. _calandrino_ began instantly to wax doubtfull, and replyed thus. dost thou see any alteration in my face, whereby to imagine, i should feele some paine? in good faith _calandrino_ (quoth _nello_) me thinks thy countenance is strangely changed, and surely it proceedeth from some great cause, and so he departed away from him. _calandrino_ being very mistrustfull, scratched his head, yet felte he no grievance at all; and going still on; _buffalmaco_ sodainely encountred him, upon his departure from _nello_, and after salutations passing betweene them; in a manner of admiration, demanded what he ayled. truly (quoth _calandrino_) well enough to mine owne thinking, yet notwithstanding, i met with _nello_ but even now; and he told me, that my countenance was very much altred; is it possible that i should bee sicke, and feele no paine or distaste in any part of me? _buffalmaco_ answered; i am not so skilfull in judgement, as to argue on the nature of distemper in the body: but sure i am, that thou hast some daungerous inward impediment, because thou lookst (almost) like a man more then halfe dead. _calandrino_ began presently to shake, as if hee had had a feaver hanging on him, and then came _bruno_ looking fearefully on him, and before he would utter any words, seemed greatly to bemoane him, saying at length. _calandrino_? art thou the same man, or no? how wonderfully art thou changed since last i saw thee, which is no longer then yester day? i pray thee tell mee, how dooest thou feele thy health? _calandrino_ hearing, that they all agreed in one opinion of him; he beganne verily to perswade himselfe, that some sodaine sicknes, had seised upon him, which they could discerne, although hee felt no anguish at all: and therefore, like a man much perplexed in minde, demanded of them, what he should do? beleeve mee _calandrino_ (answered _bruno_) if i were worthy to give thee counsell, thou shouldst returne home presently to thy house, and lay thee downe in thy warme bedde, covered with so many cloathes as thou canst well endure. then to morrow morning, send thy water unto learned mayster doctor the physitian, who (as thou knowest) is a man of most singular skill and experience: he will instruct thee presently what is the best course to be taken, and we that have ever beene thy loving friends, will not faile thee in any thing that lieth in our power. by this time, _nello_ being come againe unto them, they all returned home with _calandrino_ unto his owne house, whereinto he entering very faintly, hee saide to his wife: woman, make my bed presently ready, for i feele my selfe to be growne extreamely sicke, and see that thou layest cloathes enow upon me. being thus laide in his bedde, they left him for that night, and returned to visite him againe the verie next morning, by which time, he had made a reservation of his water, and sent it by a young damosell unto maister doctor, who dwelt then in the olde market place, at the signe of the muske mellone. then saide _bruno_ unto his companions; abide you heere to keepe him company, and i will walke along to the physitian, to understand what he will say: and if neede be, i can procure him to come hither with me. _calandrino_ very kindely accepted his offer, saying withall. well _bruno_, thou shewst thy selfe a friend in the time of necessity, i pray thee know of him, how the case stands with me, for i feele a very strange alteration within mee, far beyond all compasse of my conceite. _bruno_ being gone to the physitian, he made such expedition, that he arrived there before the damosell, who carried the water, and informed master _simon_ with the whole tricke intended: wherefore, when the damosell was come, and hee had passed his judgement concerning the water, he said to her. maide, go home againe, and tell _calandrino_, that he must keepe himselfe very warme: and i my selfe will instantly be with him, to enstruct him further in the quality of his sicknesse. the damosell delivered her message accordingly, and it was not long before mayster doctor _simon_ came, with _bruno_ also in his company, and sitting downe on the beds side by _calandrino_, hee began to taste his pulse, and within a small while after, his wife being come into the chamber, he said. observe me well _calandrino_, for i speake to thee in the nature of a true friend; thou hast no other disease, but only thou art great with child. so soone as _calandrino_ heard these words, in dispairing manner he beganne to rage, and cry out aloud, saying to his wife. ah thou wicked woman, this is long of thee, and thou hast done me this mischeefe: for alwayes thou wilt be upon me, ever railing at mee, and fighting, untill thou hast gotten me under thee. say thou divellish creature, do i not tell thee true? the woman, being of verie honest and civill conversation, hearing her husband speake so foolishly: blushing with shame, and hanging downe her head in bashfull manner; without returning any answer, went forth of her chamber. _calandrino_ continuing still in his angry humour, wringing his hands, and beating them upon his brest, said: wretched man that i am, what shall i do? how shall i be delivered of this child? which way can it come from me into the world? i plainly perceyve, that i am none other then a dead man, and all through the wickednesse of my wife: heaven plague her with as many mischiefes, as i am desirous to finde ease. were i now in as good health, as heeretofore i have beene, i would rise out of my bed, and never cease beating her, untill i had broken her in a thousand peeces. but if fortune will be so favourable to me, as to helpe mee out of this dangerous agony: hang me, if ever she get me under her againe, or make me such an asse, in having the mastery over mee, as divers times she hath done. _bruno, buffalmaco_ and _nello_, hearing these raving speeches of _calandrino_, were swolne so bigge with laughter, as if their ribbes would have burst in sunder; neverthelesse, they abstained so well as they were able; but doctor _simon_ gaped so wide with laughing as one might easily have pluckt out all his teeth. in the end, because he could tarry there no longer, but was preparing to depart: _calandrino_ thanked him for his paines, requesting that hee would be carefull of him, in aiding him with his best advise and counsell, and he would not be unmindfull of him. honest neighbour _calandrino_, answered the phisition, i would not have you to torment your selfe, in such an impatient and tempestuous manner, because i perceive the time so to hasten on, as we shall soone perceive (and that within very few dayes space) your health well restored, and without the sense of much paine; but indeed it will cost expences. alas sir, said _calandrino_, mak not any spare of my purse, to procure that i may have safe deliverance. i have two hundred florines, lately falne to me by the death of mine aunt, wherewith i intended to purchase a farme in the countrey: take them all if need be, onely reserving some few for my lying in childbed. and then master doctor, alas, i know not how to behave my selfe, for i have heard the grievous complaint of women in that case, oppressed with bitter pangs and throwes; as questionlesse they will bee my death, except you have the greater care of me. be of good cheere neighbour _calandrino_, replyed doctor _simon_, i will provide an excellent distilled drinke for you, marvellously pleasing in taste, and of soveraigne vertue, which will resolve all in three mornings, making you as whole and as sound as a fish newly spawned. but you must have an especiall care afterward, being providently wise, least you fall into the like follies againe. concerning the preparation of this precious drinke, halfe a dozen of capons, the very fairest and fattest, i must make use of in the distillation: what other things shall bee imployed beside, you may deliver forty florines to one of these your honest friends, to see all the necessaries bought, and sent me home to my house. concerning my businesse, make you no doubt thereof, for i will have all distilled against to morrow, and then doe you drinke a great glasse full every morning, fresh and fasting next your heart. _calandrino_ was highly pleased with his words, returning master doctor infinite thankes, and referring all to his disposing. and having given forty florines to _bruno_, with other money beside, to buy the halfe dozen of capons: he thought himselfe greatly beholding to them all, and protested to requite their kindenesse. master doctor being gone home to his house, made ready a bottel of very excellent hypocrasse, which he sent the next day according to his promise: and _bruno_ having bought the capons, with other junkets, fit for the turne, the phisitian and his merry companions, fed on them hartely for the givers sake. as for _calandrino_, he liked his dyet drinke excellently well, quaffing a large glassefull off three mornings together: afterward master doctor and the rest came to see him, and having felt his pulse, the phisition said. _calandrino_, thou art now as sound in health, as any man in all _florence_ can be: thou needest not to keepe within doores any longer, but walke abroad boldly, for all is well and the childe gone. _calandrino_ arose like a joyfull man, and walked daily through the streets, in the performance of such affaires as belonged to him: and every acquaintance he met withall, he told the condition of his sudden sickenesse; and what a rare cure master doctor _simon_ had wrought on him, delivering him (in three dayes space) of a childe, and without the feeling of any paine. _bruno, buffalmaco,_ and _nello,_ were not a little jocond, for meeting so well with covetous _calandrino_: but how the wife liked the folly of her husband, i leave to the judgement of all good women. francesco fortarigo, _played away all that he had at_ buonconvento, _and likewise the money of_ francesco aniolliero, _being his master. then running after him in his shirt, and avouching that hee had robbed him: he caused him to be taken by pezants of the country, clothed himselfe in his masters wearing garments, and (mounted on his horse) rode thence to_ sienna, _leaving_ aniolliero _in his shirt, and walked bare-footed._ the fourth novell. _serving as an admonition to all men, for taking gamesters and drunkards into their service._ the ridiculous words given by _calandrino_ to his wife, all the whole company hartily laughed at: but _philostratus_ ceassing, madame _neiphila_ (as it pleased the queene to appoint) began to speake thus. vertuous ladies, if it were not more hard and uneasie for men, to make good their understanding and vertue, then apparant publication of their disgrace and folly; many would not labour in vaine, to curbe in their idle speeches with a bridle, as you have manifestly observed by the weake wit of _calandrino_. who needed no such fantastick circumstance, to cure the strange disease, which he imagined (by sottish perswasions) to have: had hee not been so lavish of his tongue, and accused his wife of over-mastering him. which maketh me remember a novell, quite contrary to this last related, namely, how one man may strive to surmount another in malice; yet he to sustaine the greater harme, that had (at the first) the most advantage of his enemy, as i will presently declare unto you. there dwelt in _sienna_, and not many yeeres since, two young men of equall age, both of them bearing the name of _francesco_: but the one was descended of the _aniollieri_, and the other likewise of the _fortarigi_; so that they were commonly called _aniolliero_, and _fortarigo_, both gentlemen, and well derived. now, although in many other matters, their complexions did differ very much: yet notwithstanding, they varied not in one bad qualitie, namely too great neglect of their fathers, which caused their more frequent conversation, as very familiar and respective friends. but _aniolliero_ (being a very goodly and faire conditioned young gentleman) apparently perceiving, that he could not maintaine himselfe at _sienna_, in such estate as he liked, and upon the pension allowed him by his father, hearing also, that at the marquisate of _ancona_, there lived the popes legate, a worthy cardinall, his much indeared good lord and friend: he intended to goe visite him, as hoping to advance his fortunes by him. having acquainted his father with this determination, he concluded with him, to have that from him in a moment which might supply his wants for many moneths, because he would be clothed gallantly, and mounted honourably. and seeking for a servant necessary to attend on him, it chanced that _fortarigo_ hearing thereof, came presently to _aniolliero_, intreating him in the best manner he could, to let him waite on him as his serving man, promising both dutifull and diligent attendance: yet not to demaund any other wages, but onely payment of his ordinary expences. _aniolliero_ made him answere, that he durst not give him entertainment, not in regard of his insufficiency, and unaptnesse for service: but because he was a great gamester, and divers times would be beastly drunke? whereto _fortarigo_ replyed that hee would refraine from both those foule vices, and addict all his endeavour wholly to please him, without just taxation of any grosse errour; making such solemne vowes and protestations beside, as conquered _aniolliero_, and won his consent. being entred upon his journey, and arriving in a morning at _buonconvento_, there _aniolliero_ determined to dine, and afterward, finding the heate to be unfit for travaile; he caused a bed to be prepared, wherein being laid to rest by the helpe of _fortarigo_, he gave him charge, that after the heates violence was overpast, hee should not faile to call and awake him. while _aniolliero_ slept thus in his bed, _fortarigo_, never remembring his solemne vowes and promises: went to the taverne, where having drunke indifferently, and finding company fit for the purpose, he fell to play at the dice with them. in a very short while, he had not onely lost his money, but all the cloathes on his backe likewise, and coveting to recover his losses againe; naked in his shirt, he went to _aniollieroes_ chamber, where finding him yet soundly sleeping, he tooke all the money he had in his purse, and then returned backe to play, speeding in the same manner as hee did before, not having one poore penny left him. _aniolliero_ chancing to awake, arose and made him ready, without any servant to helpe him; then calling for _fortarigo_, and not hearing any tydings of him: he began immediately to imagine, that he was become drunke, and so had falne asleepe in one place or other, as very often he was wont to doe. wherefore, determining so to leave him, he caused the male and saddle to be set on his horse; & so to furnish himselfe with a more honest servant at _corsignano_. but when hee came to pay his hoste, hee found not any penny left him: whereupon (as well he might) he grew greatly offended, and raised much trouble in the house, charged the hoasts people to have robde him, and threatening to have them sent as prisoners to _sienna_. suddenly entred _fortarigo_ in his shirt, with intent to have stolne _aniollieroes_ garments, as formerly hee did the money out of his purse, and seeing him ready to mount on horsebacke, hee saide. how now _aniolliero_? what shall we goe away so soone? i pray you sir tarry a little while, for an honest man is comming hither, who hath my doublet engaged for eight and thirty shillings; and i am sure that he will restore it me back for five and thirty, if i could presently pay him downe the money. during the speeches, an other entred among them, who assured _aniolliero_, that _fortarigo_ was the thiefe which robde him of his money, shewing him also how much hee had lost at the dice: wherewith _aniolliero_ being much mooved, very angerly reprooved _fortarigo_, and, but for feare of the law, would have offered him outrage, thretning to have him hangd by the neck, or else condemned to the gallies belonging to _florence_, and so mounted on his horse. _fortarigo_ making shew to the standers by, as if _aniolliero_ menaced some other body, and not him, said. come _aniolliero_, i pray thee let us leave this frivilous prating, for (indeede) it is not worth a button, and minde a matter of more importance: my doublet will bee had againe for five and thirty shillings, if the money may bee tendered downe at this very instant, whereas if we deferre it till to morrow, perhaps hee will then have the whole eight and thirty which he lent me, and he doth me this pleasure, because i am ready (at another time) to affoord him the like courtesie; why then should we loose three shillings, when they may so easily be saved. _aniolliero_ hearing him speake in such confused manner, and perceiving also, that they which stood gazing by, beleeved (as by their lookes appeared) that _fortarigo_ had not played away his masters mony at the dice, but rather that he had some stocke of _fortarigoes_ in his custody; angerly answered; thou sawcy companion, what have i to doe with thy doublet? i would thou wert hangd, not only for playing away my money, but also by delaying thus my journey, and yet boldly thou standest out-facing mee, as if i were no better then thy fellow. _fortarigo_ held on still his former behaviour, without using any respect or reverence to _aniolliero_, as if all the accusations did not concerne him, but saying, why should wee not take the advantage of three shillings profit? thinkest thou, that i am not able to doe as much for thee? why, lay out so much money for my sake, and make no more haste then needs we must, because we have day-light enough to bring us (before night) to _torreniero_. come, draw thy purse, and pay the money, for upon mine honest word, i may enquire throughout all _sienna_, and yet not find such another doublet as this of mine is. to say then, that i should leave it, where it now lyeth pawned, and for eight and thirty shillings, when it is richly more worth then fifty, i am sure to suffer a double endammagement thereby. you may well imagine, that _aniolliero_ was now enraged beyond all patience, to see himselfe both robde of his money, and overborne with presumptuous language: wherefore, without making any more replications, he gave the spurre to his horse, and rode away towards _torreniero_. now fell _fortarigo_ into a more knavish intention against _aniolliero_, and being very speedy in running, followed apace after him in his shirt, crying out still aloude to him all the way, to let him have his doublet againe. _aniolliero_ riding on very fast, to free his eares from this idle importunity, it fortuned that _fortarigo_ espied divers countrey pezants, labouring in the fields about their businesse, and by whom _aniolliero_ (of necessity) must passe: to them he cryed out so loude as he could; stay the thiefe, stop the thiefe, he rides away so fast, having robde me. they being provided, some with prongges, pitchforkes and spades, and others with the like weapons fit for husbandry, stept into the way before _aniolliero_: and beleeving undoubtedly, that he had robde the man which pursued him in his shirt, stayed and apprehended him. whatsoever _aniolliero_ could doe or say, prevailed not any thing with the unmannerly clownes, but when _fortarigo_ was arrived among them, he braved _aniolliero_ most impudently, saying. what reason have i to spoile thy life (thou traiterous villaine) to rob and spoyle thy master thus on the high way? then turning to the countrey boores: how much deare friends (quoth he) am i beholding to you for this unexpected kindnesse? you behold in what manner he left me in my lodging, having first playd away all my money at the dice, and then deceiving me of my horse and garments also: but had not you (by great good lucke) thus holpe mee to stay him; a poore gentleman had bin undone for ever, and i should never have found him againe. _aniolliero_ avouched the truth of his wrong received, but the base peazants, giving credite onely to _fortarigoes_ lying exclamations: tooke him from his horse, despoyled him of all his wearing apparrell, even to the very bootes from off his legges: suffered him to ride away from him in that manner, and _aniolliero_ left so in his shirt, to dance a bare-foote galliard after him, either towards _sienna_, or any place else. thus _aniolliero_, purposing to visite his cousin the cardinal like a gallant, and at the marquisate of _ancona_, returned backe poorly in his shirt unto _buonconvento_, and durst not (for shame) repaire to _sienna_. in the end, he borrowed money on the other horse which _fortarigo_ rode on, and remained there in the inne, whence riding to _corsignano_, where he had divers kinsmen and friends, he continued there so long with them, till he was better furnished from his father. thus you may perceive, that the cunning villanies of _fortarigo_, hindred the honest intended enterprise of _aniolliero_, howbeit in fit time and place, nothing afterward was left unpunished. calandrino _became extraordinarily enamoured of a young damosell, named_ nicholetta. bruno _prepared a charme or writing for him, avouching constantly to him, that so soone as he touched the damosell therewith, she should follow him whithersoever hee would have her. she being gone to an appointed place with him, hee was found there by his wife, and dealt withall according to his deserving._ the fift novell. _in just reprehension of those vaine-headed fooles, that are led and governed by idle perswasions._ because the novell reported by madame _neiphila_ was so soone concluded, without much laughter, or commendation of the whole company: the queene turned hir selfe towards madam _fiammetta_, enjoyning her to succeed in apt order; & she being as ready as sodainly commanded, began as followeth. most gentle ladies, i am perswaded of your opinion in judgement with mine, that there is not any thing, which can bee spoken pleasingly, except it be conveniently suited with apt time and place: in which respect, when ladies and gentlewomen are bent to discoursing, the due election of them both are necessarily required. and therefore i am not unmindfull, that our meeting heere (ayming at nothing more, then to out-weare the time with our generall contentment) should tye us to the course of our pleasure and recreation, to the same conveniency of time and place, not sparing, though some have bin nominated oftentimes in our passed arguments; yet, if occasion serve, and the nature of variety be well considered, wee may speake of the selfsame persons againe. now, notwithstanding the actions of _calandrino_ have been indifferently canvazed among us; yet, remembring what _philostratus_ not long since saide, that they intended to nothing more then matter of mirth: i presume the boldlier, to report another novell of him, beside them already past. and, were i willing to conceale the truth, and cloath it in more circumstantiall manner: i could make use of contrary names, and paint it in a poeticall fiction, perhaps more probable, though not so pleasing. but because wandring from the truth of things, doth much diminish (in relation) the delight of the hearers: i will build boldly on my fore-alledged reason, and tel you truly how it hapned. _niccholao cornocchini_ was once a citizen of ours, and a man of great wealth; who, among other his rich possessions in _camerata_, builded there a very goodly house, which being perfected ready for painting: he compounded with _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_, who because** their worke required more helpe then their owne, they drew _nello_ and _calandrino_ into their association, and began to proceed in their businesse. and because there was a chamber or two, having olde moveables in them, as bedding, tables, and other houshold stuffe beside, which were in the custody of an old woman that kepte the house, without the helpe of any other servants else, a son unto the saide _niccholao_, beeing named _phillippo_, resorted thither divers times, with one or other prety damosell in his company (in regard he was unmarried) where he would abide a day or two with her, & then convey her home againe. at one time among the rest, it chanced that he brought a damosell thither named _nicholetta_, who was maintained by a wily companion, called _magione_, in a dwelling which hee had at _camaldoli_, and (indeed) no honester then she should be. she was a very beautifull young woman, wearing garments of great value, and (according to her quality) well spoken, and of commendable carriage. comming forth of her chamber one day, covered with a white veyle, because her haire hung loose about her, which shee went to wash at a well in the middle court, bathing there also her face and hands: _calandrino_ going (by chance) to the same well for water, gave her a secret salutation. she kindly returning the like courtesie to him, began to observe him advisedly: more, because he looked like a man newly come thither, then any handsomnesse she perceyved in him. _calandrino_ threw wanton glances at her, and seeing she was both faire and lovely, began to finde some occasion of tarrying, so that he returned not with water to his other associates, yet neither knowing her, or daring to deliver one word. she, who was not to learn her lesson in alluring, noting what affectionate regards (with bashfulnesse) he gave her: answered him more boldly with the like; but meerly in scorning manner, breathing forth divers dissembled sighs among them: so that _calandrino_ became foolishly inveigled with her love, and would not depart out of the court, untill _phillippo_, standing above in his chamber window called her thence. when _calandrino_ was returned backe to his businesse, he could do nothing else, but shake the head, sigh, puffe, and blowe, which being observed by _bruno_ (who alwayes fitted him according to his folly, as making a meer mockery of his very best behaviour) sodainly he said. why how now _calandrino_? sigh, puff, and blow man? what may be the reason of these unwonted qualities? _calandrino_ immediately answered, saying: my friendly companion _bruno_, if i had one to lend me a little helpe, i should very quickely become well enough. how? quoth _bruno_, doth any thing offend thee, and wilt thou not reveale it to thy friends? deare _bruno_, said _calandrino_, there is a proper handsome woman here in the house, the goodliest creature that every any eye beheld, much fairer then the queen of fairies her selfe, who is so deeply falne in love with mee, as thou wouldst thinke it no lesse then a wonder; and yet i never sawe her before, till yet while when i was sent to fetch water. a very strange case, answered _bruno_, take heede _calandrino_, that shee bee not the lovely friend to _phillippo_, our yong master, for then it may prove a dangerous matter. _calandrino_ stood scratching his head an indifferent while, and then sodainly replyed thus. now trust me _bruno_, it is to bee doubted, because he called her at his window, and she immediatly went up to his chamber. but what doe i care if it be so? have not the gods themselves bene beguiled of their wenches, who were better men then ever _phillippo_ can be, and shall i stand in feare of him? _bruno_ replied: be patient _calandrino_, i will enquire what woman she is, and if she be not the wife or friend to our young master _phillippo_, with faire perswasions i can over-rule the matter, because shee is a familiar acquaintance of mine. but how shall wee doe, that _buffalmaco_ may not know heereof? i can never speake to her, if hee be in my company. for _buffalmaco_ (quoth _calandrino_) i have no feare of all, but rather of _nello_, because he is a neer kinsman to my wife, and he is able to undo me quite, if once it should come to his hearing. thou saist well, replyed _bruno_, therefore the matter hath neede to be very cleanly carried. now let me tell you, the woman was well enough knowne to _bruno_, as also her quality of life, which _phillippo_ had acquainted him withall, and the reason of her resorting thither. wherefore, _calandrino_ going forth of the roome where they wrought, onely to gaine another sight of _nicholetta, bruno_ revealed the whole history to _buffalmaco_ and _nello_; they all concluding together, how this amorous fit of the foole was to be followed. and when _calandrino_ was returned backe againe; in whispering manner _bruno_ said to him. hast thou once more seene her? yes, yes _bruno_, answered _calandrino_: alas, she hath slaine me with her very eye, and i am no better then a dead man. be patient said _bruno_, i will goe and see whether she be the same woman which i take her for, or no: and if it prove so, then never feare, but refer the businesse unto me. _bruno_ descending downe the staires, found _phillippo_ and _nicholetta_ in conference together, and stepping unto them, discoursed at large, what manner of man _calandrino_ was, and how farre he was falne in love with her: so that they made a merry conclusion, what should be performed in this case, onely to make a pastime of his hot begun love. and being come backe againe to _calandrino_, he saide. it is the same woman whereof i told thee, and therefore wee must worke wisely in the businesse: for if _phillippo_ perceive any thing, all the water in _arno_ will hardly serve to quench his fury. but what wouldst thou have me say to her on thy behalfe, if i compasse the meanes to speake with her? first of all (quoth _calandrino_) and in the prime place, tell her, that i wish infinite bushels of those blessings, which makes maides mothers, and begetteth children. next, that i am onely hers, in any service she will command me. dooest thou understand me what i say? sufficiently answered _bruno_, leave all to me. when supper time was come, that they gave over working, and were descended downe into the court: there they found _phillippo_ and _nicholetta_ readily attending to expect some beginning of amorous behaviour, and _calandrino_ glanced such leering lookes at her, coughing and spetting with hummes and haes, yea in such close and secret manner, that a starke blinde sight might verie easily have perceyved it. she also on the other side, returned him such queint and cunning carriage, as enflamed him farre more furiously, even as if hee were ready to leape out of himselfe. in the meane while, _phillippo, buffalmaco_ and the rest that were there present, seeming as if they were seriouslie consulting together, and perceived nothing of his fantastick behavior, according as _bruno_ had appointed, could scarse refraine from extremity of laughter, they noted such antick trickes in _calandrino_. having spent an indifferent space in this foppish folly, the houre of parting came, but not without wonderfull affliction to _calandrino_; and as they were going towards _florence, bruno_ saide closely to _calandrino_. i dare assure thee, that thou hast made her to consume and melt, even like ice against the warme sunne. on my word, if thou wouldst bring thy gitterne, and sit downe by us, singing some few amorous songs of thine owne making, when we are beneath about our businesse in the court: shee would presently leape out of the window, as being unable to tarry from thee. i like thy counsell well _bruno_, answered _calandrino_; but shall i bring my gitterne thither indeed? yes, in any case, replied _bruno_, for musicke is a matter of mighty prevailing. ah _bruno_ (quoth _calandrino_) thou wouldst not credit me in the morning, when i tolde thee, how the very sight of my person had wounded her: i perceived it at the very first looke of her owne, for shee had no power to conceale it. who but my selfe could so soone have enflamed her affection, and being a woman of such worth and beauty as shee is? there are infinite proper handsome fellowes, that daily haunt the company of dainty damosels, yet are so shallow in the affayres of love, as they are not able to win one wench of a thousand, no, not with all the wit they have, such is their extreame follie and ill fortune. then pausing a while, and sodainely rapping out a lovers oath or two, thus he proceeded. my dearest _bruno_, thou shalt see how i can tickle my gitterne, and what good sport will ensue thereon. if thou dost observe me with judgement, why man, i am not so old as i seeme to be, and she could perceive it at the very first view; yea, and she shall finde it so too, when we have leysure to consult upon further occasions: i finde my selfe in such a free and frolicke jocunditie of spirit, that i will make her to follow me, even as a fond woman doth after her child. but beware, saide _bruno_, that thou do not gripe her over-hard, and in kissing, bee carefull of biting, because the teeth stand in thy head like the pegges of a lute, yet make a comely shew in thy faire wide mouth, thy cheekes looking like two of our artificiall roses, swelling amiably, when thy jawes are well fild with meat. _calandrino_ hearing these hansome commendations, thought himselfe a man of action already, going, singing, and frisking before his companie so lively, as if he had not bin in his skin. on the morrow, carrying his gitterne thither with him, to the no little delight of his companions, hee both played and sung a whole bed-role of songs, not addicting himselfe to any worke all the day: but loitering fantastically, one while he gazed out at the window, then ran to the gate, and oftentimes downe into the court, onely to have a sight of his mistresse. she also (as cunningly) encountred all his follies, by such directions as _bruno_ gave her, and many more beside of her owne devising, to quicken him still with new occasions; _bruno_ plaid the ambassador betweene them, in delivering the messages from _calandrino_, and then returning her answers to him. sometimes when she was absent thence (which often hapned as occasions called her) then he would write letters in her name, & bring them, as if they were sent by her, to give him hope of what hee desired, but because she was then among her kindred, yet she could not be unmindfull of him. in this manner, _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_ (who had the managing of this amorous businesse) made a meere gregory of poore _calandrino_, causing him somtimes to send her, one while a pretty peece of ivory, then a faire wrought purse, and a costly paire of knives, with other such like friendly tokens: bringing him backe againe, as in requitall of them, counterfetted rings of no valew, bugles and bables, which he esteemed as matters of great moment. moreover, at divers close and sodain meetings, they made him pay for many dinners & suppers, amounting to indifferent charges, onely to be carefull** in the furtherance of his love-suit, and to conceale it from his wife. having worne out three or foure months space in this fond and frivolous manner, without any other successe then as hath bene declared; and _calandrino_ perceiving, that the works undertaken by him and his fellowes, grew very neere uppon the finishing, which would barre him of any longer resorting thither: hee began to solicite _bruno_ more importunately, then all the while before he hadde done. in regard whereof, _nicholetta_ being one day come thither, & _bruno_ having conferred both with her and _phillippo_, with full determination what was to be done, he began with _calandrino_, saying. my honest neighbour and friend, this woman hath made a thousand promises, to graunt what thou art so desirous to have, and i plainly perceive that she hath no such meaning, but meerely plaies with both our noses. in which respect, seeing she is so perfidious, and will not perfourme one of all her faithfull-made promises: if thou wilt content to have it so, she shall be compelled to do it whether she will or no. yea marry _bruno_, answered _calandrino_, that were an excellent course indeede, if it could be done, and with expedition. _bruno_ stood musing awhile to himselfe, as if he had some strange stratagem in his braine, & afterward said. hast thou so much corage _calandrino_, as but to handle a peece of written parchment, which i will give thee? yes, that i have answered _calandrino_, i hope that needed not to be doubted. well then, saide _bruno_, procure that i may have a piece of virgin parchment brought mee, with a living bat or reremouse; three graines of incense, and an hallowed candle, then leave me to effect what shall content thee. _calandrino_ watched all the next night following, with such preparation as he could make, onely to catch a bat; which being taken at the last, he broght it alive to _bruno_ (with all the other materials appointed) who taking him alone into a backer chamber, there hee wrote divers follies on the parchment, in the shape of strange and unusuall charracters, which he delivered to _calandrino_, saying: be bold _calandrino_, and build constantly uppon my wordes, that if thou canst but touch her with this sacred charractred charme, she will immediately follow thee, and fulfil whatsoever thou pleasest to command hir. wherefore, if _phillippo_ do this day walke any whither abroad from this house, presume to salute her, in any manner whatsoever it be, & touching her with the written lines, go presently to the barn of hay, which thou perceivest so neere adjoyning, the onely convenient place that can be, because few or none resort thither. she shall (in despight of her blood) follow thee; and when thou hast her there, i leave thee then to thy valiant victory. _calandrino_ stood on tiptoe, like a man newly molded by fortune, and warranted _bruno_ to fulfil all effectually. _nello_, whom _calandrino_ most of all feared and mistrusted, had a hand as deepe as any of the rest in this deceite, and was as forward also to have it performed, by _brunoes_ direction, hee went unto _florence_, where being in company with _calandrinoes_ wife, thus hee began. cousine, thine unkinde usage by thine husband, is not unknown to me, how he did beate thee (beyond the compasse of all reason) when he brought home stones from the plain of _mugnone_; in which regard, i am very desirous to have thee revenged on him: which if thou wilt not do; never repute me heereafter for thy kinsman and friend. he is falne in love with a woman of the common gender, one that is to be hired for money: he hath his private meetings with her, and the place is partly knowne to me, as by a secret appointment (made very lately) i am credibly given to understand; wherefore walke presently along with me, and thou shalt take him in the heat of his knavery. all the while as these words were uttering to her, shee could not dissemble her inward impatience, but starting up as halfe franticke with fury, she said. o notorious villaine! darest thou abuse thine honest wife so basely? i sweare by blessed saint _bridget_, thou shalt be paid with coyne of thine owne stampe. so casting a light wearing cloake about her, and taking a yong woman in her company; shee went away with _nello_ in no meane haste. _bruno_ seeing her comming a farre off, said to _phillippo_: you sir, you know what is to be done, act your part according to your appointment. _phillippo_ went immediately into the roome, where _calandrino_ and his other consorts were at worke, and said to them. honest friends, i have certaine occasions which command mine instant being at _florence_: worke hard while i am absent, and i will not be unthankefull for it. away hee departed from them, and hid himselfe in a convenient place, where he could not be descryed, yet see whatsoever _calandrino_ did: who when he imagined _phillippo_ to be farre enough off, descended downe into the court, where he found _nicholetta_ sitting alone, and going towards her, began to enter into discoursing with her. she knowing what remained to bee done on her behalfe, drew somewhat neere him, and shewed her selfe more familiar then formerly she had done: by which favourable meanes, he touched her with the charmed parchment, which was no sooner done; but without using any other kinde of language, hee went to the hay-barne, whither _nicholetta_ followed him, and both being entred, he closed the barne doore, and then stood gazing on her, as if hee had never seene her before. standing still as in a study, or bethinking himselfe what he should say: she began to use affable gesture to him, and taking him by the hand, made shew as if shee meant to kisse him, which yet she refrained, though he (rather then his life) would gladly have had it. why how now deare _calandrino_ (quoth she) jewell of my joy, comfort of my heart, how many times have i longed for thy sweet company? and enjoying it now, according to mine owne desire, dost thou stand like a statue, or man _alla morte_? the rare tunes of the gitterne, but (much more) the melodious accents of thy voyce, excelling _orpheus_ or _amphion_, so ravished my soule, as i know not how to expresse the depth of mine affection; and yet hast thou brought me hither, onely to looke babies in mine eyes, and not so much as speake one kinde word to me? _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_, having hid themselves close behinde _phillippo_, they both heard and saw all this amourous conflict, and as _calandrino_ was quickning his courage, and wiping his mouth, with intent to kisse her: his wife and _nello_ entred into the barne, which caused _nicholetta_ to get her gone presently, sheltring her self where _phillippo_ lay scouting. but the enraged woman ranne furiously upon poore daunted _calandrino_, making such a pitiful massacre with her nailes, and tearing the haire from his head, as hee meerely looked like an infected anatomy. fowle loathsome dog (quoth she) must you be at your minions, and leave mee hunger-starved at home? an olde knave with (almost) never a good tooth in thy head, and yet art thou neighing after young wenches? hast thou not worke enough at home, but must bee gadding in to other mens grounds? are these the fruites of wandring abroad? _calandrino_ being in this pittifull perplexity, stood like one neither alive nor dead, nor daring to use any resistance against her; but fell on his knees before his wife, holding up his hands for mercy, and entreating her (for charities sake) not to torment him any more: for he had committed no harme at all, and the gentlewoman was his masters wife, who came with no such intent thither, as shee fondly imagined. wife, or wife not (quoth she) i would have none to meddle with my husband, but i that have the most right to him. _bruno_ and _buffalmaco_, who had laughed all this while heartily at this pastime, with _phillippo_ and _nicholetta_; came running in haste to know the reason of this loude noise, and after they had pacified the woman with gentle perswasions: they advised _calandrino_ to walke with his wife to _florence_, and returne no more to worke there againe, least _phillippo_ hearing what had hapned, should be revenged on him with some outrage. thus poore _calandrino_ miserably misused and beaten, went home to _florence_ with his wife, scoulded and raild at all the way, beside his other molestations** (day and night) afterward: his companions, _phillippo_ and _nicholetta_, making themselves merry at his mis-fortune. _two yong gentlemen, the one named_ panuccio, _and the other_ adriano, _lodged one night in a poore inne, where one of them went to bed to the hostes daughter, and the other (by mistaking his way in the darke) to the hostes wife. he which lay with the daughter, happened afterward to the hostes bed, and told him what he had done, as thinking he spake to his owne companyon. discontentment growing betweene them, the mother perceiving her errour, went to bed to her daughter, and with discreete language, made a generall pacification._ the sixt novell. _wherein is manifested, that an offence committed ignorantly, and by mistaking; ought to be covered with good advise, and civill discretion._ _calandrino_, whose mishaps had so many times made the whole assembly merry, and this last passing among them with indifferent commendations: upon a generall silence commanded, the queene gave order to _pamphilus_, that hee should follow next, as indeed he did, beginning thus. praise-worthy ladies, the name of _nicholetta_, so fondly affected by _calandrino_, putteth mee in minde of a novell, concerning another _nicholetta_, of whom i purpose to speake: to the ende you may observe how by a sudden wary fore-sight, a discreet woman compassed the meanes to avoyde a notorious scandall. on the plaine of _mugnone_, neere to _florence_, dwelt (not long since) an honest meane man, who kept a poore inne or ostery for travellers, where they might have some slender entertainement for their money. as he was but a poore man, so his house affoorded but very small receit of guests, not lodging any but on necessity, and such as he had some knowledge of. this honest poore hoste had a woman (sufficiently faire) to his wife, by whom hee had also two children, the one a comely young maiden, aged about fifteene yeares, and the other a sonne, not fully (as yet) a yeare old, and sucking on the mothers brest. a comely youthfull gentleman of our city, became amorously affected to the damosell, resorting thither divers times as hee travelled on the way, to expresse how much he did respect her. and she accounting her fortune none of the meanest, to bee beloved by so youthfull a gallant, declared such vertuous and modest demeanour, as might deserve his best opinion of her: so that their love grew to an equall simpathy, and mutuall contentment of them both, in expectation of further effects; he being named _panuccio_, and she _nicholetta_. the heate of affection thus encreasing day by day, _panuccio_ grew exceedingly desirous to enjoy the fruits of his long continued liking, and divers devises mustred in his braine, how he might compasse one nights lodging in her fathers house, whereof hee knew every part and parcell, as not doubting to effect what hee desired, yet undiscovered by any, but the maide her selfe. according as his intention aymed, so he longed to put it in execution, and having imparted his mind to an honest loyall friend, named _adriano_, who was acquainted with the course of his love: hyring two horses, and having portmantues behind them, filled with matters of no moment, they departed from _florence_, as if they had some great journey to ride. having spent the day time where themselves best pleased, darke night being entred, they arrived on the plaine of _mugnone_, where, as if they were come from the parts of _romanio_, they rode directly to this poore inne, and knocking at the doore, the honest hoste (being familiar and friendly to all commers) opened the doore, when _panuccio_ spake in this manner to him. good man, we must request one nights lodging with you, for we thought to have reached so farre as _florence_, but dark night preventing us, you see at what a late houre wee are come hither. signior _panuccio_, answered the hoste, it is not unknowne to you, how unfitting my poore house is, for entertaining such guests as you are: neverthelesse, seeing you are overtaken by so unseasonable an houre, and no other place is neere for your receite; i will gladly lodge you so well as i can. when they were dismounted from their horses, and entred into the simple inne: having taken order for feeding their horses, they accepted such provision, as the place and time afforded, requesting the hoste to suppe with them. now i am to tell you, that there was but one small chamber in the house, wherein stood three beds, as best the hoste had devised to place them, two of them standing by the walles side, and the third fronting them both, but with such close and narrow passage, as very hardly could one step betweene them. the best of these three beds was appointed for the gentlemen, and therein theyd lay them down to rest, but sleepe they could not, albeit they dissembled it very formally. in the second bed was _nicholetta_ the daughter, lodged by her selfe, and the father and mother in the third, and because she was to give the child sucke in the night time, the cradle (wherein it lay) stood close by their beds side, because the childes crying or any other occasion concerning it, should not disquiet the gentlemen. _panuccio_ having subtily observed all this, and in what manner they went to bed; after such a space of time, as he imagined them to be all fast asleepe, he arose very softly, and stealing to the bed of _nicholetta_, lay downe gently by her. and albeit she seemed somewhat afraid at the first, yet when she perceived who it was, shee rather bad him welcome, then shewed her selfe any way discontented. now while _panuccio_ continued thus with the maide, it fortuned that a cat threw down somewhat in the house, the noise whereof awaked the wife, and fearing greater harme, then (indeed) had hapned, she arose without a candle, and went groping in the darke, towards the place where shee heard the noyse. _adriano_, who had no other meaning but well, found occasion also to rise, about some naturall necessity, and making his passage in the darke, stumbled on the childes cradle (in the way) where the woman had set it, and being unable to passe by, without removing it from the place: tooke and set it by his owne beds side, and having done the businesse for which he rose, returned to his bed againe, never remembring to set the cradle where first he found it. the wife having found the thing throwne downe being of no value or moment, cared not for lighting any candle; but rating the cat, returned backe, feeling for the bed where her husband lay, but finding not the cradle there, she said to her selfe. what a foolish woman am i, that cannot well tell my selfe what i doe? instead of my husbands bed, i am going to both my guests. so, stepping on a little further, she found the childes cradle, and laid her selfe downe by _adriano_, thinking shee had gone right to her husband. _adriano_ being not yet falne asleepe, feeling the hostesse in bed with him: tooke advantage of so faire an occasion offered, and what he did, is no businesse of mine, (as i heard) neither found the woman any fault. matters comming to passe in this strange manner, and _panuccio_ fearing, lest sleepe seazing on him, he might disgrace the maides reputation: taking his kinde farewell of her, with many kisses and sweet imbraces: returned againe to his owne bed, but meeting with the cradle in his way, and thinking it stood by the hostes bed, (as truely it did so at the first) went backe from the cradle, and stept into the hostes bed indeed, who awaked upon his very entrance, albeit he slept very soundly before. _panuccio_ supposing that he was laid downe by his loving friend _adriano_, merrily said to the hoste. i protest to thee, as i am a gentleman, _nicholetta_ is a dainty delicate wench, and worthy to be a very good mans wife: this night shee hath given mee the sweetest entertainement, as the best prince in the world can wish no better, and i have kist her most kindly for it. the hoste hearing these newes, which seemed very unwelcome to him, said first to himself: what make such a devill heere in my bedde? afterward being more rashly angry, then well advised, hee said to _panuccio_. canst thou makes vaunt of such a mounstrous villany? or thinkest thou, that heaven hath not due vengeance in store, to requite all wicked deeds of darkenesse? if all should sleepe, yet i have courage sufficient to right my wrong, and yet as olde as i am thou shalt be sure to finde it. our amorous _panuccio_ being none of the wisest young men in the world, perceiving his errour; sought not to amend it, (as well he might have done) with some queint straine of wit, carried in quicke and cleanly manner, but angerly answered. what shall i find that thou darst doe to me? am i any way afraid of thy threatnings? the hostes imagining she was in bed with her husband, said to _adriano_: harke husband, i thinke our guests are quarrelling together, i hope they will doe no harme to one another. _adriano_ laughing outright, answered. let them alone, and become friends againe as they fell out: perhaps they dranke too much yesternight. the woman perceiving that it was her husband that quarrelled, and distinguishing the voyce of _adriano_ from his: knew presently where shee was, and with whom; wherefore having wit at will, and desirous to cloude an error unadvisedly committed, and with no willing consent of her selfe: without returning any more words, presently she rose, and taking the cradle with the child in it, removed it thence to her daughters bed side, although shee had no light to helpe her, and afterward went to bed to her, where (as if she were but newly awaked) she called her husband, to understand what angry speeches had past betweene him and _panuccio_. the hoste replyed, saying. didst thou not heare him wife, brag & boast, how he hath lyen this night with our daughter _nicholetta_? husband (quoth she) he is no honest gentleman; if hee should say so, and beleeve me it is a manifest lye, for i am in bed with her my selfe, and never yet closed mine eyes together, since the first houre i laid me downe: it is unmannerly done of him to speake it, and you are little lesse then a logger-head, if you doe beleeve it. this proceedeth from your bibbing and swilling yesternight, which (as it seemeth) maketh you to walke about the roome in your sleepe, dreaming of wonders in the night season: it were no great sinne if you brake your necks, to teach you keepe a fairer quarter; and how commeth it to passe, that signior _panuccio_ could not keepe himselfe in his owne bed? _adriano_ (on the other side) perceiving how wisely the woman excused her owne shame and her daughters; to backe her in a businesse so cunningly begun, he called to _panuccio_, saying. have not i tolde thee an hundred times, that thou art not fit to lye any where; out of thine owne lodging? what a shame is this base imperfection to thee, by rising and walking thus in the night-time, according as thy dreames doe wantonly delude thee, and cause thee to forsake thy bed, telling nothing but lies and fables, yet avouching them for manifest truthes? assuredly this will procure no meane perill unto thee: come hither, and keepe in thine owne bedde for meere shame. when the honest meaning host heard, what his own wife and _adriano_ had confirmed: he was verily perswaded, that _panuccio_ spake in a dreame all this while: and to make it the more constantly apparant, _panuccio_ (being now growne wiser by others example) lay talking and blundring to himselfe, even as if dreames or perturbations of the minde did much molest him, with strange distractions in franticke manner. which the hoste perceiving, and compassionating his case, as one man should do anothers: he tooke him by the shoulders, jogging and hunching him, saying. awake signior _panuccio_, and get you gone hence to your owne bed. _panuccio_, yawning and stretching out his limbes, with unusuall groanes and respirations, such as (better) could bee hardly dissembled: seemed to wake as out of a traunce, and calling his friend _adriano_, said. _adriano_, is it day, that thou dost waken me? it may be day or night replyed _adriano_, for both (in these fits) are alike to thee. arise man for shame, and come to thine lodging. then faining to be much troubled and sleepie, he arose from the hoast, and went to _adrianoes_ bed. when it was day, and all in the house risen, the hoast began to smile at _panuccio_, mocking him with his idle dreaming and talking in the night. so, falling from one merry matter to another, yet without any mislike at all: the gentlemen, having their horses prepared, and their portmantues fastened behind, drinking to their hoast, mounted on horsebacke, and they roade away towards _florence_, no lesse contented with the manner of occasions happened, then the effects they sorted to. afterward, other courses were taken, for the continuance of this begun pleasure with _nicholetta_, who made her mother beleeve, that _panuccio_ did nothing else but dreame. and the mother her selfe remembring how kindely _adriano_ had used her (a fortune not expected by her before:) was more then halfe of the minde, that she did then dreame also, while she was waking. talano de molese _dreamed, that a wolfe rent and tore his wives face and throate. which dreame he told to her, with advise to keep her selfe out of danger; which she refusing to doe, received what followed._ the seventh novell. _whereby (with some indifferent reason) it is concluded, that dreames do not alwayes fall out to be leasings._ by the conclusion of _pamphilus_ his novel, wherein the womans ready wit, at a time of such necessity, carried deserved commendations: the queen gave command to madam _pampinea_, that she should next begin with hers, and so she did, in this manner. in some discourses (gracious ladies) already past among us, the truth of apparitions in dreames hath partly bin approved, whereof very many have made a mockery. neverthelesse, whatsoever hath heeretofore bin sayde, i purpose to acquaint you with a very short novell, of a strange accident happening unto a neighbour of mine, in not crediting a dreame which her husband told her. i cannot tell, whether you knew _talano de molese_, or no, a man of much honour, who tooke to wife a yong gentlewoman, named _margarita_, as beautifull as the best: but yet so peevish, scornefull, and fantasticall, that she disdained any good advice given her; neyther could any thing be done, to cause her contentment; which absurd humours were highly displeasing to her husband: but in regard he knew not how to helpe it, constrainedly he did endure it. it came to passe, that _talano_ being with his wife, at a summer-house of his owne in the country, he dreamed one night, that he saw his wife walking in a faire wood, which adjoyned neere unto his house, and while she thus continued there, he seemed to see issue foorth from a corner of the said wood, a great and furious wolfe, which leaping sodainly on her, caught her by the face and throate, drawing her downe to the earth, and offering to drag her thence. but he crying out for helpe, recovered her from the wolfe, yet having her face and throat very pitifully rent and torne. in regard of this terrifying dreame, when _talano_ was risen in the morning, and sate conversing with his wife, he spake thus unto hir. woman, although thy froward wilfull nature be such, as hath not permitted me one pleasing day with thee, since first we becam man and wife, but rather my life hath bene most tedious to me, as fearing still some mischeefe should happen to thee: yet let mee now in loving manner advise thee, to follow my counsell, and (this day) not to walke abroad out of this house. she demanded a reason for this advice of his. he related to her every particular of his dreame, adding with all these speeches. true it is wife (quoth he) that little credit should bee given to dreames: neverthelesse, when they deliver advertisement of harmes to ensue, there is nothing lost by shunning and avoiding them. she fleering in his face, and shaking her head at him, replyed. such harmes as thou wishest, such thou dreamest of. thou pretendest much pittie and care of me, but all to no other end: but what mischeefes thou dreamest happening unto mee, so wouldest thou see them effected on me. wherefore, i will well enough looke to my selfe, both this day, and at all times else: because thou shalt never make thy selfe merry, with any such misfortune as thou wishest unto me. well wife, answered _talano_, i knew well enough before, what thou wouldst say: an unsound head is soone scratcht with the very gentlest combe: but beleeve as thou pleasest. as for my selfe, i speake with a true and honest meaning soule, and once againe i do advise thee, to keepe within our doores all this day: at least wife beware, that thou walke not into our wood, bee it but in regard of my dreame. well sir (quoth she scoffingly) once you shall say, i followed your counsell: but within her selfe she fell to this murmuring. now i perceive my husbands cunning colouring, & why i must not walke this day into our wood: he hath made a compact with some common queane, closely to have her company there, and is afraide least i shold take them tardy. belike he would have me feed among blinde folke, and i were worthy to bee thought a starke foole, if i should not prevent a manifest trechery, being intended against me. go thither therefore i will, and tarry there all the whole day long; but i will meet with him in his merchandize, and see the pink wherein he adventures. after this her secret consultation, her husband was no sooner gone forth at one doore, but shee did the like at another, yet so secretly as possibly she could devise to doe, and (without any delaying) she went to the wood, wherein she hid her selfe very closely, among the thickest of the bushes, yet could discerne every way about her, if any body should offer to passe by her. while shee kept her selfe in this concealment, suspecting other mysterious matters, as her idle imagination had tutord her, rather then the danger of any wolfe; out of a brakie thicket by her, sodainly rushed a huge & dreadfull wolfe, as having found her by the sent, mounting uppe, and grasping her throat in his mouth, before she saw him, or could call to heaven for mercy. being thus seised of her, he carried her as lightly away, as if shee had bin no heavier then a lambe, she being (by no meanes) able to cry, because he held her so fast by the throate, and hindred any helping of her selfe. as the wolfe carried her thus from thence, he had quite strangled her, if certaine shepheards had not met him, who with their outcries and exclaimes at the wolfe, caused him to let her fall, and hast away to save his owne life. notwithstanding the harme done to her throat and face, the shepheards knew her, and caried her home to her house, where she remained a long while after, carefully attended by physitians and chirurgians. now, although they were very expert and cunning men all, yet could they not so perfectly cure her, but both her throate, and part of her face were so blemished, that whereas she seemed a rare creature before, she was now deformed and much unsightly. in regard of which strange alteration, being ashamed to shew her selfe in any place, where formerly she had bene seene: she spent her time in sorrow and mourning, repenting her insolent and scornfull carriage, as also her rash running forth into danger, upon a foolish and jealous surmise, beleeving her husbands dreames the better for ever after. blondello _(in a merry manner) caused_ guiotto _to beguile himselfe of a good dinner: for which deceit,_ guiotto _became cunningly revenged, by procuring_ blondello _to be unreasonably beaten and misused._ the eight novell. _whereby plainly appeareth, that they which take delight in deceiving others, do well deserve to be deceived themselves._ it was a generall opinion in the whole joviall companie, that whatsoever _talano_ saw in his sleepe, was not anie dreame, but rather a vision: considring, every part thereof fell out so directly, without the lest failing. but when silence was enjoyned, then the queene gave forth by evident demonstration, that madam _lauretta_ was next to succeed, whereupon she thus began. as all they (judicious hearers) which have this day spoken before me, derived the ground or project of their novels, from some other argument spoken of before: even so, the cruell revendge of the scholler, yesterday discoursed at large by madame _pampinea_, maketh me to remember another tale of like nature, some-what greevous to the sufferer, yet not in such cruell measure inflicted, as that on madam _helena_. there dwelt sometime in _florence_, one who was generally called by the name of _guiotto_, a man being the greatest gourmand, and grossest feeder, as ever was seene in any countrey, all his meanes & procurements meerly unable to maintaine expences for filling his belly. but otherwise he was of sufficient and commendable carriage, fairely demeaned, and well discoursing on any argument: yet, not as a curious and spruce courtier, but rather a frequenter of rich mens tables, where choice of good cheere is sildome wanting, & such should have his company, albeit not invited, yet (like a bold intruder) he had the courage to bid himselfe welcome. at the same time, and in our city of _florence_ also, there was another man, named _blondello_, very low of stature; yet comly formed, quicke witted, more neat and brisk then a butter flye, alwaies wearing a wrought silke cap on his head, and not a haire staring out of order, but the tuft flourishing above the forehead, and he such another trencher-fly for the table, as our forenamed _guiotto_ was. it so fel out on a morning in the lent time, that hee went into the fish-market, where he bought two goodly lampreyes, for _messer viero de cherchi_, and was espied by _guiotto_, who (comming to _blondello_) said. what is the meaning of this cost, and for whom is it? whereto _blondello_ thus answered. yesternight, three other lampries, far fairer and fatter then these, and a whole sturgeon, were sent unto _messer corso donati_, and being not sufficient to feede divers gentlemen, whom hee hath invited this day to dine with him, hee caused me to buy these two beside: doest not thou intend to make one among them? yes i warrant thee, replied _guiotto_, thou knowst i can invite my selfe thither, without any other bidding. so parting; about the houre of dinner time, _guiotto_ went to the house of the saide _messer corso_, whom he found sitting and talking with certain of his neighbours, but dinner was not (as yet) ready, neither were they come thither to dinner. _messer corso_ demaunded of _guiotto_, what newes with him, and whither he went? why sir (said _guiotto_) i come to dine with you, and your good company. whereto _messer corso_ answered, that he was welcome, & his other friends being gone, dinner was served in, none els thereat present but _messer corso_ and _guiotto_: al the diet being a poore dish of pease, a little piece of tunny, & a few small dishes fried, without any other dishes to follow after. _guiotto_ seeing no better fare, but being disapointed of his expectation, as longing to feed on the lampries and sturgeon, and so to have made a full dinner indeed: was of a quick apprehension, & apparantly perceived, that _blondello_ had meerly guld him in a knavery, which did not a little vex him, and made him vow to be revenged on _blondello_, as he could compasse occasion afterward. before many daies were past, it was his fortune to meete with _blondello_, who having told this jest to divers of his friends, and much good merriment made thereat: he saluted _guiotto_ in ceremonious manner, saying. how didst thou like the fat lampreyes and sturgeon, which thou fedst on at the house of _messer corso donati_? wel sir (answered _guiotto_) perhaps before eight dayes passe over my head, thou shalt meet with as pleasing a dinner as i did. so, parting away from _blondello_, he met with a porter or burthen-bearer, such as are usually sent on errands; and hyring him to deliver a message for him, gave him a glasse bottle, and bringing him neere to the hal-house of _cavicciuli_, shewed him there a knight, called _signior phillippo argenti_, a man of huge stature, stout, strong, vainglorious, fierce and sooner mooved to anger then any other man. to him (quoth _guiotto_) thou must go with this bottle in thy hand, and say thus to him. sir, _blondello_ sent me to you, and courteously entreateth you, that you would enrubinate this glasse bottle with your best claret wine; because he would make merry with a few friends of his. but beware he lay no hand on thee, because he may bee easily induced to misuse thee, and so my businesse be disappointed. well sir replied the porter, shall i say any thing else unto him? no (quoth _guiotto_) only go and deliver this message, and when thou art returned, ile pay thee for thy paines. the porter being gone to the house, delivered his message to the knight, who being a man of no great civill breeding, but furious, rash, and inconsiderate: presently conceived, that _blondello_ (whom he knew well enough) sent this message in meere mockage of him, and starting up with fiery lookes, said: what enrubination of claret should i send him? and what have i to do with him, or his drunken friends? let him and thee go hang your selves together. so he stept to catch hold on the porter, but he (being well warnd before) was quicke and nimble, and escaping from him, returned backe to _guiotto_ (who observed all) and told him the answer of signior _phillippo. guiotto_ not a little contented, paied the porter, and taried not in any place till he met with _blondello_, to whom he said. when wast thou at the hall of _cavicciuli_? not a long while, answerd _blondello_, but why dost thou demand such a question? because (quoth _guiotto_) signior _phillippo_ hath sought about for thee, yet knowe not i what he would have with thee. is it so? replied _blondello_, then i will walke thither presently, to understand his pleasure. when _blondello_ was thus parted from him, _guiotto_ folowed not farre off behind him, to behold the issue of this angry businesse; and signior _phillippo_, because he could not catch the porter, continued much distempred, fretting and fuming, in regard he could not comprehend the meaning of the porters message: but onely surmized, that _blondello_ (by the procurement of some body else) had done this in scorne of him. while he remained thus deeply discontented, he espied _blondello_ comming towards him, and meeting him by the way, he stept close to him, and gave him a cruell blow on the face, causing his nose to fall out a bleeding. alas sir, said _blondello_, wherefore do you strike me? signior _phillippo_, catching him by the haire of the head, trampled his wrought night-cap in the dirt, & his cloke also; when, laying many violent blowes on him, he said. villanous traitor as thou art, ile teach thee what it is to enrubinate with claret, either thy selfe, or any of thy cupping companions: am i a child, to be jested withall? nor was he more furious in words, then in strokes also, beating him about the face, hardly leaving any haire on his head, and dragging him along in the mire, spoyling all his garments, and he not able (from the first blow given) to speake a word in defence of himselfe. in the end, signior _phillippo_ having extreamly beaten him, and many people gathering about them, to succour a man so much misused, the matter was at large related, and manner of the message sending. for which, they all present, did greatly reprehend _blondello_, considering he knew what kinde of man _phillippo_ was, not any way to be jested withall. _blondello_ in teares constantly maintained, that he never sent any such message for wine, or intended it in the least degree: so, when the tempest was more mildly calmed, and _blondello_ (thus cruelly beaten and durtied) had gotten home to his owne house, he could then remember, that (questionles) this was occasioned by _guiotto_. after some few dayes were passed over, and the hurts in his face indifferently cured; _blondello_ beginning to walke abroade againe, chanced to meet with _guiotto_: who laughing heartily at him, sayde. tell me _blondello_, how doost thou like the enrubinating clarret of signior _phillippo_? as well (quoth _blondello_) as thou didst the sturgeon and lampreyes at _messer corso donaties_. why then (sayde _guiotto_) let these two tokens continue familiar betweene thee and me, when thou wouldst bestow such another dinner on mee, then will i enrubinate thy nose with a bottle of the same claret. but _blondello_ perceived (to his cost) that hee had met with the worser bargaine, and _guiotto_ got cheare, without any blowes: and therefore desired a peacefull attonement, each of them (alwayes after) abstaining from flouting one another. _two yong gentlemen, the one named_ melisso, _borne in the city of_ laiazzo: _and the other_ giosefo _of_ antioche, _travailed together unto_ salomon, _the famous king of_ great britaine. _the one desiring to learne what he should do, whereby to compasse and winne the love of men. the other craved to be enstructed, by what meanes hee might reclaime an headstrong and unruly wife. and what answeres the wise king gave unto them both, before they departed away from him._ the ninth novell. _containing an excellent admonition, that such as covet to have the love of other men, must first learne themselves, how to love: also, by what meanes such women as are curst and self-willed, may be reduced to civill obedience._ upon the conclusion of madame _laurettaes_ novell, none now remained to succeede next in order, but onely the queene her selfe, the priviledge reserved, granted to _dioneus_; wherefore, after they had all smiled at the folly of _blondello_, with a chearfull countenance thus the queene began. honourable ladies, if with advised judgement, we do duly consider the order of all things, we shall very easily perceyve, that the whole universall multiplicitie of women, by nature, custome, and lawes, are & ought to be subject to men, yea, and to be governd by their discretion. because every one desiring to enjoy peace, repose and comfort with them, under whose charge they are; ought to be humble, patient and obedient, over and beside her spotlesse honesty, which is the crowne and honour of every good woman. and although those lawes, which respect the common good of all things, or rather use & custome (as our wonted saying is) the powers whereof are very great, and worthy to be referenced, should not make us wise in this case. yet nature hath given us a sufficient demonstration, in creating our bodies more soft and delicate, yea, and our hearts timorous, fearefull, benigne and compassionable, our strength feeble, our voyces pleasing, and the motion of our members sweetly plyant; all which are apparant testimonies, that wee have neede of others government. now, it is not to be denyed, that whosoever hath need of helpe, and is to bee governed: meerely reason commandeth, that they should bee subject and obedient to their governour. who then should we have for our helps and governours, if not men? wherefore, we should be intirely subject to them, in giving them due honour and reverence, and such a one as shall depart from this rule: she (in mine opinion) is not onely worthy of grievous reprehension, but also severe chastisement beside. and to this exact consideration (over and above divers other important reasons) i am the rather induced, by the novel which madame _pampinea_ so lately reported, concerning the froward and wilfull wife of _talano_, who had a heavier punishment inflicted on her, then her husband could devise to doe. and therefore it is my peremptory sentence, that all such women as will not be gracious, benigne and pleasing: doe justly deserve (as i have already said) rude, rough and harsh handling, as both nature, custome and lawes have commanded. to make good what i have said, i will declare unto you the counsell & advise, given by _salomon_, the wise and famous king of great britaine, as a most wholesome and soveraigne medicine for the cure of such a dangerous disease, in any woman so fouly infected. which counsell (notwithstanding) all such women as have no need of this phisicke, i would not have them to imagine, that it was meant for them, albeit men have a common proverbe, to wit. _as the good horse and bad horse, doe both need the spurre. so a good wife and bad wife, a wand will make stirre._ which saying, whosoever doth interpret it in such pleasing manner as they ought, shall find it (as you al will affirm no lesse) to be very true: especially in the morall meaning, it is beyond all contradiction. women are naturally all unstable, and easily enclining to misgovernment; wherefore to correct the iniquity of such a distemperature in them that out-step the tearmes and bounds of womanhood, a wand hath been allowed for especiall phisicke. as in the like manner, for support of vertue, in those of contrary condition, shaming to be sullyed with so grosse a sinne: the correcting wand may serve as a walking staffe, to protect them from all other feares. but, forbearing to teach any longer; let mee proceed to my purpose, and tell you my novell. in those ancient and reverend dayes, whereof i am now to speake, the high renowne and admirable wisedome of _salomon_, king of great brittain, was most famous throughout all parts of the world; for answering all doubtfull questions and demaunds whatsoever, that possibly could be propounded to him. so that many resorted to him, from the most remote and furthest off countreyes, to heare his miraculous knowledge and experience, yea, and to crave his counsell, in matters of greatest importance. among the rest of them which repaired thither, was a rich yong gentleman, honourably descended, named _melisso_, who came from the city of _laiazzo_, where he was both borne, and dwelt. in his riding towards _france_, as he passed by _naples_, hee overtooke another yong gentleman, a native of _antioch_, and named _giosefo_, whose journey lay the same way as the others did. having ridden in company some few dayes together, as it is a custome commonly observed among travellers, to understand one anothers countrey and condition, as also to what part his occasions call him: so happened it with them, _giosefo_ directly telling him, that he journyed towards the wise king _salomon_, to desire his advise what meanes he should observe, in the reclaiming of a wilfull wife, the most froward and selfe-willed woman that ever lived; whom neither faire perswasions, nor gentle courtesies could in any manner prevaile withall. afterward he demaunded of _melisso_, to know the occasion of his travell, and whither. now trust me sir, answered _melisso_, i am a native of _laiazzo_, and as you are vexed with one great misfortune, even so am i offended with another. i am young, wealthy, well derived by birth, and allow liberall expences, for maintaining a worthy table in my house, without distinguishing persons by their rancke and quality, but make it free for all commers, both of the city, & all places els. notwithstanding all which bounty and honourable entertainement, i cannot meet with any man that loveth me. in which respect, i journey to the same place as you doe, to crave the counsell of so wise a king, what i should doe, whereby i might procure men to love me. thus like two well-met friendly companions, they rode on together, untill they arrived in great britaine, where, by meanes of the noble barons attending on the king; they were brought before him. _melisso_ delivered his minde in very few words, whereto the king made no other answere, but this: learne to love. which was no sooner spoken, but _melisso_ was dismissed from the kings presence. _giosefo_ also relating, wherefore he came thither; the king replyed onely thus; goe to the goose bridge: and presently _giosefo_ had also his dismission from the king. comming forth, he found _melisso_ attending for him, and revealed in what manner the king had answered him: whereupon, they consulted together, concerning both their answeres, which seemed either to exceed their comprehension, or else was delivered them in meere mockery, and therefore (more then halfe discontented) they returned homeward againe. after they had ridden on a few dayes together, they came to a river, over which was a goodly bridge, and because a great company of horses and mules (heavily laden, and after the manner of a _caravan_ of camels in _egypt_) were first to passe over the saide bridge; they gladly stayed to permit their passe. the greater number of them being already past over, there was one shie and skittish mule (belike subject to fearefull starting, as oftentimes we see horses have the like ill quality) that would not passe over the bridge by any meanes, wherefore one of the muletters tooke a good cudgell, and smote her at the first gently, as hoping so to procure her passage. notwithstanding, starting one while backeward, then againe forward, side-wayes, and every way indeed, but the direct road way she would not goe. now grew the muletter extreamely angry, giving her many cruell stroakes, on the head, sides, flancks and all parts else, but yet they proved to no purpose, which _melisso_ and _giosefo_ seeing, and being (by this meanes) hindred of their passage, they called to the muletter, saying. foolish fellow, what doest thou? intendest thou to kill the mule? why dost thou not leade her gently, which is the likelier course to prevaile by, then beating and misusing her as thou dost? content your selves gentlemen (answered the muletter) you know your horses qualities, as i doe my mules, let mee deale with her as i please. having thus spoken, he gave her so many violent strokes, on head, sides, hippes, and every where else, as made her at last passe over the bridge quietly, so that the muletter wonne the mastery of his mule. when _melisso_ and _giosefo_ had past over the bridge, where they intended to part each from other; a sudden motion happened into the minde of _melisso_, which caused him to demaund of an aged man (who sate craving almes of passengers at the bridge foot) how the bridge was called: sir, answered the old man, this is called, the goose bridge. which words when _giosefo_ heard, hee called to minde the saying of king _salomon_, and therefore immediately saide to _melisso_. worthy friend, and partner in my travell, i dare now assure you, that the counsell given me by king _salomon_, may fall out most effectuall and true: for i plainely perceive, that i knew not how to handle my selfe-will'd-wife, untill the muletter did instruct me. so, requesting still to enjoy the others company, they journeyed on, till at the length they came to _laiazzo_, where _giosefo_ retained _melisso_ still with him, for some repose after so long a journey, and entertained him with very honourable respect and courtesie. one day _giosefo_ said to his wife: woman, this gentleman is my intimate friend, and hath borne me company in all my travell: such dyet therefore as thou wilt welcome him withall, i would have it ordered (in dressing) according to his direction. _melisso_ perceiving that _giosefo_ would needs have it to be so; in few words directed her such a course, as (for ever) might be to her husbands contentment. but she, not altring a jote from her former disposition, but rather farre more froward and tempestuous: delighted to vexe and crosse him, doing every thing, quite contrary to the order appointed. which _giosefo_ observing, angerly he said unto her. was it not tolde you by my friend, in what manner he would have our supper drest? she turning fiercely to him, replyed. am i to be directed by him or thee? supper must and shall bee drest as i will have it: if it pleaseth mee, i care not who doth dislike it; if thou wouldst have it otherwise, goe seeke both your suppers where you may have it. _melisso_ marvelling at her froward answere, rebuked her for it in very kind manner: whereupon, _giosefo_ spake thus to her. i perceive wife, you are the same woman as you were wount to be: but beleeve me on my word, i shall quite alter you from this curst complexion. so turning to _melisso_, thus he proceeded. noble friend, we shall try anone, whether the counsell of king _salomon_ bee effectuall, or no; and i pray you, let it not be offensive to you to see it; but rather hold all to be done in merriment. and because i would not be hindered by you, doe but remember the answere which the muletter gave us, when we tooke compassion on his mule. worthy friend, replyed _melisso_, i am in your owne house, where i purpose not to impeach whatsoever you doe. _giosefo_, having provided a good holly-wand, went into the chamber, where his wife sate railing, and despitefully grumbling, where taking her by the haire of her head, he threw her at his feete, beating her entreamely with the wand. she crying, then cursing, next railing, lastly fighting, biting and scratching, when she felt the cruell smart of the blowes, and that all her resistance served to no end: then she fell on her knees before him, and desired mercy for charities sake. _giosefo_ fought still more and more on head, armes, shoulders, sides, and all parts else, pretending as if he heard not her complaints, but wearied himselfe wel neere out of breath: so that (to be briefe) she that never felt his fingers before, perceived and confessed, it was now too soone. this being done, hee returned to _melisso_, and said: to morrow we shall see a miracle, and how availeable the councell is of going to the goose bridge. so sitting a while together, after they had washed their hands, and supt, they withdrew to their lodgings. the poore beaten woman, could hardly raise her selfe from the ground, which yet (with much adoe) she did, and threw her selfe upon the bed, where she tooke such rest as she could: but arising early the next morning, she came to her husband, and making him a very low courtesie, demaunded what hee pleased to have for his dinner; he smiling heartely thereat, with _melisso_, tolde her his mind. and when dinner time came, every thing was ready according to the direction given: in which regard, they highly commended the counsell, whereof they made such an harsh construction at the first. within a while after, _melisso_ being gone from _giosefo_, and returned home to his owne house: hee acquainted a wise and reverend man, with the answere which king _salomon_ gave him, whereto hee received this reply. no better or truer advise could possibly be given you, for well you know, that you love not any man; but the bountiful banquets you bestow on them, is more in respect of your owne vaine-glory, then any kind affection you beare to them: learne then to love men, as _salomon_ advised, and you shall be beloved of them againe. thus our unruly wife became mildely reclaimed, and the yong gentleman, by loving others, found the fruits of reciprocall affection. john de barolo, _at the instance and request of his gossip_ pietro da trefanti, _made an enchantment, to have his wife become a mule. and when it came to the fastening on of the taile; gossip_ pietro _by saying she should have no taile at all, spoyled the whole enchantment._ the tenth novell. _in just reproofe of such foolish men, as will be governed by over-light beleefe._ this novell reported by the queene, caused a little murmuring among the ladies, albeit the men laughed heartely thereat: but after they were all growne silent, _dioneus_ began in this manner. gracious beauties, among many white doves, one blacke crow will seeme more sightly, then the very whitest swanne can doe. in like manner, among a multitude of wise men, sometimes one of much lesse wisedome and discretion, shall not onely increase the splendour and majestie of their maturity, but also give an addition of delight and solace. in which regard, you all being modest and discreet ladies, and my selfe more much defective in braine, then otherwise able: in making your vertues shine gloriously, through the evident apparance of mine owne weakenesse, you should esteeme the better of mee, by how much i seeme the more cloudy and obscure. and consequently, i ought to have the larger scope of liberty, by plainely expressing what i am, and be the more patiently endured by you all, in saying what absurdly i shall; then i should be if my speeches favoured of absolute wisdome. i will therefore tell you a tale, which shall not be of any great length, whereby you may comprehend, how carefully such things should be observed, which are commanded by them, as can effect matters by the power of enchantment, and how little delayance also ought to be in such, as would not have an enchantment so be hindered. about a yeare already past since, there dwelt at _barletta_, an honest man, called _john de barolo_, who because he was of poore condition; for maintenance in his contented estate, provided himselfe of a mule, to carry commodities from place to place, where faires and markets were in request, but most especially to _apuglia_, buying and selling in the nature of a petty chapman. travelling thus thorow the countreyes, he grew into great and familiar acquaintance, with one who named himselfe _pietro da trefanti_, following the same trade of life as he did, carrying his commodities upon an asse. in signe of amitie, according to the countreyes custome, he never tearmed him otherwise, then by the name of gossip _pietro_ and alwayes when he came to _barletta_, he brought him to his own house, taking it as his inne, entreating him very friendly, and in the best manner he could devise to doe. on the other side, gossip _pietro_ being very poore, having but one simple habitation in the village of _trefanti_, hardly sufficient for him, and an handsome young woman which he had to his wife, as also his asse: evermore when _john de barolo_ came to _trefanti_, he would bring him to his poore abiding, with all his uttermost abilitie of entertainement, in due acknowledgement of the courtesie he afforded to him at _barletta_. but when he came to take repose in the night-season, gossip _pietro_ could not lodge him as gladly he would: because he had but one silly bed, wherein himselfe and his wife lay; so that _john de barolo_ was faigne to lie on a little straw, in a small stable, close adjoyning by his owne mule and the asse. the woman understanding, what good and honest welcome, gossip _john_ afforded her husband, when he came to _barletta_, was often very willing to goe lodge with an honest neighbour of hers, called _carapresa di giudice leo_, because the two gossips might both lie together in one bed; wherewith divers times she acquainted her husband, but by no meanes he would admit it. at one time among the rest, as she was making the same motion againe to her husband, that his friend might be lodged in better manner: gossip _john_ thus spake to her. good _zita carapresa_, never molest your selfe for me, because i lodge to mine owne contentment, and so much the rather, in regard that whensoever i list: i can convert my mule into a faire young woman, to give mee much delight in the night-season, and afterward make her a mule againe: thus am i never without her company. the young woman wondring at these words, and beleeving he did not fable in them: she told them to her husband, with this addition beside, _pietro_ (quoth she) if he be such a deare friend to thee, as thou hast often avouched to me; with him to instruct thee in so rare a cunning, that thou maist make a mule of me; then shalt thou have both an asse and a mule to travell withall about thy businesse, whereby thy benefit will be double: and when we returne home to our house; then thou maist make mee thy wife againe, in the same condition as i was before. gossip _pietro_, who was (indeed) but a very coxecombe; beleeved also the words to be true, yeelding therefore the more gladly to her advise; and moving the matter to his gossip _john_, to teach him such a wonderfull secret, which would redound so greatly to his benefit: but _john_ began to disswade him from it, as having spoken it in merriment, yet perceiving, that no contradiction would serve to prevaile, thus he began. seeing you will needs have it so, let us rise to morrow morning before day, as in our travell we use to doe, and then i will shew you how it is to be done: onely i must and doe confesse, that the most difficult thing of all the rest, is, to fasten on the taile, as thou shalt see. gossip _pietro_ and his wife, could hardly take any rest all the night long, so desirous they were to have the deed done; and therefore when it drew towards day, up they arose, and calling gossip _john_, he came presently to them in his shirt, & being in the chamber with them, he said. i know not any man in the world, to whom i would disclose this secret, but to you, and therefore because you so earnestly desire it, i am the more willing to doe it. onely you must consent, to doe whatsoever i say, if you are desirous to have it done. faithfully they promised to performe all, whereupon _john_ delivering a lighted candle to gossip _pietro_, to hold in his hand, said. marke well what i doe, and remember all the words i say: but be very carefull, that whatsoever thou hearest or seest, thou doe not speake one word, for then the enchantment will be utterly overthrowne, onely wish that the taile may be well set on, for therein consisteth all the cunning. gossip _pietro_ holding the candle, and the woman being prepared as _john_ had appointed her, she bowed her selfe forwardes with her hands set to the ground, even as if she stood upon foure feete. first with his hands he touched her head and face, saying, heere is the goodly head of a mule: then handling her disheveld haire, termed them the goodly mane of a mule. afterwardes, touching the body, armes, legs, and feete, gave them all the apt names (for those parts) belonging to a mule, nothing else remaining, but onely the forming of the taile, which when _pietro_ perceived, how _john_ was preparing to fasten it on (having no way misliked all his former proceeding) he called to him, saying: forbeare gossippe _john_, my mule shall have no taile at all, i am contented to have her without a taile. how now gossip _pietro_? answered _john_, what hast thou done? thou hast mard all by this unadvised speaking, even when the worke was almost fully finished. it is no matter gossip (answered _pietro_) i can like my mule better without a taile, then to see it set on in such manner. the fond yong woman, more covetously addicted to gayne and commodity, then looking into the knavish intention of her gossip _john_; began to grow greatly offended. beast as thou art (quoth she to her husband) why hast thou overthrowne both thine own good fortune and mine? diddest thou ever see a mule without a taile? wouldst thou have had him made me a monster? thou art wretchedly poore, and when we might have bin enriched for ever, by a secret knowne to none but our selves, thou art the asse that hast defeated all, and made thy friend to become thine enemy. gossippe _john_ began to pacifie the woman, with solemne protestations of his still continuing friendship, albeit (afterwards) there was no further desiring of any more mule-making: but gossip _pietro_ fel to his former trading onely with his asse, as he was no lesse himselfe, and hee went no more with gossip _john_ to the faires in _apuglia_, neyther did he ever request, to have the like peece of service done for him. * * * * * although there was much laughing at this novell, the ladies understanding it better, then _dioneus_ intended that they should have done, yet himselfe scarsely smiled. but the novels being all ended, and the sunne beginning to loose his heate; the queene also knowing, that the full period of her government was come: dispossessing her selfe of the crowne, shee placed it on the head of _pamphilus_, who was the last of all to be honoured with this dignity; wherefore (with a gracious smile) thus she spake to him. sir, it is no meane charge which you are to undergo, in making amends (perhaps) for all the faults committed by my selfe and the rest, who have gone before you in the same authority; and, may it prove as prosperous unto you, as i was willing to create you our king. _pamphilus_ having received the honour with a chearfull mind, thus answered. madam, your sacred vertues, and those (beside) remaining in my other subjects, will (no doubt) worke so effectually for me, that (as the rest have done) i shall deserve your generall good opinion. and having given order to the master of the houshold (as all his predecessors had formerly done, for every necessary occasion) he turned to the ladies, who expected his gracious favour, and said. bright beauties, it was the discretion of your late soveraigne & queene, in regard of ease and recreation unto your tyred spirits, to grant you free liberty, for discoursing on whatsoever your selves best pleased: wherefore, having enjoyed such a time of rest, i am of opinion, that it is best to returne once more to our wonted law, in which respect, i would have every one to speake in this manner to morrow. namely, of those men or women, who have done any thing bountifully or magnificently, either in matter of amity, or otherwise. the relation of such worthy arguments, will (doubtlesse) give an addition to our very best desires, for a free and forward inclination to good actions, whereby our lives (how short soever they bee) may perpetuate an ever-living renowne and fame, after our mortall bodies are converted into dust, which (otherwise) are no better then those of bruite beasts, reason onely distinguishing this difference, that as they live to perish utterly, so we respire to reigne in eternity. the theame was exceedingly pleasing to the whole company; who being all risen, by permission of the new king, every one fel to their wonted recreations, as best agreed with their owne disposition; untill the houre for supper came, wherein they were served very sumptuously. but being risen from the table, they began their dances, among which, many sweet sonnets were enterlaced, with such delicate tunes as moved admiration. then the king commanded madam _neiphila_, to sing a song in his name, or how her selfe stood best affected. and immediatly with a cleare and rare voice, thus she began. _the song._ the chorus sung by all the companie. _in the spring season, maides have best reason, to dance and sing; with chaplets of flowers, to decke up their bowers, and all in honour of the spring._ _i heard a nimph that sate alone, by a fountaines side: much her hard fortune to bemone, for still she cride: ah! who will pitty her distresse, that findes no foe like ficklenesse? for truth lives not in men: poore soule, why live i then? in the spring season, &c._ _oh, how can mighty love permit, such a faithlesse deed, and not in justice punish it as treasons meed? i am undone through perjury, although i loved constantly: but truth lives not in men, poore soule, why live i then? in the spring season,&c._ _when i did follow dyans traine, as a loyall maide, i never felt oppressing paine, nor was dismaide. but when i listened loves alluring, then i wandred from assuring. for truth lives not in men: poore soule, why live i then? in the spring season, &c._ _adiew to all my former joyes, when i lived at ease, and welcome now those sad annoies which do most displease. and let none pitty her distresse, that fell not, but by ficklenesse. for truth lives not in men, alas! why live i then?_ _in the spring season, maides have best reason, to dance and sing; with chaplets of flowers, to decke up their bowers, and all in honour of the spring._ this song, most sweetly sung by madame _neiphila_, was especially commended, both by the king, & all the rest of the ladies. which being fully finished, the king gave order, that everie one should repaire to their chambers, because a great part of the night was already spent. _the end of the ninth day._ the tenth and last day. _whereon, under the government of pamphilus, the severall arguments do concerne such persons, as either by way of liberality, or in magnificent manner, performed any worthy action, for love, favour, friendship, or any other honourable occasion._ the induction. already began certaine small clouds in the west, to blush with a vermillion tincture, when those in the east (having reached to their full heighth) looked like bright burnished gold, by splendour of the sun beames drawing neere unto them: when _pamphilus_ being risen, caused the ladies, and the rest of his honourable companions to be called. when they were all assembled, and had concluded together on the place, whither they should walke for their mornings recreation: the king ledde on the way before, accompanied with the two noble ladies _philomena_ and _fiammetta_, all the rest following after them, devising, talking, and answering to divers demands both what that day was to be don, as also concerning the proposed imposition. after they had walked an indifferent space of time, and found the rayes of the sunne to be over-piercing for them: they returned backe againe to the pallace, as fearing to have their blood immoderately heated. then rinsing their glasses in the coole cleare running current, each tooke their mornings draught, & then walked into the milde shades about the garden, untill they should bee summoned to dinner. which was no sooner over-past, and such as slept, returned waking: they mette together againe in their wonted place, according as the king had appointed, where he gave command unto madame _neiphila_, that shee should (for that day) begin the first novell, which she humbly accepting, thus began. _a florentine knight, named signior_ rogiero de figiovanni, _became a servant to_ alphonso, _king of_ spaine, _who (in his owne opinion) seemed but sleightly to respect and reward him. in regard whereof, by a notable experiment, the king gave him a manifest testimony, that it was not through any defect in him, but onely occasioned by the knights ill fortune; most bountifully recompensing him afterward._ the first novell. _wherein may evidently be discerned, that servants to princes and great lords, are many times recompenced, rather by their good fortune, then in any regard of their dutifull services._ i doe accept it (worthy ladies) as no mean favour, that the king hath given me the first place, to speake of such an honourable argument, as bounty and magnificence is, which precious jewell, even as the sunne is the beauty, or ornament and bright glory of al heaven; so is bounty and magnificence the crowne of all vertues. i shall then recount to you a short novell, sufficiently pleasing, in mine owne opinion, and i hope (so much i dare rely on your judgements) both profitable, and worthy to be remembred. you are to know then, that among other valiant knights, which of long have lived in our city, one of them, and (perhappes) of as great merit as any, was one, named signior _rogiero d'figiovanni_. he being rich, of great courage, and perceiving, that (in due consideration) the quality belonging to life, and the customes observed among our _tuscanes_, were not answerable to his expectation, nor agreed with the disposition of his valour; determined to leave his native countrey, and belong in service (for some time) to _alfonso_, king of _spaine_, whose fame was generally noised in all places, for excelling all other princes in those times, for respect of mens well deservings, and bountifull requitall of their paines. being provided in honorable order, both of horses, armes, & a competent train, he travelled to _spaine_, where he was worthily entertained. signior _rogiero_ continuing there, living in honorable manner, and performing many admirable actions of arms; in short time he made himselfe sufficiently knowne, for a very valiant and famous man. and having remained there an indifferent long while, observing divers behaviours in the king: he saw, how he enclined himselfe first to one man, then to another, bestowing on one a castle, a towne on another, and baronnies on divers, some-what indiscreetly, as giving away bountifully to men of no merit. and restraining all his favors from him, as seeming close fisted, and parting with nothing: he took it as a diminishing of his former reputation, and a great empayring of his fame, wherefore he resolved on his departure thence, & made his suit to the king that he might obtaine it. the king did grant it, bestowing on him one of the very best mules, and the goodliest that ever was backt, a gift most highly pleasing to _rogiero_, in regarde of the long journy he intended to ride. which being deliverd, the king gave charge to one of his gentlemen, to compasse such convenient meanes, as to ride thorow the country, and in the company of signior _rogiero_, yet in such manner, as he should not perceive, that the king had purposely sent him so to do. respectively he should observe whatsoever he said concerning the king, his gesture, smiles, and other behavior, shaping his answers accordingly, and on the nexte morning to command his returne backe with him to the king. nor was the gentleman slacke in this command, but noting _rogieroes_ departing forth of the city, he mounted on horseback likewise, and immediatly after came into his company, making him beleeve, that he journied towards _italy. rogiero_ rode on the mule which the king had given him, with diversity of speeches passing between them. about three of the clocke in the afternoone, the gentleman said. it were not amisse sir, (having such fit opportunitie) to stable our horses for a while, till the heate be a little more overpast. so taking an inne, and the horses being in the stable, they all staled except the mule. being mounted againe, and riding on further, the gentleman duely observed whatsoever _rogiero_ spake, and comming to the passage of a small river or brooke: the rest of the beasts dranke, and not the mule, but staled in the river: which signior _rogiero_ seeing, clapping his hands on the mules mane, hee said. what a wicked beast art thou? thou art just like thy master that gave thee to mee. the gentleman committed the words to memory, as he did many other passing from _rogiero_, riding along the rest of the day, yet none in disparagement of the king, but rather highly in his commendation. and being the next morning mounted on horseback, seeming to hold on still the way for _tuscane_: the gentleman fulfilled the kings command, causing signior _rogiero_ to turne back againe with him, which willingly he yeelded to doe. when they were come to the court, and the king made acquainted with the words, which _rogiero_ spake to his mule; he was called into the presence, where the king shewed him a gracious countenance, & demanded of him, why he had compared him to his mule? signior _rogiero_ nothing daunted, but with a bold and constant spirit, thus answered. sir, i made the comparison, because, like as you give, where there is no conveniency, and bestow nothing where reason requireth: even so, the mule would not stale where she should have done, but where was water too much before, there she did it. beleeve me signior _rogiero_, replyed the king, if i have not given you such gifts, as (perhaps) i have done to divers other, farre inferiour to you in honour and merit; this happened not thorough any ignorance in me, as not knowing you to be a most valiant knight, and well-worthy of speciall respect: but rather through your owne ill fortune, which would not suffer me to doe it, whereof she is guilty, and not i, as the truth thereof shall make it selfe apparent to you. sir, answered _rogiero_, i complaine not, because i have received no gift from you, as desiring thereby covetously to become the richer: but in regard you have not as yet any way acknowledged, what vertue is remaining in me. neverthelesse, i allow your excuse for good and reasonable, and am heartely contented, to behold whatsoever you please; although i doe confidently credit you, without any other testimony. the king conducted him then into the great hall, where (as hee had before given order) stood two great chests, fast lockt; & in the presence of all his lords, the king thus spake. signior _rogiero_, in out of these chests is mine imperiall crowne, the scepter royall, the mound, & many more of my richest girdles, rings, plate, & jewels, even the very best that are mine: the other is full of earth onely. chuse one of these two, and which thou makest election of; upon my royall word thou shalt enjoy it. hereby shalt thou evidently perceive, who hath bin ingreatful to the deservings, either i, or thine owne bad fortune. _rogiero_ seeing it was the kings pleasure to have it so; chose one of them, which the king caused presently to be opened, it approving to be the same that was full of earth, whereat the king smyling, said thus unto him. you see signior _rogiero_, that what i said concerning your ill fortune, is very true: but questionlesse, your valour is of such desert, as i ought to oppose my selfe against all her malevolence. and because i know right, that you are not minded to become a spaniard; i will give you neither castle nor dwelling place: but i will bestow the chest on you (in meer despight of your malicious fortune) which she so unjustly tooke away from you. carry it home with you into your countrey, that there it may make an apparant testimoney, in the sight of all your well-willers, both of your owne vertuous deservings, and my bounty. signior _rogiero_ humbly receiving the chest, and thanking his majestie for so liberall a gift, returned home joyfully therewith, into his native countrey of _tuscane_. ghinotto di tacco; _tooke the lord abbot of_ clugni _as his prisoner, and cured him of a grievous disease, which he had in his stomacke, and afterward set him at liberty. the same lord abbot, when hee returned from the court of rome, reconciled_ ghinotto _to pope_ boniface; _who made him a knight, and lord prior of a goodly hospitall._ the second novell. _wherein is declared that good men doe sometimes fall into bad conditions, onely occasioned thereto by necessity: and what meanes are to be used, for their reducing to goodnesse againe._ the magnificence and royall bounty, which king _alphonso_ bestowed on the florentine knight, passed through the whole assembly with no mean applause; & the king (who gave it the greatest praise of al) commanded madame _eliza_, to take the second turne in order; whereupon, thus she began. faire ladies, if a king shewed himselfe magnificently minded, and expressed his liberall bounty to such a man, as had done him good and honourable services: it can be termed no more then a vertuous deed well done, and becomming a king. but what will we say, when we heare that a prelate of the church, shewed himselfe wondrously magnificent, and to such a one as was his enemy: can any malicious tongue speake ill of him? undoubtedly, no other answere is to be made, but the action of the king was meerely vertue, and that of the prelate, no lesse then a miracle: for how can it be otherwise, when they are more greedily covetous then women, and deadly enemies to all liberality? and although every man (naturally) desireth revenge for injuries and abuses done unto him: yet men of the church, in regard that dayly they preached patience, and commaund (above all things else) remission of sinnes: it would appeare a mighty blemish in them, to be more froward and furious then other men. but i am to speake of a reverend prelate of the church, as also concerning his munificent bounty, to one that was his enemy, and yet became his reconciled friend, as you shall perceive by my novell. _ghinotto di tacco_, for his insolent and stout robberies, became a man very farre famed, who being banished from _sienna_, and an enemy to the countes _disanta fiore_: prevailed so by his bold and headstrong perswasions, that the towne of _raticonfani_ rebelled against the church of rome, wherein he remaining; all passengers whatsoever, travelling any way thereabout, were robde and rifled by his theeving companions. at the time whereof now i speake, _boniface_ the eight, governed as pope at rome, and the lord abbot of _clugni_ (accounted to be one of the richest prelates in the world) came to rome, and there either by some surfeit, excesse of feeding, or otherwise, his stomacke being grievously offended and pained; the phisitians advised him, to travell to the bathes at _sienna_, where he should receive immediate cure. in which respect, his departure being licenced by the pope, to set onward thither, with great and pompous cariages, of horses, mules, and a goodly traine, without hearing any rumour of the theevish consorts. _ghinotto di tacco_, being advertised of his comming, spred about his scouts and nettes, and without missing so much as one page, shut up the abbot, with all his traine and baggage, in a place of narrow restraint, out of which he could by no meanes escape. when this was done, he sent one of his most sufficient attendants, (well accompanyed) to the lord abbot, who said to him in his masters name, that if his lordship were so pleased, hee might come and visite _ghinotto_ at his castle. which the abbot hearing, answered chollerickly, that he would not come thither, because hee had nothing to say to _ghinotto_: but meant to proceed on in his journy, and would faine see, who durst presume to hinder his passe. to which rough words, the messenger thus mildely answered. my lord (quoth he) you are arrived in such a place, where we feare no other force, but the all-controlling power of heaven, clearely exempted from the popes thunder-cracks, of maledictions, interdictions, excommunications, or whatsoever else: and therefore it would bee much better for you, if you pleased to do as _ghinotto_ adviseth you. during the time of this their interparlance, the place was suddenly round ingirt with strongly armed theeves, and the lord abbot perceiving, that both he and all his followers were surprized: tooke his way (though very impatiently) towards the castle, and likewise all his company and carriages with him. being dismounted, hee was conducted (as _ghinotto_ had appointed) all alone, into a small chamber of the castle, it being very darke and uneasie: but the rest of his traine, every one according to his ranck and quality, were all well lodged in the castle, their horses, goods and all things else, delivered into secure keeping, without the least touch of injury or prejudice. all which being orderly done, _ghinotto_ himselfe went to the lord abbot, and said. my lord, _ghinotto_, to whom you are a welcome guest, requesteth, that it might be your pleasure to tell him, whither you are travelling, and upon what occasion? the lord abbot being a very wise man, and his angry distemper more moderately qualified; revealed whither he went, and the cause of his going thither. which when _ghinotto_ had heard, hee departed courteously from him, and began to consider with himselfe, how he might cure the abbot; yet without any bathe. so, commanding a good fire to be kept continually in his small chamber, and very good attendance on him: the next morning, he came to visite him againe, bringing a faire white napkin on his arme, and in it two slices or toasts of fine manchet, a goodly cleare glasse, full of the purest white-bastard of _corniglia_ (but indeed, of the abbots owne provision brought thither with him) and then hee spoke to him in this manner. my lord, when _ghinotto_ was yonger then now he is, he studyed physicke, and he commanded me to tell you, that the very best medicine, he could ever learne, against any disease in the stomacke, was this which he had provided for your lordship, as an especial preparative, and which he should finde to be very comfortable. the abbot, who had a better stomacke to eate, then any will or desire to talke: although hee did it somewhat disdainfully, yet hee eate up both the toastes, and roundly dranke off the glasse of bastard. afterward, divers other speeches passed betweene them, the one still advising in phisicall manner, and the other seeming to care little for it: but moved many questions concerning _ghinotto_, and earnestly requesting to see him. such speeches as favoured of the abbots discontentment, and came from him in passion; were clouded with courteous acceptance, & not the least signe of any mislike: but assuring his lordship, that _ghinotto_ intended very shortly to see him, and so they parted for that time. nor returned he any more, till the next morning with the like two toastes of bread, and such another glasse of white bastard, as he had brought him at the first, continuing the same course for divers dayes after: till the abbot had eaten (and very hungerly too) a pretty store of dryed beanes, which _ghinotto_ purposely, (yet secretly) had hidden in the chamber. whereupon he demaunded of him (as seeming to be so enjoyned by his pretended master) in what temper he found his stomacke now? i should finde my stomacke well enough (answered the lord abbot) if i could get forth of thy masters fingers, and then have some good food to feed on: for his medicines have made me so soundly stomackt, that i am ready to starve with hunger. when _ghinotto_ was gone from him, hee then prepared a very faire chamber for him, adorning it with the abbots owne rich hangings, as also his plate and other moveables, such as were alwayes used for his service. a costly dinner he provided likewise, whereto he invited divers of the towne, and many of the abbots chiefest followers: then going to him againe the next morning, he said. my lord, seeing you doe feele your stomacke so well, it is time you should come forth of the infirmary. and taking him by the hand, he brought him into the prepared chamber, where he left him with his owne people, and went to give order for the dinners serving in, that it might be performed in magnificent manner. the lord abbot recreated himselfe a while with his owne people, to whom he recounted, the course of his life since hee saw them; and they likewise told him, how kindly they had bin initeated by _ghinotto_. but when dinner time was come, the lord abbot and all his company, were served with costly viands and excellent wines, without _ghinottoes_ making himselfe knowne to the abbot: till after he had beene entertained some few dayes in this order: into the great hall of the castle, _ghinotto_ caused all the abbots goods and furniture to bee brought, and likewise into a spacious court, whereon the windowes of the said court gazed, all his mules and horses, with their sumpters, even to the very silliest of them, which being done, _ghinotto_ went to the abbot, and demaunded of him, how he felt his stomacke now, and whether it would serve him to venter on horsebacke as yet, or no? the lord abbot answered, that he found his stomacke perfectly recovered, his body strong enough to endure travell, and all things well, so hee were delivered from _ghinotto_. hereupon, he brought him into the hall where his furniture was, as also all his people, & commanding a window to be opned, whereat he might behold his horses, he said. my lord, let me plainely give you to understand, that neither cowardise, or basenesse of minde, induced _ghinotto di tacco_ (which is my selfe) to become a lurking robber on the high-wayes, an enemy to the pope, and so (consequently) to the romane court: but onely to save his owne life and honour, knowing himselfe to be a gentleman cast out of his owne house, and having (beside) infinite enemies. but because you seeme to be a worthy lord, i will not (although i have cured your stomacks disease) deale with you as i doe to others, whose goods (when they fall into my power) i take such part of as i please: but rather am well contented, that my necessities being considered by your selfe, you spare me out a proportion of the things you have heere, answerable to your owne liking. for all are present here before you, both in this hall, and in the court beneath, free from any spoyle, or the least impairing. wherefore, give a part, or take all, if you please, and then depart hence when you will, or abide heere still, for now you are at your owne free liberty. the lord abbot wondred not a little, that a robber on the high wayes, should have such a bold and liberall spirit, which appeared very pleasing to him; and instantly, his former hatred and spleene against _ghinotto_, became converted into cordiall love and kindnes, so that (imbracing him in his armes) he said. i protest upon my vow made to religion, that to win the love of such a man, as i plainely perceive thee to be: i would undergo far greater injuries, then those which i have received at thy hands. accursed be cruell destiny, that forced thee to so base a kind of life, and did not blesse thee with a fairer fortune. after he had thus spoken, he left there the greater part of all his goods, and returned back againe to rome, with fewer horses, and a meaner traine. during these passed accidents, the pope had received intelligence of the lord abbots surprizall, which was not a little displeasing to him: but when he saw him returned, he demaunded, what benefit he received at the bathes? whereto the abbot, merrily smyling, thus replyed. holy father, i met with a most skilfull physitian neerer hand, whose experience is beyond the power of the bathes, for by him i am very perfectly cured: and so discoursed all at large. the pope laughing heartely, and the abbot continuing on still his report, moved with an high and magnificent courage, he demaunded one gracious favour of the pope: who imagining that he would request a matter of greater moment, then he did, freely offered to grant, whatsoever he desired. holy father, answered the lord abbot, all the humble suit which i make to you, is, that you would be pleased to receive into your grace and favor, _ghinotto di tacco_ my physitian, because among all the vertuous men, deserving to have especial account made of them i never met with any equall to him both in honour and honesty. whatsoever injury he did to me, i impute it as a greater in-fortune, then any way he deserveth to be charged withall. which wretched condition of his, if you were pleased to alter, and bestow on him some better meanes of maintenance, to live like a worthy man, as he is no lesse: i make no doubt, but (in very short time) hee will appeare as pleasing to your holinesse, as (in my best judgement) i thinke him to be. the pope, who was of a magnanimious spirit, and one that highly affected men of vertue, hearing the commendable motion made by the abbot; returned answere, that he was as willing to grant it, as the other desired it, sending letters of safe conduct for his comming thither. _ghinotto_ receiving such assurance from the court of rome, came thither immediatly, to the great joy of the lord abbot: and the pope finding him to be a man of valour and worth, upon reconciliation, remitted all former errors, creating him knight, and lord prior of the very chiefest hospitall in rome. in which office he lived long time after, as a loyall servant to the church, and an honest thankefull friend to the lord abbot of _clugny_. mithridanes _envying the life and liberality of_ nathan, _and travelling thither, with a setled resolution to kill him: chaunceth to conferre with_ nathan _unknowne. and being instructed by him, in what manner he might best performe the bloody deede, according as hee gave direction, hee meeteth with him in a small thicket or woode, where knowing him to be the same man, that taught him how to take away his life: confounded with shame, hee acknowledgeth his horrible intention, and becommeth his loyall friend._ the third novell. _shewing in an excellent and lively demonstration, that any especiall honourable vertue, persevering and dwelling in a truly noble soule, cannot be violenced or confounded, by the most politicke attemptes of malice and envy._ it appeared to the whole assembly, that they had heard a matter of mervaile, for a lord abbot to performe any magnificent action: but their admiration ceasing in silence, the king commanded _philostratus_ to follow next, who forthwith thus began. honourable ladies, the bounty and magnificence of _alphonso_ king of _spaine_, was great indeede, and that done by the lord abbot of _clugny_, a thing (perhaps) never heard of in any other. but it will seeme no lesse mervailous to you, when you heare, how one man, in expression of great liberality to another man, that earnestly desired to kill him; should bee secretly disposed to give him his life, which had bin lost, if the other would have taken it, as i purpose to acquaint you withall, in a short novell. most certaine it is, at least, if faith may bee given to the report of certaine _genewayes_, and other men resorting to those remote parts, that in the country of _cathaya_, there lived somtime a gentleman, rich beyond comparison, and named _nathan_. he having his living adjoyning to a great common rode-way, whereby men travayled from the east to the west (as they did the like from the west unto the east, as having no other means of passage) and being of a bountifull and chearfull disposition, which he was willing to make knowen by experience: he summoned together many master masons and carpenters, and there erected (in a short time) one of the greatest, goodliest, and most beautifull houses (in manner of a princes pallace) that ever was seene in all those quarters. with movables and all kinde of furnishment, befitting a house of such outward apparance, hee caused it to be plentifully stored, onely to receive, entertaine, and honor all gentlemen or other travailers whatsoever, as had occasion to passe that way, being not unprovided also of such a number of servants, as might continuallie give attendance on all commers and goers. two and fifty severall gates, standing al way wide open, & over each of them in great golden carracters was written, _welcome, welcome,_ and gave free admission to all commers whatsoever. in this honourable order (observed as his estated custom) he persevered so long a while, as not onely the east parts, but also those in the west, were every where acquainted with his fame & renown. being already well stept into yeares, but yet not wearie (therefore) of his great charge and liberality: it fortuned, that the rumour of his noble hospitality, came to the eare of another gallant gentleman, named _mithridanes_, living in a countrey not farre off from the other. this gentleman, knowing himself no lesse wealthy then _nathan_, and enviously repining at his vertue and liberality, determined in his mind, to dim and obscure the others bright splendour, by making himselfe farre more famous. and having built a palace answerable to that of _nathans_, with like windings of gates, and welcome inscriptions; he beganne to extend immeasurable courtesies, unto all such as were disposed to visite him: so that (in a short while) hee grew very famous in infinite places. it chanced on a day, as _mithridanes_ sate all alone within the goodly court of his pallace: a poore woman entred at one of the gates, craving an almes of him, which she had; and returned in againe at a second gate, comming also to him, and had a second almes; continuing so still a dozen times; but at the thirteenth returning, _mithridanes_ saide to her: good woman, you goe and come very often, and still you are served with almes. when the old woman heard these words, she said. o the liberality of _nathan_! how honourable and wonderfull is that? i have past through two and thirty gates of his palace, even such as are here, and at every one i receyved an almes, without any knowledgement taken of me, either by him, or any of his followers: and heere i have past but through thirteene gates, and am there both acknowledged and taken. fare well to this house, for i never meane to visit it any more; with which words shee departed thence, and never after came thither againe. when _mithridanes_ had a while pondered on her speeches, hee waxed much discontented, as taking the words of the olde woman, to extoll the renowne of _nathan_, and darken or ecclipse his glorie, whereupon he said to himselfe. wretched man as i am, when shall i attaine to the height of liberality, and performe such wonders, as _nathan_ doth? in seeking to surmount him, i cannot come neere him in the very meanest. undoubtedly, i spend all my endeavour but in vaine, except i rid the world of him, which (seeing his age will not make an end of him) i must needs do with my own hands. in which furious and bloody determination (without revealing his intent to any one) he mounted on horse-backe, with few attendants in his company, and after three dayes journey, arrived where _nathan_ dwelt. he gave order to his men, to make no shew of beeing his servants, or any way to acknowledge him: but to provide them selves of convenient lodgings, untill they heard other tydings from him. about evening, and (in this manner) alone by himselfe, neere to the palace of _nathan_, he met him solitarily walking, not in pompous apparrell, whereby to bee distinguished from a meaner man: and, because he knew him not, neyther had heard any relation of his description, he demanded of him, if he knew where _nathan_ then was? _nathan_, with a chearfull countenance, thus replyed. faire syr, there is no man in these parts, that knoweth better how to shew you _nathan_ then i do; and therefore, if you be so pleased, i will bring you to him. _mithridanes_ said, therein he should do him a great kindnesse: albeit (if it were possible) he would bee neyther knowne nor seene of _nathan_. and that (quoth he) can i also do sufficiently for you, seeing it is your will to have it so, if you will goe along with me. dismounting from his horse, he walked on with _nathan_, diversly discoursing, untill they came to the pallace, where one of the servants taking _mithridanes_ his horse, _nathan_ rounded the fellow in the eare, that he should give warning to all throughout the house, for revealing to the gentleman, that he was _nathan_; as accordingly it was performed. no sooner were they within the pallace, but he conducted _mithridanes_ into a goodly chamber, where none (as yet) had seene him, but such as were appointed to attend on him reverently; yea, and he did himselfe greatly honor him, as being loth to leave his company. while thus _mithridanes_ conversed with him, he desired to know (albeit he respected him much for his yeares) what he was. introth sir, answered _nathan_, i am one of the meanest servants to _nathan_, and from my child-hood, have made my selfe thus olde in his service: yet never hath he bestowed any other advancement on mee, then as you now see; in which respect, howsoever other men may commend him, yet i have no reason at all to do it. these words, gave some hope to _mithridanes_, that with a little more counsell, he might securely put in execution his wicked determination. _nathan_ likewise demaunded of him (but in very humble manner) of whence, and what he was, as also the businesse inviting him thither: offering him his utmost aide and counsell, in what soever consisted in his power. _mithridanes_ sat an indifferent while meditating with his thoughts before he would returne any answer: but at the last, concluding to repose confidence in him (in regard of his pretended discontentment) with many circumstantiall perswasions, first for fidelity, next for constancie, and lastly for counsell and assistance, he declared to him truly what he was, the cause of his comming thither, and the reason urging him thereto. _nathan_ hearing these words, and the detestable deliberation of _mithridanes_, became quite changed in himself: yet wisely making no outward appearance thereof, with a bold courage and setled countenance, thus he replyed. _mithridanes_, thy father was a noble gentleman, and (in vertuous qualities) inferiour to none, from whom (as now i see) thou desirest not to degenerate, having undertaken so bold & high an enterprise, i meane, in being liberall and bountifull to all men. i do greatly commend the envy which thou bearest to the vertue of _nathan_: because if there were many more such men, the world that is now wretched and miserable, would become good and conformable. as for the determination which thou hast disclosed to mee, i have sealed it up secretly in my soule: wherein i can better give thee counsell, then any especiall helpe or furtherance: and the course which i would have thee to observe, followeth thus in few words. this window, which we now looke forth at, sheweth thee a small wood or thicket of trees, being little more then the quarter of a miles distance hence; whereto _nathan_ usually walketh every morning, and there continueth time long enough: there maist thou very easily meet him, and do whatsoever thou intended to him. if thou kilst him, because thou maist with safety returne home unto thine owne abiding, take not the same way which guided thee thither, but another, lying on the left hand, & directing speedily out of the wood, as being not so much haunted as the other, but rather free from all resort, and surest for visiting thine owne countrey, after such a dismall deed is done. when _mithridanes_ had receyved this instruction, and _nathan_ was departed from him, hee secretly gave intelligence to his men, (who likewise were lodged, as welcome strangers, in the same house) at what place they should stay for him the next morning. night being passed over, and _nathan_ risen, his heart altred not a jot from his counsell given to _mithridanes_, much lesse changed from anie part thereof: but all alone by himselfe, walked on to the wood, the place appointed for his death. _mithridanes_ also being risen, taking his bow & sword (for other weapons had he none) mounted on hors-backe, and so came to the wood, where (somewhat farre off) hee espyed _nathan_ walking, and no creature with him. dismounting from his horse, he had resolved (before he would kill him) not onely to see, but also to heare him speake: so stepping roughly to him, and taking hold of the bonnet on his head, his face being then turned from him, he sayde. old man, thou must dye. whereunto _nathan_ made no other answer, but thus: why then (belike) i have deserved it. when _mithridanes_ heard him speake, and looked advisedly on his face, he knew him immediatly to be the same man, that had entertained him so lovingly, conversed with him so familiarly, and counselled him so faithfully: all which overcomming his former fury, his harsh nature became meerly confounded with shame: so throwing downe his drawne sword, which he held readily prepared for the deede: he prostrated himselfe at _nathans_ feet, and in teares, spake in this manner. now do i manifestly know (most loving father) your admired bounty and liberalitie; considering, with what industrious providence, you made the meanes for your comming hither, prodigally to bestow your life on me, which i have no right unto, although you were so willing to part with it. but those high and supreame powers, more carefull of my dutie, then i my selfe: even at the very instant, and when it was most needfull, opened the eyes of my better understanding, which infernall envy had closed up before. and therefore, looke how much you have bin forward to pleasure me; so much the more shame and punishment, i confesse my heinous transgression hath justly deserved: take therefore on me (if you please) such revenge, as you thinke (in justice) answerable to my sin. _nathan_ lovingly raised _mithridanes_ from the ground, then kissing his cheeke, and tenderly embracing him, he said. sonne, thou needed not to aske, much lesse to obtaine pardon, for any enterprise of thine, which thou canst not yet terme to be good or bad: because thou soughtest not to bereave me of my life, for any hatred thou barest me, but onely in coveting to be reputed the woorthier man. take then this assurance of me, and beleeve it constantly, that there is no man living, whom i love and honour, as i do thee: considering the greatnesse of thy minde, which consisteth not in the heaping up of money, as wretched and miserable worldlings make it their onely felicity; but, contending in bounty to spend what is thine, didst hold it for no shame to kill me, thereby to make thy selfe so much the more worthily famous. nor is it any matter to be wondred at, in regard that emperors, and the greatest kings, hadde never made such extendure of their dominions, and consequently of their renowne, by any other art, then killing; yet not one man onely, as thou wouldst have done: but infinite numbers, burning whole countries, and making desolate huge townes and cities, onely to enlarge their dominion, and further spreading of their fame. wherefore, if for the increasing of thine owne renowne, thou wast desirous of my death: it is no matter of novelty, and therefore deserving the lesse mervaile, seeing men are slaine daily, and all for one purpose or other. _mithridanes_, excusing no further his malevolent deliberation, but rather commending the honest defence, which _nathan_ made on his behalfe; proceeded so farre in after discoursing, as to tel him plainely, that it did wondrously amaze him, how he durst come to the fatall appointed place, himselfe having so exactly plotted and contrived his owne death: whereunto _nathan_ returned this aunswere. i would not have thee _mithridanes_, to wonder at my counsell or determination; because, since age hath made mee maister of mine owne will, and i resolved to doe that, wherein thou hast begun to follow me: never came any man to mee, whom i did not content (if i could) in any thing he demanded of mee. it was thy fortune to come for my life, which when i saw thee so desirous to have it, i resolved immediately to bestow it on thee: and so much the rather, because thou shouldst not be the onely man, that ever departed hence, without enjoying whatsoever hee demanded. and, to the end thou mightst the more assuredly have it, i gave thee that advice, least by not enjoying mine, thou shouldest chance to loose thine owne. i have had the use of it full fourescore yeares, with the consummation of all my delights and pleasures: and well i know, that according to the course of nature (as it fares with other men, and generally all things else) it cannot bee long before it must leave mee. wherefore, i hold it much better for me to give it away freely, as i have alwayes done my goods and treasure; then bee curious in keeping it, and suffer it to be taken from me (whether i will or no) by nature. a small gift it is, if time make me up the full summe of an hundred yeares: how miserable is it then, to stand beholding but for foure or five, and all of them vexation too? take it then i intreate thee, if thou wilt have it; for i never met with any man before (but thy selfe) that did desire it, nor (perhaps) shall finde any other to request it: for the longer i keepe it, the worse it will be esteemed: and before it grow contemptible, take it i pray thee. _mithridanes_, being exceedingly confounded with shame, bashfully sayde: fortune fore-fend, that i should take away a thing so precious as your life is, or once to have so vile a thought of it as lately i had; but rather then i would diminish one day thereof, i could wish, that my time might more amply enlarge it. forthwith aunswered _nathan_, saying. wouldst thou (if thou couldst) shorten thine owne dayes, onely to lengthen mine? why then thou wouldest have me to do that to thee, which (as yet) i never did unto any man, namely, robbe thee, to enrich my selfe. i will enstruct thee in a much better course, if thou wilt be advised by mee. lusty and young, as now thou art, thou shalt dwell heere in my house, and be called by the name of _nathan_. aged, and spent with yeares, as thou seest i am, i will goe live in thy house, and bee called by the name of _mithridanes_. so, both the name and place shall illustrate thy glorie, and i live contentedly, without the very least thought of envie. deare father, answered _mithridanes_, if i knew so well howe to direct mine owne actions, as you doe, and alwayes have done, i would gladly accept your most liberall offer: but because i plainlie perceive, that my very best endeavours, must remayne darkened by the bright renowne of _nathan_: i will never seeke to impayre that in another, which i cannot (by any means) increase in my selfe, but (as you have worthily taught me) live contented with my owne condition. after these, and many more like loving speeches had passed between them, according as _nathan_ very instantly requested, _mithridanes_ returned back with him to the pallace, where many dayes he highly honored & respected him, comforting & counselling him, to persever alwayes in his honourable determination. but in the end, when _mithridanes_ could abide there no longer, because necessary occasions called him home: he departed thence with his men, having found by good experience, that hee could never goe beyond _nathan_ in liberality. signior gentile de carisendi, _being come from_ modena, _took a gentlewoman, named madam_ catharina, _forth of a grave, wherein she was buried for dead: which act he did, in regard of his former honest affection to the said gentlewoman. madame_ catharina _remaining afterward, and delivered of a goodly sonne: was (by_ signior _there_ gentile) _delivered to her owne husband, named_ signior nicoluccio caccianimico, _and the yong infant with her._ the fourth novell. _wherein is shewne, that true love hath alwayes bin, and so still is, the occasion of many great and worthy courtesies._ by judgment of all the honorable assembly, it was reputed wonderfull, that a man should be so bountifull, as to give away his owne life, and to his hatefull enemy. in which respect, it passed with generall affirmation, that _nathan_ (in the vertue of liberallity) had exceeded _alphonso_, king of _spaine_, but (especially) the abbot of _clugny_. so, after every one had delivered their opinion, the king, turning himselfe to madame _lauretta_, gave her such a signe, as well instructed her understanding, that she should be the next in order, whereto she gladly yeelding, began in this manner. youthfull ladies, the discourses already past, have been so worthy and magnificent, yea, reaching to such a height of glorious splendour; as (me thinkes) there remaineth no more matter, for us that are yet to speake, whereby to enlarge so famous an argument, and in such manner as it ought to be: except we lay hold on the actions of love, wherein is never any want of subject, it is so faire and spacious a field to walke in. wherefore, as well in behalfe of the one, as advancement of the other, whereto our instant age is most of all inclined: i purpose to acquaint you with a generous and magnificent act, of an amourous gentleman, which when it shall be duely considered on, perhaps will appeare equall to any of the rest. at least, if it may passe for currant, that men may give away their treasures, forgive mighty injuries, and lay downe life it selfe, honour and renowne (which is farre greater) to infinite dangers, only to attaine any thing esteemed and affected. understand then (gracious hearers) that in _bologna_, a very famous city of _lombardie_, there lived sometime a knight, most highly respected for his vertues, named signior _gentile de carisendi_, who (in his yonger dayes) was enamoured of a gentlewoman, called madam _catharina_, the wife of signior _nicoluccio caccianimico_. and because during the time of his amourous pursuite, he found but a sorry enterchange of affection from the lady; hee went (as hopelesse of any successe) to be potestate of _modena_, whereto he was called by place and order. at the same time, signior _nicoluccio_ being absent from _bologna_, and his lady at a farme-house of his in the countrey (about three miles distant from the city) because she was great with child, and somewhat neere the time of her teeming: it came to passe, that some dangerous accident befell her, which was so powerfull in operation, as no signe of life appeared remained in her, but she was reputed (even in the judgement of the best phisitians, whereof she wanted no attendance) to be verily dead. and because in the opinion of her parents and neerest kinred, the time for her deliverance was yet so farre off, as the infant within her, wanted much of a perfect creature: they made the lesse mourning; but in the next church, as also the vault belonging to her ancestors, they gave her buriall very speedily. which tydings comming to the hearing of signior _gentile_, by one that was his endeared friend: although (while she lived) he could never be gracious in her favour, yet her so sudden death did greatly grieve him, whereupon he discoursed in this sort with himselfe. deare madame _catharina_, i am not a little sorry for thy death, although (during thy life-time) i was scarcely worthy of one kind looke: yet now being dead, thou canst not prohibite me, but i may robbe thee of a kisse. no sooner had hee spoke the words, but it beeing then night, and taking such order, as none might know of his departure: hee mounted on horse-backe, accompanied onely with one servant, and stayed no where, till hee came to the vault where the lady was buried. which when he had opened, with instruments convenient for the purpose, he descended downe into the vault, and kneeled downe by the beere whereon she lay, and in her wearing garments, according to the usuall manner, with teares trickling mainly downe his cheekes, he bestowed infinite sweet kisses on her. but as we commonly see, that mens desires are never contented, but still will presume on further advantages, especially such as love entirely: so fared it with _gentile_, who being once minded to get him gone, as satisfied with the oblation of his kisses; would needs yet step backe againe, saying. why should i not touch her yvory breast, the adamant that drew all desires to adore her? ah let me touch it now, for never hereafter can i bee halfe so happy. overcome with this alluring appetite, gently he laid his hand upon her breast, with the like awefull respect, as if she were living, and holding it so an indifferent while: either he felt, or his imagination so perswaded him, the heart of the lady to beate and pant. casting off all fond feare, and the warmth of his increasing the motion: his inward soule assured him, that she was not dead utterly, but had some small sense of life remaining in her, whereof he would needs be further informed. so gently as possible he could, and with the helpe of his man, he tooke her forth of the monument, & laying her softly on his horse before him, conveighed her closely to his house in _bologna_. signior _gentile_ had a worthy lady to his mother, a woman of great wisdome and vertue, who understanding by her sonne, how matters had happened; moved with compassion, and suffering no one in the house to know what was done, made a good fire, and very excellent bathe, which recalled back againe wrong-wandering life. then fetching a vehement sigh, opening her eyes, & looking very strangely about her, she said. alas! where am i now? whereto the good old lady kindly replyed, saying. comfort your selfe madame, for you are in a good place. her spirits being in better manner met together, and she still gazing every way about her, not knowing well where she was, and seeing signior _gentile_ standing before her: he entreated his mother to tell her by what meanes she came thither; which the good old lady did, _gentile_ himselfe helping to relate the whole history. a while she grieved and lamented, but afterward gave them most hearty thankes, humbly requesting, that, in regard of the love he had formerly borne her, in his house she might finde no other usage, varying from the honour of her selfe and her husband, and when day was come, to be conveighed home to her owne house. madame, answered signior _gentile_, whatsoever i sought to gaine from you in former dayes, i never meane, either here, or any where else, to motion any more. but seeing it hath been my happy fortune, to prove the blessed means, of reducing you from death to life: you shall find no other entertainment here, then as if you were mine owne sister. and yet the good deed which i have this night done for you, doth well deserve some courteous requitall: in which respect, i would have you not to deny me one favour, which i will presume to crave of you. whereto the lady lovingly replyed, that she was willing to grant it; provided, it were honest, and in her power: whereto signior _gentile_ thus answered. madame, your parents, kindred and friends, and generally all throughout _bologna_, doe verily thinke you to be dead, wherefore there is not any one, that will make any inquisition after you: in which regard, the favour i desire from you, is no more but to abide here secretly with my mother, untill such time as i returne from _modena_, which shall be very speedily. the occasion why i move this motion, aymeth at this end, that in presence of the chiefest persons of our city, i may make a gladsome present of you to your husband. the lady knowing her selfe highly beholding to the knight, and the request he made to be very honest: disposed her selfe to doe as he desired (although she earnestly longed, to glad her parents and kindred with seeing her alive) and made her promise him on her faith, to effect it in such manner, as he pleased to appoint and give her direction. scarcely were these words concluded, but she felt the custome of women to come upon her, with the paines and throwes incident to childing: wherefore, with helpe of the aged lady, mother to signior _gentile_, it was not long before her deliverance of a goodly sonne, which greatly augmented the joy of her and _gentile_, who tooke order, that all things belonging to a woman in such a case, were not wanting, but she was as carefully respected, even as if she had been his owne wife. secretly he repaired to _modena_, where having given direction for his place of authority; he returned back againe to _bologna_, and there made preparation for a great and solemne feast, appointing who should be his invited guests, the very chiefest persons in _bologna_, and (among them) signior _nicoluccio caccianimico_ the especiall man. after he was dismounted from horsebacke, and found so good company attending for him (the lady also, more faire and healthful then ever, and the infant lively disposed) he sate downe at the table with his guests, causing them to be served in most magnificent manner, with plenty of all delicates that could be devised, and never before was there such a joviall feast. about the ending of dinner, closely he made the lady acquainted with his further intention, and likewise in what order every thing should be done, which being effected, he returned to his company, & used these speeches. honourable friends, i remember a discourse sometime made unto me, concerning the countrey of _persia_, and a kind of custome there observed, not to be misliked in mine opinion. when any one intended to honour his friend in effectuall manner, he invited him home to his house, and there would shew him the thing, which with greatest love he did respect; were it wife, friend, sonne, daughter, or any thing else whatsoever; wherewithall hee spared not to affirme, that as he shewed him those choyce delights, the like view he should have of his heart, if with any possibility it could be done; and the very same custome i meane now to observe here in our city. you have vouchsafed to honour me with your presence, at this poore homely dinner of mine, and i will welcome you after the _persian_ manner, in shewing you the jewell, which (above all things else in the world) i ever have most respectively esteemed. but before i doe it, i crave your favourable opinions in a doubt, which i will plainely declare unto you. if any man having in his house a good and faithfull servant, who falling into extremity of sickenesse, shall be throwne forth into the open street, without any care or pitty taken on him; a stranger chanceth to passe by, and (moved with compassion of his weakenesse) carryeth him home to his owne house, where using all charitable diligence, and not sparing any cost, he recovereth the sicke person to his former health. i now desire to know, if keeping the said restored person, and imploying him about his owne businesse: the first master (by pretending his first right) may lawfully complaine of the second, and yeeld him backe againe to the first master, albeit he doe make challenge of him? all the gentlemen, after many opinions passing among them, agreed altogether in one sentence, and gave charge to signior _nicoluccio caccianimico_, (because he was an excellent and elegant speaker) to give answere for them all. first, he commended the custome observed in _persia_, saying, he jumpt in opinion with all the rest, that the first master had no right at all to the servant, having not onely (in such necessity) forsaken him, but also cast him forth into the comfortlesse street. but for the benefits and mercy extended to him; it was more then manifest, that the recovered person, was become justly servant to the second master, and in detayning him from the first, hee did not offer him any injury at all. the whole company sitting at the table (being all very wise & worthy men) gave their verdict likewise with the confession of signior _nicoluccio caccianimico_. which answere did not a little please the knight; and so much the rather, because _nicoluccio_ had pronounced it, affirming himselfe to be of the same minde. so, sitting in a pretended musing a while, at length he said. my honourable guests, it is now more then high time, that i should doe you such honour, as you have most justly deserved, by performing the promise made unto you. then calling two of his servants, he sent them to madame _catharina_ (whom he had caused to adorne her self in excellent manner) entreating her, that she would be pleased to grace his guests with her presence. _catharina_, having deckt her child in costly habiliments, layed it in her armes, and came with the servants into the dyning hall, and sate down (as the knight had appointed) at the upper end of the table, and then signior _gentile_ spake thus. behold, worthy gentlemen, this is the jewell which i have most affected, and intend to love none other in the world; be you my judges, whether i have just occasion to doe so, or no? the gentlemen saluting her with respective reverence, said to the knight; that he had great reason to affect her: and viewing her advisedly, many of them thought her to be the very same woman (as indeed she was) but that they beleeved her to be dead. but above all the rest _nicoluccio caccianimico_ could never be satisfied with beholding her; and, enflamed with earnest desire, to know what she was, could not refraine (seeing the knight was gone out of the roome) but demaunded of her, whether she were of _bologna_, or a stranger? when the lady heard her selfe to be thus questioned, and by her husband, it seemed painefull to her, to containe from answering: neverthelesse, to perfect the knights intended purpose, she sate silent. others demaunded of her, whether the sweet boy were hers, or no; and some questioned, if she were _gentiles_ wife, or no, or else his kinsewoman; to all which demaunds, she returned not any answere. but when the knight came to them againe, some of them said to him. sir, this woman is a goodly creature, but she appeareth to be dumbe, which were great pitty, if it should be so. gentlemen (quoth he) it is no small argument of her vertue, to sit still and silent at this instant. tell us then (said they) of whence, and what she is. therein (quoth he) i will quickely resolve you, upon your conditionall promise: that none of you do remove from his place, whatsoever shall be said or done, untill i have fully delivered my minde. every one bound himselfe by solemne promise, to perform what he had appointed, and the tables being voided, as also the carpets laid; then the knight (sitting downe by the lady) thus began. worthy gentlemen, this lady is that true and faithfull servant, whereof i moved the question to you, whom i tooke out of the cold street, where her parents, kindred and friends (making no account at all of her) threw her forth, as a thing vile and unprofitable. neverthelesse, such hath been my care and cost, that i have rescued her out of deaths griping power; and, in a meere charitable disposition, which honest affection caused me to beare her; of a body, full of terror & affrighting (as then she was) i have caused her to become thus lovely as you see. but because you may more apparantly discerne, in what manner this occasion happened; i will lay it open to you in more familiar manner. then he began the whole history, from the originall of his unbeseeming affection to her (in regard she was a worthy mans wife) and consequently, how all had happened to the instant houre, to the no meane admiration of all the hearers, adding withall. now gentlemen (quoth he) if you varry not from your former opinion, and especially signior _nicoluccio caccianimico_: this lady (by good right) is mine, and no man else, by any just title, can lay any claime to her. all sate silent, without answering one word, as expecting what he intended further to say: but in the meane while, _nicoluccio_, the parents and kindred, but chiefely the lady her selfe, appeared as halfe melted into teares with weeping. but signior _gentile_, starting up from the table, taking the infant in his arme, and leading the lady by the hand, going to _nicoluccio_, thus spake. rise sir, i will not give thee thy wife, whom both her kindred and thine, threw forth into the street: but i will bestow this lady on thee, being my gossip, and this sweet boy my god-sonne, who was (as i am verily perswaded) begotten by thee, i standing witnesse for him at the font of baptisme, and give him mine owne name _gentile_. let me entreat thee, that, although she hath lived here in mine house, for the space of three monethes, she should not be lesse welcome to thee, then before: for i sweare to thee upon my soule, that my former affection to her (how unjust soever) was the onely meanes of preserving her life: and more honestly she could not live, with father, mother, or thy selfe, then she hath done here with mine owne mother. having thus spoken, he turned to the lady, saying. madame, i now discharge you of all promises made me, delivering you to your husband franke and free: and when he had given him the lady, and the child in his armes, he returned to his place, and sate downe againe. _nicoluccio_, with no meane joy and hearty contentment received both his wife and childe, being before farre from expectation of such an admirable comfort; returning the knight infinite thankes (as all the rest of the company did the like) who could not refraine from weeping for meere joy, for such a strange and wonderfull accident: everyone highly commending _gentile_, & such also as chanced to heare thereof. the lady was welcommed home to her owne house, with many moneths of joviall feasting, and as she passed through the streets, all beheld her with admiration, to be so happily recovered from her grave. signior _gentile_ lived long after, a loyall friend to _nicoluccio_ and his lady, and all that were well-willers to them. what thinke you now ladies? can you imagine, because a king gave away his crowne and scepter; and an abbot (without any cost to himselfe) reconciled a malefactor to the pope; and an old idle-headed man, yeelding to the mercy of his enemy: that all those actions are comparable to this of signior _gentile_? youth and ardent affection, gave him a just and lawfull title, to her who was free (by imagined death) from husbands, parents, and all friends else, she being so happily wonne into his owne possession. yet honesty not onely over-swayed the heate of desire, which in many men is violent and immoderate: but with a bountifull and liberall soule, that which he coveted beyond all hopes else, and had within his owne command; he freely gave away. beleeve me (bright beauties) not any of the other (in a true and unpartiall judgement) are worthy to be equalled with this, or stiled by the name of magnificent actions. _madame_ dianora, _the wife of signior_ gilberto, _being immodestly affected by signior_ ansaldo, _to free herselfe from his tedious importunity, she appointed him to performe (in her judgement) an act of impossibility, namely, to give her a garden, as plentifully stored with fragrant flowers in january, as in the flourishing moneth of_ may. ansaldo, _by meanes of a bond which he made to a magitian, performed her request. signior_ gilberto, _the ladyes husband, gave consent, that his wife should fulfill her promise made to_ ansaldo. _who hearing the bountifull mind of her husband; released her of her promise: and the magitian likewise discharged signior_ ansaldo, _without taking any thing of him._ the fift novell. _admonishing all ladies and gentlewomen, that are desirous to preserve their chastity, free from all blemish and taxation: to make no promise of yeelding to any, under a compact or covenant, how impossible soever it may seeme to be._ not any one in all the company, but extolled the worthy act of signior _gentile_ to the skies; till the king gave command to madame _�millia_, that she should follow next with her tale, who boldly stepping up, began in this order. gracious ladies, i thinke there is none heere present among us, but (with good reason) may maintaine, that signiour _gentile_ performed a magnificent deede: but whosoever saith, it is impossible to do more; perhaps is ignorant in such actions, as can and may be done, as i meane to make good unto you, by a novell not over-long or tedious. the countrey of _fretulium_, better knowne by the name of _forum julii_; although it be subject to much cold, yet it is pleasant, in regard of many goodly mountaines, rivers, and cleare running springs, wherewith it is not meanly stored. within those territories, is a city called _udina_, where sometime lived a faire and noble lady, named madame _dianora_, wife to a rich and woorthie knight, called signior _gilberto_, a man of very great fame and merite. this beautifull** lady, beeing very modest and vertuously inclined, was highly affected by a noble baron of those parts, tearmed by the name of signior _ansaldo gradense_, a man of very great spirit, bountifull, active in armes, and yet very affable and courteous, which caused him to be the better respected. his love to this lady was extraordinary, hardly to bee contained within any moderate compasse, striving to bee in like manner affected of her: to which end, she wanted no daily solicitings, letters, ambassages and love-tokens, all proving to no purpose. this vertuous lady, being wearied with his often temptations, and seeing, that by denying whatsoever he demanded, yet he wold not give over his suite, but so much the more importunatly still pursued her: began to bethinke herselfe, how she might best be rid of him, by imposing some such taske upon him, as should bee impossible (in her opinion) for him to effect. an olde woman, whom hee imployed for his continual messenger to her, as shee came one day about her ordinary errand, with her she communed in this manner. good woman (quoth she) thou hast so often assured me, that signior _ansaldo_ loveth me above all other women in the world, offering me wonderfull gifts and presents in his name, which i have alwayes refused, and so still will do, in regard i am not to be woon by any such allurements: yet if i could be soundly perswaded, that his affection is answerable to thy peremptory protestations, i shoulde (perhaps) be the sooner wonne, to listen to his suite in milder manner, then hitherto i have done. wherefore, if he will give me assurance, to perform such a businesse as i mean to enjoyne him, he shall the speedier heare better answer from me, and i will confirme it with mine oath. wonderfully pleased was mistresse _maquerella_, to heare a reply of such comfortable hope; and therefore desired the lady, to tel hir what she wold have done. listen to me wel (answerd madam _dianora_) the matter which i would have him to effect for me, is; without the wals of our city, and during the month of januarie nexte ensuing, to provide me a garden, as fairely furnished with all kind of fragrant flowers, as the flourishing month of may can yeelde no better. if he be not able to accomplish this imposition, then i command him, never hereafter to solicite me any more, either by thee, or any other whatsoever; for, if he do importune me afterward, as hitherto i have concealed his secret conspiring, both from my husband, and all my friends; so will i then lay his dishonest suite open to the world, that he may receive punishment accordingly, for offering to wrong a gentleman in his wife. when signior _ansaldo_ heard her demand, and the offer beside thereupon** made him (although it seemed no easie matter; but a thing meerly impossible to be done) he considered advisedly, that she made this motion to no other end, but onely to bereave him of all his hope, ever to enjoy what so earnestly hee desired: neverthelesse, he would not so give it utterly over, but would needs approve what could be done. heereupon, hee sent into divers partes of the world, to find out any one that was able to advise him in this doubtfull case. in the end, one was brought to him, who beeing well recompenced for his paines, by the art of nigromancie would undertake to do it. with him signior _ansaldo_ covenanted, binding himselfe to pay a great summe of mony, upon performance of so rare a deed, awaiting (in hopefull expectation) for the month of januaries comming. it being come, and the weather then in extreamity of cold, every thing being covered with ice and snow; the magitian prevailed so by his art, that after the christmas holy dayes were past, and the calends of january entred: in one night, and without the cittie wals, the goodliest garden of flowers and fruites, was sodainely sprung up, as (in opinion of such as beheld it) never was the like seen before. now ladies, i think i need not demand the question, whether signior _ansaldo_ were wel pleased, or no, who going to beholde it, saw it most plenteously stored, with al kind of fruit trees, flowers, herbes and plants, as no one could be named, that was wanting in this artificiall garden. and having gathered some pretty store of them, secretly he sent them to madam _dianora_, inviting hir to come see her garden, perfected according to her owne desire, and uppon view thereof, to confesse the integrity of his love to her; considering and remembring withall, the promise shee had made him under solemne oath, that she might be reputed for a woman of her word. when the lady beheld the fruites and flowers, and heard many other thinges re-counted, so wonderfully growing in the same garden: she began to repent her rash promise made; yet not withstanding her repentance, as women are covetous to see all rarities; so, accompanied with divers ladies and gentlewomen more, she went to see the garden; and having commended it with much admiration, she returned home againe, the most sorrowfull woman as ever lived, considering what she had tyed her selfe to, for enjoying this garden. so excessive grew her griefe and affliction, that it could not be so clouded or concealed: but her husband tooke notice of it, and would needs understand the occasion thereof. long the lady (in regard of shame and modesty) sate without returning any answer; but being in the end constrained, she disclosd the whole history to him. at the first, signior _gilberto_ waxed exceeding angry, but when he further considered withall, the pure and honest intention of his wife; wisely he pacified his former distemper, and saide. _dianora_, it is not the part of a wise and honest woman, to lend an eare to ambassages of such immodest nature, much lesse to compound or make agreement for her honesty, with any person, under any condition whatsoever. those perswasions which the heart listeneth to, by allurement of the eare, have greater power then many do imagine, & nothing is so uneasie or difficult, but in a lovers judgement it appeareth possible. ill didst thou therefore first of all to listen, but worse (afterward) to contract. but, because i know the purity of thy soule, i will yeelde (to disoblige thee of thy promise) as perhaps no wise man else would do: mooved thereto onely by feare of the magitian, who seeing signior _ansaldo_ displeased, because thou makest a mockage of him; will do some such violent wrong to us, as we shall be never able to recover. wherefore, i would have thee go to signior _ansaldo_, and if thou canst (by any meanes) obtaine of him, the safe-keeping of thy honour, and full discharge of thy promise; it shall be an eternall fame to thee, and the crowne of a most victorious conquest. but if it must needs be otherwise, lend him thy body onely for once, but not thy will: for actions committed by constraint, wherein the will is no way guilty, are halfe pardonable by the necessity. madame _dianora_, hearing her husbands words, wept exceedingly, and avouched, that shee had not deserved any such especiall grace of him, and therefore she would rather dye, then doe it. neverthelesse, it was the will of her husband to have it so, and therefore (against her will) she gave consent. the next morning, by the breake of day, _dianora_ arose, and attiring her selfe in her very meanest garments, with two servingmen before her, and a waiting woman following, she went to the lodging of signior _ansaldo_, who hearing that madam _dianora_ was come to visite him, greatly mervailed, and being risen, he called the magitian to him, saying. come go with me, and see what effect will follow upon thine art. and being come into her presence, without any base or inordinate appetite, he did her humble reverence, embracing her honestly, and taking her into a goodly chamber, where a faire fire was readilie prepared, causing her to sit downe by him, he sayde unto her as followeth. madam, i humbly intreat you to resolve me, if the affection i have long time borne you, and yet do still, deserve any recompence at all: you would be pleased then to tel me truly, the occasion of your instant comming hither, and thus attended as you are. _dianora_, blushing with modest shame, and the teares trickling mainly down her faire cheekes, thus answered. signior _ansaldo_, not for any love i beare you, or care of my faithfull promise made to you, but onely by the command of my husband (who respecting more the paynes and travels of your inordinate love, then his owne reputation and honor, or mine;) hath caused me to come hither: and by vertue of his command, am ready (for once onely) to fulfill your pleasure, but far from any will or consent in my selfe. if signior _ansaldo_ were abashed at the first, hee began now to be more confounded with admiration, when he heard the lady speake in such strange manner: & being much moved with the liberall command of her husband, he began to alter his inflamed heate, into most honourable respect and compassion, returning her this answer. most noble lady, the gods forbid (if it be so as you have sayd) that i should (villain-like) soile the honour of him, that takes such unusuall compassion of my unchaste appetite. and therefore, you may remaine heere so long as you please, in no other condition, but as mine owne naturall borne sister; and likewise, you may depart freely when you will: conditionally, that (on my behalfe) you render such thankes to your husband, as you thinke convenient for his great bounty towards me, accounting me for ever heereafter, as his loyall brother and faithfull servant. _dianora_ having well observed his answer, her heart being ready to mount out at her mouth with joy, said. all the world could never make mee beleeve (considering your honourable minde and honesty) that it would happen otherwise to me, then now it hath done; for which noble courtesie, i will continually remaine obliged to you. so, taking her leave, she returned home honorably attended to her husband, and relating to him what had happened, it proved the occasion of begetting intire love and friendship, betweene himselfe and the noble lord _ansaldo_. now concerning the skilfull magitian, to whom _ansaldo_ meant to give the bountifull recompence agreed on betweene them, hee having seene the strange liberality, which the husband expressed to signior _ansaldo_, and that of _ansaldo_ to the lady, hee presently saide. great _jupiter_ strike me dead with thunder, having my selfe seene a husband so liberall of his honour, and you sir of true noble kindnesse, if i should not be the like of my recompence: for, perceiving it to be so worthily imployed, i am well contented that you shall keepe it. the noble lord was modestly ashamed, and strove (so much as in him lay) that he should take all, or the greater part thereof: but seeing he laboured meerly in vaine, after the third day was past, and the magitian had destroyed the garden againe, hee gave him free liberty to depart, quite controlling all fond and unchaste affection in himselfe, either towards _dianora_, or any lady else, and living (ever after) as best becommeth any nobleman to do. what say you now ladies? shall wee make any account of the woman wel-neere dead, and the kindnesse growne cold in signiour _gentile_, by losse of his former hopes, comparing them with the liberality of signior _ansaldo_, affecting more fervently, then ever the other did? and being (beyond hope) possessed of the booty, which (above all things else in the world) he most desired to have, to part with it meerly in fond compassion? i protest (in my judgement) the one is no way comparable to the other; that of _gentile_, with this last of signior _ansaldo_. _victorious_ king charles, _sirnamed the aged, and first of that name, fell in love with a yong maiden, named_ genevera, _daughter to an ancient knight, called signior_ neri degli uberti. _and waxing ashamed of his amorous folly, caused both_ genevera, _and her fayre sister_ isotta, _to be joyned in marriage with two noble gentlemen; the one named_ signior maffeo da palizzi, _and the other,_ signior gulielmo della magna. the sixt novell. _sufficiently declaring, that how mighty soever the power of love is: yet a magnanimous and truly generous heart, it can by no meanes fully conquer._ who is able to expresse ingeniously, the diversity of opinions, which hapned among the ladies, in censuring on the act of madame _dianora_, and which of them was most liberall, either signior _gilberto_ the husband, lord _ansaldo_ the importunate suiter, or the magitian, expecting to bee bountifully rewarded. surely, it is a matter beyond my capacity: but after the king had permitted their disputation a long while, looking on madam _fiammetta_, he commanded that she should report her novel to make an end of their controversie; and she (without any further delaying) thus began. i did alwaies (noble ladies) hold it fit and decent, that in such an assembly as this of ours is, every one ought to speake so succinctly and plainly: that the obscure understanding, concerning the matters spoken of, should have no cause of disputation. for disputes do much better become the colledges of scholars, then to be among us, who hardly can manage our distaves or samplers. and therefore i, doe intend to relate something, which (peradventure) might appeare doubtfull: will forbeare (seeing you in such a difference; for that which hath bin spoken alreadie) to use any difficult discourse; but will speake of one, a man of no meane ranke or quality, being both a valiant and vertuous king, and what he did, without any impeach or blemish to his honor. i make no doubt, but you have often heard report, of king _charles_ the aged, and first of that name, by reason of his magnificent enterprises, as also his most glorious victory, which he obtaind against king _manfred_, when the _ghibellines_ were expulsed foorth of _florence_, and the _guelphes_ returned thither againe. by which occasion, an ancient knight, named signior _neri degli uberti_; forsaking then the city, with all his family and great store of wealth, woulde live under any other obedience, then the awful power or command of king _charles_. and coveting to be in some solitary place, where he might finish the remainder of his dayes in peace, he went to _castello da mare_; where, about a bow shoote distance from all other dwelling houses, hee bought a parcel of ground, plentifully stored with variety of trees, bearing olives, chesnuts, orenges, lemons, pomcitrons, and other excellent frutages, wherewith the countrey flourisheth abundantly. there he built a very faire and commodious house, and planted (close by it) a pleasant garden, in the middst whereof, because he had great plenty of water: according as other men use to do, being in the like case so wel provided; he made a very goodly pond, which forthwith had all kinde of fish swimming in it, it being his daily care and endeavour**, to tend his garden, and encrease his fish-pond. it fortuned, that king _charles_ (in the summer time) for his pleasure and recreation, went to repose himselfe (for some certayne dayes) at _castello de mare_, where having heard report of the beautie and singularitie of signiour _neries_ garden; hee grew very desirous to see it. but when he understoode to whome it belonged, then he entred into consideration with himselfe, that hee was an ancient knight, maintaining a contrarie faction to his: wherefore, he thought it fit to goe in some familiar manner, and with no trayne attending on him. whereupon he sent him word, that he wold come to visit him, with foure gentlemen onely in his companie, meaning to sup with him in his garden the next night ensuing. the newes was very welcome to _signior neri_, who took order in costly manner for all things to bee done, entertaining the king most joyfully into his beautifull garden. when the king had survayed all, and the house likewise, he commended it beyond all other comparison, and the tables being placed by the ponds side, he washed his hands therein, & then sat down at the table, commanding the count, sir _guy de montforte_ (who was one of them which came in his company) to sitte downe by him, and signior _neri_ on his other side. as for the other three of the traine, hee commaunded them to attend on his service, as signior _neri_ had given order. there wanted no exquisite viandes and excellent wines, all performed in most decent manner, and without the least noise or disturbance, wherein the king tooke no little delight. feeding thus in this contented manner, and facying the solitude of the place: sodainly entred into the garden, two yong damosels, each aged about some fifteene yeares, their haire resembling wyars of gold, and curiously curled, having chaplets (made like provinciall crownes) on their heades, and their delicate faces, expressing them to be rather angels, then mortall creatures, such was the appearance of their admired beauty. their under-garments were of costly silke, yet white as the finest snow, framed (from the girdle upward) close to their bodies, but spreading largely downward, like the extendure of a pavillion, and so descending to the feet. she that first came in sight, caried on her shoulder a couple of fishing netts, which she held fast with her left hand, and in the right she carryed a long staffe. the other following her, had on her left shoulder a frying-pan, and under the same arme a small faggot of woodde, with a trevit in her hand; and in the other hand a pot of oyle, as also a brand of fire flaming. no sooner did the king behold them, but he greatly wondered what they should be; and, without uttering one word, attended to listen what they wold say. both the yong damosels, when they were come before the king, with modest and bashfull gesture, they performed very humble reverence to him, and going to the place of entrance into the pond, she who held the trevit, set it downe on the ground, with the other things also; and taking the staffe which the other damosell carried: they both went into the pond, the water whereof reached so high as to their bosomes. one of the servants to signior _neri_, presently kindled the fire, setting the trevit over it, and putting oyle into the frying-panne, held it uppon the trevit, awaiting untill the damosels should cast him uppe fish. one of them did beate a place with the staffe, where she was assured of the fishes resort, and the other hadde lodged the nets so conveniently, as they quickly caught great store of fish, to the kings high contentment, who observed their behaviour very respectively. as the fishes were throwne up to the servant, alive as they were, he tooke the best and fairest of them, and brought them to the table, where they skipt and mounted before the king, count _guy de montfort_ and the father: some leaping from the table into the pond againe, and others, the king (in a pleasing humour) voluntarily threw backe to the damosels. jesting and sporting in this manner, till the servant had drest divers of them in exquisite order, and served them to the table, according as signior _neri_ had ordained. when the damosels saw the fishes service performed, and perceived that they had fished sufficiently: they came forth of the water, their garments then (being wet) hanging close about them, even as if they hid no part of their bodies. each having taken those things againe, which at first they brought with them, and saluting the king in like humility as they did before, returned home to the mansion house. the king and count likewise, as also the other attending gentlemen, having duely considered the behavior of the damosels: commended extraordinarily their beauty and faire feature, with those other perfections of nature so gloriously shining in them. but (beyond all the rest) the king was boundlesse in his praises given of them, having observed their going into the water, the equall carriage there of them both, their comming forth, and gracious demeanor at their departing (yet neither knowing of whence, or what they were) he felt his affection very violently flamed, and grew into such an amourous desire to them both, not knowing which of them pleased him most, they so choisely resembled one another in all things. but after he had dwelt long enough upon these thoughts, he turned him selfe to signior _neri_, and demanded of him, what damosels they were. sir (answered _neri_) they are my daughters, both brought into the world at one birth, and twinnes, the one being named _genevera_ the faire, and the other _isotta_ the amiable. the king began againe to commend them both, and gave him advise to get them both married: wherein he excused himselfe, alleadging, that he wanted power to doe it. at the same time instant, no other service remaining to be brought to the table, except fruit and cheese, the two damosels returned againe, attyred in goodly roabes of carnation sattin, formed after the turkish fashion, carrying two fayre silver dishes in their hands, filled with divers delicate fruits, such as the season then afforded, setting them on the table before the king. which being done, they retyred a little backeward, and with sweet melodious voyces, sung a ditty, beginning in this manner. _where love presumeth into place: let no one sing in loves disgrace._ so sweet and pleasing seemed the song to the king (who tooke no small delight, both to heare and behold the damosels) even as if all the hirarchies of angels, were descended from the heavens to sing before him. no sooner was the song ended, but (humbly on their knees) they craved favour of the king for their departing. now, although their departure was greatly grieving to him, yet (in outward appearance) he seemed willing to grant it. when supper was concluded, and the king and his company remounted on horsebacke: thankefully departing from signior _neri_, the king returned to his lodging, concealing there closely his affection to himselfe, and whatsoever important affaires happened: yet he could not forget the beauty, & gracious behaviour of _genevera_ the faire (for whose sake he loved her sister likewise) but became so linked to her in vehement manner, as he had no power to think on any thing else. pretending other urgent occasions, he fell into great familiarity with signior _neri_, visiting very often his goodly garden; onely to see his faire daughter _genevera_, the adamant which drew him thither. when he felt his amourous assaults, to exeed all power of longer sufferance: he resolved determinately with himselfe, (being unprovided of any better meanes) to take her away from her father, and not onely she, but her sister also; discovering both his love and intent to count _guy de montforte_, who being a very worthy and vertuous lord, and meet to be a counseller for a king, delivered his mind in this manner. gracious lord, i wonder not a little at your speeches, and so much the greater is my admiration, because no man els can be subject to the like, in regard i have knowne you from the time of your infancy; even to this instant houre, and alwayes your carriage to bee one and the same. i could never perceive in your youthfull dayes (when love should have the greatest meanes to assaile you) any such oppressing passions: which is now the more novell and strange to me, to heare it but said, that you being old, and called the aged; should be growne amorous, surely to me it seemeth a miracle. and if it appertained to me to reprehend you in this case, i know well enough what i could say. considering, you have yet your armour on your backe, in a kingdome newly conquered, among a nation not knowne to you, full of falsehoods, breaches, and treasons; all which are no meane motives to care and needfull respect. but having now wone a little leisure, to rest your selfe a while from such serious affaires; can you give way to the idle suggestions of love? beleeve me sir, it is no act becomming a magnanimious king; but rather the giddy folly of a young braine. moreover you say (which most of all i mislike) that you intend to take the two virgines from the knight, who hath given you entertainment in his house beyond his ability, and to testifie how much he honoured you, he suffered you to have a sight of them, meerely (almost) in a naked manner: witnessing thereby, what constant faith he reposed in you, beleeving verily, that you were a just king, and not a ravenous woolfe. have you so soone forgot, that the rapes and violent actions, done by king _manfred_ to harmelesse ladies, made your onely way of entrance into this kingdome? what treason was ever committed, more worthy of eternall punishment, then this will be in you: to take away from him (who hath so highly honoured you) his chiefest hope and consolation? what will be said by all men, if you doe it? peradventure you thinke, it will be a sufficient excuse for you, to say: i did it, in regard hee was a _ghibelline_. can you imagine this to be justice in a king, that such as get into their possession in this manner (whatsoever it be) ought to use it in this sort? let me tell you sir, it was a most worthy victory for you, to conquer king _manfred_: but it is farre more famous victory, for a man to conquer himselfe. you therefore, who are ordained to correct vices in other men, learne first to subdue them in your selfe, and (by brideling this inordinate appetite) set not a foule blemish on so faire a fame, as will be honour to you to preserve spotlesse. these words pierced the heart of the king deepely, and so much the more afflicted him, because he knew them to be most true: wherefore, after he had ventred a very vehement sigh, thus he replyed. beleeve me noble count, there is not any enemy, how strong soever he be, but i hold him weake and easie to be vanquished, by him who is skilfull in the warre, where a man may learne to conquere his owne appetite. but because he shall find it a laborious taske, requiring inestimable strength and courage: your words have so toucht me to the quicke, that it becommeth me to let you effectually perceive (and within the compasse of few dayes) that as i have learned to conquer others, so i am not ignorant, in expressing the like power upon my selfe. having thus spoken, within some few dayes after, the king being returned to _naples_, he determined, as well to free himself from any the like ensuing follie, as also to recompence signior _neri_, for the great kindnesse he had shewne to him (although it was a difficult thing, to let another enjoy, what he rather desired for himselfe) to have the two damosels married, not as the daughters of signior _neri_, but even as if they were his owne. and by consent of the father, he gave _genevera_ the faire, to signior _maffeo da pallizzi_, and _isotta_ the amiable, to signior _gulielmo della magna_, two noble knights and honourable barons. after he had thus given them in marriage, in sad mourning he departed thence into _apuglia_, where by following worthy and honourable actions, he so well overcame all inordinate appetites: that shaking off the enthralling fetters of love, he lived free from all passions, the rest of his life time, and dyed as an honourable king. some perhaps will say, it was a small matter for a king, to give away two damosels in marriage, and i confesse it: but i maintaine it to be great, and more then great, if we say, that a king, being so earnestly enamoured as this king was; should give her away to another, whom he so dearely affected himselfe, without receiving (in recompence of his affection) so much as a leaffe, flowre, or the least fruit of love. yet such was the vertue of this magnificent king, expressed in so highly recompencing the noble knights courtesie, honouring the two daughters so royally, and conquering his owne affections so vertuously. lisana, _the daughter of a florentine apothecary, named_ bernardo puccino, _being at_ palermo, _and seeing_ piero, _king of_ aragon _run at the tilt; fell so affectionately enamored of him, that she languished in an extreame and long sickenesse. by her owne devise, and means of a song, sung in the hearing of the king: he vouchsafed to visite her, and giving her a kisse, terming himselfe also to bee her knight for ever after, hee honourably bestowed her in marriage on a young gentleman, who was called_ perdicano, _and gave him liberall endowments with her._ the seventh novell. _wherein is covertly given to understand, that howsoever a prince may make use of his absolute power and authority, towards maides or wives that are his subjects: yet he ought to deny and reject all things, as shall make him forgetfull of himselfe, and his true honour._ madame _fiammetta_ being come to the end of her novell, and the great magnificence of king _charles_ much commended (howbeit, some of the company, affecting the _ghibelline_ faction, were otherwise minded) madame _pampinea_, by order given from the king, began in this manner. there is no man of good understanding (honourable ladies) but will maintaine what you have said of victorious _charles_; except such as cannot wish well to any. but because my memory hath instantly informed me, of an action (perhaps) no lesse commendable then this, done by an enemy of the said king _charles_, and to a yong maiden of our city; i am the more willing to relate it, upon your gentle attention vouchsafed, as hitherto it hath been courteously granted. at such time as the french were driven out of _sicilie_, there dwelt at _palermo_ a _florentine_ apothecary, named _bernardo puccino_, a man of good wealth and reputation, who had by his wife one onely daughter, of marriageable yeares, and very beautifull. _piero_, king of _arragon_, being then become lord of that kingdom, he made an admirable feast royall at _palermo_, accompanyed with his lords and barons. in honour of which publique feast, the king kept a triumphall day (of justs and turnament) at _catalana_, and whereat it chanced, that the daughter of _bernardo_, named _lisana_, was present. being in a window, accompanied with other gentlewomen, she saw the king runne at the tilt, who seemed so goodly a person in her eye; that being never satisfied with beholding him, she grew enamoured, and fell into extremity of affection towards him. when the feastivall was ended, she dwelling in the house of her father, it was impossible for her to thinke on any thing else, but onely the love, which she had fixed on a person of such height. and that which most tormented her in this case, was the knowledge of her owne condition, being but meane and humble in degree; whereby she confessed, that she could not hope for any successefull issue of her proud love. neverthelesse, she would not refraine from affecting the king, who taking no note of this kindnesse in her, by any perceivable meanes; must needs be the more regardles, which procured (by wary observation) her afflictions to be the greater and intollerable. whereon it came to passe, that this earnest love encreasing in her more and more, and one melancholly conceit taking hold on another: the faire maide, when she could beare the burden of her griefe no longer; fell into a languishing sickenesse, consuming away daily (by evident appearance) even as the snow melteth by the warme beames of the sunne. the father and mother, much dismayed and displeased at this haplesse accident, applying her with continuall comforts, phisicke, and the best skill remayning in all the phisitions, sought all possible meanes wayes to give her succour: but all proved to no effect, because in regard of her choyce (which could sort to none other then a desperate end) she was desirous to live no longer. now it fortuned, that her parents offering her whatsoever remained in their power to performe, a sudden apprehension entred her minde, to wit, that (if it might possible be done) before she dyed, she would first have the king to know, in what manner she stood affected to him. wherefore, one day she entreated her father, that a gentleman, named _manutio de arezza_, might be permitted to come see her. this _manutio_ was (in those times) held to be a most excellent musitian, both for his voyce in singing, and exquisite skill in playing on instruments, for which he was highly in favour with king _piero_, who made (almost) daily use of him, to heare him both sing and play. her tender and loving father conceived immediately, that shee was desirous to heare his playing and singing, both being comfortable to a body in a languishing sickenesse, whereupon, he sent presently for the gentleman, who came accordingly, and after he had comforted _lisana_ with kind and courteous speeches; he played dexteriously on his lute, which purposely hee had brought with him, and likewise he sung divers excellent ditties, which insted of his intended consolation to the maid, did nothing else but encrease her fire and flame. afterward, she requested to have some conference with _manutio_ alone, and every one being gone forth of the chamber, she spake unto him in this manner. _manutio_, i have made choyce of thee, to be the faithfull guardian of an especial secret, hoping first of al, that thou wilt never reveale it to any living body, but onely to him whom i shall bid thee: and next, to helpe me so much as possibly thou canst, because my onely hope relyeth in thee. know then my dearest friend _manutio_, that on the solemne festivall day, when our soveraigne lord the king honoured his exaltation, with the noble exercises of tilt and turney; his brave behaviour kindled such a sparke in my soule, as since brake forth into a violent flame, and brought me to this weake condition as now thou seest. but knowing and confessing, how farre unbeseeming my love is, to aime so ambitiously at a king, and being unable to controule it, or in the least manner to diminish it: i have made choyce of the onely and best remedy of all, namely, to dye, and so i am most willing to doe. true it is, that i shall travaile in this my latest journey, with endlesse torment and affliction of soule, except he have some understanding thereof before, and not knowing by whom to give him intelligence, in so oft and convenient order, as by thee: i doe therefore commit this last office of a friend to thy trust, desiring thee, not to refuse me in the performance thereof. and when thou hast done it, to let me understand what he saith, that i may dye the more contentedly, and disburdened of so heavy an oppression, the onely comfort to a parting spirit: and so she ceased, her teares flowing forth abundantly. _manutio_ did not a little wonder at the maides great spirit, and her desperate resolution, which moved him to exceeding commiseration, and suddenly he conceived, that honestly he might discharge this duty for her, whereupon, he returned her this answer. _lisana_, here i engage my faith to thee, that thou shalt find me firme and constant, and die i will, rather then deceive thee. greatly i doe commend thy high attempt, in fixing thy affection on so potent a king, wherein i offer thee my utmost assistance: and i make no doubt (if thou wouldest be of good comfort) to deale in such sort, as, before three dayes are fully past, to bring such newes as will content thee, and because i am loath to loose the least time, i will goe about it presently. _lisana_ the yong maiden, once againe entreated his care and diligence, promising to comfort her selfe so well as she could, commending him to his good fortune. when _manutio_ was gone from her, hee went to a gentleman, named _mico de sienna_, one of the best poets in the composing of verses, as all those parts yeelded not the like. at his request, _mico_ made for him this ensuing dittie. the song sung in the hearing of king _piero_, on the behalfe of love-sicke _lisana._ _goe love, and tell the torments i endure, say to my soveraigne lord, that i must die except he come, some comfort to procure, for tell i may not, what i feele, and why._ _with heaved hands great love, i call to thee, goe see my soveraigne, where he doth abide, and say to him, in what extremity, thou hast (for him) my firm affection tryed. to die for him, it is my sole desire, for live with him i may not, nor aspire, to have my fortunes thereby dignified, onely his sight would lend me life a while: grant it (great love) mine anguish to beguile. goe love and tell the torments, &c._ _since the first houre that love enthralled me, i never had the heart, to tell my griefe, my thoughts did speake, for thoughts be alwayes free, yet hopefull thoughts doe find but poore reliefe. when gnats will mount to eagles in the ayre, alas! they scorne them, for full well they know, they were not bred to prey so base and low, aloft they look, to make their flight more faire. and yet his sight would lend me life a while: grant it (great love) mine anguish to beguile. goe love, and tell the torments, &c._ _if sight shall be denyed, then tell them plaine, his high triumphall day procurd my death, the launce that won him honour, hath me slaine, for instantly it did bereave my breath. that speake i could not, nor durst be so bold, to make the ayre acquainted with my woe: alas! i lookt so high, and doing so, justly deserve by death to be controld. yet mercies sight would lend me life a while, grant it (great love) mine anguish to beguile._ _goe love, and tell the torments i endure, say to my soveraigne lord, that i must die: except he come, some comfort to procure, for tell i may not, what i feele, and why._ the lines contained in this ditty, _manutio_ fitted with noates so mooving and singularly musicall, that every word had the sensible motion of life in it, where the king being (as yet) not risen from the table, he commanded him to use both his lute and voyce. this seemed a happy opportunity to _manutio_, to sing the dittie so purposely done and devised: which hee delivered in such excellent manner, the voice and instrument concording so extraordinary pleasing; that all the persons then in the presence, seemed rather statues, then living men, so strangely they were wrapt with admiration, and the king himselfe farre beyond all the rest, transported with a rare kinde of alteration. when _manutio_ had ended the song, the king demanded of him, whence this song came, because he had never heard it before? my gracious lord, answered _manutio_, it must needes seeme straunge to your majesty, because it is not fully three dayes, since it was invented, made, and set to the note. then the king asked, whom it concerned? sir (quoth _manutio_) i dare not disclose that to any but onely your selfe. which answer made the king much more desirous, and being risen from the table, he tooke him into his bed-chamber, where _manutio_ related all at large to him, according to the trust reposed in him. wherewith the king was wonderfully well pleased, greatly commending the courage of the maide, and said, that a virgin of such a valiant spirit, did well deserve to have her case commiserated: and commanded him also, to goe (as sent from him) and comfort her, with promise, that the very same day, in the evening, he would not faile to come and see her. _manutio_, more then contented, to carry such glad tydings to _lisana_; without staying in any place, and taking his lute also with him, went to the apothecaries house, where speaking alone with the maide: he told her what he had done, and afterward sung the song to her, in as excellent manner as he had done before, wherein _lisana_ conceived such joy and contentment, as even in the very same moment, it was observed by apparant signes, that the violence of her fits forsooke her, and health began to get the upper hand of them. so, without suffering any one in the house to know it, or by the least meanes to suspect it; she comforted her selfe till the evening, in expectation of her soveraignes arrivall. _piero_ being a prince, of most liberall and benigne nature, having afterward divers times considered on the matters which _manutio_ had revealed to him, knowing also the yong maiden, to bee both beautifull and vertuous: was so much moved with pitty of her extremitie, as mounting on horse-backe in the evening, and seeming as if he rode abroad for his private recreation; he went directly to the apothecaries house, where desiring to see a goodly garden, appertaining then to the apothecarie, he dismounted from his horse. walking into the garden, he began to question with _bernardo_, demaunding him for his daughter, and whether he had (as yet) marryed her, or no? my gracious lord, answered _bernardo_, as yet shee is not marryed, neither likely to bee, in regard shee hath had a long and tedious sickenesse: but since dinner time, she is indifferently eased of her former violent paine, which we could not discerne the like alteration in her, a long while before. the king understood immediately, the reason of this so sudden alteration, and said. in good faith _bernardo_, the world would sustaine a great maine & imperfection, by the losse of thy faire daughter; wherefore, we will goe our selfe in person to visite her. so, with two of his lords onely, and the father, he ascended to the maides chamber & being entred, he went to the beds side, where she sate, somewhat raised, in expectation of his comming, and taking her by the hand, he said. faire _lisana_, how commeth this to passe? you being so faire a virgin, yong, and in the delicacy of your daies, which should be the chiefest comfort to you, will you suffer your selfe to be over-awed with sickenesse? let us intreat you, that (for our sake) you will be of good comfort, and thereby recover your health the sooner, especially, when it is requested by a king, who is sorry to see so bright a beauty sicke, and would helpe it, if it consisted in his power. _lisana_, feeling the touch of his hand, whom she loved above all things else in the world, although a bashfull blush mounted up into her cheekes: yet her heart was seazed with such a rapture of pleasure, that she thought her selfe translated into paradise, and, so well as she could, thus she replyed. great king, by opposing my feeble strength, against a burden of over-ponderous weight, it became the occasion of this grievous sickenesse: but i hope that the violence thereof is (almost) already kild, onely by this soveraigne mercy in you; and doubtlesse it will cause my speedy deliverance. the king did best understand this so well palliated answere of _lisana_, which as he did much commend, in regard of her high adventuring; so he did againe as greatly condemne fortune, for not making her more happy in her birth. so, after he had stayed there a good while, and given her many comfortable speeches, he returned backe to the court. this humanity in the king, was reputed a great honour to the apothecary and his daughter, who (in her owne mind) received as much joy and contentment thereby, as ever any wife could have of her owne husband. and being assisted by better hopes, within a short while after, she became recovered, and farre more beautifull (in common judgment) then ever she was before. _lisana_ being now in perfect health, the king consulted with his queene, what meete recompence he should gratifie her withall, for loving and affecting him in such fervent manner. upon a day determined, the king mounting on horsebacke, accompanied with many of his cheefest lords and barons, he rode to the apothecaries house, where walking in his beautifull garden, hee called for _bernardo_ and his daughter _lisana_. in the meane space, the queene also came thither, royally attended on by her ladies, and _lisana_ being admitted into their company, they expressed themselves very gracious to her. soone after, the king and the queene cald _lisana_, and the king spake in this manner to her. faire virgin, the extraordinary love which you bare to us, calleth for as great honour from us to you; in which respect, it is our royall desire, by one meanes or other to requite your kinde love. in our opinion, the chiefe honour we can extend to you, is, that being of sufficient yeares for marriage, you would grace us so much, as to accept him for your husband, whom we intend to bestow on you. beside this further grant from us, that (notwithstanding whatsoever else) you shall call us your knight; without coveting any thing else from you, for so great favour, but only one kisse, and thinke not to bestow it nicely on a king, but grant it the rather, because he begges it. _lisana_, whose lookes, were dyed with a vermillian tincture, or rather converted into a pure maiden blush, reputing the kings desire to be her owne; in a low and humbled voyce, thus answered. my lord, most certaine am i, that if it had beene publikely knowne, how none but your highnes, might serve for me to fixe my love on, i should have been termed the foole of all fooles: they perhaps beleeving, that i was forgetfull of my selfe, in being ignorant of mine owne condition, and much lesse of yours. but the gods are my witnesses (because they know the secrets of all hearts) that even in the very instant, when loves fire tooke hold on my yeelding affection: i knew you to be a king, and my selfe the daughter of poore _bernardo_ the apothecary: likewise, how farre unfitting it was for me, to be so ambitious in my loves presuming. but i am sure your majestie doth know (much better then i am able to expresse) that no one becommeth amourous, according to the duty of election, but as the appetite shapeth his course, against whose lawes my strength made many resistances, which not prevailing, i presumed to love, did, and so for ever shall doe, your majestie. now royall soveraigne, i must needes confesse, that so soone as i felt my selfe thus wholly conquered by loving you, i resolved for ever after, to make your will mine owne, and therefore, am not onely willing to accept him for my husband, whom you shall please to appoint, befitting my honor and degree: but if you will have me to live in a flaming fire, my obedience shall sacrifice it selfe to your will, with the absolute conformity of mine owne. to stile you by the name of my knight, whom i know to be my lawfull king and soveraigne; you are not ignorant, how farre unfitting a word that were for me to use: as also the kisse which you request, in requitall of my love to you; to these two i will never give consent, without the queenes most gracious favour and license first granted. neverthelesse, for such admirable benignity used to me, both by your royall selfe, and your vertuous queene: heaven shower downe all boundlesse graces on you both, for it exceedeth all merit in me, and so she ceased speaking, in most dutifull manner. the answer of _lisana_ pleased the queene exceedingly, in finding her to be so wise and faire, as the king himself had before informed her: who instantly called for her father and mother, and knowing they would be well pleased with whatsoever he did; he called for a proper yong gentleman, but some what poore, being named _perdicano_, and putting certaine rings into his hand, which he refused not to receive, caused him there to espouse _lisana_. to whome the king gave immediately (besides chaines and jewels of inestimable valew, delivered by the queene to the bride) _ceffala_ and _calatabelotta_, two great territories abounding in divers wealthy possessions, saying to _perdicano_. these wee give thee, as a dowry in marriage with this beautifull maid, and greater gifts we will bestow on thee hereafter, as we shall perceive thy love and kindnesse to her. when he had ended these words, hee turned to _lisana_, saying: heere doe i freely give over all further fruits of your affection towards me, thanking you for your former love: so taking her head betweene his hands, he kissed her faire forhead, which was the usuall custome in those times. _perdicano_, the father and mother of _lisana_, and she her selfe likewise, extraordinarily joyfull for this so fortunate a marriage, returned humble and hearty thankes both to the king and queene, and (as many credible authors doe affirme) the king kept his promise made to _lisana_, because (so long as he lived) he alwaies termed himselfe by the name of her knight, and in al actions of chivalry by him undertaken, he never carried any other devise, but such as he received still from her. by this, and divers other like worthy deeds, not onely did he win the hearts of his subjects; but gave occasion to the whole world beside, to renowne his fame to all succeeding posterity. whereto (in these more wretched times of ours) few or none bend the sway of their understanding: but rather how to bee cruell and tyrranous lords, and thereby win the hatred of their people. sophronia, _thinking her selfe to be the maried wife of_ gisippus, _was (indeed) the wife of_ titus quintus fulvius, _& departed thence with him to rome. within a while after,_ gisippus _also came thither in very poore condition, and thinking that he was despised by_ titus, _grew weary of his life, and confessed that he had murdred a man, with full intent to die for the fact. but_ titus _taking knowledge of him, and desiring to save the life of_ gisippus, _charged himself to have done the bloody deed. which the murderer himself (standing then among the multitude) seeing, truly confessed the deed. by meanes whereof, all three were delivered by the emperor_ octavius; _and_ titus _gave his sister in mariage to_ gisippus, _giving them also the most part of his goods & inheritances._ the eight novell. _declaring, that notwithstanding the frownes of fortune, diversity of occurrences, and contrary accidents happening: yet love and friendship ought to be preciously preserved among men._ by this time madam _philomena_, at command of the king, (madam _pampinea_ ceasing) prepared to follow next in order, whereupon thus she began. what is it (gracious ladies) that kings can not do (if they list) in matters of greatest importance, and especially unto such as most they should declare their magnificence? he then that performeth what he ought to do, when it is within his owne power, doth well. but it is not so much to bee admired, neither deserveth halfe the commendations, as when one man doth good to another, when least it is expected, as being out of his power, and yet performed. in which respect, because you have so extolled king _piero_, as appearing not meanly meritorious in your judgements; i make no doubt but you will be much more pleased, when the actions of our equals are duly considered, and shall paralell any of the greatest kings. wherefore i purpose to tell you a novel, concerning an honorable curtesie of two worthy friends. at such time as _octavius cæsar_ (not as yet named _augustus_, but only in the office called _triumveri_) governed the _romane_ empire, there dwelt in _rome_ a gentleman, named _publius quintus fulvius_, a man of singular understanding, who having one son, called _titus quintus fulvius_, of towardly yeares and apprehension, sent him to _athens_ to learne philosophy; but with letters of familiar commendations, to a noble _athenian_ gentleman, named _chremes_, being his ancient friend, of long acquaintance. this gentleman lodged _titus_ in his owne house, as companion to his son, named _gisippus_, both of them studying together, under the tutoring of a philosopher, called _aristippus_. these two yong gentlemen living thus in one citty, house, and schoole, it bred betweene them such a brother-hoode and amity, as they could not be severed from one another; but only by the accident of death; nor could either of them enjoy any content, but when they were both together in company. being each of them endued with gentle spirits, and having begun their studies together: they arose (by degrees) to the glorious height of philosophy, to their much admired fame and commendation. in this manner they lived, to the no meane comfort of _chremes_, hardly distinguishing the one from the other for his son, & thus the scholars continued the space of three yeares. at the ending whereof (as it hapneth in al things else) _chremes_ died, whereat both the young gentlemen conceived such hearty griefe, as if he had bin their common father; nor could the kinred of _chremes_ discerne, which of the two had most need of comfort, the losse touched them so equally. it chanced within some few months after, that the kinred of _gisippus_ came to see him, and (before _titus_) avised him to marriage, and with a yong gentlewoman of singular beauty, derived from a most noble house in _athens_, and she named _sophronia_, aged about fifteen years. this mariage drawing neere, _gisippus_ on a day, intreated _titus_ to walk along with him thither, because (as yet) he had not seene her. comming to the house, and she sitting in the midst betweene them, _titus_ making himselfe a considerator of beauty, & especially on his friends behalfe; began to observe her very judicially, & every part of her seemed so pleasing in his eie, that giving them al a privat praise, yet answerable to their due deserving; he becam so enflamed with affection to her, as never any lover could bee more violentlie surprized, so sodainly doth beauty beguile our best senses. after they had sate an indifferent while with her, they returned home to their lodging, where _titus_ being alone in his chamber, began to bethink himselfe on her, whose perfections had so powerfully pleased him: and the more he entred into this consideration, the fiercer he felt his desires enflamed, which being unable to quench, by any reasonable perswasions, after hee had vented foorth infinite sighes, thus he questioned with himselfe. most unhappie _titus_ as thou art, whether doost thou transport thine understanding, love, and hope? dooest thou not know as well by the honourable favours, which thou hast received of _chremes_ and his house, as also the intire amity betweene thee and _gisippus_ (unto whom faire _sophronia_ is the affianced friend) that thou shouldst holde her in the like reverent respect, as if shee were thy true borne sister? darest thou presume to fancie her? whether shall beguiling love allure thee, and vaine immaging hopes carrie thee? open the eyes of thy better understanding, and acknowledge thy selfe to bee a most miserable man. give way to reason, bridle thine intemperate appetites, reforme all irregulare desires, and guide thy fancy to a place of better direction. resist thy wanton and lascivious will in the beginning, and be master of thy selfe, while thou hast opportunity, for that which thou aimest at, is neither reasonable nor honest. and if thou wert assured to prevaile upon this pursuite, yet thou oughtst to avoide it, if thou hast any regard of true friendship, and the duty therein justly required. what wilt thou do then _titus_? fly from this inordinate affection, if thou wilt be reputed to be a man of sensible judgement. after he had thus discoursed with himselfe, remembring _sophronia_, and converting his former allegations, into a quite contrarie sense, in utter detestation of them, and guided by his idle appetite, thus he began againe. the lawes of love are of greater force, then any other whatsoever, they not only breake the bands of friendship, but even those also of more divine consequence. how many times hath it bin noted, the father to affect his own daughter, the brother his sister, and the stepmother her son in law, matters far more monstrous, then to see one friend love the wife of another, a case happening continually? moreover, i am yong, and youth is wholly subjected to the passions of love: is it reasonable then, that those should be bard from me, which are fitting and pleasing to love? honest things, belong to men of more years and maturity, then i am troubled withall, and i can covet none, but onely those wherein love is directer. the beauty of _sophronia_ is worthy of generall love, and if i that am a yongman do love her, what man living can justly reprove me for it? shold not i love her, because she is affianced to _gisippus_? that is no matter to me, i ought to love her, because she is a woman, and women were created for no other occasion, but to bee loved. fortune had sinned in this case, and not i, in directing my friends affection to her, rather then any other; and if she ought to be loved, as her perfections do challenge, _gisippus_ understanding that i affect her, may be the better contented that it is i, rather then any other. with these, and the like crosse entercourses, he often mockt himselfe, falling into the contrary, and then to this againe, and from the contrary, into another kind of alteration, wasting and consuming himselfe, not only this day and the night following, but many more afterward, till he lost both his feeding & sleepe, so that through debility of body, he was constrained to keepe his bed. _gisippus_, who had divers dayes noted his melancholly disposition, and now his falling into extreamitie of sicknesse, was very sorry to behold it: and with all meanes and inventions he could devise to use, hee both questioned the cause of this straunge alteration, and essayed everie way, how hee might best comfort him, never ceassing to demaunde a reason, why he should become thus sad and sickely. but _titus_ after infinite importuning, which still he answered with idle and frivolous excuses, farre from the truth indeede, and (to the no meane affliction of his friend) when he was able to use no more contradictions; at length, in sighes and teares, thus he replyed. _gisippus_, were the gods so wel pleased, i could more gladly yeild to dye, then continue any longer in this wretched life, considering, that fortune hath brought mee to such an extremity, as proofe is now to be made of my constancie and vertue; both which i finde conquered in me, to my eternall confusion and shame. but my best hope is, that i shall shortly be requited, as i have in justice deserved, namely with death, which will be a thousand times more welcome to me, then a loathed life, with remembrance of my base dejection in courage, which because i can no longer conceale from thee; not without blushing shame, i am well contented for to let thee know it. then began hee to recount, the whole occasion of this straunge conflict in him, what a maine battaile hee had with his private thoughts, confessing that they got the victory, causing him to die hourely for the love of _sophronia_, and affirming withall, that in due acknowledgement, how greatly hee had transgressed against the lawes of friendship, he thought no other penance sufficient for him, but onely death, which he willingly expected every houre, and with all his heart would gladly bid welcome. _gisippus_ hearing this discourse, and seeing how _titus_ bitterly wept, in agonies of most moving afflictions: sat an indifferent while sad and pensive, as being wounded with affection to _sophronia_, but yet in a well-governed and temperate manner. so, without any long delaying, hee concluded with himselfe; that the life of his friend ought to be accounted much more deare, then any love hee could beare unto _sophronia_: and in this resolution, the teares of _titus_ forcing his eyes to flow forth like two fountaines, thus he replyed. _titus_, if thou hadst not neede of comfort, as plainly i see thou hast, i would justly complaine of thee to my selfe, as of the man who hath violated our friendship, in keeping thine extreamitie so long time concealed from mee, which hath beene over-tedious for thee to endure. and although it might seeme to thee a dishonest case, and therefore kept from the knowledge of thy friend, yet i plainly tell thee, that dishonest courses (in the league of amitie) deserve no more concealment, then those of the honestest nature. but leaving these impertinent wandrings, let us come to them of much greater necessitie. if thou doest earnestly love faire _sophronia_, who is betroathed and affianced to me, it is no matter for me to marvaile at: but i should rather be much abashed, if thou couldst not intyrely affect her, knowing how beautifull she is, and the nobility of her minde, being as able to sustaine passion, as the thing pleasing is fullest of excellence. and looke how reasonably thou fanciest _sophronia_, as unjustly thou complainest of thy fortune, in ordaining her to be my wife, although thou doest not speake it expresly: as being of opinion, that thou mightest with more honesty love her, if she were any others, then mine. but if thou art so wise, as i have alwayes held thee to be, tell me truely upon thy faith, to whom could fortune better guide her, and for which thou oughtest to be more thankfull, then in bestowing her on me? any other that had enjoyed her, although thy love were never so honest, yet he would better affect her himselfe, then for thee, which thou canst not (in like manner) looke for from me, if thou doest account me for thy friend, and as constant now as ever. reason is my warrant in this case, because i cannot remember, since first our entrance into friendship, that ever i enjoyed any thing, but it was as much thine, as mine. and if our affaires had such an equall course before, as otherwise they could not subsist; must they not now be kept in the same manner? can any thing more perticularly appertaine to me, but thy right therein is as absolute as mine? i know not how thou maist esteeme of my friendship, if in any thing concerning my selfe, i can plead my priviledge to be above thine. true it is, that _sophronia_ is affianced to me, and i love her dearely, daily expecting when our nuptials shall be celebrated. but seeing thou doest more fervently affect her, as being better able to judge of the perfections, remaining in so excellent a creature as she is, then i doe: assure thy selfe, and beleeve it constantly, that she shall come to my bed, not as my wife, but onely thine. and therefore leave these despairing thoughts, shake off this cloudy disposition, reassume thy former joviall spirit, with comfort and what else can content thee: in expectation of the happy houre, and the just requitall of thy long, loving, and worthy friendship, which i have alwayes valued equall with mine owne life. _titus_ hearing this answer of _gisippus_, looke how much the sweet hope of that which he desired gave him pleasure, as much both duty and reason affronted him with shame; setting before his eyes this du consideration, that the greater the liberality of _gisippus_ was, farre greater and unreasonable it appeared to him in disgrace, if hee should unmannerly accept it. wherefore, being unable to refrain from teares, and with such strength as his weaknesse would give leave, thus he replyed. _gisippus_, thy bounty and firme friendship suffereth me to see apparantly, what (on my part) is no more then ought to be done. all the gods forbid, that i should receive as mine, her whom they have adjudged to be thine, by true respect of birth and desert. for if they had thought her a wife fit for me, doe not thou or any else imagine, that ever she should have beene granted to thee. use freely therefore thine owne election, and the gracious favour wherewith they have blessed thee: leave me to consume away in teares, a mourning garment by them appointed for me, as being a man unworthy of such happinesse; for either i shall conquer this disaster, and that will be my crowne, or else will vanquish me, and free me from all paine: whereto _gisippus_ presently thus answered. worthy _titus_, if our amity would give me so much licence, as but to contend with my selfe, in pleasing thee with such a thing as i desire, and could also induce thee therein to be directed: it is the onely end whereat i aime, and am resolved to pursue it. in which regard, let my perswasions prevaile with thee, and thereto i conjure thee, by the faith of a friend, suffer me to use mine authority, when it extendeth both to mine owne honour, and thy good, for i will have _sophronia_ to bee onely thine. i know sufficiently, how farre the forces of love doe extend in power, and am not ignorant also, how not once or twice, but very many times, they have brought lovers to unfortunate ends, as now i see thee very neere it, and so farre gone, as thou art not able to turne backe againe, nor yet to conquer thine owne teares, but proceeding on further in this extremity, thou wilt be left vanquished, sinking under the burthen of loves tyrannicall oppression, and then my turne is next to follow thee. and therefore, had i no other reason to love thee, yet because thy life is deare to me, in regard of mine owne depending thereon; i stand the neerer thereto obliged. for this cause, _sophronia_ must and shall be thine, for thou canst not find any other so conforme to thy fancy: albeit i who can easily convert my liking to another wife, but never to have the like friend againe, shall hereby content both thee, and my selfe. yet perhaps this is not a matter so easily done, or i to expresse such liberality therein, if wives were to be found with the like difficultie, as true and faithfull friends are: but, (being able to recover another wife) though never such a worthy friend; i rather chuse to change, i doe not say loose her (for in giving her to thee, i loose her not my selfe) and by this change, make that which was good before, tenne times better, and so preserve both thee and my selfe. to this end therefore, if my prayers and perswasions have any power with thee, i earnestly entreat thee, that, by freeing thy selfe out of this affliction, thou wilt (in one instant) make us both truely comforted, and dispose thy selfe (living in hope) to embrace that happinesse, which the fervent love thou bearest to _sophronia_, hath justly deserved. now although _titus_ was confounded with shame, to yeeld consent, that _sophronia_ should be accepted as his wife, and used many obstinate resistances: yet notwithstanding, love pleading on the one side powerfully, and _gisippus_ as earnestly perswading on the other, thus he answered. _gisippus_, i know not what to say, neither how to behave my selfe in this election, concerning the fitting of mine contentment, or pleasing thee in thy importunate perswasion. but seeing thy liberality is so great, as it surmounteth all reason or shame in me, i will yeeld obedience to thy more then noble nature. yet let this remaine for thine assurance, that i doe not receive this grace of thine, as a man not sufficiently understanding, how i enjoy from thee, not onely her whom most of all i doe affect, but also doe hold my very life of thee. grant then you greatest gods (if you be the patrones of this mine unexpected felicitie) that with honor and due respect, i may hereafter make apparantly knowne: how highly i acknowledge this thy wonderfull favour, in being more mercifull to me, then i could be to my selfe. for abridging of all further circumstances, answered _gisippus_, and for easier bringing this matter to full effect, i hold this to be our onely way. it is not unknowne to thee, how after much discourse had between my kindred, and those belonging to _sophronia_, the matrimoniall conjunction was fully agreed on, and therefore, if now i shall flye off, and say, i will not accept thee as my wife: great scandall would arise thereby, and make much trouble among our friends, which could not be greatly displeasing to me, if that were the way to make her thine. but i rather stand in feare, that if i forsake her in such peremptory sort, her kinred and friends will bestow her on some other, and so she is utterly lost, without all possible meanes of recovery. for prevention therefore of all sinister accidents, i thinke it best, (if thy opinion jumpe with mine) that i still pursue the busines, as already i have begun, having thee alwaies in my company, as my dearest friend and onely associate. the nuptials being performed with our friends, in secret manner at night (as we can cunningly enough contrive it) thou shalt have her maiden honour in bed, even as if she were thine owne wife. afterward, in apt time and place, we will publiquely make knowne what is done; if they take it well, we will be as jocond as they: if they frowne and waxe offended, the deed is done, over-late to be recalled, and so perforce they must rest contented. you may well imagine, this advise was not a little pleasing to _titus_, whereupon _gisippus_ received home _sophronia_ into his house, with publike intention to make her his wife, according as was the custome then observed, and _titus_ being perfectly recovered, was present at the feast very ceremonially observed. when night was come, the ladies and gentlewomen conducted _sophronia_ to the bride-chamber, where they left her in her husbands bed, and then departed all away. the chamber wherein _titus_ used to lodge, joyned close to that of _gisippus_, for their easier accesse each to the other, at all times whensoever they pleased, and _gisippus_ being alone in the bride-chamber, preparing as if he were comming to bed: extinguishing the light, he went softly to _titus_, willing him to goe to bed to his wife. which _titus_ hearing, overcome with shame and feare, became repentant, and denyed to goe. but _gisippus_, being a true intyre friend indeed, and confirming his words with actions: after a little lingring dispute, sent him to the bride, and so soone as he was in the bed with her, taking _sophronia_ gently by the hand, softly he moved the usuall question to her, namely, if she were willing to be his wife. she beleeving verily that he was _gisippus_, modestly answered. sir, i have chosen you to be my husband, reason requires then, that i should be willing to be your wife. at which words, a costly ring, which _gisippus_ used daily to weare, he put upon her finger, saying. with this ring, i confesse my selfe to be your husband, and bind you (for ever) my spouse and wife; no other kind of marriage was observed in those dayes; and so he continued all the night with her, she never suspecting him to be any other then _gisippus_, and thus was the marriage consumated, betweene _titus_ and _sophronia_, albeit the friends (on either side) thought otherwise. by this time, _publius_, the father of _titus_, was departed out of this mortall life, & letters came to _athens_, that with all speed he should returne to _rome_, to take order for occasions there concerning him, wherefore he concluded with _gisippus_ about his departure, and taking _sophronia_ thither with him, which was no easie matter to be done, until it were first known, how occasions had bin caried among them. whereupon, calling her one day into her chamber, they told her entirely, how all had past, which _titus_ confirmed substantially, by such direct passages betweene themselves, as exceeded all possibility of denyall, and moved in her much admiration; looking each on other very discontentedly, she heavily weeping and lamenting, & greatly complaining of _gisippus_, for wronging her so unkindly. but before any further noyse was made in the house, shee went to her father, to whom, as also to her mother, shee declared the whole trecherie, how much both they and their other friends were wronged by _gisippus_, avouching her selfe to be the wife of _titus_, and not of _gisippus_, as they supposed. these newes were highly displeasing to the father of _sophronia_, who with hir kinred, as also those of _gisippus_, made great complaints to the senate, very dangerous troubles and commotions arising daily betweene them, drawing both _gisippus_ and _sophronia_ into harsh reports; he being generally reputed, not onely worthy of all bitter reproofe, but also the severest punishment. neverthelesse, hee maintained publikely what he had done, avouching it for an act both of honour and honestie, wherewith _sophronia's_ friends had no reason to bee offended, but rather to take it in very thankfull part, having married a man of farre greater worth and respect, than himselfe was, or could be. on the other side, _titus_ hearing these uncivill acclamations, became much moved and provoked at them, but knowing it was a custome observed among the _greekes_, to be so much the more hurried away with rumours and threatnings, as lesse they finde them to be answered, and when they finde them, shew themselves not onely humble enough, but rather as base men, and of no courage; he resolved with himselfe, that their braveries were no longer to be endured, without some some bold and manly answere. and having a romane heart, as also an athenian understanding, by politique perswasions, he caused the kinred of _gisippus_ and _sophronia_, to be assembled in a temple, and himselfe comming thither, accompanied with none but _gisippus_ onely, he began to deliver his minde before them all, in this manner following. the oration uttered by _titus quintus fulvius_, in the hearing of the athenians, being the kinred and friends to _gisippus_ and _sophronia_. _many philosophers doe hold opinion, that the actions performed by mortall men, doe proceed from the disposing and ordination of the immortall gods. whereupon some doe maintaine, that things which be done, or never are to be done, proceed of necessity: howbeit some other doe hold, that this necessity is onely referred to things done. both which opinions (if they be considered with mature judgment) doe most manifestly approve, that they who reprehend any thing which is irrevocable, doe nothing else but shew themselves, as if they were wiser then the gods, who we are to beleeve, that with perpetuall reason, and void of any error, doe dispose and governe both us, and all our actions; in which respect, how foolish and beast-like a thing it is, presumptuously to checke or controule their operations, you may very easily consider; and likewise, how justly they deserve condigne punishment, who suffer themselves to be transported in so temerarious a manner._ _in which notorious transgression, i understand you all to be guiltie, if common fame speake truely, concerning the marriage of my selfe and_ sophronia, _whom you imagined as given to_ gisippus; _for you never remember that it was so ordained from eternitie, shee to be mine, and no wife for_ gisippus, _as at this instant is made manifest by full effect. but because the kinde of speaking, concerning divine providence, and intention of the gods, may seeme a difficult matter to many, and somewhat hard to bee understood: i am content to presuppose, that they meddle not with any thing of ours, and will onely stay my selfe on humane reasons, and in this nature of speech, i shall be enforced to doe two things, quite contrary to my naturall disposition. the one is, to speake somewhat in praise and commendation of my selfe: and the other, justly to blame and condemne other mens seeming estimation. but because both in the one and the other, i doe not intend to swerve a jot from the truth, and the necessitie of the present case in question, doth not onely require, but also command it, you must pardon what i am to say._ _your complaints doe proceed, rather from furie then reason, and (with continuall murmurings, or rather seditious) slander, backe-bite and condemne_ gisippus, _because (of his owne free will and noble disposition) hee gave her to be my wife, whom (by your election) was made his; wherein i account him most highly praise-worthy: and the reasons inducing mee thereunto, are these. the first, because he hath performed no more then what a friend ought to doe: and the second, in regard he hath dealt more wisely, then you did. i have no intention, to display (at this present) what the sacred law of amitie requireth, to be acted by one friend towards another, it shall suffice mee onely to informe you, that the league of friendship (farre stronger then the bond of bloud and kinred) confirmed us in our election of either at the first, to be true, loyall and perpetuall friends; whereas that of kinred, commeth onely by fortune or chance. and therefore if_ gisippus _affected more my life, then your benevolence, i being ordained for his friend, as i confesse my selfe to be; none of you ought to wonder thereat, in regard it is no matter of mervaile._ _but let us come now to our second reason, wherein, with farre greater instance i will shew you, that he hath (in this occasion) shewen himselfe to be much more wise, then you did, or have done: because it plainely appeareth, that you have no feeling of the divine providence, and much lesse knowledge in the effects of friendship. i say, that your foresight, councell and deliberation, gave_ sophronia _to_ gisippus, _a yong gentleman, and a philosopher:_ gisippus _likewise hath given her to a yong gentleman, and a philosopher, as himselfe is. your discretion gave her to an athenian; the gift of_ gisippus_, is to a romaine. yours, to a noble and honest man; that of_ gisippus, _to one more noble by race, and no lesse honest then himselfe. your judgement hath bestowed her on a rich young man:_ gisippus _hath given her to one farre richer. your wisedome gave her to one who not onely loved her not, but also one that had no desire to know her:_ gisippus _gave her unto him, who, above all felicitie else, yea, more than his owne life, both entirely loved and desired her._ _now, for proofe of that which i have said, to be most true and infallible, and that his deede deserveth to bee much more commended then yours, let it bee duely considered on, point by point. that i am a young man and a philosopher, as_ gisippus _is; my yeares, face, and studies, without seeking after further proofe, doth sufficiently testifie: one selfe-same age is both his and mine, in like quality of course have wee lived and studied together. true it is, that hee is an athenian, and i am a romaine. but if the glory of these two cities should bee disputed on: then let mee tell you, that i am of a citie that is francke and free, and hee is of a tributarie citie. i say, that i am of a citie, which is chiefe lady and mistresse of the whole world, and hee is of a citie subject to mine. i say that i am of a citie, that is strong in arms, empire, and studies: whereas his can commend it selfe but for studies onely. and although you see me heere to bee a scholler, in appearance meane enough, yet i am not descended of the simplest stocke in rome._ _my houses and publique places, are filled with the ancient statues of my predecessors, and the annales recorde the infinite triumphs of the quintii, brought home by them into the romane capitole, and yeares cannot eate out the glory of our name, but it will live and flourish to all posteritie._ _modest shame makes me silent in my wealth and possessions, my minde truely telling mee, that honest contented povertie, is the most ancient and richest inheritance, of our best and noblest romanes, which opinion, if it bee condemned by the understanding of the ignorant multitude, and heerein wee shall give way to them by preferring riches and worldly treasures, then i can say that i am aboundantly provided, not as ambitious, or greedily covetous, but sufficiently stored with the goods of fortune._ _i know well enough, that you held it as a desired benefit,_ gisippus _being a native of your citie, should also be linked to you by alliance: but i know no reason, why i should not be as neere and deere to you at rome, as if i lived with you heere. considering, when i am there, you have a ready and well wishing friend, to stead you in all beneficiall and serviceable offices, as carefull and provident for your support, yea, a protectour of you and your affaires, as well publique as particular. who is it then, not transported with partiall affection, that can (in reason) more approve your act, then that which my friend_ gisippus _hath done? questionlesse, not any one, as i thinke._ sophronia _is married to_ titus quintus fulvius, _a noble gentleman by antiquitie, a rich citizen of rome, and (which is above all) the friend of_ gisippus: _therefore, such a one as thinkes it strange, is sorrie for it, or would not have it to be; knoweth not what he doth._ _perhaps there may be some, who will say, they doe not so much complain, that_ sophronia _is the wife to_ titus; _but of the manner whereby it was done, as being made his wife secretly, and by theft, not any of her parents, kinred or friends called thereto: no, nor so much as advertised thereof. why gentlemen, this is no miraculous thing, but heeretofore hath oftentimes happened, and therefore no noveltie._ _i cannot count unto you, how many there have beene, who (against the will of their fathers) have made choice of their husbands; nor them that have fled away with their lovers into strange countries, being first friends, before they were wives: nor of them who have sooner made testimonie of marriage by their bellies, then those ceremonies due to matrimonie, or publication thereof by the tongue; so that meere necessity & constraint, hath forced the parents to yeeld consent: which hath not so happened to_ sophronia, _for she was given to me by_ gisippus _discreetly, honestly, and orderly._ _others also may say, that shee is married to him, to whom it belonged not to marrie her. these complaints are foolish, and womanish, proceeding from verie little, or no consideration at all. in these daies of ours, fortune makes no use of novell or inconsiderate meanes, whereby to bring matters to their determined effect. why should it offend me, if a cobler, rather than a scholler, hath ended a businesse of mine, either in private or publique, if the end be well made? well i may take order, if the cobler bee indiscreet, that hee meddle no more with any matters of mine, yet i ought, in courtesie, to thanke him for that which hee did._ _in like manner, if_ gisippus _hath married_ sophronia _well, it is foolish and superfluous, to finde fault with the manner hee used in her marriage. if you mislike his course in the case, beware of him hereafter, yet thanke him because it is no worse._ _neverthelesse, you are to understand, that i sought not by fraud or deceit, (but onely by witte) any opportunitie, whereby any way to sullie the honestie and cleere nobilitie of your bloud, in the person of_ sophronia: _for although in secret i made her my wife, yet i came not as an enemie, to take her perforce, nor (like a ravisher) wronged her virginitie, to blemish your noble titles, or despising your alliance. but fervently, enflamed by her bright beauty, and incited also by her unparalleld vertues, i shaped my course; knowing well enough, that if i tooke the ordinarie way of wiving, by moving the question to you, i should never winne your consent, as fearing, lest i would take her with me to rome, and so conveigh out of your sight, a jewell by you so much esteemed, as she is._ _for this, and no other reason, did i presume to use the secret cunning which now is openly made knowne unto you: and_ gisippus _disposed himselfe thereunto, which otherwise hee never determined to have done, in contracting the marriage for mee, and shee consenting to me in his name._ _moreover, albeit most earnestly i affected her, i sought to procure your union, not like a lover, but as a true husband, nor would i immodestly touch her, till first (as herselfe can testifie) with the words becomming wedlocke, and the ring also i espoused her, demanding of her, if shee would accept mee as her husband, and shee answered mee, with her full consent. wherein, if it may seeme that shee was deceived, i am not any way to be blamed, but she, for not demanding, what, and who i was._ _this then is the great evill, the great offence, and the great injurie committed by my friend_ gisippus, _and by mee as a lover: that_ sophronia _is secretly become the wife of_ titus quintus fulvius. _and for this cause, like spies you watch him, threaten him daily, as if you intended to teare him in pieces. what could you doe more, if hee had given her to a man of the very vilest condition? to a villaine, to a slave? what prisons? what fetters? or what torments are sufficient for this fact? but leaving these frivolous matters, let us come to discourse of more moment, and better beseeming your attention._ _the time is come, that i may no longer continue heere, because_ publius _my father is dead, and i must needs returne to rome, wherefore being minded to take_ sophronia _thither with mee, i was the more willing to acquaint you therewith, as also what else i have said, which otherwise had still beene concealed from you. nor can you but take it in good part, if you be wise, and rest well contented with what is done: considering, if i had any intention eyther to deceive, or otherwise wrong you; i could have basely left her, and made a scorne both of her and you, you not having any power to stay mee heere. but the gods will never permitte that any couragious romane, should ever conceive so vile and degenerate a thought._ sophronia, _by ordination of the gods, by force of humane lawes, and by the laudable consent of my friend_ gisippus, _as also the powerfull command of love is mine. but you perchance, imagining your selves to be wiser then the gods, or any other men whatsoever; may thinke ill of it, and more brutishly then beasts, condemne their working in two kinds, which would be offensive to mee. the one is your detaining of_ sophronia _from mee, of whom you have no power, but what pleaseth mee. the other, is your bitter threatnings against_ gisippus _my deare friend, to whom you are in duty obliged. in both which cases, how unreasonablie soever you carrie your selves, i intend not at this time to presse any further. but rather let mee counsell you like a friend, to cease your hatred and disdaine, and suffer_ sophronia _to be delivered mee, that i may depart contentedly from you as a kinsman, and (being absent) remaine your friend: assuring you, that whether what is done shall please or displease you, if you purpose to proceed any otherwise: i will take_ gisippus _along with mee, and when i come to rome, take such sure order, to fetch her hence, who in justice is mine, even in meere despight of you all, and then you shall feele by sound experience, how powerfull is the just indignation of the wronged romanes._ * * * * * when titus had thus concluded his oration, he arose with a sterne and discontented countenance, and tooke _gisippus_ by the hand, plainly declaring, that he made small account of all the rest that were in the temple; and shaking his head at them, rather menaced then any other wise seemed to care for them. they which tarried, when they were gone, considering partly on the reasons alleadged by _titus_, and partly terrified by his latest speeches; became induced, to like well of his alliance and amitie, as (with common consent) they concluded: that it was much better to accept _titus_ as their kinsman (seeing _gisippus_ had made manifest refusall thereof) than to lose the kinred of the one, and procure the hatred of the other. wherefore they went to seeke _titus_, and said unto him, they were very well contented that _sophronia_ should bee his wife, hee their deare and loving kinsman, and _gisippus_ to remaine their much respected friend. and embracing one another, making a solemne feast, such as in the like cases is necessarilie required, they departed from him, presently sending _sophronia_ to him, who making a vertue of necessity, converted her love (in short time after) to _titus_, in as effectuall manner, as formerly shee had done to _gisippus_, and so was sent away with him to rome, where she was received and welcommed with very great honour. _gisippus_ remaining still at _athens_, in small regard of eyther theirs or his owne friends: not long after by meanes of sundry troublesome citizens; and partialities happening among the common people, was banished from _athens_, and hee, as also all his familie, condemned to perpetuall exile: during which tempestuous time, _gisippus_ was become not onely wretchedly poore, but wandred abroad as a common begger; in which miserable condition he travelled to _rome_, to try if _titus_ would take any acknowledgement of him. understanding that he was living, and one most respected among the romanes, as being a great commander and a senator: he enquired for the place where hee dwelt, and going to be neere about his house, stayed there so long, till _titus_ came home, yet not daring to manifest himselfe, or speake a word to him, in regard of his poore and miserable estate, but strove to have him see him, to the end, that hee might acknowledge and call him by his name; notwithstanding, _titus_ passed by him without either speech, or looking on him. which when _gisippus_ perceived, and making full account, that (at the least) he would remember him, in regard of former courtesies, done to him: confounded with griefe and desperate thoughts, hee departed thence, never meaning to see him any more. now, in regard it was night, he having eaten nothing all that day, nor provided of one penny to buy him any food, wandred he knew not whether, desiring rather to die than live; hee came at last to an old ruinous part of the city, over-spred with briers and bushes, and seldome resorted unto by any: where finding a hollow cave or vault, he entred into it, meaning there to weare away the comfortlesse night, and laying himselfe downe on the hard ground, almost starke naked, and without any warme garments, over-wearied with weeping, at last he fell into a sleepe. it fortuned that two men, who had beene abroad the same night, committing thefts and robberies together; somwhat very earlie in the morning, came to the same cave, intending there to share and divide their booties, and difference happening betweene them about it, hee that was the stronger person, slew there the other, and then went away with the whole purchase. _gisippus_ having heard and seene the manner of this accident, was not a little joyfull, because he had now found a way to death, without laying any violent hand on himselfe; for life being very loathsome to him, it was his only desire to die. wherefore, he would not budge from the place, but taried there so long, till the sergeants and officers of justice (by information of him that did the deede) came thither well attended, and furiously ledde _gisippus_ thence to prison. being examined concerning this bloudy fact, he plainly confessed, that hee himselfe had committed the murder, and afterward would not depart from the cave, but purposely stayed for apprehension, as being truely toucht with compunction for so foule an offence: upon which peremptorie confession, _marcus varro_ being then _prætor_, gave sentence that he should be crucified on a crosse, as it was the usuall manner of death in those dayes. _titus_ chancing to come at the same time into _prætorium_, advisedly beholding the face of the condemned man (as hee sate upon the bench) knew him to bee _gisippus_, not a little wondring at this strange accident, the povertie of his estate, and what occasion should bring him thither, especially in the questioning for his life, and before the tribunall of justice. his soule earnestly thirsting, by all possible meanes to helpe and defend him, and no other course could now be taken for safetie of his life, but by accusing himselfe, to excuse and cleare the other of the crime: hee stept from off the judgement bench, and crouding through the throng to the barre, called out to the _prætor_ in this manner. _marcus varro_, recall thy sentence given on the condemned man sent away, because hee is truely guiltlesse and innocent: with one bloudie blow have i offended the gods, by killing that wretched man, whom the serjeants found this morning slaine, wherefore noble _prætor_, let no innocent mans bloud be shed for it, but onely mine that have offended. _marcus varro_ stood like a man confounded with admiration, being very sorrie, for that which the whole assistants had both seene and heard, yet hee could not (with honour) desist from what must needs be done, but would performe the lawes severe injunction. and sending for condemned _gisippus_ backe againe, in the presence of _titus_, thus he spake to him. how becamest thou so madly incensed, as (without any torment inflicted on thee) to confesse an offence by thee never committed? art thou wearie of thy life? thou chargest thy selfe falsly, to be the person who this last night murdered the man in the cave, and there is another that voluntarily also doth confesse his guiltinesse. _gisippus_ lifting up his eyes, and perceiving it was _titus_, conceived immediately, that he had done this onely for his deliverance, as one that remembred him sufficiently, and would not be ungratefull for former kindnesses received. wherefore, the teares flowing abundantly down his cheekes, he said to the judge _varro_, it was none but i that murdered the man, wherefore, i commiserate the case of this noble gentleman _titus_, who speakes now too late for the safety of my life. _titus_ on the other side, said. noble prætor, this man (as thou seest) is a stranger heere, and was found without any weapon, fast asleepe by the dead body: thou mayst then easily perceive, that meerely the miserable condition wherein he is, hath made him desperate, and he would make mine offence the occasion of his death. absolve him, and send me to the crosse, for none but i have deserved to die for this fact. _varro_ was amazed, to observe with what earnest instance each of them strove to excuse the other, which halfe perswaded him in his soule, that they were both guiltlesse. and as he was starting up, with full intent to acquaint them: a yong man, who had stood there all this while, and observed the hard pleading on either side; he crowded into the barre, being named _publius ambustus_, a fellow of lewd life, and utterly out of hopes, as being debauched in all his fortunes, and knowne among the _romaines_ to be a notorious theefe, who verily had committed the murder. well knew his conscience, that none of them were guilty of the crime, wherewith each so wilfully charged himselfe: being therefore truely toucht with remorse, he stept before _marcus varro_, saying. honourable prætor, mine owne horrid and abominable actions, have induced me thus to intrude my selfe, for clearing the strict contention betweene these two persons. and questionlesse, some god or greater power, hath tormented my wretched soule, and so compunctually solicited me, as i cannot chuse, but make open confession of my sinne. here therefore, i doe apparantly publish, that neither of these men is guilty of the offence, wherewith so wilfully each chargeth himselfe. i am the villaine, who this morning murdered the man in the cave, one of no greater honesty then my selfe, and seeing this poore man lie there sleeping, while we were dividing the stolne booties betweene us; i slew my companyon, because i would be the sole possessor. as for noble lord _titus_, he had no reason thus to accuse himselfe, because is a man of no such base quality: let them both then be delivered, and inflict the sentence of death on me. _octavius cæsar_, to whom tydings was brought of this rare accident, commanding them al three to be brought before him; would needs understand the whole history, in every particular as all had happened, which was substantially related to him. whereupon, _octavius_ pleased them all three: the two noble friendes, because they were innocent, and the third, for openly revealing the very truth. _titus_ tooke home with him his friend _gisippus_, and after he had sharpely reproved him for his distrust, and cold credence of his friendship: he brought him to _sophronia_, who welcomed him as lovingly, as if he had bin her naturall borne brother, bemoaning his hard and disastrous fortune, and taking especiall care, to convert all passed distresses, into as happy and comfortable a change, fitting him with garments and attendants, beseeming his degree both in nobility and vertue. _titus_, out of his honourable bounty, imparted halfe his lands and rich possessions to him, and afterward gave him in marriage, his owne sister, a most beautifull lady, named _fulvia_, saying to him beside. my deare friend _gisippus_, it remaineth now in thine owne election, whether thou wilt live here still with me, or returne backe to _athens_, with all the wealth which i have bestowed on thee. but _gisippus_, being one way constrayned, by the sentence of banishment from his native city, & then againe, in regard of the constant love, which he bare to so true and thankefull friend as _titus_ was: concluded to live there as a loyall _roman_, where he with his _fulvia_, and _titus_ with his faire _sophronia_, lived long after together in one and the same house, augmenting daily (if possible it might be) their amity beyond all other equalizing. a most sacred thing therefore is cordiall amity, worthy not onely of singuler reverence, but also to be honoured with eternall commendation, as being the onely wise mother of all magnificence and honesty, the sister of charity and gratitude, the enemy to hatred and avarice, and which is alwayes ready (without attending to be requested) to extend all vertuous actions to others, which she would have done to her selfe. her rare and divine effects, in these contrary times of ours, are not to be found between two such persons, which is a mighty fault, and greatly checketh the miserable covetousnesse of men, who respecting nothing but onely their particular benefit; have banished true amity, to the utmost confines of the whole earth, and sent her into perpetuall exile. what love, what wealth, or affinity of kindred, could have made _gisippus_ feele (even in the intyrest part of his soule) the fervent compassion, the teares, the sighes of _titus_, and with such efficacy as plainely appeared: to make him consent, that his faire elected spouse, by him so dearely esteemed, should become the wife of his companion, but onely the precious league of amity? what lawes, what threatnings, what feares, could cause the yong armes of _gisippus_ to abstaine embraces, betaking himselfe to solitary walkes, and obscure places, when in his owne bedde, he might have enjoyed so matchlesse a beauty (who perhaps desired it so much as himselfe) but onely the gracious title of amity? what greatnesse, what merits or precedence, could cause _gisippus_ not to care, for the losse of his kindred, those of _sophronia_, yea, of _sophronia_ her selfe, not respecting the dishonest murmurings of base minded people, their vile and contemptible language, scornes and mockeries, and all to content and satisfie a friend, but onely divine amity? come now likewise to the other side. what occasions could compell noble _titus_, so promptly and deliberatly, to procure his owne death, to rescue his friend from the crosse, and inflict the pain and shame upon himselfe, pretending not see or know _gisippus_ at all, had it not bin wrought by powerfull amity? what cause else could make _titus_ so liberall, in dividing (with such willingnesse) the larger part of his patrimony to _gisippus_, when fortune had dispossest him of his owne, but onely heaven-borne amity? what else could have procured _titus_ without any further dilation, feare or suspition, to give his sister _fulvia_ in marriage to _gisippus_, when he saw him reduced to such extreame poverty, disgrace and misery, but onely infinite amity? to what end doe men care then, to covet and procure great multitudes of kinred, store of brethren, numbers of children, and to encrease (with their owne monyes) plenty of servants: when by the least losse and dammage happening, they forget all duty to father, brother, or master? amity and true friendship is of a quite contrary nature, satisfying (in that sacred bond) the obligation due to all degrees, both of parentage, and all alliences else. saladine, _the great_ soldan _of_ babylon, _in the habite of a merchant, was honourably received and welcommed, into the house of signior_ thorello d'istria. _who travelling to the holy land, prefixed a certaine time to his wife, for his returne backe to her againe, wherein, if he failed, it was lawfull for her to take another husband. by clouding himselfe in the disguise of a faulkner, the_ soldan _tooke notice of him, and did him many great honours. afterward,_ thorello _falling sicke, by magicall art, he was conveighed in one night to_ pavia, _when his wife was to be married on the morrow: where making himselfe knowne to her, all was disappointed, and shee went home with him to his owne house._ the ninth novell. _declaring what an honourable vertue courtesie is, in them that truely know how to use them._ madam _philomena_ having concluded her discourse, and the rare acknowledgement, which _titus_ made of his esteemed friend _gisippus_, extolled justly as it deserved by all the company: the king, reserving the last office to _dioneus_ (as it was at the first granted him) began to speake thus. without all question to the contrary (worthy ladies) nothing can be more truely said, then what madame _philomena_, hath delivered, concerning amity, and her complaint in the conclusion of her novell, is not without great reason, to see it so slenderly reverenced and respected (now-a-dayes) among all men. but if we had met here in duty onely for correcting the abuses of iniquity, and the malevolent courses of this preposterous age; i could proceed further in this just cause of complaint. but because our end aimeth at matters of other nature, it commeth to my memory to tel you of a history, which (perhaps) may seeme somewhat long, but altogether pleasant, concerning a magnificent act of great _saladine_: to the end, that by observing those things which you shall heare in my novell, if we cannot (by reason of our manifold imperfections) intirely compasse the amity of any one; yet (at least) we may take delight, in stretching our kindnesse (in good deeds) so farre as we are able, in hope one day after, some worthy reward will ensue thereon, as thereto justly appertaining. let me tell you then, that (as it is affirmed by many) in the time of the emperour frederick, first of that name, the christians, for the better recovery of the holy land, resolved to make a generall voyage over the seas. which being understood by _saladine_, a very worthy prince, and then _soldan_ of babylon: he concluded with himselfe, that he would (in person) goe see, what preparation the christian potentates made for this warre, that hee might the better provide for himselfe. having setled all things orderly in �gypt for the busines, and making an outward appearance, as if he purposed a pilgrimage to _mecha_: he set onward on his journey, habited like a merchant, attended onely with two of his most noble and wisest baschaes, and three waiting servants. when he had visited many christian provinces, and was riding thorow _lombardie_, to passe the mountaines; it fortuned, in his journeying from _millaine_ to _pavia_, and the day being very farre spent, so that night hastened speedily on him: he met with a gentleman, named signior _thorello d'istria_, but dwelling at _pavia_, who with his men, hawkes and hounds, went to a house of his, seated in a singular place, and on the river of _ticinum_. signior _thorello_ seeing such men making towardes him, presently imagined, that they were some gentle-strangers, and such hee desired to respect with honor. wherefore, _saladine_ demanding of one of _thorelloes_ men, how farre (as then) it was to _pavia_, and whether they might reach thither by such an houre, as would admit their entrance into the citty: _thorello_ would not suffer his servant to returne the answer, but replyed thus himselfe. sir (quoth he) you cannot reach _pavia_, but night will abridge you of any entraunce there. i beseech you then sir, answered _saladine_, favour us so much (because we are all strangers in these parts) as to tell us where we may be well lodged. that shall i sir, said _thorello_, and very gladly too. even at the instant sir, as we met with you, i had determined in my mind, to send one of my servants somewhat neere to _pavia_, about a businesse concerning my selfe: he shall go along with you, and conduct you to a place, where you will be very well entertayned. so, stepping to him, who was of best discretion amongst his men, he gave order to him what should bee done, and sent him with them. himselfe, making hast by a farre neerer way, caused supper to be prepared in worthy manner, and the tables to be covered in his garden; and all things being in good readinesse, he sate downe at his doore, to attend the comming of his guests. the servingman, discoursing with the gentlemen on divers occasions, guided them by such unusuall passages, as (before they could discerne it) he brought them to his masters house; where so soone as _thorello_ saw them arrived, he went forth to meet them, assuring them all of most hearty welcome. _saladine_, who was a man of accute understanding, did well perceive, that this knight _thorello_ misdoubted his going with him, if (when he met him) hee should have invited him; and therefore, because he would not be denied, of entertaining him into his house; he made choise of this kinde and honourable course, which caused him to returne this answer. gentle sir, if courtesie in one man to another, do deserve condemning, then may we justly complaine of you, who meeting us upon the way, which you have shortened by your kindnesse; and which we are no way able to deserve, wee are constrained to accept, taking you to bee the mirrour of courtesie. _thorello_ being a knight of ingenious apprehension, and wel languaged, replyed thus. gentlemen; this courtesie (seeing you terme it so) which you receive of me, in regard of that justly belonging to you, as your faces do sufficiently informe mee, is matter of very slender account. but assuredly out of _pavia_, you could not have any lodging, deserving to be termed good. and therefore, let it not bee displeasing to you, if you have a little gone forth of the common rode way, to have your entertainment somewhat bettered, as many travaylers are easily induced to do. having thus spoken, all the people of the house shewed themselves, in serviceable manner to the gentlemen, taking their horses as they dismounted, and _thorello_ himselfe, conducted the three gentlemen, into three severall faire chambers, which in costly manner were prepared for them, where their boots were pluckt off, faire napkins with manchets lay ready, and delicate wines to refresh their wearied spirits, much prety conference being entercoursed, till supper time invited them thence. _saladine_, and they that were with him, spake the latine tongue very readily, by which meanes they were the better understoode; and _thorello_ seemed (in their judgement) to bee the most gracious, compleate, and best spoken gentleman, as ever they met with in all their journey. it appeared also (on the other side) to signiour _thorello_, that his guests were men of great merit, and worthy of much more esteeme, then there he could use towards them: wherefore, it did highly distast him, that he had no more friends there this night to keepe them company, or himselfe better provided for their entertainment, which hee intended (on the morrow) to recompence with larger amends at dinner. heereupon, having instructed one of his men with what hee intended, he sent him to _pavia_, which was not farre off (and where he kept no doore shut) to his wife, named madam _adalietta_; a woman singularly wise, and of a noble spirit, needing little or no direction, especially when she knew her husbands minde. as they were walking in the garden, _thorello_ desired to understand, of whence, and what they were? whereto _saladine_ thus answered. sir, wee are _cyprian_ marchants, comming now from _cyprus_, and are travailing to _paris_, about affaires of importance. now trust me syr, replyed _thorello_, i could heartily wish, that this countrey of ours would yeeld such gentlemen, as your _cyprus_ affordeth marchants. so, falling from one discourse unto another, supper was served in; and looke howe best themselves pleased, so they sate at the table, where (we neede make no doubt) they were respected in honourable order. so soone as the tables were withdrawne, _thorello_ knowing they might be weary, brought them againe to their chambers, where committing them to their good rest, himselfe went to bed soone after. the servant sent to _pavia_, delivered the message to his lady; who, not like a woman of ordinary disposition, but rather truely royall, sent _thorelloes_ servants into the city, to make preparation for a feast indeed, and with lighted torches (because it was somewhat late) they invited the very greatest and noblest persons of the citie, all the roomes being hanged with the richest arras, clothes of golde worke, velvets, silkes, and all other rich adornments, in such manner as her husband had commanded, and answerable to her owne worthy mind, being no way to learne, in what manner to entertaine strangers. on the morrow morning, the gentlemen arose, and mounting on horsebacke with signior _thorello_, he called for his hawkes and hounds, brought them to the river, where he shewed two or three faire flights: but _saladine_ desiring to know, which was the fayrest hostery in all _pavia, thorello_ answered. gentlemen, i will shew you that my selfe, in regard i have occasion to ride thither. which they beleeving, were the better contented, and rode on directly unto _pavia_; arriving there about nine of the clocke, and thinking he guided them to the best inne, he brought them to his owne house; where, above fifty of the worthiest citizens, stood ready to welcome the gentlemen, imbracing them as they lighted from their horsses. which _saladine_, and his associates perceiving, they guessed as it was indeede, and _saladine_ sayd. beleeve me worthy _thorello_, this is not answerable to my demand; you did too much yester-night, and much more then we could desire or deserve: wherefore, you might wel be the sooner discharged of us, and let us travaile on our journey. noble gentlemen, replyed _thorello_ (for in mine eye you seeme no lesse) that courtesie which you met with yester-night, i am to thanke fortune for, more then you, because you were then straited by such necessity, as urged your acceptance of my poore country house. but now this morning, i shall account my selfe much beholding to you (as the like will all these worthy gentlemen here about you) if you do but answer kindnes with kindnes, and not refuse to take a homely dinner with them. _saladine_ and his friends, being conquerd with such potent perswasions, and already dismounted from their horses, saw that all deniall was meerly in vaine: and therefore thankfully condiscending (after some few ceremonious complements were over-past) the gentlemen conducted them to their chambers, which were most sumptuously prepared for them, and having laid aside their riding garments, being a little refreshed with cakes and choice wines: they descended into the dining hall, the pompe whereof i am not able to report. when they had washed, and were seated at the tables, dinner was served in most magnificent sort; so that if the emperor himself had bin there, he could not have bin more sumptuously served. and although _saladine_ and his baschaes were very noble lords, and wonted to see matters of admiration: yet could they do no lesse now, but rather exceeded in marvaile, considering the qualitie of the knight, whom they knew to bee a citizen, and no prince or great lord. dinner being ended, and divers familiar conferences passing amongst them: because it was exceeding hot, the gentlemen of _pavia_ (as it pleased _thorello_ to appoint) went to repose themselves awhile, and he keeping company with his three guests, brought them into a goodly chamber, where, because he would not faile in the least scruple of courtesie, or conceale from them the richest jewell which he had; he sent for his lady and wife, because (as yet) they had not seene her. she was a lady of extraordinary beauty, tall stature, very sumptuously attired, and having two sweet sonnes (resembling angels) she came with them waiting before her, and graciously saluted her guests. at her comming, they arose, and having received hir with great reverence, they seated her in the midst, kindly cherishing the two children. after some gracious language past on eyther side, she demanded of whence, and what they were, which they answered in the same kind as they had done before to her husband. afterward, with a modest smiling countenance, she sayd. worthy gentlemen, let not my weake womanish discretion appeare distastable, in desiring to crave one especiall favour from you, namely, not to refuse or disdaine a small gift, wherewith i purpose to present you. but considering first, that women (according to their simple faculty) are able to bestow but silly gifts: so you would be pleased, to respect more the person that is the giver, then the quality or quantity of the gift. then causing to be brought (for each of them) two goodly gowns or robes (made after the _persian_ manner) the one lyned thorough with cloth of gold, and the other with the costlyest fur; not after such fashion as citizens or marchants use to weare, but rather beseeming lords of greatest account, and three light under-wearing cassocks or mandillions, of carnatian sattin, richly imbroidred with gold and pearles, and lined thorow with white taffata, presenting these gifts to him, she sayd. i desire you gentlemen to receive these meane trifles, such as you see my husband weares the like, and these other beside, considering you are so far from your wives, having travailed a long way already, and many miles more yet to overtake; also marchants (being excellent men) affect to be comely and handsome in their habits; although these are of slender value, yet (in necessity) they may do you service. now was _saladine_ and his baschaes halfe astonyed with admiration, at the magnificent minde of signiour _thorello_, who would not forget the least part of courtesie towardes them, and greatly doubted (seeing the beauty and riches of the garments) least they were discovered by _thorello_. neverthelesse, one of them thus answered the lady. beleeve me madame, these are rich guiftes, not lightly either to be given, or receyved: but in regard of your strict imposition, we are not able to deny them. this being done, with most gracious and courteous demeanour, she departed from them, leaving her husband to keepe them still companie; who furnished their servants also, with divers worthy necessaries fitting for their journey. afterward, _thorello_ (by very much importunitie) wonne them to stay with him all the rest of the day; wherefore, when they had rested themselves awhile, being attyred in their newly given robes; they rode on horsebacke thorow the citty. when supper time came, they supt in most honourable and worthy company, beeing afterwards lodged in most faire and sumptuous chambers, and being risen in the morning, in exchange of their horses (over-wearied with travaile) they found three other very richly furnished, and their men also in like manner provided. which when _saladine_ had perceyved, he tooke his baschaes aside, and spake in this manner. by our greatest gods, i never met with any man, more compleat in all noble perfections, more courteous and kinde then _thorello_ is. if all the christian kings, in the true and heroicall nature of kings, do deale as honourably as i see this knight doeth, the soldane of _babylon_ is not able to endure the comming of one of them, much lesse so many, as wee see preparing to make head against us. but beholding, that both refusall and acceptation, was all one in the minde of _thorello_: after much kinde language had bin intercoursed betweene them, _saladine_ (with his attendants) mounted on horsebacke. signiour _thorello_, with a number of his honourable friends (to the number of an hundred horsse) accompanied them a great distance from the citie, and although it greeved _saladine_ exceedingly, to leave the company of _thorello_, so dearely he was affected to him; but necessity (which controlleth the power of all lawes whatsoever) must needs divide them: yet requesting his returne agayne that way, if possibly it might be granted; which _saladine_ promised but did not performe. well gentlemen (quoth _thorello_ at parting) i know not what you are, neither (against your will) do i desire it: but whether you be marchants or no, remember me in your kindnesse, and so to the heavenly powers i commend you. _saladine_, having taken his leave of all them that were with _thorello_, returned him this answer. sir, it may one day hereafter so happen, as we shall let you see some of our marchandises, for the better confirmation of your beleefe, and our profession. thus parted signior _thorello_ and his friends, from _saladine_ and his company, who verily determined in the heighth of his minde, if he should be spared with life, and the warre (which he expected) concluded: to requite _thorello_ with no lesse courtesie, then hee had already declared to him; conferring a long while after with his baschaes, both of him and his beauteous lady, not forgetting any of their courteous actions, but gracing them all with deserved commendation. but after they had (with very laborious paines) surveyed most of the westerne parts, they all tooke shipping, and returned into _alexandria_: sufficiently informed, what preparation was to be made for their owne defence. and signior _thorello_ being come backe againe to _pavia_, consulted with his privat thoughts (many times after) what these three travailers should be, but came farre short of knowing the truth, till (by experience) hee became better informed. when the time was come, that the christians were to make their passage, and wonderfull great preparations, in all places performed: signiour _thorello_, notwithstanding the teares and intreaties of his wife, determined to be one in so woorthy and honourable a voyage: and having made his provision ready, nothing wanting but mounting on horsebacke, to go where he should take shipping; to his wife (whom he most intirely affected) thus hee spake. madame, i goe as thou seest in this famous voyage, as well for mine honour, as also the benefite of my soule; all our goodes and possessions, i commit to thy vertuous care. and because i am not certaine of my returning backe againe, in regard of a thousand accidents which may happen, in such a countrey as i goe unto: i desire onely but one favour of thee, whatsoever daunger shall befall mee; namely, when any certaine tydings shall be brought mee of my death; to stay no longer before thy second marriage, but one yeare, one month, and one day; to begin on this day of my departing from thee. the lady, who wept exceedingly, thus answered. alas sir: i know not how to carry my selfe, in such extremity of greefe, as now you leave me; but if my life surmount the fortitude of sorrow, and whatsoever shall happen to you for certainty, either life or death: i will live and dye the wife of signiour _thorello_, and make my obsequies in his memory onely. not so madame (replyed her husband) not so; be not overrash in promising any thing, albeit i am well assured, that so much as consisteth in thy strength, i make no question of thy performance. but consider withall (deare heart) thou art a yong woman, beautifull, of great parentage, and no way thereto inferior in the blessings of fortune. thy vertues are many, and universally both divulged and knowen, in which respect, i make no doubt; but divers and sundrie great lords and gentlemen (if but the least rumour of my death be noysed) will make suite for thee to thy parents and brethren, from whose violent solicitings, wouldst thou never so resolutely make resistance, yet thou canst not be able to defend thy selfe; but whether thou wilt or no, thou must yeeld to please them; and this is the only reason, why i would tie thee to this limited time, and not one day or minute longer. _adalietta_, sweetly hugging him in her armes, and melting her selfe in kisses, sighes, and teares on his face, said. well sir, i will do so much as i am able, in this your most kinde and loving imposition: and when i shall bee compelled to the contrary: yet rest thus constantly assured, that i will not breake this your charge, so much as in thought. praying ever heartily to the heavenly powers, that they will direct your course home againe to me, before your prefixed date, or else i shall live in continual languishing. in the knitting up of this wofull parting, embracing and kissing either infinit times, the lady tooke a ring from off her finger, and giving it to her husband, said. if i chaunce to die before i see you againe, remember me when you looke on this. he receiving the ring, and bidding all the rest of his friends farewell, mounted on horsebacke, and rode away wel attended. being come unto _geneway_, he and his company boorded a galley, and (in few dayes after) arrived at _acres_, where they joyned themselves with the christian army, wherein there happened a verie dangerous mortality: during which time of so sharpe visitation (the cause unknowne whence it proceeded) whether thorough the industrie, or rather the good fortune of _saladine_, well-neere all the rest of the christians (which escaped death) were surprized his prisoner (without a blow strucken) and sundred and imprisoned in divers townes and citties. amongest the which number of prisoners, it was signior _thorelloes_ chaunce to be one, and walked in bonds to _alexandria_, where being unknowne, and fearing least he should be discovered: constrained thereto meerly by necessity, hee shewed himselfe in the condition of a faulconer; wherein he was very excellently experienced, and by which means his profession was made knowne to _saladine_, hee delivered out of prison, and created the soldans faulconer. _thorello_ (whom the soldane called by no other name, then the christian, neyther of them knowing the other) sadly now remembred his departure from _pavia_, devising and practising many times, how he might escape thence, but could not compasse it by any possible meanes. wherefore, certaine ambassadours beeing sent by the _genewaye_, to redeeme divers cittizens of theirs, there detained as prisoners, and being ready to returne home againe: he purposed to write to his wife, that he was living, and wold repaire to her so soone as he could, desiring the still continued remembrance** of her limited time. by close and cunning meanes hee wrote the letter, earnestly intreating one of the ambassadors (who knew him perfectly, but made no outward apparance thereof) to deale in such sort for him, that the letter might be delivered to the handes of the abbot _di san pietro in ciel d'oro_, who was (indeede) his uncle. while _thorello_ remayned in this his faulconers condition, it fortuned uppon a day, that _saladine_, conversing with him about his hawkes: _thorello_ chanced to smile, and used such a kinde of gesture or motion with his lippes, which _saladine_ (when he was in his house at _pavia_) had heedfully observed, and by this note, instantly he remembred signior _thorello_, and began to eye him very respectively, perswading himselfe that he was the same man. and therefore falling from their former kinde of discoursing: tell mee christian (quoth _saladine_) what country-man art thou of the west? sir, answered signiour _thorello_, i am by country a lombard, borne in a citty called _pavia_, a poore man, and of as poore condition. so soone as _saladine_ had heard these words; becomming assured in that which (but now) he doubted, he saide within himselfe. now the gods have given me time, wherein i may make knowne to this man, how thankefully i accepted his kinde courtesie, and cannot easily forget it. then, without saying any thing else, causing his guard-robe to be set open, he tooke him with him thither, and sayde. christian, observe well all these garments, and quicken thy remembrance, in telling mee truly, whether thou hast seene any of them before now, or no. signiour _thorello_ looked on them all advisedly, and espyed those two especiall garments, which his wife had given one of the strange merchants; yet he durst not credit it, or that possibly it could be the same, neverthelesse he said. sir, i doe not know any of them, but true it is, that these two doe resemble two such robes, as i was wont to weare my selfe, and these (or the like) were given to three merchants, that happened to visite my poore house. now could _saladine_ containe no longer, but embracing him joyfully in his armes, he said. you are signior _thorello d'istria_, and i am one of those three merchants, to whom your wife gave these roabes: and now the time is come to give you credible intelligence of my merchandise, as i promised at my departing from you, for such a time (i told you) would come at length. _thorello_, was both glad, and bashfull together: glad, that he had entertained such a guest, and bashfully ashamed, that his welcome had not exceeded in more bountifull manner. _thorello_, replyed _saladine_, seeing the gods have sent you so happily to me: account your selfe to be soly lord here, for i am now no more then a private man. i am not able to expresse their counterchanges of courtesie, _saladine_ commanding him to be cloathed in royall garments, and brought into the presence of his very greatest lords, where having spoken liberally in his due commendation, he commanded them to honour him as himselfe, if they expected any grace or favour from him, which every one did immediatly, but (above all the rest) those two baschaes, which accompanied _saladine_ at his house. the greatnesse of this pompe and glory, so suddenly throwne on signior _thorello_, made him halfe forget all matters of _lomberdie_; and so much the rather, because he had no doubt at all, but that his letters, were safely come to the hands of his uncle. here i am to tell you, that in the campe or army of the christians, on the day when _saladine_ made his surprizall, there was a provinciall gentleman dead and buried, who was signior _thorello de dignes_, a man of very honourable and great esteeme, in which respect (signior _thorello d'istria_, knowne throughout the army, by his nobility and valour) whosoever heard that signior _thorello_ was dead: beleeved it to be _thorello d'istria_, and not he of _dignes_, so that _thorello d'istriaes_ unknowne surprizall and thraldome, made it also to passe for an assured truth. beside, many italians returning home, and carrying this report for credible; some were so audaciously presumptuous, as they avouched upon their oathes, that not onely they saw him dead, but were present at his buriall likewise. which rumour comming to the eare of his wife, and likewise to his kinred and hers: procured a great and grievous mourning among them, and all that happened to heare thereof. over-tedious time it would require, to relate at large, the publique griefe and sorrow, with the continuall lamentations of his wife, who (within some few moneths after) became tormented with new marriage solicitings, before she had halfe sighed for the first: the very greatest persons of _lomberdie_ making the motion, being daily followed and furthered by her owne brothers and friends. still (drowned in teares) she returned denyall, till in the end, when no contradiction could prevaile, to satisfie her parents, and the importunate pursuers: she was constrained to reveale, the charge imposed on her by her husband, which shee had vowed infallibly to keepe, and till that very time, she would in no wise consent. while wooing for a second wedding with _adalietta_, proceeded in this manner at _pavia_, it chanced on a day, that signior _thorello_ had espied a man in _alexandria_, whom he saw with the _geneway_ ambassadours, when they set thence towards _geneway_ with their gallies. and causing him to be sent for, he demaunded of him, the successe of the voyage, and when the gallies arrived at _geneway_; whereto he returned him this answere. my lord, our gallies made a very fatall voyage, as it is (already) too well knowne in _creete_, where my dwelling is. for when we drew neere _sicilie_, there suddenly arose a very dangerous north-west-winde, which drove us on the quicke-sands of _barbarie_, where not any man escaped with life, onely my selfe excepted, but (in the wracke) two of my brethren perished. signior _thorello_, giving credit to the mans words, because they were most true indeed, and remembring also, that the time limitted to his wife, drew neere expiring within very few dayes, and no newes now possibly to be sent thither of his life, his wife would questionlesse be marryed againe: he fell into such a deepe conceited melancholly, as food and sleepe forsooke him, whereupon, he kept his bed, setting downe his peremptory resolution for death. when _saladine_ (who dearely loved him) heard thereof, he came in all haste to see him, and having (by many earnest perswasions and entreaties) understood the cause of his melancholly and sickenesse: he very severely reproved him, because he could no sooner acquaint him therewith. many kind and comfortable speeches, he gave him, with constant assurance, that (if he were so minded) he would so order the businesse for him; as he should be at _pavia_, by the same time as he had appointed to his wife, and revealed to him also the manner how. _thorello_ verily beleeved the _soldanes_ promise, because he had often heard the possibility of performance, and others had effected as much, divers times else-where: whereupon he began to comfort himselfe, soliciting the _soldan_ earnestly that it might be accomplished. _saladine_ sent for one of his sorcerers (of whose skill he had formerly made experience) to take a direct course, how signior _thorello_ should be carryed (in one night) to _pavia_, and being in his bed. the magitian undertooke to doe it, but, for the gentlemans more ease, he must first be possessed with an entraunced dead sleep. _saladine_ being thus assured of the deeds full effecting, he came againe to _thorello_, and finding him to be setled for _pavia_ (if possibly it might be accomplished by the determined time, or else no other expectation but death) he said unto him as followeth. signior _thorello_, if with true affection you love your wife, and misdoubt her marriage to some other man: i protest unto you, by the supreme powers, that you deserve no reprehension in any manner whatsoever. for, of all the ladyes that ever i have seene, she is the onely woman, whose carriage, vertues, and civile speaking (setting aside beauty, which is but a fading flowre) deserveth most graciously to be respected, much more to be affected in the highest degree. it were to me no meane favour of our gods, (seeing fortune directed your course so happily hither) that for the short or long time we have to live, we might reigne equally together in these kingdomes under my subjection. but if such grace may not be granted me, yet, seeing it stands mainly upon the perill of your life, to be at _pavia_ againe by your own limitted time, it is my chiefest comfort, that i am therewith acquainted, because i intended to have you conveighed thither, yea, even into your owne house, in such honourable order as your vertues doe justly merit, which in regard it cannot be so conveniently performed, but as i have already informed you, and as the necessity of the case urgently commandeth; accept it as it may be best accomplished. great _saladine_ (answered _thorello_) effects (without words) have already sufficiently warranted your gracious disposition towards me, farre beyond any requitall remayning in me; your word onely being enough for my comfort in this case, either dying or living. but in regard you have taken such order for my departure hence, i desire to have it done with all possible expedition, because to morrow is the very last day, that i am to be absent. _saladine_ protested that it should be done, and the same evening in the great hall of his pallace, commanded a rich and costly bedde to be set up, the mattras formed after the _alexandrian_ manner, of velvet and cloth gold, the quilts, counter-points and coverings, sumptuously imbroydered with orient pearles and precious stones, supposed to be of inestimable value, and two rarely wrought pillowes, such as best beseemed so stately a bedde, the curtaines and vallans every way equall to the other pompe. which being done, he commanded that _thorello_ (who was indifferently recovered) should be attyred in one of his owne sumptuous _saracine_ roabes, the very fairest and richest that ever was seene, and on his head a majesticall turbant, after the manner of his owne wearing, and the houre appearing to be somewhat late, he with many of his best baschaes, went to the chamber where _thorello_ was, and sitting downe a while by him, in teares thus he spake. signior _thorello_, the houre for sundering you and me, is now very neere, and because i cannot beare you company, in regard of the businesse you goe about, and which by no meanes will admit it: i am to take my leave of you in this chamber, and therefore am purposely come to doe it. but before i bid you farewell, let me entreat you, by the love and friendship confirmed betweene us, to be mindfull of me, and to take such order (your affaires being fully finished in _lombardie_) that i may once more enjoy the sight of you here, for a mutuall solace and satisfaction of our mindes, which are now divided by this urgent hast. till which may be granted, let me want no visitation of your kind letters, commanding thereby of me, whatsoever here can possibly be done for you; assuring your selfe, no man living can command me as you doe. signior _thorello_ could not forbeare weeping, but being much hindred thereby, answered in few words. that he could not possibly forget, his gracious favours and extraordinary benefits used towards him, but would accomplish whatsoever hee commaunded, according as heaven did enable him. hereupon, _saladine_ embracing him, and kissing his forehead, said. all my gods goe with you, and guard you from any perill, departing so out of the chamber weeping, and his baschaes (having likewise taken their leave of _thorello_) followed _saladine_ into the hall, whereas the bedde stood readily prepared. because it waxed very late, and the magitian also there attending for his dispatch: the phisitian went with the potion to _thorello_, and perswading him, in the way of friendship, that it was onely to strengthen him after his great weaknes: he drank it off, being thereby immediately entraunced, and so presently sleeping, was (by _saladines_ command) laid on the sumptuous and costly bed, whereon stood an imperiall crowne of infinite value, appearing (by a description engraven on it) that _saladine_ sent it to madame _adalietta_, the wife of _thorello_. on his finger also hee put a ring, wherein was enchased an admirable carbuncle, which seemed like a flaming torche, the value thereof not to bee estimated. by him likewise hee laid a rich sword, with the girdle, hangers, and other furniture, such as seldome can be seene the like. then hee laid a jewell on the pillow by him, so sumptuouslie embelished with pearles and precious stones, as might have beseemed the greatest monarch in the world to weare. last of all, on either side of them, hee set two great basons of pure gold, full of double ducates, many cords of orient pearles, rings, girdles, and other costly jewells (over-tedious to bee recounted) and kissing him once more as hee lay in the bedde, commanded the magitian to dispatch and be gone. instantly, the bedde and _thorello_ in it, in the presence of _saladine_, was invisibly carried thence, and while he sate conferring with his baschaes, the bed, signior _thorello_, and all the rich jewells about him, was transported and set in the church of _san pietro in ciel d'ore_ in _pavia_, according to his own request, and soundly sleeping, being placed directly before the high altar. afterward, when the bells rung to mattines, the sexton entring the church with a light in his hand (where hee beheld a light of greater splendour) and suddenly espied the sumptuous bedde there standing: not only was he smitten into admiration, but hee ranne away also very fearefully. when the abbot and the monkes mette him thus running into the cloyster, they became amazed, and demanded the reason why he ranne in such haste, which the sexton told them. how? quoth the abbot, thou art no childe, or a new-come hither, to be so easilie affrighted in our holy church, where spirits can have no power to walke, god and saint _peter_ (wee hope) are stronger for us then them so: wherefore turne backe with us, and let us see the cause of thy feare. having lighted many torches, the abbot and his monkes entred with the sexton into the church, where they beheld the wonderfull riche bedde, and the knight lying fast a-sleepe in it. while they stood all in amazement, not daring to approach neere the bedde, whereon lay such costly jewells: it chanced that signior _thorello_ awaked, and breathed forth a vehement sigh. the monkes and the abbot seeing him to stirre, ranne all away in feare, crying aloud, god and s. _peter_ defend us. by this time _thorello_ had opened his eyes, and looking round about him, perceived that hee was in the place of _saladines_ promise, whereof hee was not a little joyfull. wherefore, sitting up in the bedde, and particularly observing all the things about him: albeit he knew sufficiently the magnificence of _saladine_, yet now it appeared far greater to him, and imagined more largely thereof, then hee could doe before. but yet, without any other ceremony, seeing the flight of the monkes, hearing their cry, and perceiving the reason; he called the abbot by his name, desiring him not to be afraid, for he was his nephew _thorello_, and no other. when the abbot heard this, hee was ten times worse affrighted then before, because (by publique fame) hee had beene so many moneths dead and buried; but receiving (by true arguments) better assurance of him, and hearing him still call him by his name: blessing himselfe with the signe of the crosse, hee went somewhat neerer to the bed, when _thorello_ said. my loving uncle, and religious holy father, whereof are you afraid? i am your loving nephew, newly returned from beyond the seas. the abbot, seeing his beard to be grown long, and his habit after the arabian fashion, did yet collect some resemblance of his former countenance; and being better perswaded of him, tooke him by the hand, saying: sonne thou art happily returned, yet there is not any man in our citie, but doth verily beleeve thee to bee dead, and therefore doe not much wonder at our feare. moreover, i dare assure thee, that thy wife _adalietta_, being conquered by the controuling command, and threatnings of her kinred (but much against her owne minde) is this very morning to be married to a new husband, and the marriage feast is solemnly prepared, in honour of this second nuptialls. _thorello_ arising out of the bedde, gave gracious salutations to the abbot and his monkes, intreating earnestly of them all, that no word might be spoken of his returne, untill he had compleated an important businesse. afterward, having safely secured the bedde, and all the rich jewells, he fully acquainted the abbot with all his passed fortunes, whereof he was immeasurably joyfully, & having satisfied him, concerning the new elected husband, _thorello_ said unto the abbot. uncle, before any rumour of my returne, i would gladly see my wives behavior at this new briding feast, & although men of religion are seldome seene at such joviall meetings: yet (for my sake) doe you so order the matter, that i (as an arabian stranger) may be a guest under your protection; whereto the abbot very gladly condescended. in the morning, he sent to the bridegroom, and advertised him, that he (with a stranger newly arrived) intented to dine with him, which the gentleman accepted in thankefull manner. and when dinner time came, _thorello_ in his strange disguise went with the abbot to the bridegroomes house, where he was lookt on with admiration of all the guests, but not knowne or suspected by any one; because the abbot reported him to be a _sarracine_, and sent by the soldane (in ambassage) to the king of france. _thorello_ was seated at a by-table, but directly opposite to the new bride, whom hee much delighted to looke on, and easily collected by her sad countenance, that shee was scarcely well pleased with this new nuptialls. she likewise beheld him very often, not in regard of any knowlege she took of him: for the bushiness of his beard, strangeness of habit, (but most of all) firm beleefe of his death, was the maine prevention. at such time as _thorello_ thought it convenient, to approve how farre he was falne out of her remembrance; he took the ring which she gave him at his departure, and calling a young page that waited on none but the bride, said to him in italian: faire youth, goe to the bride, and saluting her from me, tell her, it is a custome observed in my country, that when any stranger (as i am heere) sitteth before a new married bride, as now shee is, in signe that hee is welcome to her feast, she sendeth the same cup (wherein she drinketh her selfe) full of the best wine, and when the stranger hath drunke so much as him pleaseth, the bride then pledgeth him with all the rest. the page delivered the message to the bride, who, being a woman of honourable disposition, and reputing him to be a noble gentleman, to testifie that his presence there was very acceptable to her, shee commanded a faire cuppe of gold (which stood directlie before her) to bee neately washed, and when it was filled with excellent wine, caused it to bee carried to the stranger, and so it was done. _thorello_ having drunke a heartie draught to the bride, conveyed the ring into the cuppe, before any person could perceive it, and having left but small store of wine in it, covered the cuppe, and sent it againe to the bride, who received it very graciously, and to honour the stranger in his countries custome, dranke up the rest of the wine, and espying the ring, shee tooke it forth undetected by any: knowing it to be the same ring which shee gave signior _thorello_ at his parting from her; she fixed her eyes often on it, & as often on him, whom she thought to be a stranger, the cheerfull bloud mounting up into her cheeks, and returning againe with remembrance to her heart, that (howsoever thus disguised) he only was her husband. like one of _bacchus_ froes, up furiously she started, and throwing downe the table before her, cried out aloud: this is my lord and husband, this truely is my lord _thorello_. so running to the table where he sate, without regard of all the riches thereon, down she threw it likewise, and clasping her armes about his necke, hung so mainly on him (weeping, sobbing, and kissing him) as she could not be taken off by any of the company, nor shewed any moderation in this excesse of passion, till _thorello_ spake, and entreated her to be more patient, because this extremity was over-dangerous for her. thus was the solemnitie much troubled, but every one there very glad and joyfull for the recovery of such a famous and worthy knight, who intreated them all to vouchsafe him silence, and so related all his fortunes to them, from the time of his departure, to the instant houre. concluding withall, that hee was no way offended with the new bride-groome, who upon the so constant report of his death, deserved no blame in making election of his wife. the bridegroome, albeit his countenance was somewhat cloudie, to see his hope thus disappointed: yet granted freely, that _adalietta_ was _thorello's_ wife in equitie, and hee could not justly lay any claime to her. she also resigned the crown and rings which she had so lately received of her new spouse, and put that on her finger which she found in the cup, and that crowne was set upon her head, in honor sent her from great _saladine_. in which triumphant manner, she left the new bridegrooms abiding, and repayred home to _thorello's_ house, with such pompe and magnificence as never had the like been seene in _pavia_ before, all the citizens esteeming it as a miracle, that they had so happily recovered signior _thorello_ againe. some part of the jewells he gave to him, who had beene at cost with the marriage feasting, and some to his uncle the abbot, beside a bountie bestowed on the monkes. then he sent a messenger to _saladine_, with letters of his whole successe, and confessing himselfe (for ever) his obliged servant: living many yeeres (after) with his wife _adalietta_, and using greater curtesies to strangers, then ever before he had done. in this manner ended the troubles of signior _thorello_, and the afflictions of his dearely affected lady, with due recompence to their honest and ready courtesies. many strive (in outward shew) to doe the like, who although they are sufficiently able, doe performe it so basely, as it rather redoundeth to their shame, then honour. and therefore if no merit ensue thereon, but onely such disgrace as justly should follow; let them lay the blame upon themselves. _the marquesse of_ saluzzo, _named_ gualtiero, _being constrained by the importunate solliciting of his lords, and other inferiour people, to joyne himselfe in marriage; tooke a woman according to his owne liking, called_ grizelda, _she being the daughter of a poore countriman, named_ janiculo, _by whom he had two children, which he pretended to be secretly murdered. afterward, they being grown to yeres of more stature, and making shew of taking in marriage another wife, more worthy of his high degree and calling: made a seeming publique liking of his owne daughter, expulsing his wife_ grizelda _poorely from him. but finding her incomparable patience; more dearely (then before) hee received her into favour againe, brought her home to his owne pallace, where (with her children) hee caused her and them to be respectively honoured, in despight of all her adverse enemies._ the tenth novell. _set downe as an example or warning to all wealthie men, how to have care of marrying themselves. and likewise to poore and meane women, to be patient in their fortunes, and obedient to their husbands._ questionlesse, the kings novell did not so much exceed the rest in length, but it proved as pleasing to the whole assembly, & past with their generall approbation, till _dioneus_ (in a merry jesting humour) said. the plaine honest simple man, that stood holding the candle, to see the setting on of his mules tayle; deserved two penny-worth of more praise, then all our applauding of signior _thorello_: and knowing himselfe to bee left for the last speaker, thus he began. milde & modest ladies, for ought i can perceive to the contrary, this day was dedicated to none but kings, soldanes, and great potentates, not in favour of any inferiour or meaner persons. and therefore, because i would be loth to dis-ranke my selfe from the rest, i purpose to speake of a lord marquesse, not any matter of great magnificence, but rather in a more humble nature, and sorted to an honest end: which yet i will not advise any to immitate, because (perhaps) they cannot so well digest it, as they did whom my novell concerneth; thus then i begin. it is a great while since, when among those that were lord marquesses of _saluzzo_, the very greatest and worthiest man of them al, was a young noble lord, named _gualtiero_, who having neyther wife nor childe, spent his time in nothing else but hawking & hunting: nor had he any minde of marriage, or to enjoy the benefit of children, wherein many did repute him the wiser. but this being distastfull to his subjects, they very often earnestly solicited him, to match himselfe with a wife, to the end, that hee might not decease without an heire, nor they be left destitute of a succeeding lord; offering themselves to provide him of such a one, so well descended by father and mother, as not only should confirm their hope, but also yeeld him high contentment; whereto the lord marquess thus answered. worthie friends, you would constraine me to the thing, wherewith i never had any intent to meddle, considering, how difficult a case it is to meet with such a woman, who can agree with a man in all his conditions, and how great the number is of them, who daily happen on the contrarie: but most (and worst of all the rest) how wretched and miserable prooves the life of man, who is bound to live with a wife not fit for him. and in saying, you can learn to understand the custome and qualities of children, by behaviour of the fathers and mothers, and so to provide mee of a wife, it is a meere argument of folly: for neither shall i comprehend, or you either, the secret inclinations of parents; i meane of the father, and much lesse the complexion of the mother. but admitte it were within compasse of power to know them; yet it is a frequent sight, and observed every day; that daughters doe resemble neither father nor mother, but that they are naturally governed by their owne instinct. but because you are so desirous to have me fettered in the chains of wedlocke; i am contented to grant what you request. and because i would have no complaint made of any but my selfe, if matters should not happen answerable to expectation; i will make mine owne eyes my electors, and not see by any others sight. giving you this assurance before, that if she whom i shall make choice of, be not of you honoured and respected as your lady and mistresse: it will ensue to your detriment, how much you have displeased me, to take a wife at your request, and against mine owne will. the noble men answered, that they were well satisfied, provided that he tooke a wife. some indifferent space of time before, the beauty, manners, and well-seeming vertues, of a poore countrie-mans daughter, dwelling in no farre distant village, had appeared very pleasing to the lord marquesse, and gave him full perswasion, that with her hee should lead a comfortable life. and therefore without any further search or inquisition, he absolutely resolved to marry her, and having conferred with her father, agreed, that his daughter should be his wife. whereupon, the marquesse made a generall convocation of all his lords, barons, and other of his especiall friends, from all parts of his dominion; and when they were assembled together, hee then spake unto them in manner as followeth. honourable friends, it appeared pleasing to you all; and yet (i thinke) you are of the same minde, that i should dispose my selfe to take a wife: and i thereto condescended, more to yeeld you contentment, then for any particular desire in my selfe. let mee now remember you of your solemne made promise, with full consent to honor and obey her (whosoever) as your soveraigne lady and mistresse, that i shall elect to make my wife: and now the time is come, for my exacting the performance of that promise, and which i look you must constantly keepe. i have made choyce of a yong virgine, answerable to mine owne heart and liking, dwelling not farre off hence, whom i intend to make my wife, and (within few daies) to have her brought home to my pallace. let your care and diligence then extend so farre, as to see that the feast may be sumptuous, and her entertainment to bee most honourable: to the end that i may receive as much contentment in your promise performed, as you shall perceive i doe in my choice. the lords and all the rest, were wondrously joyfull to heare him so well inclined, expressing no lesse by their shouts and jocund suffrages: protesting cordially, that she should be welcommed with pompe and majestie, and honoured of them all, as their liege ladie and soveraigne. afterward, they made preparation for a princely and magnificent feast, as the marquesse did the like, for a marriage of extraordinary state and qualitie, inviting all his kinred, friends, and acquaintance in all parts and provinces, about him. hee made also readie most riche and costly garments, shaped by the body of a comely young gentlewoman, who he knew to be equall in proportion and stature, to her of whom hee hade made his election. when the appointed nuptiall day was come, the lord marques, about nine of the clocke in the morning, mounted on horse-backe, as all the rest did, who came to attend him honourably, and having all things in due readinesse with them, he said: lords, it is time for us to goe fetch the bride. so on hee rode with his traine, to the same poore village whereas shee dwelt, and when hee was come to her fathers house, hee saw the maiden returning very hastily from a well, where shee had beene to fetch a paile of water, which shee set downe, and stood (accompanied with other maidens) to see the passage by of the lord marquesse and his traine. _gualtiero_ called her by her name, which was _grizelda_, and asked her, where her father was: who bashfully answered him, and with an humble courtesie, saying. my gracious lord, hee is in the house. then the marquesse dismounted from his horse, commanding every one to attend him, then all alone hee entred into the poore cottage, where he found the maides father, being named _janiculo_, and said unto him. god speed good father, i am come to espouse thy daughter _grizelda_: but first i have a few demands to make, which i will utter to her in thy presence. then hee turned to the maide, and saide. faire _grizelda_, if i make you my wife, will you doe your best endeavour to please me, in all things which i shall doe or say? will you also be gentle, humble, and patient? with divers other the like questions: whereto she still answered, that she would, so neere as heaven (with grace) should enable her. presently he tooke her by the hand, so led her forth of the poore homely house, and in the presence of all his company, with his owne hands, he took off her meane wearing garments, smocke and all, and cloathed her with those robes of state which he had purposely brought thither for her, and plaiting her haire over her shoulders, hee placed a crowne of gold on her head, whereat every one standing as amazed, and wondring not a little, hee said: _grizelda_, wilt thou have me to thy husband. modestly blushing, and kneeling on the ground, she answered. yes my gracious lord, if you will accept so poore a maiden to be your wife. yes _grizelda_, quoth hee, with this holy kisse, i confirme thee for my wife; and so espoused her before them all. then mounting her on a milke-white palfray, brought thither for her, shee was thus honourably conducted to her pallace. now concerning the marriage feast and triumphes, they were performed with no lesse pompe, then if she had beene daughter to the king of france. and the young bride apparantly declared, that (with her garments) her minde and behavior were quite changed. for indeed shee was (as it were shame to speake otherwise) a rare creature, both of person and perfections, and not onely was shee absolute for beautie, but so sweetely amiable, gracious, and goodlie; as if she were not the daughter of poore _janiculo_, and a countrie shepheardesse, but rather of some noble lord, whereat every one wondred that formerly had knowne her. beside all this, shee was so obedient to her husband, so fervent in all dutifull offices, and patient, without the very least provoking: as hee held himselfe much more then contented, and the onely happy man of the world. in like manner, towards the subjects of her lord and husband, she shewed her selfe alwayes so benigne and gracious; as there was not any one, but the more they lookt on her, the better they loved her, honouring her voluntarily, and praying to the heavens, for her health, dignity and well-fares long continuance. speaking now (quite contrary to their former opinion of the marquesse) honourably and worthily, that he had shewne him selfe a singular wise man, in the election of his wife, which few else (but he) in the world would have done: because their judgement might fall farre short, of discerning those great and precious vertues, veiled under a homely habite, and obscured in a poore countrey cottage. to be briefe, in very short time, not onely the marquisate it selfe, but all neighbouring provinces round about, had no other common talke, but of her rare course of life, devotion, charity, and all good actions else; quite quailing all sinister instructions of her husband, before he received her in marriage. about foure or five yeeres after the birth of her daughter, shee conceived with child againe, and (at the limitted houre of deliverance) had a goodly sonne, to the no little liking of the marquesse. afterward, a strange humour entred into his braine, namely, that by a long continued experience, and courses of intollerable quality; he would needes make proofe of his faire wives patience. first he began to provoke her by injurious speeches, shewing fierce and frowning lookes to her, intimating; that his people grew displeased with him, in regard of his wives base birth and education, and so much the rather, because she was likely to bring children, who (by her blood) were no better then beggars, and murmured at the daughter already borne. which words when _grizelda_ heard, without any alteration of countenance, for the least distemperature in any appearing action she said. my honourable and gracious lord, dispose of me, as you thinke best, for your owne dignity and contentment, for i shall therewith be well pleased: as she that knowes her selfe, farre inferiour to the meanest of your people, much lesse worthy of the honour, whereto you liked to advance me. this answere was very welcome to the marquesse, as apparantly perceiving hereby, that the dignity whereto hee had exalted her, or any particular favours beside, could not infect her with any pride, coynesse, or disdaine. not long after, having told her in plaine and open speeches, that his subjects could not endure her so late borne daughter: he called a trusty servant of his, and having instructed him what he should doe, sent him to _grizelda_, and he being alone with her, looking very sadde, and much perplexed in mind, he saide. madame, except i intend to loose mine owne life, i must accomplish what my lord hath strictly enjoyned me, which is, to take this your yong daughter, and then i must: so breaking off abruptly, the lady hearing his words, and noting his frowning lookes, remembring also what the marquesse himselfe had formerly said; she presently imagined, that he had commanded his servant to kill the childe. suddenly therefore, she tooke it out of the cradle, and having sweetly kissed, and bestowne her blessing on it (albeit her heart throbbed, with the inward affection of a mother) without any alteration of countenance, she tenderly laid it in the servants armes, and said. here friend, take it, and doe with it as thy lord and mine hath commanded thee: but leave it in no rude place, where birds or savage beasts may devoure it, except it be his will to have it so. the servant departing from her with the child, and reporting to the marquesse what his lady had said; he wondered at her incomparable constancy. then he sent it by the same servant to _bologna_, to an honourable lady his kinsewoman, requesting her (without revealing whose child it was) to see it both nobly and carefully educated. at time convenient afterward, being with child againe, and delivered of a princely sonne (then which nothing could be more joyfull to the marquesse) yet all this was not sufficient for him; but with farre ruder language then before, and lookes expressing harsh intentions, he said unto her. _grizelda_, though thou pleasest me wonderfully, by the birth of this princely boy, yet my subjects are not therewith contented, but blunder abroad maliciously; that the grand-child of _janiculo_, a poore countrey pezant, when i am dead and gone, must be their soveraigne lord and master. which makes me stand in feare of their expulsion, and to prevent that, i must be rid of this childe, as well as the other, and then send thee away from hence, that i may take another wife, more pleasing to them. _grizelda_, with a patient sufferent soule, hearing what he had said, returned no other answere but this. most gracious and honourable lord, satisfie and please your owne royall minde, and never use any respect of me: for nothing is precious or pleasing to mee, but what may agree with your good liking. within a while after, the noble marquesse in the like manner as he did before for the daughter, so he sent the same servant for the sonne, and seeming as if he had sent it to have been slaine, conveighed it to be nursed at _bologna_, in company of his sweete sister. whereat the lady shewed no other discontentment in any kinde, then formerly she had done for her daughter, to the no meane marvell of the marquesse, who protested in his soule, that the like woman was not in all the world beside. and were it not for his heedfull observation, how loving and carefull she was of her children, prizing them as dearely as her owne life: rash opinion might have perswaded him, that she had no more in her, then a carnall affection, not caring how many she had, so shee might thus easily be rid of them; but he knew her to be a truely vertuous mother, and wisely liable to endure his severest impositions. his subjects beleeving, that he had caused the children to bee slaine, blamed him greatly, thought him to be a most cruell man, and did highly compassionate the ladies case: who when shee came in company of other gentlewomen, which mourned for their deceased children, would answere nothing else: but that they could not be more pleasing to her, then they were to the father that begot them. within certaine yeares after the birth of these children, the marquesse purposed with himselfe, to make his last and finall proofe of faire _grizeldaes_ patience, and said to some neere about him: that he could no longer endure, to keepe _grizelda_ as his wife, confessing, he had done foolishly, and according to a young giddie braine, when he was so rash in the marriage of her. wherefore he would send to the pope, and purchase a dispensation from him, to repudiate _grizelda_, and take another wife. wherein although they greatly reproved him; yet he told them plainely, that it must needes be so. the lady hearing these newes, and thinking she must returne againe to her poore fathers house, and (perhaps) to her old occupation of keeping sheepe, as in her yonger dayes she had done, understanding withall, that another woman must enjoy him, whom shee dearely loved and honoured; you may well thinke (worthy ladies) that her patience was now put to the maine proofe indeede. neverthelesse, as with an invincible true vertuous courage, she had outstood all the other injuries of fortune; so did she constantly settle her soule, to beare this with an undaunted countenance and behaviour. at such time as was prefixed for the purpose, counterfeit letters came to the marquesse (as sent from _rome_) which he caused to be publikely read in the hearing of his subjects: that the pope had dispensed with him, to leave _griselda_, and marry with another wife, wherefore, sending for her immediatly, in presence of them all, thus he spake to her. woman, by concession sent me from the pope, he hath dispensed with me, to make choyce of another wife, and to free my selfe from thee. and because my predecessors have beene noblemen, and great lords in this country, thou being the daughter of a poore countrey clowne, and their blood and mine notoriously imbased, by my marriage with thee; i intend to have thee no longer my wife, but will returne thee home to thy fathers house, with all the rich dowry thou broughtest me; and then i will take another wife, with whom i am already contracted, better beseeming my birth, and farre more contenting and pleasing to my people. the lady hearing these words (not without much paine and difficulty) restrayned her teares, quite contrary to the naturall inclination of women, and thus answered. great marquesse, i never was so empty of discretion, but did alwayes acknowledge, that my base and humble condition, could not in any manner sute with your high blood and nobility, and my being with you, i ever acknowledged, to proceed from heaven and you, not any merit of mine, but onely as a favour lent me, which you being now pleased to recall backe againe, i ought to be pleased (and so am) that it bee restored. here is the ring, wherewith you espoused me; here (in all humility) i deliver it to you. you command me, to carry home the marriage dowry which i brought with me: there is no need of a treasurer to repay it me, neither any new purse to carry it in, much lesse any sumpter to be laden with it. for (noble lord) it was never out of my memory, that you tooke me starke naked; and if it shall seeme sightly to you, that this body which hath borne two children, and begotten by you, must againe be seene naked; willingly must i depart hence naked. but i humbly beg of your excellency, in recompence of my virginity, which i brought you blamelesse, so much as in thought: that i may have but one of my wedding smocks, onely to conceale the shame of nakednesse, and then i depart rich enough. the marquesse whose heart wept bloody teares, as his eyes would likewise gladly have yeelded their naturall tribute; covered all with a dissembled angry countenance, and starting up, said. goe, give her a smocke onely, and so send her gadding. all there present about him, entreated him to let her have a petticote, because it might not be said, that she who had been his wife thirteene yeares and more, was sent away so poorely in her smocke: but all their perswasions prevailed not with him. naked in her smocke, without hose or shooes, bareheaded, and not so much as a cloth about her necke, to the great griefe and mourning of all that saw her, she went home to her old fathers house. and he (good man) never beleeving, that the marquesse would long keepe his daughter as his wife, but rather expected daily, what now had happened: safely laid up the garments, whereof the marquesse despoyled her, the same morning when he espoused her. wherefore he delivered them to her, and she fell to her fathers houshold businesse, according as formerly she had done; sustayning with a great and unconquerable spirit, all the cruell assaults of her enemy fortune. about such time after, as suted with his owne disposition, the marquesse made publiquely knowne to his subjects, that he meant to joyne in marriage again, with the daughter to one of the counts of _panago_, and causing preparation to be made for a sumptuous wedding; he sent for _grizelda_, and she being come, thus he spake to her. the wife that i have made the new election of, is to arrive here within very few dayes, and at her first comming, i would have her to be most honourably entertained. thou knowest i have no women in my house, that can decke up the chambers, and set all requisite things in due order, befitting for so solemne a feast: and therefore i sent for thee, who knowing (better then any other) all the partes, provision and goods in the house, set every thing in such order, as thou shalt thinke necessary. invite such ladies and gentlewomen as thou wilt, and give them welcome, even as if thou wert the lady of the house: and when the marriage is ended, returne then home to thy father againe. although these words pierced like wonding daggers, the heart of poore (but noble patient) _grizelda_, as being unable to forget the unequal'd love she bare to the marquesse, though the dignitie of her former fortune, more easily slipt out of her remembrance; yet neverthelesse, thus she answered. my gracious lord, i am glad i can doe you any service; wherein you shall find mee both willing and ready. in the same poore garments, as she came from her fathers house, (although shee was turned out in her smocke) she began to sweep and make cleane the chambers, rubbe the stooles and benches in the hall, and ordered every in the kitchin, as if she were the worst maide in all the house, never ceasing or giving over, till all things were in due and decent order, as best beseemed in such a case. after all which was done, the marquesse, having invited all the ladies of the countrey, to be present at so great a feast: when the marriage day came, _grizelda_, in her gowne of countrey gray, gave them welcome, in honourable manner, and graced them all with very cheerefull countenance. _gualtiero_ the marquesse, who had caused his two children to be nobly nourished at _bologna_, with a neere kinswoman of his, who had married with one of the counts of _panago_, his daughter being now aged twelve yeares old, and some-what more, as also the son about sixe or seven. he sent a gentleman expresly to his kindred, to have them come and visite him at _saluzza_, bringing his daughter and sonne with them, attended in very honourable manner, and publishing every where as they came along, that the young virgin (knowne to none but himselfe and them) should be the wife to the marquesse, and that onely was the cause of her comming. the gentleman was not slacke, in the execution of the trust reposed in him: but having made convenient preparation, with the kindred, sonne, daughter, and a worthy company attending on them, arrived at _saluzza_ about dinner time, where wanted no resort, from all neighbouring parts round about, to see the comming of the lord marquesses new spouse. by the lords and ladies she was joyfully entertained, and comming into the great hall, where the tables were readily covered: _grizelda_, in her homely country habite, humbled her selfe before her, saying. gracious welcome, to the new elected spouse of the lord marquesse. all the ladies there present, who had very earnestly importuned _gualtiero_ (but in vaine) that _grizelda_, might better be shut up in some chamber, or else to lend her the wearing of any other garments, which formerly had been her owne, because she should not be so poorely seene among strangers: being seated at the tables, she waited on them very serviceably. the yong virgin was observed by every one, who spared not to say; that the marquesse had made an excellent change: but above them all, _grizelda_ did most commend her, and so did her brother likewise, as young as he was, yet not knowing her to be his sister. now was the marquesse sufficiently satisfied in his soule, that he had seene so much as he desired, concerning the patience of his wife, who in so many hart-grieving trials, was never noated so much as to alter her countenance. and being absolutely perswaded, that this proceeded not from any want of understanding in her, because he knew her to be singularly wise: he thought it high time now, to free her from these afflicting oppressions, and give her such assurance as she ought to have. wherefore, commanding her into his presence, openly before all his assembled friends, smiling on her, he said. what thinkst thou _grizelda_ of our new chosen spouse? my lord (quoth she) i like her exceeding well, and if she be so wise, as she is faire (which verely i thinke she is) i make no doubt but you shall live with her, as the onely happy man of the world. but i humbly entreat your honour (if i have any power in me to prevaile by) that you would not give her such cutting and unkind language, as you did to your other wife: for i cannot thinke her armed with such patience, as should (indeed) support them: as wel in regard she is much yonger, as also her more delicate breeding and education, whereas she who you had before, was brought up in continual toile and travaile. when the marquesse perceyved, that _grizelda_ beleeved verily, this yong daughter of hers should be his wife, and answered him in so honest and modest manner: he commanded her to sit downe by him, and saide. _grizelda_, it is now more then fitte time, that thou shouldst taste the fruite of thy long admired patience, and that they who have thought me cruell, harsh and uncivill natured, should at length observe, that i have done nothing basely, or unadvisedly. for this was a worke premeditated before, for enstructing thee, what it is to be a married wife, and to let them know (whosoever they be) how to take and keepe a wife. which hath begotten (to me) perpetuall joy and happinesse, so long as i have a day to live with thee: a matter whereof i stoode before greatly in feare, and which (in marriage i thought) would never happen to me. it is not unknown to thee, in how many kinds (for my first proofe) i gave thee harsh and unpleasing speeches, which drawing no discontentment from thee, either in lookes, words, or behaviour, but rather such comfort as my soule desired, and so in my other succeedings afterward: in one minute now, i purpose to give thee that consolation, which i bereft thee of in many tempestuous stormes, and make a sweet restauration, for all thy former sower sufferinges. my faire and dearly affected _grizelda_, shee whom thou supposest for my new elected spouse, with a glad and cheerfull hart, imbrace for thine owne daughter, and this also her brother, beeing both of them thy children and mine, in common opinion of the vulgar multitude, imagined to be (by my command) long since slaine. i am thy honourable lord and husband, who doth, and will love thee farre above all women else in the world; giving thee justly this deserved praise and commendation, that no man living hath the like wife, as i have. so, sweetly kissing her infinitely, and hugging her joyfully in his armes (the teares now streaming like new-let-loose rivers, downe her faire face, which no disaster before could force from her) hee brought her, and seated her by her daughter, who was not a little amazed at so rare an alteration. shee having (in zeale of affection) kissed and embraced them both, all else there present being clearely resolved from the former doubt which too long deluded them; the ladies arose jocondly from the tables, and attending on _grizelda_ to her chamber, in signe of a more successefull augury to follow: tooke off her poor contemptible rags, and put on such costly robes, which (as lady marchionesse) she used to weare before. afterward, they waited on her into the hall againe, being their true soveraigne lady and mistresse, as she was no lesse in her poorest garments; where all rejoycing for the new restored mother, & happy recovery of so noble a son and daughter, the festivall continued many months after. now every one thought the marquesse to be a noble and wise prince, though somewhat sharpe and unsufferable, in the severe experiences made of his wife: but (above al) they reputed _grizelda_, to be a most wise, patient, & vertuous lady. the count of _panago_, within few daies after returned backe to _bologna_; and the lord marques, fetching home old _janiculo_ from his country drudgery, to live with him (as his father in law) in his princely palace, gave him honorable maintenance, wherein hee long continued, and ended his daies. afterward, he matched his daughter in a noble marriage: he and _grizelda_ living long time together, in the highest honor that possibly could be. what can now be saide to the contrary, but that poore country cottages, may yeeld as divine & excellent spirits, as the most stately and royall mansions, which breed and bring uppe some, more worthy to be hog-rubbers, then hold any soveraignty over men? where is any other (beside _grizelda_) who not only without a wet eye, but imboldned by a valiant and invincible courage: that can suffer the sharpe rigours, and (never the like heard of proofes) made by the marquesse? perhaps he might have met with another, who would have quitted him in a contrary kinde, and for thrusting her forth of doores in her smocke, could have found better succor somewhere else, rather then walke so nakedly in the cold streets. * * * * * _dioneus_ having thus ended his novel, and the ladies delivering their severall judgements, according to their owne fancies, some holding one conceite, others leaning to the contrary; one blaming this thing, and another commending that, the king lifting his eyes to heaven, and seeing the sun began to fall** low, by rising of the evening starre; without arising from his seat, spake as followeth. discreet ladies, i am perswaded you know sufficiently, that the sense and understanding of us mortals, consisteth not onely (as i think) by preserving in memory things past, or knowledge of them present; but such as both by the one and other, know how to foresee future occasions, are worthily thought wise, and of no common capacity. it will be (to morrow) fifteene dayes, since we departed from the city of _florence_, to come hither for our pastime and comfort, the conservation of our lives, and support of our health, by avoyding those melanchollies, griefes, and anguishes, which we beheld daylie in our city, since the pestilentiall visitation beganne there, wherein (by my judgement) we have done well and honestly. albeit some light novels, perhaps attractive to a little wantonnes, as some say, and our joviall feasting with good cheare, singing and dancing, may seeme matters inciting to incivility, especially in weake and shallow understandings. but i have neither seene, heard, or knowne, any acte, word, or whatsoever else, either on your part or ours, justly deserving to be blamed: but all has bin honest, as in a sweete and hermonious concord, such as might well beseeme the communitie of brethren and sisters; which assuredly, as well in regard of you, as us, hath much contented me. and therefore, least by over-long consuetude, something should take life, which might be converted to a bad construction, & by our country demourance for so many dayes, some captious conceit may wrest out an ill imagination; i am of the minde (if yours be the like) seeing each of us hath had the honor, which now remaineth still on me: that it is very fitting for us, to returne thither from whence we came. and so much the rather, because this sociable meeting of ours, which already hath wonne the knowledge of many dwellers here about us, should not grow to such an increase, as might make our purposed pastime offensive to us. in which respect (if you allow of my advise) i will keepe the crowne till our departing hence; the which i intend shall be to morrow: but if you determine otherwise, i am the man ready to make my resignation. many imaginations passed amongst the ladies, and likewise the men, but yet in the end, they reputed the kings counsell to bee the best and wisest, concluding to do as he thought convenient. whereupon, hee called the master of the housholde, and conferred with him, of the businesse belonging to the next morning, and then gave the company leave to rise. the ladies and the rest, when they were risen, fel some to one kinde of recreation, and others as their fancies served them, even as (before) they had done. and when supper time came, they dispatcht it in very loving manner. then they began to play on instruments, sing and dance, and madame _lauretta_ leading the dance: the king commaunded madame _fiammetta_ to sing a song, which pleasantly she began in this manner. _the song._ the chorus sung by all the rest of the company. _if love were free from jealousie, no lady living, had lesse heart-greeving, or liv'd so happily as i._ _if gallant youth in a faire friend, a woman could content, if vertues prize, valour and hardiment, wit, carriage, purest eloquence, could free a woman from impatience: then i am she can vaunt (if i were wise) all these in one faire flower, are in my power, and yet i boast no more but trueth. if love were free from jealousie, &c._ _but i behold that other women are as wise as i which killes me quite, fearing false sirquedrie. for when my fire begins to flame others desires misguide my aim, and so bereaves me of secure delight. onely through fond mistrust, he is unjust: thus are my comforts hourely hot and cold. if love were free, &c._ _if in my friend, i found like faith, as manly minde i know; mistrust were slaine. but my fresh griefes still grow, by sight of such as do allure, so i can thinke none true, none sure, but all would rob me of my golden gaine. loe thus i dye, in jelousie, for losse of him, on whom i most depend. if love were free, &c._ _let me advise such ladies as in love are bravely bold, not to wrong me, i scorne to be controld. if any one i chance to finde. by winkes, words, smiles, in crafty kinde, seeking for that, which onely mine should be: then i protest, to do my best, and make them know, that they are scarsly wise._ _if love were free from jealousie, i know no lady living, could have lesse heart-greeving, or live so happily as i._ so soone as madam _fiammetta_ had ended her song; _dioneus_, who sate by her, smiling said. truly madam, you may do us a great courtesie, to express your selfe more plainly to us all, least (thorow ignorance) the possession may be imposed on your selfe, and so you remaine the more offended. after the song was past, divers other were sung beside, and it now drawing wel-neere midnight, by the kings command, they all went to bed. and when new day appeared, and all the world awaked out of sleepe, the master of the houshold having sent away the carriages; they returned (under the conduct of their discreet king) to _florence_, where the three gentlemen left the seven ladies at the church of _santa maria novella_, from whence they went with them at the first. and having parted with kinde salutations; the gentlemen went whether themselves best pleased, and the ladies repaired home to their houses. _the end of the tenth and last day._