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 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
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 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC 
 SOCIETIES 
 
 PQlt272 
 
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 A36 
 
 189 ^* 
 
This book is due at the LOUIS R. WILSON LIBRARY on the 
 last date stamped under “Date Due.” If not on hold it may be 
 renewed by bringing it to the library. 
 
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THE 
 
 DECAMERON; 
 
 OR 
 
 TEN DAYS’ ENTERTAINMENT 
 
 OF 
 
 BOCCACCIO. 
 
 WITH INTRODUCTION BY THOMAS WRIGHT, M.A., F.S.A. 
 
 > 
 
 4 
 
 WITH PORTRAIT AFTER RAFFAELLE, AND TEN DESIGNS BY 
 
 T. S TOT HARD. 
 
 1894. 
 
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CONTENTa 
 
 PACK 
 
 Some Account op the Life and Weitin as of Boccaccio • - 13 
 
 Inteoduction - - - • - - •.29 
 
 THE FIRST DAY. 
 
 Novel I.—Chappelet imposes upon the priest by a sham confession, 
 and dies; and, although a very wicked fellow, was afterwards 
 reputed a saint; and called St. Chappelet - - - 41 
 
 Novel II,—Abraham, the Jew, at the instigation of Jeannot de 
 ChivigTii, goes to the court of Rome, and seeing the wickedness of 
 the clergy there, returns to Paris, and becomes a Christian - 51 
 
 Novel III,—Melchizedeck, a Jew, by a story of the three rings, 
 escapes a most dangerous snare, which Saladin had prepared for him 54 
 
 Novel IV.—A monk having committed an offence, for which he 
 ought to have been severely punished, saves himself by wittily 
 proving his abbot guilty of the very same fault - - - 56 
 
 Novel V.—The Marchioness of Monferrat, by an entertainment of 
 hens, and some \vitty speeches, cures the King of France of his 
 dishonourable love - - - - - - -59 
 
 Novel VI.—A plain honest man, by a jest accidentally let fall, very 
 wittily reproves the hypocrisy of the clergy - - - 61 
 
 Novel VII.—Bergamino, by telling a tale of a certain witty person 
 named Primasso, very handsomely reproves the avarice which had 
 lately appeared in M, Cane della Scala - • - - 63 
 
 Novel VIII.—Gulielmo Borsiere, by a few smart words, checks the 
 miserable covetousness of M. Ermino de’ Grimaldi - - 66 
 
 Novel IX.—The King of Cyprus was so much affected by the words 
 of a gentlewoman of Gascogne, that from being a vicious prince he 
 became very virtuous - - - - - - 68 
 
 Novel X.—Master Albert of Bologna puts a lady to the blush, who 
 thought to have done as much to him, because she perceived him 
 to be amorously inclined towards her • - • -09 
 
 680262 
 
11 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 THE SECOND DAY. 
 
 rAGi 
 
 Nov^u I.—Marteilino, feigning himself to be a cripple, pretends to ^ 
 be cured by being laid upon the body of Saint Arrigo; but his 
 roguery being discovered, he gets soundly beaten, and is after¬ 
 wards apprehended, and in danger of being hanged, but at last 
 escapes - - • - - - • -75 
 
 Novel II.—Einaldo d’Asti having been robbed, comes to Castel 
 Gulielmo, where he is entertained by a widow lady, makes good 
 his loss, and returns safe home - - - - - 79 
 
 Novel III.—Three young gentlemen lavish away their fortunes, and 
 a nephew of theirs returning home in as desperate a condition, falls 
 in company with an Abbot, whom he afterwards found to be the 
 King of England’s daughter, who marries him, and makes good his 
 uncles’ losses, resettling them in their former prosperity - - 83 
 
 Novel IV.—Landolpho Euffolo, falling into poverty, became a pi¬ 
 rate, and was taken by the Genoese, and suffered shipwreck, but 
 saved himself upon a cask of jewels, and was taken out of the 
 sea by a woman at Corfu, and afterwards returned home very 
 
 rich - - - • ■ - - - S9 
 
 Novel V.—Andreuccio, of Perugia, coming to Naples to buy horses, 
 met with three remarkable accidents in one night; from all w hich 
 he escapes, and returns with a ruby of value - - - 93 
 
 Novel VI.—Madam Beritola was found on an island with two goats, 
 having lost her two sons, and went from thence to Lunigiana, 
 where one of her sons became servant to the lord thereof; and 
 being found with his daughter, was by him sent to prison ; after¬ 
 wards, v/hen the country of Sicily rebelled against King Charles, 
 that same son was known again by his mother, and was married 
 to his master’s daughter; and his brother being found likewise, 
 they both returned to great estate and credit - - . 103 
 
 Novel VII.—The Sultan of Babylon sends one of his daughters to 
 be married to the King of Algarve, who, by divers accidents in the 
 space of four years fell into the hands of nine different men in dif¬ 
 ferent places. At length, being restored to her father, she went 
 to the King of Algarve as a maid, and, as at first she was intended, 
 to be his wife 113 
 
 Novel VIII.—The Count d’Angiers, being falsely accused, was 
 banished from France, and left his two children in different parts 
 of England. Eeturning afterwards privately out of Ireland, he 
 found them settled in great repute ; from thence he goes as a com¬ 
 mon servant into the King of France’s army, and his innocence 
 being made public at last, he is restored to his former dignity - 129 
 
 Kovel IX.—Bernard of Genoa is imposed upon by one Ambrose, 
 loses his money, and orders his wife, who is quite innocent, to be 
 put to death. She makes her escape, and goes in man’s dress into 
 the service of the Sultan ; there she meets with the deceiver ; an^ 
 ■ending for her husband to Alexandria, has him punished; she 
 
CONTENTS. lit 
 
 / 
 
 then resumes her former habit, and returns with her husband rich 
 to Genoa - - - - - > « -HO 
 
 Kovel X. —Paganino da Monaca carries away the wife of Signior 
 Picciardo di Cliinzica, who, understanding where she was, went 
 thither, and 'growing acquainted with Paganino, he demanded her 
 back, which the other consents to, provided she is willing ; she 
 refuses to return; and upon Picciardo’s death became the wife of 
 Paganino - - - - - - - 149 
 
 THE THIRD DAY. 
 
 Novel I.—Masetto da Lamporecchio, pretending to be dumb, is 
 taken in to be gardener to a monastery of nuns; what happens in 
 consequence - - - - • - -15S 
 
 Novel II.—An equerry belonging to King Agilulf lies with his queen, 
 of which the king making a secret discovery, set a mark upon him 
 by shearing the hair off his head : upon w^hich he who was so shorn, 
 cut that of his fellow-servants in like manner, and so escaped fur¬ 
 ther punishment 163 
 
 Novel III.—A lady, under pretence of confessing, and a pure co’n- 
 science, being in love wdth a young gentleman, makes a sanctified 
 friar bring them together, without his knowing anything of her 
 intention ........ 166 
 
 Novel IV.—A young scholar, named Felix, teaches one Puccio how 
 he may be saved, by performing a penance w'hich he shews him : 
 this he puts into execution ; and, in the meantime, Felix amuses 
 himself with his wife - - - • - -173 
 
 Novel V.—Picciardo, surnamed the Beau, makes a present of a fine 
 horse to Francisco Vergellesi, upon condition that he should have 
 the liberty of speaking to his wife: and she making him no reply, 
 he answei s for her, which accordingly has its effect - - 176 
 
 Novel VI.—Picciardo Minutolo is in love with the wife of Philip- 
 pello Fighinolfi; and knowing her to be jealous of her husband, 
 makes her believe that he w^as to meet his wife that night at a 
 bagnio. Accordingly she goes thither; and, imagining she had 
 been with her husband all the time, finds herself at last with 
 Picciardo • - - - - - - -I?'! 
 
 Novel Vll.—Tedaldo, having a misunderstanding with his mis¬ 
 tress, leaves Florence ; he returns thither afterwards in the habit 
 of a pilgrim, and makes himself known to her; when he convinces 
 her of her mistake, and saves her husband from being put to death 
 for his murder, for which he had been condemned. He then 
 reconciles him to his brethren, and lives upon good terms with her 
 for the future ....... 185 
 
 Novel VIII.—Ferondo, by taking a certain drug, is buried for dead, 
 and by the abbot, who has an intrigue with his wife, is taken out 
 of the grave and put into a dungeon, w'hen he is made to believe 
 that he is in purgatory; being raised up again, he rears a child as 
 his own, which the abbot had got by his wife - - - 194 
 
IV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 pAoa 
 
 Novel IX.- -Giletta de Narbonna cures the King of France of a com¬ 
 plaint, and demands the Count de Roussilon in marriage, as her 
 reward; he marries her against his will, and goes in a pet to ^ 
 Florence, where be fell in love with a young lady, and la,y with 
 his own wife, when he thought himself in bed with his mistress. 
 
 She had two sons by him, and, by that means, matters were 
 accommodated at la,st between them .... 201 
 
 Novel X.—Alibech, a young girl desirous of becoming a Christian, 
 travels to a desert to consult some holy men as to the best means 
 of serving and pleasing God. Rusticus, a devout hermit, informs 
 her that the Devil had escaped from hell, that nothing could be 
 more acceptable to God than his being sent back again, and teaches 
 her how to accomplish it; which she does with his pious assistance, 
 to her great satisfaction - - • - • - 207 
 
 THE FOURTH DAY. 
 
 Novel I.—Tancred, Prince of Salerno, puts his daughter’s lover to 
 death, and sends his heart to her in a golden cup ; she pours water 
 upon it, which she had poisoned, and so dies - - - 215 
 
 Novel II.—Friar Albert makes a woman believe that an angel is in 
 love with her, and in that shape deceives her. Afterwards, for 
 fear of her relations, he throws himself out of the window, and 
 takes shelter in a poor man’s house; who exposes him the next day 
 in the public market-place in the form of a wild man; when he is 
 discovered by two friars, and put into prison ... 221 
 
 Novel III.—Three young men fall in love with three sisters, and 
 fly with them into Crete. The eldest destroys her lover out of 
 jealousy; and the second, by consenting to the Duke of Crete’s 
 r^-qllest, is the means of saving her sister’s life : afterwards her 
 lover kills her, and goes away with the eldest sister. The third 
 couple is charged with her death, which they confess, and after¬ 
 wards fee their keepers, and, making their escape, die at Rhodes 
 at last in great necessity ------ 227 
 
 Novel IV.—Gerbino, contrary to a treaty made by King William, 
 his grandfather, fought with a ship belonging to the King of Tunis, 
 v/ith a design to take away his daughter; who being slain by the 
 ship’s crew, he slew them likewise, and was afterwards beheaded 
 
 for it - -- -- -- - 231 
 
 Novel V.—Isabella’s brothers put her lover to death; he appears 
 to her in a dream, and shows her where he is buried. She privately 
 brings away his head; and, putting it into a pot of basil and other 
 sweet herbs, laments over it a considerable time every day. At 
 length they take it away from her, and she soon after dies for 
 grief - -- -- -- - 235 
 
 Novel VI.—A young lady, named Andrevuola, was in love with 
 Gabriotto; they relate to each other their dreams, when he falls 
 down dead in her arms ; as she and her maid are carrying him out, 
 they are arqu-eheiided by the officers of justice, and she relates 
 how the affair happened Afier wards the magistrate would force 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 her, but she resists; at length her father hears of it, and as her 
 innocence is clear, has her set at liberty. From that period she 
 grows weary of the world, and becomes a nun ... 238 
 
 Novel VII. —Pasquino is in love with Simona; and, being in a 
 garden together, he happens to rub his teeth with a leaf of sage, 
 and immediately dies. She is brought before the judge, when, 
 being desirous of shewing him the cause of Pasquino’s death, she 
 rubs her teeth with the same herb, and meets with a similar fate 243 
 
 Novel VIII. —Girolamo is in love with Salvestra, and is obliged by 
 his mother to go to Paris. On his return he finds her married; 
 and getting privately into her house, he breathes his last by her 
 side. Being carried from thence to a church to be buried, she dies 
 likewise upon his corpse 246 
 
 Novel IX.—Gulielmo Rossiglione gives his wife to eat the heart of 
 Gulielmo Giiardastagno, her gallant, whom he had slain; as soon 
 as she knew this, she threv/ herself out of a window, and, dying, 
 was buried along with him . - - - . 250 
 
 Novel X.—A doctor’s wife puts her gallant into a chest, imagining 
 him to be dead; which chest is stolen by two usurers, and carried 
 home. He comes to himself, and is taken for a thief; whilst the 
 lady’s maid informs the magistrates that she had put him into a 
 chest, which the usurers had carried away; upon which he escapes, 
 and they are fined a sum of money .... 26i 
 
 THE FIFTH DAY. 
 
 Novel I. —Cymon becomes wise by being in love, and by force of 
 arms wins Ephigenia his mistress upon the seas; and is imprisoned 
 at Pvhodes. Being delivered from thence by Lysimachus, with 
 him lie recovers Ephigenia, and flies with her to Crete, where he 
 is married to her, and is afterwards recalled home - - 262 
 
 Novel II.—Constantia is in love with Martuccio Gomito; and 
 hearing that he was dead, out of despair, goes alone into a boat, 
 which is driven by the wind to Susa ; finding him alive at Tunis, 
 she makes herself known ; whilst he, being a great favourite there 
 of the king’s, marries her, and returns home with her to Lipari, 
 very rich ... ..... 271 
 
 Novel III.—Pietro Boccamazza running away with his mistress, is 
 set upon by thieves, whilst the lady makes her escape into a forest, 
 from whence she is conducted to a castle. He is taken, but escapes 
 by some accident, and arrives at the same castle, where they are 
 married, and return from thence to Rome ... 275 
 
 Novel IV. —Ricciardo Manardi is found by Lizio along with his 
 daughter, whom he marries, and they become reconciled together 280 
 
 No VEL V. —Guidotto da Cremona dying, left a daughter to the care 
 of Giacomino da Pavia. Giannole di Severino and JMinghino di ' 
 Mingole are both in love with her, and fight on her account, when 
 she is known to be Gi«nnole*s sister, and is married to Minghino 283 
 
vi 
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 rAOi 
 
 Novel VI.—Gianni di Procida is discovered with a youn^ laay, 
 formerly his mistress, but then given to King Frederick, for which 
 he is condemned to be burnt with her at a stake. When, being 
 known by Euggieri dell’ Oria, he escapes, and marries her *■ • 287 
 
 Novel VII.—Theodoro is in love with Viol ante, his master’s daugh¬ 
 ter ; she proves with child, for which he is condemned to be 
 hanged; when being led out to execution, he is known by his 
 father, set at liberty, and afterwards marries her - - 291 
 
 Novel VIII.—Anastasio being in love with a young lady, spent a 
 good part of his fortune without being able to gain her affections. 
 
 At the request of his relations he retires to Chiassi, where he sees 
 a lady pursued and slain by a gentleman, and then given to the 
 dogs to be devoured. He invites his friends, along with his mis¬ 
 tress, to come and dine with him, when they see the same thing, 
 and she, fearing the like punishment, takes him for her husband 296 
 
 Novel IX.—Federigo being in love, without meeting with any 
 return, spends all his substance, having nothing left but one poor 
 hawk, which he gives to his lady for her dinner when she comes 
 to his house ; she, kmnving this, changes her resolution, and mar¬ 
 ries him, by which means he becomes very rich - - - 300 
 
 Novel X.—Pietro di Vinciolo goes to sup at a friend’s house; his 
 wife in the meantime has her gallant: Pietro returns, when she 
 hides him under a chicken coop. Pietro relates, that a young 
 fellow was found in Hercolano’s house where he supped, ’ who 
 had been concealed by his wife. Pietro’s wife blames very much 
 the wife of Hercolano ; whilst an ass happening to tread on the 
 young man’s fingers, who lay hidoejj, he cries out. Pietro runs 
 to see what is the matter, and finds out the trick. At length they 
 make it up- - • • • • • - 
 
 THE SIXTH DAY. 
 
 Novel I. —A certain knight offers a lady to carry her behind him, 
 and to tell her a pleasant story by the way ; but doing it with an 
 ill grace, she chose rather to walk on foot - 31(* 
 
 Novel II.—Cisti the baker, by a smart reply, makes Signer G-eri 
 Spina sensible of an unreasonable request - - - 311 
 
 Novel HI.—Madam Nonna de’ Pulci silences the Bishop of Flo- 
 «^ence, by a smart reply to an unseemly piece of raillery - - 314 
 
 Novel IV.—Chichibio, cook to Currado Gianfiliazzi, by a sudden 
 reply, which he made to his master, turns his wrath into laughter, 
 and so escapes the punishment with which he had threatened him 315 
 
 Novel V.—Forese da Kabatta and Giotto the painter, coming from 
 Mugello, laugh at the meanness of each other’s appearance - 317 
 
 Novel VI.—Michael Scalza proves to certain young gentlemen, that 
 the family of Baronci is the most honourable of any in the 
 world, and wins a supper by it • - - - . 319 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Novel VII.—Madam Philippa being surprised with her gallant by 
 her husband, is accused and tried for it; but saves herself by her 
 quick reply, and has the laws moderated for the future - 
 
 Novel VIII.—Fresco advises his niece that if she could not endure 
 
 to look at any disagreeable people, she should never behold herself 
 
 % 
 
 Novel IX.—Guido Cavalcanti genteelly reprimands the folly of 
 some Florentine gentlemen, who came unawares upon him 
 
 Novel X.—Friar Onion promises some country people to shew them 
 a feather from the wing of the angel Gabriel; instead of which he 
 finds only some coals, which he tells them are the same that roasted 
 St. Laurence ....... 
 
 THE SEVENTH DAY. 
 
 Novel I.—Gianni Lotteringhi hears a knocking at his door, and 
 wakes his wife, who makes him believe it is a spirit, and they both 
 go to conjure it away with a certain prayer, after which the noise 
 ceases ........ 
 
 Novel II.—Peronella puts her gallant into a tub on her husband’s 
 coming home ; which tub the husband had sold ; she consequently 
 tells him that she had also sold it to a person who was then in it 
 to see if it were sound. Upon this the man jumps out, makes the 
 husband clean it for him, and carries it home 
 
 Novel III.—Friar Rinaldo has an affair with a lady in the neigh¬ 
 bourhood, when he makes the husband believe that he is upon a 
 charm to cure their child of the worms - . . - 
 
 Novel IV,—Tofano shuts his wife one nigh tout of doors ; who, not 
 being able to persuade him to let her come in, pretends to throw 
 herself into a well, by throAving a stone in : he runs thither to 
 see, during which she enters, and locking him out, abuses him 
 well - - ...... 
 
 Novel V.—A jealous man confesses his wife under a priest’s habit, 
 who tells him that she is visited every night by a friar : and, 
 whilst he is watching the door, she lets her lover in at the house¬ 
 top 
 
 Novel VI.—Isabella, being in company with her gallant, called 
 Leonetto, and being visited at the same time by one Lambertuc- 
 cio, her husband returns, when she sends Lambertuccio away with 
 a drawn sword in his hand, whilst the husband guards Leonetto 
 safe to his own house ...... 
 
 Novel VII.—Lodovico being in love with Beatrice, she sends her 
 husband into the garden, disguised like herself, so that her lover 
 may be with her in the meantime ; and he afterwards goes into 
 the garden, and beats him . . . . - 
 
 Novel VIII.—A woman who had a very jealous husband, tied a 
 thread to her great toe, by which she informed her lover whether 
 he should come or not. The husband found it and whilst he 
 
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 CONTENTS. 
 
 PiLOl 
 
 was pursuing the lover, she puts her maid in her place. He takes 
 her to be his wife, beats her, cuts off her hair, and then fetches 
 his wife’s relations, who find nothing of what he had told them, 
 and so load him with reproaches ----- 360 
 
 Now.l IX.—Lydia, the wife of Nicostratus, being in love with 
 Pyrrhus, did three things which he had enjoined her, to convince 
 him of her affection. She afterwards used some familiarities with 
 him before her husband’s face, making him believe that what he 
 had seen was not real ------ 
 
 Novel X.—Two inhabitants of Siena love the same woman, one of 
 whom was godfather to her son. This man dies, and returns, 
 according to his promise, to his friend, and gives him an account 
 of what is done in the other world - - - - 372 
 
 THE EIGHTH DAY. 
 
 Novel I.—Gulfardo borrows a sum of money of Guasparruolo, in 
 order to give it his wife for granting him a favour : he afterAvards 
 tells Guasparruolo, whilst she was present, that he had paid it to 
 her, which she acknowledges to be true - - . . 376 
 
 Novel II. — The parson of Varlungo receives favours from a woman 
 of his parish, and leaves his cloak in pawm for them. He after¬ 
 wards borrows a mortar of her, wdiich he returns, and demands 
 his cloak, which he says he left only as a token. She mutinies, 
 but is forced by her husband to send it - - - - 378 
 
 Novel III.—Calandrino, Bruno, and Buffalmacco go toMugnoneto 
 look for the Helioti’ope ; and Calandrino returns laden with stones, 
 supposing that he had found it. Upon this his wife scolds him, 
 and he beats her for it; and then tells his companions what they 
 knew better than himself ------ 382 
 
 IsovEL IV.—The provost of the church of Fiesole is in love with a 
 lady who has no liking to him ; and he, thinking that he is with 
 her, is all the time with her maid, when her brothers bring the 
 bishop thither to witness it - - . . . 337 
 
 Novel V. — Three young sparks play a trick with a judge, whilst he 
 is sitting upon the bench hearing causes - 390 
 
 Novel VI.—Bruno and Buffalmacco steal a pig from Calandrino, 
 and make a charm to find out the thief with pills made of ginger 
 and some sack ; giving him, at the same time, pills made of aloes : 
 whence it apjAeared that he had it himself, and they make him pay 
 handsomely, for fear they should tell his wife - - . 392 
 
 Novel VII.—A certain scholar is in love with a widow lady named 
 Helena; who, being enamoured of another person, makes the 
 former wait a whole night for her during the midst of winter in 
 the snow. Ik '•®turn, he afterwards contrives that she shall stand 
 naked rm th . .p of a towei- in tbf middle of July, exposed to the 
 eun zr - of insects " . 307 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ix 
 
 FAoa 
 
 Novel VIII.—Two neighbours are very intimate together; when 
 one making very free with the other’s wife, the other finds it out, 
 and returns the compliment, whilst the friend is locked up in a 
 chest all the time 412 
 
 Novel IX.—^Master Simon, the doctor, is imposed upon by Bruno 
 and Buffalmacco, and made to believe that he is to be one of the 
 company of rovers, and afterwards they leave him in a ditch - 41f 
 
 Novel X.—A certain Sicilian damsel cheats a merchant of all the 
 money he had taken for his goods at Palermo. Afterwards he 
 pretends to return with a greater stock of goods than before ; 
 when he contrives to borrow a large sum of money of her, leaving 
 <«ham pledges for her security . . . - . 42n 
 
 THE NINTH DAY. 
 
 Novel I,—Madam Francesca having two lovers, and liking neither 
 of them, rids herself of both by making one go and lie down in a 
 person’s grave, and sending the other to fetch him out - - 435 
 
 Novel II.—An abbess, going in haste, and in the dark, to surprise 
 one of her nuns, instead of her veil, puts on the priest’s breeches. 
 
 The lady accused makes a just remark upon this, and so escapes 439 
 
 Novel III.—Master Simon, the doctor, with Bruno, and the rest, 
 make Calandrino believe that he is with child ; who gives them 
 fowls and money, to compose a medicine for him ; and he recovers 
 without being delivered 441 
 
 Novel IV.—Fortarrigo played away all that he had at Buoncon- 
 vento, as also the money of Angiolieri, who was his master; then 
 running away in his shirt, and pretending that the other had robbed 
 him, he caused him to be seized by the country people, when he 
 put on his clothes, and rode away upon his horse, leaving him 
 there in his shirt ------- 444 
 
 Novel V.—Calandrino is in love with a certain damsel, when Bruno 
 prepares a charm for her, by virtue of which she follows him, and 
 ttiey are found together by his wife - - . . 447 
 
 Novel VI.—Two young gentlemen lie at an inn, one of whom goes 
 to bed to the landlord’s daughter; whilst the wife, by mistake, 
 lies with the other. Afterwards, he that had lain with the 
 daughter gets to bed to the father, and tells him all that had 
 passed, thinking it had been his friend: a great uproar is made 
 about it ; upon which the wife goes to bed to the daughter, and 
 very cunningly sets all to rights again .... 454 
 
 Novel VII.—Talano di Molese dreamed that a wolf tore his wife’s 
 face and throat; and he bids her take care of herself : but she not 
 regarding him, it happens as he dreamed - - - - 455 
 
 Novel VIII.—Biondell^ imposes upon one Ciacco with regard to a 
 dinner : who revenges himself afterwards, and catv^ ot^'-ir to 
 be soundly beaten - . . - 45J5 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 % 
 
 * PAQQ 
 
 Novel IX.—Two young men go to King Solomon for his advice ; 
 the one to know how he is to behave to be beloved, the other how 
 to manage an untoward wife. To the first he replies, Love ; to 
 the second. Go to Goosebridge .... - 459 
 
 Novel X.—Don John, at the request of his companion Peter, pro¬ 
 ceeds by enchantment to turn his wife into a mare ; but when he 
 is about to attach the tail, Peter, in crying out that he will not 
 have the tail, breaks the enchantment - , - - - 462 
 
 THE TENTH DAY. 
 
 It. 
 
 Novel I.—A certain knight in the service of the King of Spain 
 thinks himself not sufficiently rewarded, when the king gives a 
 remarkable proof that it was not his fault so much as the knight’s 
 ill fortune ; and afterwards nobly requites him . - - 467 
 
 Novel II. — Ghino di Tacco takes the Abbot of Cligni prisoner, and 
 cures him of a pain in his stomach, and then sets him at liberty ; 
 when he returns to the court of Pome, and reconciling him with 
 Pope Boniface, he is made prior of an hospital - - • 470 
 
 Novel III.—Mithridanes envied the generosit 5 '' of Nathan, and went 
 to kill him ; when, conversing together, without knowing him, 
 and being informed in what manner he might do it, he went to 
 neet him in a wood as he had directed. There he calls him to 
 nind, is ashamed, and becomes his friend _ . . 473 
 
 Novel IV.—Signov Gentil de’ Carisendi takes a lady out of the 
 grave, whom he had loved, and who was buried for dead. She 
 recovers, and is brought to bed of a son, which he presents along 
 with the lady to her husband ----- 478 
 
 Novel V.—Dianora requires Ansaldo to present her with a garden 
 in January as beautiful as in May. He engages a necromancer to 
 di^ it. Her husband, upon this, gives her leave to keep her word 
 with Ansaldo; who, hearing of the husband’s generosity, quits 
 her of her promise ; and the necromancer likewise takes nothing 
 for his trouble 483 
 
 Novel VI. —Old King Charles, surnamed the Victorious, being in 
 love with a young lady, and ashamed afterwards of his folly, mar¬ 
 ries both her and her sister much to their advantage - - 486 
 
 Novel VII.—King Pietro, knowing that a lady was love-sick for 
 him, makes her a visit, and marries her to a worthy gentleman ; 
 then kissing her forehead, calls himself ever afterwards her knight 490 
 
 Novel VIII.—Sophronia, believing herself to be the wife of Gisip- 
 pus, is really married to Titus Quintus Fulvius, who carries her 
 to Pome ; where Gisippus arrives some time after in great dis¬ 
 tress, and, thinking himself despised by Titus, confesses himself 
 guilty of a murder, in order to put an end to his life. Titus 
 recollects him, and, to save him, accuses himself; which, when 
 the murderer sees, he delivers himself up as the guilty person. 
 
 On which account they are all set at liberty by Octavius, and 
 Titus marries Gisippus to his sister, and gives him half his estate 496 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 XI 
 
 Novkl IX.—Ssladin, disguising himself like a merchant, is gener¬ 
 ously entertained by Signor Torello; who, going upon an expedition 
 to the Holy Land, allowed his wife a certain time to marry again. 
 
 In the meantime he is taken prisoner, and being employed to look 
 after the hawks, is known to the Soldan, who shews him great 
 respect. Afterwards Torello falls sick, and is conveyed, by magic 
 art, in one night, to Pavia, at the very time that his wife was to 
 have been married: when he makes himself known to her, and 
 returns with her home ...... 508 
 
 X'ovEL X.—The Marquis of Saluzzo having been prevailed upon by 
 his subjects to marry, in order to please himself in the affair, 
 made choice of a countryman’s daughter, by whom he had two 
 children, which he pretended to put to death. Afterwards, seem¬ 
 ing as though he was weary of her, and had taken another, he had 
 his own daughter brought home, as if he had espoused her, whilst 
 his wife was sent away in a most distressed condition. At length, 
 being convinced of her patience, he brought her home again, pre¬ 
 sented her children to her, who were now of considerable years. 
 
 Mid over afterwards loved *nd honoured her as his lady - - 52S 
 
'5aV' 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 HE Decameron of Boccaccio is one of the earliest 
 and most remarkable of those collections of popular 
 stories which appeared after the celebrated collection of 
 the Gesta Romanorum^ which were clothed in Latin, the 
 ruling language of the early middle ages. This collection 
 has not in the same degree any special plan, but consists 
 merely of a number of the stories which were then current, 
 assumed to be the histories of the ruling families of that 
 race which then ruled the world, and made by and for the 
 clergy. The Gesta Romanorum are found more or less 
 imperfect, and present generally the character of a series of 
 the stories which were at the time popular, with moralities 
 which made them useful to the clergy by the facility they 
 afforded of applying them in sermons. 
 
 We have evidence that these stories were widely popular, 
 and were received with favour, with the same design, 
 in all parts of Christendom ; and they were thus used in 
 the language of the people among whom they happened to 
 be told ; in Italy they would have an Italian text, and in 
 France a French one, for the use of those who understood 
 best their maternal tongue. Of course the ecclesiastics 
 still held to the Latin stories. Their use was soon felt in 
 the popular literature of each particular country, but this 
 was more especially the case with French and Italian, the 
 two principal medigeval languages derived from the Latin, 
 and Italian and French collections of stories of this class 
 were soon made and published to the world. 
 
 The Latin Gesta Romanorum seem to have reached their 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 SIT 
 
 greatest importance about tlie fourteenth century. It is 
 about that time that we find the. two earliest collections of 
 these stories made in the local dialects. The first of these 
 was the celebrated Decameron of Giovanni Boccaccio, and 
 represents the popular mediaeval stories as told in the Italian 
 language. This collection, in an English translation, forms 
 the present volume. 
 
 The idea, or rather the plot, of these collections appears 
 to be an imitation of those of the Orientals, as given in the 
 “Arabian Nights.” In the great plague in the city of 
 Florence, in the year 1348, a party of ladies, tied together 
 by the bonds of friendship, agree to avoid the danger by 
 retiring together into the country, and to occupy their 
 leisure in this retirement by telling, each in her turn, a 
 story for their amusement. They pass ten days in this 
 manner, and each day is occupied with ten stories, put 
 into the mouths of the ladies, and some three male friends, 
 who compose the party. 
 
 The French collection (the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles) is 
 of nearlv the same date as the Italian, as the stories which 
 compose it are supposed to be narrated at the court of 
 Burgundy, during the reign of Philippe le Bon, when that 
 court served as the refuge of the Dauphin of France, after¬ 
 wards Louis XI., from 1456 to the death of that monarch 
 in 1461. The various stories are here placed severally in 
 the m.ouths of the courtiers of the Duke of Burgundy. 
 
 These are the two collections of popular stories, known 
 in their earliest Latin form as the Geeta Romanorum, as 
 they made their appearance in their Italian and French 
 costume. They both became very important parts of the 
 literatures of the time. 
 
 London, Dec, 2 , 1872 . 
 
 T. W. 
 
SOME ACCOUNT 
 
 OF THE 
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 OF 
 
 BOCCACCIO. 
 
 n i IKE many of the greatest geniuses of antiquity, little more 
 is known of Boccaccio than his writings; and though 
 many have pretended to give his memoirs, the more im¬ 
 portant part of what they have advanced has been founded on 
 conjecture. Among the many writers of more modern times who 
 have undertaken this task, no one seems to have been better 
 qualified to do justice to the subject than Girolami Tiraboschi 
 In his History of Italian literature he has faithfully compared, 
 and duly appreciated, whatever had been advanced by his prede¬ 
 cessors ; and we feel that we cannot more readily afford satisfaction 
 to our readers, than by following the course which he has taken in 
 giving a short sketch of the life and writings of the noble Florentine. 
 
 Our author was the son of Boccaccio de Chellino de Buonajuto. 
 The Chelini, who have since taken the name of Boccaccio, werf 
 originally of Certaldo, a small castle situated in the Val d’Elsa 
 about twenty miles from Florence, on the road de Voltero. “This 
 castle,” says Boccaccio himself, “ was the residence of my ancestors 
 before Florence had received them among the number of her 
 citizens.” This observation will sufficiently explain to us the 
 reason why he calls Certaldo his country in the inscription which 
 he desired might be placed on his tomb : and this, together with 
 the circumstance of his still retaining some property at Certaldo, 
 juight have been sufficient to induce him sometimes to take the 
 r.ame of Boccaccio de Certaldo, although it was not the place of 
 his nativity. 
 
 It is far from being certain, that Boccaccio was born at Florence^ 
 
14 
 
 SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND 
 
 Le Manni asserts it is a fact; but, as Tiraboschi remarks, “it had 
 been well if he had advanced some proofs especially as the earlier 
 writers leave the matter open to considerable doubt. 
 
 Villani, the historian, says, that the father of Boccaccio having 
 been led to Paris by his commercial affairs, became enamoured of 
 a young lady of that city, whom he espoused, and who became 
 the mother of Giovani. Dominic D’ Arezzo, who generally follows 
 Villani, differs from him in this place, and says that he was a 
 natural son, and that it was not till long after his birth that his 
 father married that lady. Le Manni even asserts, that Suarez, 
 Bishop of Vaison, found in the archives of Avignon, a dispensation 
 granted to Boccaccio, to enable him to enter into holy orders, not¬ 
 withstanding his defect of legitimate birth. Tiraboschi concludes 
 that all we can say on the subject is, that it is very prohahle that 
 he was born at Paris ; and he expresses a wish that some Florentine 
 would, at a future day, endeavour to throw light on this obscure 
 occurrence. 
 
 It has been pretended that the parents of Boccaccio were poor 
 and of an obscure rank; and Bayle calls him “ tlie son of a 
 peasant.” Le Manni observes, that these assertions are proved to 
 be untrue by the important employments which were entrusted 
 both to our author and his father ; by the extensive commerce of 
 the latter, and by the property which his family possessed. It 
 must be admitted, however, that the fortune of Boccaccio himself, 
 towards the end of his life, could not be very considerable; though 
 we cannot admit Petrarch’s legacy as any proof of this, as that 
 must be considered rather as being given as a mark of esteem, 
 than by way of relief to his necessities. In the edition of L’Ameto 
 —Ptome, 1478, Boccaccio is called “ The Noble Florentine.” If 
 nothing conclusive can be gathered from this title, it is at least 
 certain that in that flourishing republic nobility was not incompati¬ 
 ble with commerce; and the Medici were at once the most illustrious 
 family of Florence, and the first merchants in the universe. 
 
 There can be no doubt respecting the year of Boccaccio’s birth. 
 Petrarch, who was born in 1304, writes to him, “ I was nine years 
 old when you were born.” Boccaccio then was born in 1313. It is 
 '^ertain that our author was brought up in Florence ; whether he 
 was born there, or whether he was brought thither by his father 
 on his return from Paris. He acquired the first rudiments of his 
 education under John, son of the famous poet Zenobi de Strada» 
 
WRITINGS OF BOCCACCIO. 
 
 15 
 
 Ris father, who would rather have made him a great merchant 
 than a celebrated poet, took him from school at the age of ten years, 
 and placed him in the house of a Florentine merchant for the pur 
 pose of acquiring a knowledge of commerce. The merchant for 
 the furthering,the improvement of his pupil, took him as his com¬ 
 panion in several journeys which he made into different cities; and 
 among other places they visited Paris. But here perceiving that 
 he had a greater taste for literature and the study of the sciences 
 than for the more active avocations of trade, he sent him back to 
 Florence. His father, however, would by no means admit of his 
 applying himself to letters, and the unfortunate Boccaccio was 
 again obliged to travel and occupy himself in details for which he 
 had not the slightest inclination. Having about the twenty- 
 eighth year of his age made a journey to Naples, he happened to 
 visit the tomb of Virgil; here he, as if inspired by some divine 
 enthusiasm, resolved to bid a perpetual adieu to commerce, arri to 
 dedicate himself entirely to poetry. His father, who now lost all 
 hopes, became compelled, as it were, to let him follow the bent of 
 his taste for the sciences, on condition that he should apply himself 
 to the study of the common law. It has been asserted that the 
 professor under whom he placed himself, and to whose lectures he 
 attended for near six years, was the celebrated Cino de Pistoia ; 
 and this has been attempted to be proved by a letter which le 
 Doni asserts to have been written by Boccaccio to this famous 
 lawyer. Mazzuchelli proves that this letter was fabricated by le 
 Doni; and further that Cino, who taught the civil law and not the 
 canon law, died in 1336, when Boccaccio was but twenty years of 
 age, and employed in his mercantile pursuits. At all events, the 
 attempt to make him a doctor of canon law was attended with 
 little success; and his father dying in 1348, left him master of his 
 own pursuits. 
 
 Boccaccio being now at his own disposal, devoted himself to 
 poetry, without however neglecting the more useful sciences. He 
 tells us that Andalion del Nero was his master in astronomy ; and, 
 without explaining himself, says, that in his youth he had studied 
 the sciences which appertain to sacred philosophy. Benveuto 
 dTmolo, Francis Barberin, and Paul d’Abacco have also been 
 assigned to him as tutors, but without any foundation, according 
 to Mazzuchelli; who observes that so far from being master of 
 Boccaccio, the latter was actually his pupil. From Leonzio Pilato 
 
i6 SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND 
 
 Boccaccio learned the Greek language; and he even made con¬ 
 siderable efforts to inspire his countrymen with a taste for that 
 which he calls the true language of science. 
 
 From the intercourse which he maintained with the most learned 
 men of his age, from collecting in every quarter, and copying the 
 best authors of antiquity, both Greek and Latin, Boccaccio became 
 not only one of the most elegant writers, but one of the most 
 learned men of that period ; as is evident from his works on 
 mythology, geography, and history ; and the variety of his travels 
 either in the character of an ambassador, or in his private capacity, 
 were well calculated to add a high degree of polish to his manners. 
 But we may be assured that nothing was of greater advantage to 
 Boccaccio than the correspondence which was maintained between 
 him and Petrarch. It is difficult to fix the epoch of the com¬ 
 mencement of this correspondence. Though he relates the most 
 minute particulars of his journey to Naples, he never once 
 mentions the name of Petrarch. In a letter which the latter 
 wrote to Boccaccio in 1363, he calls him his “ old friend,” and 
 reminds him that “ he had seen him in passing through Florence 
 on his way to Ptome, in that memorable year when all Christendom 
 were assembled there speaking, no doubt, of the jubilee in 1350. 
 This friendship was still more closely cemented in 1351, when 
 Boccaccio was sent by the Florentines to acquaint Petrarch, then 
 residing at Padua, that his family estate had been restored to him; 
 and to beg that he would honour with his presence his native 
 university. From that period they had a very frequent corres 
 pondence by letter, and appear to have had no secrets from each 
 other. 
 
 Boccaccio was employed in other very honourable embassies. 
 About the year 1346 he was sent into Romagnia, and to Ostasio 
 the sovereign of Ravenna. The preface to the Decameron proves 
 that in 1348 he was at Florence, or at least in the country in its 
 vicinity, where he resided during the plague. We have said that 
 in 1351 he was sent to Padua. At the end of the same year the 
 Florentines sent him to Louis, Marquis of Brandenburg, to solicit 
 him to come into Italy for the purpose of opposing the power of 
 the Counts of Milan. This embassy had not the success which was 
 expected; and on the report that the Emperor Charles IV. intended 
 to pass into Italy, Boccaccio was sent by his countrymen to 
 Avignon, for the purpose of concerting with Innocent VI. the 
 
WRITINGS OF BOCCACCIO. 
 
 17 
 
 reception which should be given him. Up to this period the 
 interviews of Boccaccio and Petrarch had been no more than visits 
 en passant^ but in 1359 our author made a journey to Milan for 
 the express purpose of visiting his friend, and that he might enjoy 
 his conversation with less restraint. On this occasion Boccaccio 
 avows himself Under considerable obligations to Petrarch; particu¬ 
 larly for the good advice he had received from him, the object of 
 which was to induce him to detach himself from the pleasures of 
 this life, and to turn all his thoughts towards things of eternity. 
 
 It must be admitted that the previous life of Boccaccio was nut 
 the most regular or the most exemplary. His works, and particu¬ 
 larly the Decameron, bespeak him a man too loose in his manners, 
 and who did not always pay a due respect to sacred things. 
 Petrarch, on the other hand, had, amidst many foibles, always 
 retained a sense of religion and piety; and his friendship was 
 therefore extremely useful to Boccaccio, who, from this period, 
 began to make serious reflections; and who, in 1362, entirely 
 changed his manner of life. Having been struck in a singular 
 manner by a kind of prediction which had been made concerning 
 him by father Petronius, a Carthusian friar of Sienna,* *• Boccaccio 
 
 * This circumstance is related by Mrs, Dobson in the following 
 words ; 
 
 Letter from Boccaccio to Petrarch. 
 
 *• A Carthusian of Sienna, whom I kno^v not, came to me at Florence, 
 and asked to speak to me in private. ‘I came hither,’ says he, ‘from 
 the desire of the blessed father Petroni, a Carthusian of Sienna, who 
 though he never saw you, by the illumination of Heaven knows you 
 thoroughly; he charged me to represent to you your extreme danger, 
 unless you reform your manners and your writings, which are the 
 instruments the devil uses to draw men into his snares, to tempt them 
 CO sinful lusts, and to promote the depravity of their conduct. Ought 
 you not to blush for such an abuse of the talents God has given you 
 for his glory ? Vv%at a reward might you have obtained had you made 
 a good use of that wit and eloquence with which he has endowed you t 
 On the contrary, what ought you not to fear for devoting yourself to 
 love, and waging war with modesty, by giving lessons of libertinism 
 both in your life and writings ! The blessed Petroni, celebrated for 
 his miracles and the sobriety of his life, speaks to you by my voice. 
 He charged me in his last moments to beseech and exhort you, in the 
 most sacred manner, to renounce poetry and those profane studies which 
 have been your constant employment, and prevented you discharging 
 your duty as a Christian. If you io not follow my directions, be 
 assured you have but a short time to live, and that you shall suffer 
 eternal punishments after your death. God has revealed this to father 
 Petroni, who gave me a strict charge to imorm you of b.” 
 
SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND 
 
 1 % 
 
 now resolved to renounce poetry and the Belles Lettres altogether, 
 and to get rid of all his books. But here the good sense of his 
 friend interposed itself. Petrarch told him that it was not at all 
 necessary to cease from the study of profane writers, much less to 
 dispose of all his books; and that it would be sufficient if he 
 made a good use of them, according to the example of the most 
 pious persons, and even of the fathers and doctors of the church. 
 It is not improbable that it was at this time he took the clerical 
 
 The Carthusian who spoke this to Boccace was called Joachim Ciani; 
 he was the countryman and friend of father Petroni, who died in a 
 relioious rapture, May, 1361; and it was said, wrought several miracles 
 before and after his death. Father Ciani was with him when he was 
 on his death-bed, and heard him utter several predictions concerning 
 different persons; among whom was Petrarch. Boccace, terrified at 
 what father Ciani had said, asked him how his friend came to know 
 him and Petrarch, as they had no knowledge of his friend; to which 
 the good Carthusian replied: “ Father Petroni had resolved to undertake 
 something for the glory of God, but death preventing him, he prayed 
 to God with fervour to point out some one who should execute his enter¬ 
 prise. His prayer was heard; Jesus Christ appeared to him, and he saw 
 written on his face all that passes upon earth, the present, the past, and 
 the future. After this he cast his eyes upon me for the performance 
 of this good work, and charged me with this commission for you, with 
 some others to Naples, France, and England; after v/hich I shall go 
 to Petrarch.” 
 
 To convince Boccace of the truth of what he said, the holy father 
 acquainted him with a secret which Boccace thought none knew but 
 himself. This discovery, and the threat that he had not long to live, 
 impressed him so strongly, that he was no longer the same man; seized 
 with a panic terror, and believing death at his heels, he reformed his 
 manners, renounced love and poetry, and determined to part with his 
 library, which was almost entirely composed of profane authors. In 
 this situation of his mind he wrote to his master Petrarch, to give him 
 an account of what had happened to him, of the resolution he had made 
 to reform his manners, and to offer him his library, giving him the 
 preference to all others; and begging he would fix the price of the books, 
 some of which might serve as a discharge of some debts he owed him. 
 Petrarch’s reply to this letter was as follows :— 
 
 “To see Jesus Christ with bodily eyes is indeed a wonderful thing ! 
 it only remains that we know if it is true. In all ages men have 
 covered falsehoods with the veil of religion, that the appearance of 
 divinity might conceal Ine human fraud. When I have myself beheld 
 the messenger of father Petroni, I shall see what faith is to be given to his 
 words; his age, his forehead, his eyes, his behaviour, his clothes, his 
 motions, his manner of sitting, his voice, his discourse, and the v/hole 
 united, will serve to enlighten my judgment. 
 
 “ As to what respects yourself, that you are not long for this world, 
 if we reflect coolly, this is a matter of joy rather than of sorrow. Were 
 it an old man on the borders of the grave, one might justly say to him. 
 
WRITINGS OF BOCCACCIO, 
 
 »9 
 
 habit. It is ceitain, however, that he did take it; and his will, 
 which may be seen in le Manni, furnishes an incontrovertible 
 proof. 
 
 In 1363, Nicolas Acciaoli, grand seneschal of Naples, having 
 invited him to that capital, Boccaccio suffered himself to be per¬ 
 suaded to accept the invitation, and repaired thither accordingly. 
 But not having been received with the degree of respect to which 
 he conceived himself entitled, he immediately left the court in 
 
 Do not at your years give yourself up to poetry, leave the Muses and 
 Parnassus; they only suit the days of youth.—Your imagination is 
 extinguished, your memory fails, your feelings are lost; think rather of 
 depvth, who is at your heels, and prepare yourself for that awful passage. 
 But for a man in the middle age of life, who has cultivated letters and 
 the Muses with success from his youth, and who makes them his amuse¬ 
 ment in riper years, to renounce them then is to deprive himself of a 
 great consolation. If this had been required of Lactantius, of St. 
 Augustine, or St. Jerome, would the former have discovered the 
 absurdities of the heathen superstition ? Would Augustine with so 
 much art have built up the city of God; or St. Jerome combatted 
 heretics with so much strength and success ? I know, by experience, 
 how much the knowledge of letters may contribute to produce just 
 opinions; to render a man eloquent; to perfect his manners ; and, which 
 is much more important, to defend his religion. If men were not per¬ 
 mitted to read poets and heathen writers, because they do not speak of 
 Jesus Christ, whom they never knew, how much less ought they to read 
 the wmrks of heretics, who oppose his doctrine ! yet this is done with 
 the greatest care by all the defenders of the faith. It is with profane 
 authors as with solid food, it nourishes the man who has a good stomach, 
 and is pernicicus only to those who cannot digest it; to the mind that is 
 judicious they are wholesome, but poison to the weak and ignorant. 
 Letters may even render the former more religious, of which we have 
 many examples, and to them they will never be an obstacle to piety. 
 There are many ways of arriving at truth and heaven; long, short, 
 clear, obscure, high, and low, according to the different necessities of 
 men: but ignorance is the only road the idle walk in; surely wisdom 
 may produce as many saints as folly; and we should be careful that we 
 never compare a lazy and blind devotion vuth an enlightened and in¬ 
 dustrious piety. If you resolve, however, to part with your books, I 
 will never suffer them to fall into base hands; though separated in body 
 we are united in mind; I cannot fix any price upon them, and I will 
 make only one condition with you, that M^e pass the remainder of our 
 lives together, and that you shall thus enjoy my books and your own. 
 Why do you speak of debt to me ? You owe me nothing but friend¬ 
 ship ; and herein we are equal, because you have always rendered love 
 for love. Be not, however, deaf to the voice of a friend who calls you 
 to him. I cannot enrich you ; if I could, you would have been rich 
 long ago; but I have all that is requisite for two friends, who are 
 united in heart, and sheltered under the same roof.”—Life of Petrarch, 
 collected from Memoires pour lu vie de Petrarch- Vol. ii. p. 298. 
 
 2—2 
 
20 
 
 SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND 
 
 disgust It is even said thcit liis reception there gave him a disgust 
 to the world, and that it was on that occasion he became a Car¬ 
 thusian ; and Francis Sachetti has composed a sonnet on the 
 subject On his return from Naples, Boccaccio passed through 
 Venice, and remained three months there with Petrarch. Two 
 years after this he was sent by the Florentines as ambassador to 
 Urban V., then at Avignon. This pope was dissatisfied with 
 them, for some cause or other, and Boccaccio was so fortunate as 
 to be able to appease him, by the explanation he gave of their 
 conduct. On his return he was nominated one of the magistrates 
 appointed for the superintendence of the military establishments. 
 In 1.368, he again visited Venice, under the hope of meeting 
 Petrarch, but had the mortification to find that he had just left 
 that city for Pavia. In 1373, the Florentines gave a still further 
 proof of their esteem for him. Having resolved to found a public 
 chair for the elucidation of the poetry of Dante, nobody appeared 
 to them so well calculated for the oflace as Boccaccio, and he 
 accordingly, in October, 1373, began his explication of that poet, 
 whom even the Italians themselves scarcely understood, though it 
 was then not quite fifty years since his death. Petrarch died the 
 18th of July, 1374, and his friend, who has been improperly called 
 his disciple, survived him little more than a year. During the 
 disturbances into which Florence was thrown by the contending 
 interests of its factions, Boccaccio frequently retired to Certaldo, 
 and in that retreat he died the 21st of December, 1375, and 
 was interred with those honours which were due to his personal 
 merits. 
 
 With us Boccaccio is only known as a novelist, but the Italians 
 have always considered him as one of the greatest masters of their 
 language. His contemporaries considered him a man of the greatest 
 understanding; and his natural genius, together with his un¬ 
 commonly extensive acquirements, rendered him at once capable 
 of serving his country in the most delicate negociations, and of 
 doing her honour by his writings. 
 
 Villani says, that in his person Boccaccio was “ rather inclined to 
 corpulence, but his stature was portly ; his face was round, with a 
 nose a little depressed above the nostrils ; his lips rather full, but 
 nevertheless handsome and well formed; his chin dimpled, and 
 beautiful when he smiled ; his aspect jocund and gay. and his con¬ 
 versation «,greeable and polished.” 
 
WRITINGS OF BOCCACCIO. 
 
 21 
 
 It may perhaps seem strange to some that we have not already 
 said something of his amours with the fair Fiammetta. We are 
 not ignorant that it has been pretended that Boccaccio having 
 visited Naples in his youth, became enamoured of a lady to whom 
 he gave the name of Fiammetta, but whose true name was Maria; 
 that she was natural daughter to king Robert; and that, though 
 married to a nobleman of distinguished rank, she returned the 
 passion of Boccaccio in a manner not quite consistent with the 
 character of modesty. That Boccaccio had an attachment for a 
 lady, to whom he gave the name of Fiammetta, is no doubt true ; 
 and that king Robert before he mounted the throne, had an intrigue 
 with a lady, by whom he had a daughter, may be equally true ; but 
 it is far from being certain that this daughter was the person to 
 whom Boccaccio gave the name of Fiammetta. 
 
 Boccaccio composed, in Latin, An Ab7'idgment of the Roman 
 History, from Romulus to the year of Rome 724, with a parallel of 
 the seven kings of Rome, and of the emperors till Nero, inclusive * 
 The History of Illustrious Women ; The Genealogy of the Gods : A 
 Treatise of Mountains, Seas, Rivers, &c.— De casibus, Virorum 
 Illustrium. This work began with Adam, and ended with John, 
 king of France, taken by the English in the year 1356. It was 
 translated into Italian, Spanish, English, and French. We may 
 add a letter to Fra ]\Iartino da Segni Agostiniano, his confessor, 
 and in Latin verse sixteen eclogues. 
 
 As for the books which are ascribed to Boccaccio, de Victoriis 
 Sigismundi Imperatoris in Turchas; de Hceresibus Boemorum; 
 de Capta Gonstantinopoli; and de Tartarorum Victoria in Tur¬ 
 chas ; they seem chimerical, and some of them certainly are so. 
 
 In Italian he wrote, II Filocopo, La Fiammetta, VAmeto, II 
 Laberinto d'Amore, II Comento di Dante, La Vita di Dante, and 
 II Decameeone. With respect to his poetical compositions they 
 have been said to be far from placing him high on the rolls of Par¬ 
 nassus. Balthasar, perhaps too severely, styles him versificator 
 ineptissimus; and Paolo Rolli, at the end of his edition of the 
 Decameron, 1725, makes these remarks on this head. Boccaccio 
 professed poetry, but nd volgari versi, he was by no means blessed 
 with a favourable vein. He did not understand the varieties of 
 versification, and although his novels are replete with poetical 
 images, and phrases full of grace and elegance, yet the Canzoni, at 
 the conclusion of each dav, are below mediocrity. Rolli then 
 
22 
 
 SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND 
 
 observ es that many excellent verses are, however, scattered through¬ 
 out his delightful prose; and proceeds to lay before the reader 
 a collection, amounting in number to six hundred and sixty- 
 two. 
 
 But whatever our facetious and ingenious novelist may suffer 
 from criticism, on the score of mediocrity in his verses, is amply 
 recompensed by the tribute so readily and universally paid to his 
 prose compositions, in his native tongue ; and if, in the former, he 
 falls short of many, in the latter he has undoubtedly the advantage 
 of surpassing all. “ The merit of Boccaccio,” observes Mr. Eoscoe, 
 ill his life of Lorenzo de Medici, v. i. p. 239, “has been frequently 
 recognized and appreciated, but perhaps by no one with more 
 accuracy than by Lorenzo himself. In attempting to shew the 
 importance and dignity of the Italian tongue, he justly remarks, 
 that the proofs of its excellence are to be sought for in the writings 
 of Dante, Petrarcha, and Boccaccio ; ‘ who,’ says he, ‘ have fully 
 shewn with what facility this language may be adapted to the 
 expression of every sentiment.’ ” He then proceeds to speak of our 
 author in these terms:—“ The prose compositions of the learned 
 and eloquent Boccaccio may be considered as unrivalled, not only 
 OP account of the invention which thej^ display, but for the copious¬ 
 ness and elegance of the style. If, on perusing the Decameron, we 
 attend to the diversity of the subjects, sometimes serious or tragical, 
 at others, humorous or ridiculous, exhibiting all the perturbations 
 incident to mankind, of affection and of aversion, of hope and of 
 fear; if we consider the great variety of the narrative, and the 
 invention of circumstances which display all the peculiarities of 
 our nature, and all the effects of our passions, we may undoubtedly 
 be allowed to determine, that no language is better adapted to the 
 purposes of exjiression than our own.” 
 
 The dramatic form which Boccaccio gave to his collection of 
 tales or novels about the middle of the fourteenth century, must be 
 allowed to have been a capital improvement of that species of 
 composition. The Decameron, in that respect, not to mention 
 many others, has the same advantage over the Cento Novelle 
 Antiche^ which are supposed to have preceded it in point of time, 
 that a regular comedy will necessarily have over an equal number 
 of single unconnected scenes. Perhaps, indeed, there would be no 
 great harm, according to the opinion of Mr. Tyrwhitt, from whom 
 we are now quoting, if the critics would permit us to consider the 
 
WRITINGS OF BOCCACCIO, 
 
 23 
 
 Decameron, and other compositions of that kind, in the light of 
 comedies not intended for the stage. 
 
 The action of the Decameron being supposed in 1348, the year 
 of the great pestilence, it is probable that Boccaccio did not set 
 about his work till after that period. How soon he completed it 
 is uncertain. ' It should seem that a part (containing, perhaps, the 
 first three days) was published separately ; for in the introduction 
 to the fourth day he takes pains to answer the censures which had 
 been passed upon him by several persons who had read his novels. 
 One of the censures is, “ that it did not become his age to write for 
 the amusement of women, &c.” In his answer he seems to allow 
 the fact, that he was rather an old fellow, but endeavours to justify 
 himself by the examples of “ Guido Cavalcanti et Dante Alighieri 
 gia veccM et Messer Cino da Pistoia vecchissimo.^^ It appears from 
 a passage in the Laherinto dAmove [Ed. 1723, t. iii. p. 24] that 
 Boccaccio considered himself as an elderly man when he was a 
 little turned of forty ; and therefore the publication of the first 
 part of the Decameron may very well have been, as Salviati has 
 fixed it, in 1353, when Boccaccio was just forty years of age. If 
 we consider the nature of the work, and that the author, in his 
 conclusion, calls it repeatedly “ lunga fatica^^ and says that “ molto 
 tempo^^ had passed between the commencement and the completion 
 of it, we can hardly suppose that it was finished in less than ten 
 years, which will bring the publication of the entire collection of 
 novels, as we now have it, down to 1358. 
 
 Boccaccio is taxed in his Latin works with plagiarism, and Van- 
 nozzi also accuses him of the same practice in the Decameron. 
 That this is true in some degree will not be doubted, but in what 
 measure cannot now be well ascertained. 
 
 Wartoii, in his History of English Poetry, says he once fancied 
 that Boccaccio might have procured the stories of several of his 
 late tales in the Decameron from some of his learned friends among 
 the Grecian exiles; who, being driven from Constantinople, took 
 refuge in Italy about the fourteenth century ; as, for instance, that 
 of Cymon and Iphigenia^ where the names are entirely Grecian, 
 and the scene laid in Rhodes, Cyprus, Crete, and other parts of 
 Greece, belonging to the Imperial territory. 
 
 The Historioe and Poetica opera mentioned by Boccaccio, as 
 brought from Constantinople by his preceptor Barlaam, were un¬ 
 doubtedly works of entertainment, and perhaps chiefly of the 
 
*4 
 
 SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND 
 
 romantic and fictitious species. It is natural to suppose that Boc¬ 
 caccio, both from his connexions and his curiosity, was no stranger 
 to these treasures : and that many of these species, thus imported 
 into Italy by the dispersion of the Constantinopolitan exiles, are 
 only known at present through the medium of his writings. It is 
 certain that many oriental fictions found their way into Europe by 
 means of this communication. 
 
 Another source of Boccaccio’s Tales. Philip’s story of the goose, 
 or of the young man who had never seen a woman, in the prologue 
 to the fourth day of the Decameron, is taken from a spiritual 
 romance, called the History of Barlaarn and Josaphat. This fabu¬ 
 lous narrative, in which Barlaarn is a hermit, and Josaphat a king 
 of India, is supposed to have been originally written in Greek by 
 Johannes Damascenus. The Greek is no uncommon manuscript. 
 
 He copied many of the best tales from the Troubadours, the 
 circulation of whose poetry in other countries was greatly facili¬ 
 tated by the early universality of the French language ; particularly 
 from Butebeuf and Hebers. Rutebeuf was living in the year 1310. 
 He wrote tales and stories of entertainment in verse. It is certain 
 that Boccaccio took from this old French Minstrel, nov. x. Giorn ix. 
 and perhaps two or three others. Hebers lived about the year 
 1200. He wrote a French romance, in verse, called the Seven 
 Sages of Greece, or Dolopathos. He translated it from the Latin 
 of Dom Johans, a monk of the abbey of Haute-selve. It has 
 great variety, and contains several agreeable stories, pleasant ad¬ 
 ventures, emblems, and proverbs. Our author has taken from it 
 four tales. 
 
 It must not be forgotten that Sachetti published tales before 
 Boccaccio. But the publication of the Decameron gave a stability 
 to this mode of composition, which had existed in a rude state 
 before the revival of letters in Italy. Boccaccio collected the 
 common tales of his country, and procured, as we have observed, 
 others of Grecian origin from his friends and preceptors, the Con¬ 
 stantinopolitan exiles, which he decorated with new circumstances, 
 and delivered in the purest style. Some few, perhaps, are of his 
 own invention. He was soon imitated, yet often unsuccessfully 
 by many of his countrymen; Poggio, Bandello, the anonymous 
 author of Le dento Novelle AntiJce, Cinthio, Firenzuola, Malespini, 
 and others.—Even Machiavel, who united the liveliest wit with 
 the profoundest reflection, and who composed two comedies whj}« 
 
WRTTTNGS OF BOCCACCIO. 
 
 *5 
 
 lie was compiling a political history of Ins country, condescended 
 to adorn this fashionable species of writing with his Ifovella di 
 Belfegor^ or the Tale of Belphegor. 
 
 Before the year 1670, William Paynter, clerk of the office of 
 arms within the Tower of London, and who seems to have been 
 master of the school of Sevenoaks in Kent, printed a very con¬ 
 siderable part of Boccaccio's novels. His first collection is en¬ 
 titled, “ The Palace of Pleasure, the first volume, containing sixty 
 novels out of Boccaccio. London. 1566.” It is dedicated to Lord 
 Warwick. A second volume soon appeared. “ The Palace of 
 Pleasure, the second volume, containing thirty-four novels. 
 London. 1567.” This is dedicated to Sir George Howard, and 
 dated from his house near the Tower, as is the former volume. It 
 would be superfluous to point out here the uses which Shakespeare 
 made of these productions, after the investigation which his 
 ancient allusions and his plots have so fully and minutely received 
 from his commentators, whose ingenious researches have been con¬ 
 nected and enriched by the able and learned Isaac Heed, in his 
 complete edition of Shakespeare’s Plays, in twenty-one volumes, 
 8vo., 1803. 
 
 Several tales of Boccaccio’s Decameron were now translated 
 into English rhymes. The celebrated story of the friendship of 
 Titus and Gesippus was rendered by Edward Lewicke, a name not 
 known in the catalogue of English poets, in 1562. It is not sus¬ 
 pected, says Warton, that those afiecting stories, the Cymon and 
 Iphigenia, and the Theodore and Honoria of our novelist, so 
 beautifully paraphrased by Dryden, appeared in English verse 
 early in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 Chaucer’s Gierke declares, in his prologue to the Gierke of Oxen- 
 fordds Tale, or the story of Patient Grisilde, that he learned it of 
 Petrarch, at Padua. But it was the invention of Boccaccio, and 
 is the last in his Decameron. Petrarch, although most intimately 
 connected with Boccaccio for nearly thirty years, never had seen 
 the Decameron till just before his death. 
 
 It accidentally fell into his hands while he resided at Arque, 
 between Venice and Padua, in the year 1374. The tale of Grisilde 
 struck him the most of any ; so much, that he got it by heart, to 
 relate to his friends at Padua. Finding that it was the most popular 
 of Boccaccio’s tales, for the benefit of those who did not understand 
 Italian, and to spread its circulation, he translated it into Latin. 
 
26 
 
 SOME ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND 
 
 with some alterations. Petrarch relates this in a letter to Boccaccio, 
 and adds that, on shewing the translation to one of his Paduan 
 friends, the latter, touched with the tenderness of the story, burst 
 into such frequent and violent fits of tears, that he could not read 
 to the end. In the same letter he says that a Veronese, having 
 heard of the Paduan’s exquisiteness of feeling upon this occasion, 
 resolved to try the experiment. He read the whole aloud, from 
 the beginning to the end, without the least change of voice or 
 countenance; but, on returning the book to Petrarch, confessed 
 that it was an affecting story : “ I should have wept,” added he, 
 “ like the Paduan, had I thought the story true. But the whole 
 is a manifest fiction. There never was, nor ever will be, such a 
 wife as Grisilde.” 
 
 Chaucer, as our ClerJce’s declaration in the prologue seems ta 
 imply, received this tale from Petrarch, and not from Boccaccio; 
 and we are inclined to think that he did not take it from Petrarch’s 
 Latin translation, but that he was one of those friends to whom 
 Petrarch used to relate it at Padua.—This too appears sufficiently 
 pointed out in the words of the Prologue. 
 
 I wolle you telle a tale which that I 
 Lernid at Padow of a worthie clerke : 
 
 Frauncis Petrarke, the laureate poete, 
 
 Hightin this clerke, whose rhetorike so sweete 
 Enluminid Italie of poetrie. 
 
 Chaucer^s tale is also much longer and more circumstantial than 
 Boccaccio’s. Petrarch’s Latin translation from the latter was never 
 printed. It is in the royal library at Paris, and in that of Mag¬ 
 dalene College at Oxford. 
 
 The story soon became so popular in France, that the comedians 
 of Paris represented a mystery in French verse, entitled Le 
 Mystere de Griseildis Marquis de Saluces, in the year 1393. Lyd¬ 
 gate, almost Chaucer’s contemporary, in his manuscript poem, 
 entitled. The Temple of Glass, among the celebrated lovers painted 
 on the walls of the Temple, mentions Dido, Medea and Jason, 
 Penelope, Alcestis, Patient Grisilde, Bel Isoulde and Sir Tristram, 
 Pyramus and Thisbe, Theseus, Lucretia, Canace, Palamon and 
 Emilia. 
 
 In the osservazioni prefixed to Martinelli’s edition of Boccaccio, 
 London, 1762, Signor Manni has, with some research and learning. 
 
WRITINGS OF BOCCACCIO, 
 
 27 
 
 investigated the merits of each novel, its language and its origin, 
 whether entirely fictitious, or founded in fact, borrowed or original, 
 and what obligations are owing to it by others since its publication 
 These observations, however occupy thirty-five quarto pages, and 
 as they proceed on the system of entering into every novel, which 
 system must be wholly or not at all pursued, we reluctantly abandon 
 them, preferring rather to say too little than to extend our account 
 to such an inordinate length as to become heavy and wearisome. 
 Here, then, we shall briefly (if we may be allowed at this hour to 
 use such a term) remark, that Boccaccio’s Tales have been trans¬ 
 lated, at difierent periods, into most languages, and his imitators 
 and debtors are without end. His Decameron has been a store 
 from which, confessedly, and frequently otherwise, innumerable 
 authors, since his day, have drawn without scruple, and often with 
 more wisdom than honesty. We have pointed out some instances 
 of the wealth acquired by Chaucer from this source; and various 
 advantages which Shakespeare and others have derived from the 
 same spring, might, but for the reason already given, be added to 
 swell the list; for we may justly say, with Milton, alluding to this 
 work of our author : 
 
 Hither, as to their fountain, other stars 
 
 Repairing, in their golden urns, draw light. 
 
 Or we may affirm of him what Doctor Johnson has well observed 
 of Homer, “ That nation after nation, and century after century, 
 has been able to do little more than transpose his imidefn,Uy nen 
 name his characters, and. paraphrase his sentiments ^' 
 

 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 TO THE LADIES. 
 
 B P’HENEVER I reflect how disposed you are by nature tc 
 |ji compassion, I cannot help being apprehensive, lest what 
 I now offer to your acceptance should seem to have but a 
 melancholy beginning. For it calls to mind the remembrance of 
 that most fatal plague, so terrible yet in the memories of us all, 
 an account of which is in the front of the book. But be not 
 frightened too soon, as if you expected to meet with nothing else. 
 This beginning, disagreeable as it is, is as a rugged and steep 
 mountain placed before a delightful valley, which appears more 
 beautiful and pleasant, as the way to it was more difficult: for as 
 joy usually ends with sorrow, so again the end of sorrow is joy. 
 To this short fatigue (I call it short, because contained in few 
 words) immediately succeeds the mirth and pleasure I had before 
 promised you; and which, but for that promise, you would scarcely 
 expect to find. And in truth could I have brought you by any 
 other way than this, I would gladly have done it: but as the 
 occasion of the occurrences, of which I am going to treat, could 
 not well be made out without such a relation, I am forced to use 
 this Introduction. 
 
 In the year then of our Lord 1348, there happened at Florence, 
 the finest city in all Italy, a most terrible plague; which, whether 
 owing to the influence of the planets, or that it was sent from God 
 as a just punishment for our sins, had broken out some years 
 before in the Levant; and after passing from place to place, and 
 making incredible havoc all the way, had now reached the west; 
 where, spite of all the meaias that art and human foresight could 
 suggest, as keeping the city clear from filth, and excluding all sus¬ 
 pected persons; notwithstanding frequent consultations what else 
 was to be done; nor omitting prayers to God in frequent proces- 
 
30 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 sions: in the spring of the foregoing year, it began to shew itself 
 in a sad and wonderful manner; and, different from what it had 
 been in the east, where bleeding from the nose is the fatal 
 prognostic, here there appeared certain tumours in the groin, or 
 under the arm-pits, some as big as a small apple, others as an egg; 
 and afterwards purple spots in most parts of the body: in some 
 cases large and but few in number, in others less and more 
 numerous, both sorts the usual messengers of death. To the cure 
 of this malady, neither medical knowledge nor the power of drugs 
 was of any effect; whether because the disease was in its own 
 nature mortal, or that the physicians (the number of whom, taking 
 quacks and women pretenders into the account, was grown very 
 great) could form no just idea of the cause, nor consequently 
 ground a true method of cure; whichever was the reason, few or 
 none escaped; but they generally died the third day from the first 
 appearance of the symptoms, without a fever or other bad circum¬ 
 stance attending. And the disease, by being communicated from 
 the sick to the well, seemed daily to get a-head, and to rage the 
 more, as fire will do by laying on fresh combustibles. Nor was 
 it given by conversing with only, or coming near the sick, but even 
 by touching their clothes, or anything that they had before touched. 
 It is wonderful what I am going to mention; which, had I not 
 seen it with my own eyes, and were there not many witnesses to 
 attest it besides myself, I should never venture to relate, however 
 credibly I might have been informed about it: such, I say, was the 
 quality of the pestilential matter, as to pass not only from man to 
 man, but, what is more strange and has been often known, that 
 anything belonging to the infected, if touched by any other 
 creature, would certainly infect, and even kill that creature in a 
 short space of time: and one instance of this kind I took particular 
 notice of, namely, that the rags of a poor man just dead, being 
 thrown into the street, and two hogs coming by at the same time 
 and rooting amongst them, and shaking them about in their 
 mouths, in less than an hour turned round and died on the spot. 
 These accidents, and others of the like sort, occasioned various 
 fears and devices amongst those people that survived, all tending 
 to the same uncharitable and cruel end; which was to avoid the 
 sick, and everything that had been near them; expecting by that 
 means to save themselves. And some holding it best to live tem¬ 
 perately, and to avoid exceases of all kinds, made narties, and shut 
 
INTRODUCTION, 
 
 3 ‘ 
 
 themselves up from the rest of the world; eating and drinking 
 moderately of the best, and diverting themselves with music, and 
 such other entertainments as they might have within doors; never 
 listening to anything from without, to make them uneasy. Others 
 maintained free living to be a beter preservative, and would baulk 
 no passion of appetite they wished to gratify, drinking and 
 revelling incessantly from tavern to tavern, or in private houses; 
 which were frequently found deserted by the owners, and therefore 
 common to everyone; yet avoiding, with all this irregularity, to 
 come near the infected. And such at that time was the public 
 distress, that the laws, human and divine, were not regarded: for 
 the officers to put them in force, being either dead, sick, or in want 
 of persons to assist them; everjmne did just as he pleased. A 
 third sort of people chose a method between these two; not con¬ 
 fining themselves to rules of diet like the former, and yet avoiding 
 the intemperance of the latter; but eating and drinking what 
 their appetites required, they walked everywhere with odours and 
 nosegays to smell to; as holding it best to corroborate the brain: 
 for they supposed the whole atmosphere to be tainted with the 
 stink of dead bodies, arising partly from the distemper itself, and 
 partly from the fermenting of the medicines within them. Others 
 of a more cruel disposition, as perhaps the more safe to themselves, 
 declared that the only remedy was to avoid it: persuaded, therefore, 
 of this, and taking care for themselves only, men and women in 
 great numbers left the city, their houses, relations, and effects, and 
 lied into the countr;^: as if the wrath of God had been restrained 
 to visit those only within the walls of the city; or else concluding 
 that none ought to stay in a place thus doomed to destruction. 
 Divided as they were, neither did all die nor all escape; but falling 
 sick indifferenti}^ as well those of one as of another opinion; they 
 who first set the example by forsaking others, now languished 
 themselves without mercy. I pass over the little regard that 
 citizens and relations shewed to each other; for their terror was 
 such that a brother even fled from his brother, a wife from her 
 husband, and, what is more uncommon, a parent from its own 
 child. On which account numbers that fell sick could have no 
 help but what the charity of friends, who were very few, or the 
 avarice of servants supplied; and even these were scarce, and at 
 extravagant wages, and so little used to the business, that they 
 were fit only to reach what was called for, and observe when they 
 
32 
 
 INTRO D UCriON. 
 
 died; and this desire of getting money often cost them their lives. 
 From this desertion of friends, and scarcity of servants, an un¬ 
 heard-of custom prevailed; no lady, however young or handsome, 
 would disdain being attended by a man-servant, whether young or 
 old it mattered not; and to expose herself naked to him, the 
 necessity of the distemper requiring it, as though it was to a 
 woman; which might make those who recovered less modest for 
 the time to come. And many lost their lives who might have 
 escaped had they been looked after at all. So that between the 
 scarcity of servants and violence of the distemper, such numbers 
 were continually dying, as made it terrible to hear as well as to 
 behold. Whence from mere necessity, many customs were intro¬ 
 duced, different from what had been before known in the city. It 
 had been usual, as it no^w is, for the women w’ho were friends and 
 neighbours to the deceased, to meet together at his house, and to 
 lament with his relations; at the same time the men would get 
 together at the door, with a number of clergy, according to the 
 person’s circumstances; and the corpse was carried by people of 
 his own rank, with the solemnity of tapers and singing, to that 
 church where the person had desired to be buried; which custom 
 was now laid aside, and, so far from having a crowd of women to 
 lament over them, that great numbers passed out of the world 
 without a single person: and few had the tears of their friends 
 at their departure; but those friends would laugh, and make them¬ 
 selves merry; for even the women had learned to postpone every 
 other concern to that of their own lives. Nor was a corpse attended 
 by more than ten or a dozen, nor those citizens of credit, but 
 fellows hired for the purpose; who wmuld put themselves under 
 the bier, and carry it with all possible haste to the nearest church; 
 and the corpse was interred, without any great ceremony, w^here 
 they could find room. 
 
 With regard to the lower sort, and many cf a middling rank, 
 the scene was still more affecting; for they staying at home either 
 through poverty, or hopes of succour in distress, fell sick daily by 
 thousands, and, having nobody to attend them, generally died: 
 some breathed their last in the streets, and others shut up in their 
 own houses, w^hen the stench that came from them made the first 
 discovery of their deaths to the neighbourhood. And, indeed, 
 every place was filled with the dead. A method now was taken, 
 as well out of regard to the living, as pity for the dead, for the 
 
JNTHODUCTIUJV, 
 
 Si 
 
 neighbours, assisted by what porters they could meet with, to 
 clear all the houses, and lay the bodies at the doors; and every 
 morning great numbers might be seen brought out in this manner; 
 from whence they were carried away on biers, or tables, two or 
 three at a time; and sometimes it has happened that a wife and 
 her husband, two or three brothers, and a father and son, have 
 been laid on together: it has been observed also, whilst two or 
 three priests have walked before a corpse with their crucifix, that 
 two or three sets of porters have fallen in with them; and where 
 they knew but of one, they have buried six, eight, or more: nor 
 was there any to follow and shed a few tears over them; for things 
 were come to that pass, that men’s lives were no more regarded 
 than the lives of so many beasts. Hence it plainly appeared, that 
 what the wisest in the ordinary course of things, and by a common 
 train of calamities, could never be taught, namely, to bear them 
 patiently; this, by the excess of those calamities, was now grown 
 a familiar lesson to the most simple and unthinking. The con¬ 
 secrated ground no longer containing the numbers which were 
 continually brought thither, especially as they were desirous of 
 laying everyone in the parts allotted to their families; they were 
 forced to dig trenches and to put them in by hundreds, piling them 
 up in rows,^ as goods are stowed in a ship, and throwing in little 
 earth till they were filled to the top. Not to rake any farther into 
 the particulars of our misery, I shall observe that it fared no better 
 with the adjacent country; for to omit the different castles about 
 us, which presented the same view in miniature with the city, 
 you might see the poor distressed labourers with their families, 
 without either the plague or physicians, or help of servants, 
 languishing on the highways, in the fields, and in their own houses, 
 and dying rather like cattle than human creatures; and growing 
 dissolute in their manners like the citizens, and careless of every¬ 
 thing, as supposing every day to be their last, their thoughts 
 were not so much employed how to improve as to make use of 
 their substance for their present support: whence it happened 
 that the flocks, herds, &c., and the dogs themselves, ever faithful 
 ■ to their masters, being driven from their own homes, would 
 wander, no regard being had to them, among the forsaken harvest; 
 and many times, after they had filled themselves in the day, would 
 return of their own accord like rational creatures at night. What 
 can I say more, if I return to the city 1 unless that such was the 
 
34 
 
 INTRODUCTION, 
 
 cruelty of Heaven, and perhaps of men, that between March and 
 July following, it is supposed, and made pretty certain that up¬ 
 wards of a hundred thousand souls perished in the city only; 
 whereas, before that calamity, it was not supposed to have con¬ 
 tained so many inhabitants. What magnificent dwellings, what 
 noble palaces were then depopulated to the last person! what 
 families extinct! what riches and vast possessions left, and no 
 known heir to inherit! what numbers of both sexes in the prime 
 and vigour of youth, whom in the morning neither Galen, Hippo¬ 
 crates, nor j®sculapius himself, but would have declared in perfect 
 health, after dining heartily with their friends here, have supped 
 with their departed friends in the other world ! But I am weary 
 of recounting our late miseries; therefore, passing by everything 
 that I can well omit, I shall only observe, that the city being left 
 almost without inhabitants, it happened one Tuesday in the 
 evening, as I was informed by persons of good credit, that seven 
 ladies all in deep mourning, as most proper for that time, had been 
 attending Divine service (being the whole congregation), in new 
 St. Mary’s Church: who, as united by the ties either of friendship 
 or relation, and of suitable years; viz., the youngest not less than 
 eighteen, nor the eldest exceeding twenty-eight; so were they all 
 discreet, nobly descended, and perfectly accomplished, both in 
 person and behaviour. I do not mention their names, lest they 
 should be displeased with some things said to have passed in con¬ 
 versation, there being a greater restraint.on those diversions now; 
 nor would I give a handle to ill-natured persons, who carp at 
 everything that is praiseworthy, to detract in any way from their 
 modesty by injurious reflections. And that I may relate therefore 
 all that occurred without confusion, I shall affix names to everyone 
 bearing some resemblance to the quality of the person. The eldest 
 then I call Pampinea, the next to her Flammetta, the third 
 Philomena, the fourth Emilia, the fifth Lauretta, the sixth Neiphile, 
 and the youngest Eliza: who being got together by chance rather 
 than any appointment, into a corner of the church, and there seated 
 in a ring; and leaving off their devotions, and falling into some 
 discourse together concerning the nature of the times; in a little 
 while Pampinea thus began : 
 
 “ My dear girls, you have often heard, as well as I, that no one 
 is injured, where we only make an honest use of our own reason : 
 TH>w reason tells us that we are to preserve our lives by all possible 
 
introduction: 
 
 35 
 
 liieans; and, in some cases, at the expense of the lives of others. 
 And if the laws which regard the good'of the community allow 
 this, may not we much rather (and all that mean honestly as we 
 do), without giving offence to any, use the means now in our power 
 for our own preservation 1 Every moment when I think of what 
 has passed to-day, and every day, I perceive, as you may also, that 
 we are all in pain for ourselves. Nor do I wonder at this; but 
 much rather, as we are women, do I wonder that none of us should 
 look out for a remedy, where we have so much reason to be afraid. 
 We stay here for no other purpose, that I can see, but to observe 
 what numbers come to be buried, or to listen if the monks, who 
 are now reduced to a very few, sing their services at the proper 
 times, or else to shew by our habits the greatness of our distress. 
 And if we go from hence, we are saluted with numbers of the 
 dead and sick carried along the streets; or with persons who had 
 been outlawed for their villanies, now facing it out publicly, in 
 defiance of the laws. Or we see the scum of the city enriched 
 with the public calamity, and insulting us with reproachful ballads. 
 Nor is anything talked of but that such an one is dead or dying; 
 and, were any left to mourn, we should hear nothing but lamen¬ 
 tations. Or if we go home (I know not whether it fares with 
 you as with myself), when I find out of a numerous family not 
 one left, besides a maid-servant, I am frightenped out of my senses; 
 and go where I will, the ghosts of the departed seem always before; 
 not like the persons whilst they were living, but assuming a ghastly 
 and dreadful aspect. 
 
 “Therefore the case is the same, whether we stay here, depart 
 hence, or go home ; especially as there are few who are able to go, 
 and have a place to go to, left but ourselves. And those few, I am 
 cold, fall into all sorts of debauchery ; and even the religious and 
 ladies shut up in monasteries, supposing themselves entitled to 
 equal liberties with others, are as bad as the worst. And if this be 
 so, (as you see plainly it is) what do we herel What are we 
 dreaming of % Why less regardful of our lives than other people of 
 theirs 1 Are we of less value to ourselves, or are our souls and 
 bodies more firmly united, and so in less danger of dissolution 1 
 ’Tis monstrous to think in such a manner; so many of both sexes 
 dying of this distemper in the very prime of their youth affords us 
 an undeniable argument to the contrary. Wherefore, lest through 
 our own wilfulness or neglect this calamity, which might have 
 
 3—2 
 
INTROD UCTION. 
 
 36 
 
 been prevented, should befal us, I should think it best (and I hope 
 5 '^ou will join with me) for us to quit the town, and avoiding, as 
 we would death itself, the bad example of others, to choose some 
 place of retirement, of which every one of us has more than one, 
 where we may make ourselves innocently merry, without offering 
 the least violence to the dictates of reason and our own consciences. 
 There will our ears be entertained with the warbling of the birds, 
 and our eyes with the verdure of the hills and valleys; with the 
 waving of corn-fields like the sea itself ; with trees of a thousand 
 different kinds, and a more open and serene sky 1 which, however 
 jvercast, yet affords a far more agreeable prospect than these 
 desolate walls. The air also is pleasanter, and there is greater 
 plenty of everything, attended with fewer inconveniences: for, 
 though people die there as w^ell as here, yet we shall have fewer 
 such objects before us, as the inhabitants are less in number ; and 
 on the other part, if I judge right, we desert nobody, but are rather 
 ourselves forsaken. For all our friends, either by death, or en¬ 
 deavouring to avoid it, have left us, as if we in no way belonged to 
 them. As no blame then can ensue by following this advice, and 
 perhaps sickness and death by not doing so, I would have us take 
 our maids, and everything we may be supposed to want, and to 
 remove every day to a different place, taking all the diversions in 
 the meantime which the seasons will permit; and there continue, 
 unless death should interpose, till we see what end Providence 
 designs for these things. And this I remind you of, that your 
 character will stand as fair by our going away reputably, as the 
 characters of others will do, who stay at home with discredit.” 
 
 The ladies having heard what Pampinea had to offer, not only 
 approved of it, but were going to concert measures for their depar¬ 
 ture, when Philomena, who was a most discreet person, made 
 answer: “ Though Pampinea has spoken well, yet there is no 
 occasion to run hand over head into it, as you are about to do.. We 
 are but women, nor is any of us so ignorant not to know how little 
 able we shall be to conduct such an affair, without some man to 
 help us. We are naturally fickle, obstinate, suspicious, and fear¬ 
 ful ; and I doubt much, unless we take somebody into our scheme 
 to manage it for us, lest it soon be at an end ; and perhaps, little 
 to our reputation. Let us provide against this, therefore, before 
 we begin." 
 
 Eliza then replied: “ It is true, man is the head of a woman, 
 
INTRODUCTION, 
 
 37 
 
 Jind without his management it seldom happens that any under¬ 
 taking of ours succeeds well. But how are these men to be come 
 atl We all know that the greatest part of our male acquaintance 
 are dead, and the rest all dispersed abroad, avoiding what we seek 
 to avoid, and without our knowing where to find them. And to 
 take strangers with us, would not be altogether so proper; for, 
 whilst we have regard to our health, we should so contrive matters 
 that, wherever we go to repose and divert ourselves, no scandal may 
 ensue from it.” Whilst this was debated, behold, three gentlemen 
 eame into the church, the youngest not less than twenty-five years 
 of age, and in whom neither the ad ^ersity of the times, the loss of 
 relations and friends, nor even fear for themselves, could stifle, or 
 indeed cool, the passion of love. One was called Pamphilus, the 
 second Philostratus, and the third Dioneus, all of them well bred, 
 and pleasant companions; and who, to divert themselves in this 
 time of affliction, were then in pursuit of their mistresses, who by 
 chance were three of these seven ladies, and the other four all 
 related to one or other of them. These gentlemen were no sooner 
 within view, but the ladies had immediately their eyes upon them; 
 and Pampinea said, with a smile, “ See, fortune is with us, and has 
 thrown in our way three prudent and worthy gentlemen, wfflo will 
 nonduct and wait upon us, if we think fit to accept of their ser¬ 
 vice.” Neiphile, with a blush, because she was one that had an 
 admirer, answered : “ Take care what you say; I know them aU 
 indeed to be persons of character, and fit to be trusted, even in 
 affairs of more consequence, and in better company ; but, as some 
 of them are enamoured of certain ladies here, I am only concerned 
 lest we be drawn into some scrape or scandal, without either our 
 fault or theirs.” Philomena replied : “Never tell me, so long as I 
 know myself to be virtuous, what other people may think; God 
 and the truth will be my defence : and if they be willing to go, we 
 will say with Pampinea, that fortune is with us.” The rest hearing 
 her speak in this manner, gave consent that they should be called, 
 and invited to partake in this expedition. And, without more 
 words, Pampinea, related to one of the three, rose up, and made^ 
 towards them, who were standing at a distance, attentive to what 
 passed, and, after a cheerful salutation, acquainted them with 
 their design, and entreated that they would, out of pure friendship, 
 oblige them with their company. The gentlemen at first took it 
 all for a jest; but, being assured to the contrary, immediately 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 38 
 
 answered that they were ready; and to lose no time, gave ths 
 necessary orders for what they would have done. Everything 
 being thus prepared, and a messenger dispatched before, whither 
 they intended to go, the next morning, which was Wednesday, by 
 break of day, the ladies, with some of their women, and the gen¬ 
 tlemen, with every one his servant, set out from the city, and, after 
 they had travelled two short miles, came to the place appointed. 
 It was a little eminence, remote from any great road, covered with 
 trees and plants of an agreeable verdure, on the top of which was 
 a stately palace, with a grand and beautiful court in the middle : 
 within were galleries, and fine apartments elegantly fitted up, and 
 adorned with most curious paintings ; around it were fine meadows, 
 and most delightful gardens, with fountains of the purest and best 
 water. The vaults also were stored with the richest wines, suited 
 rather to the taste of debauchees, than of modest and virtuous 
 ladies. This palace they found cleared out, and everything set in 
 order for their reception, with the rooms all graced with the flowers 
 of the season, to their great satisfaction. Being seated, Dioneus, 
 who was the pleasantest of them all, and full of words, began: 
 “Your wisdom it is, ladies, rather than any foresight of ours, which 
 has brought us hither. I know not how you have disposed of your 
 cares; as for mine I left them all behind me when I came from 
 home. Either prepare, then, to be as merry as myself (I mean with 
 decency), or give me leave to go back again, and resume my cares 
 where I left them.” To whom Pampinea, as if she had disposed of 
 hers in like manner, answered: “You say right, sir, we will be 
 merry; we fled from our troubles for no other reason. But, as 
 extremes are never likely to last, I who first proposed the means by 
 which such an agreeable set of company is now got together, and 
 being desirous to make our mirth of some continuance, find there 
 is a necessity for our appointing a principal, whom we should 
 honour and obey in all things as our head ; whose province it shall 
 be to regulate our diversions. And that every one may make trial 
 of the burthen which attends care, as well as the pleasure which 
 there is in superiority, nor, therefore envy what he hath not yet 
 tried, I hold it best that every one should experience both the 
 trouble and the honour for one day. The first to be elected by us 
 all, and who on the approach of the evening, shall name a person 
 to succeed for the following day; who, during the time of their 
 governnienc, are to give orders concerning the place where, and the 
 
INTROD UCTION, 
 
 39 
 
 manner how, we are to live."’ These words gave a general satis¬ 
 faction, and they named her, with one consent, for the first day : 
 whilst Philomel)a, running to a laurel tree, as having often heard 
 how much that tree had always been esteemed, and what honour 
 was conferred on those who were deservedly crowned with it, made 
 a garland, and put it upon her head, which whilst the company 
 continued together, was hereafter to be the ensign of sovereignty. 
 
 Pampinea, thus elected queen, enjoined silence, and having sum¬ 
 moned the gentlemen’s servants, and their own women, who were 
 four in number, before her : “ To give you the first example,” said 
 she, “how, by proceeding from good to better, we may live orderly 
 and pleasantly, and continue together, without the least reproach, 
 as long as we please : in the first place I declare Parmeno, Dioneus’s 
 servant, master of my household, and to him I commit the care of 
 my family, and everything relating to my hall. Siriscus, Pam- 
 phllus’s servant, I appoint my treasurer, and to be under the 
 direction of Parmeno; and Tindarus I command to wait on 
 Philostratus and the other two gentlemen, whilst their servants 
 are thus employed. Mysia, my woman, and Licisca, Philomena’s, 
 I order into the kitchen, there to get ready what shall be provided 
 by Parmeno. To Chimera, Lauretta’s, and Stratilia, Flammetta’s, 
 I give the care of the ladies’ chambers, and to keep the room clean 
 where we sit. And I will and command you all, on pain of my 
 displeasure, that wherever you go, or whatever you hear and see, 
 you bring me no news here but what is good.” These orders were 
 approved by them all; and she, rising from her seat, with a good 
 deal of gaiety, added, “ Here are gardens and meadows, where you 
 may divert yourselves till three o’clock, when I shall expect you 
 back, that we may dine in the cool of the day.” 
 
 The company were now at liberty, and the gentlemen and ladies 
 took a pleasant walk in the garden, talking over a thousand merry 
 things by the way, and diverting themselves there by singing love- 
 songs, and weaving garlands of fiowers, and returned at the time 
 appointed, when they found Parmeno busy in the execution of his 
 office : for in a saloon below was the table set forth, covered with 
 the neatest linen, with glasses reflecting a lustre like silver; and 
 having washed their hands, by the queen’s order, Parmeno desired 
 them to sit down. The dishes now were served up in the most 
 elegant manner, and the best wines brought in, the servants waiting 
 all the time with the most profound silence; and, being well pleased 
 
40 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 with their entertainment, they dined with all the facetionsness and 
 mirth imaginable. When dinner was over, as they could all dance^ 
 and some both play and sing well, the queen ordered in the musical 
 instruments, and commanding Dioneus to take a lute, and Flam- 
 metta a viol, they struck up a dance, and the queen, with the rest 
 of the company, took an agreeable turn or two, whilst the servants 
 were sent to dinner ; and when the dance was ended, they began 
 to sing, and continued till the queen thought it time to break up. 
 Her permission being given, the gentlemen retired to their cham¬ 
 bers, remote from the ladies’ lodging rooms, and the ladies did the 
 same, and undressed themselves for bed. 
 
 It was no sooner nine, than the queen arose, and ordered all to 
 be called, alleging, that much sleep in the day-time was unwhole¬ 
 some ; and they went into a meadow of deep grass, where the sun 
 had little power; and having the benefit of a pleasant breeze, they 
 sat down in a circle, as the queen had commanded, who spoke in 
 this manner :—“ As the sun is high, and the heat excessive, and 
 nothing is to be heard but the chirping of the grasshoppers among 
 the olives, it would be madness for us to think of moving yet; this 
 is an airy place, and here are chess-boards and gammon-tables to 
 divert yourselves with ; but if you are ruled by me, you will not 
 play at all, since it often makes one party uneasy, without any 
 great pleasure to the other, or to the looker-on ; but let us begin 
 and tell stories, and in this manner one person will entertain the 
 whole company; and by the time it has gone round, the worst part 
 of the day will be over, and then we can divert ourselves as we like 
 best. If this be agreeable to you, then, for I wait to know your 
 pleasure, let us begin ; if not, you are at your own disposal till the 
 evening.” This motion was approved by all; whilst the queen 
 continued, “Let every one for this first day take what subject he 
 fancies mostand turning to Pamphilus, who sat on her right 
 hand, bade him begin; who, in ready obedience to her commands, 
 and being well heard, spoke to this effer.t. 
 

 
 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 THE FIRST DAY 
 
 NOVEL I. 
 
 'Chappelet imposes upon the priest hy a sham confession, and dies; and 
 although a very wicked fellow, was afterwards reputed a saint; and 
 called St. Chappelet. 
 
 ADIES, It is most meet and right, that every thing 
 we do should be begun in the name of Him who 
 is the maker of aU things. Therefore, as I am to 
 entertain you first, I shall make choice of a very extraordi¬ 
 nary instance, which may direct us to place all our hopes in 
 him, as the only unchangeable being, and evermore to praise 
 -him. Certain it is, that all earthly things are transitory and 
 mortal; at tended^ with great troubles, and subject to infinite dan- 
 ,gers, which we who live embroiled with them, and are even part 
 •of them, could neither endure, nor find a remedy for, were it not 
 for the especial grace of God that enables us : which blessing we 
 are not to expect through our own merits, but his goodness, and 
 the intercession of those saints who, having been once mortal men 
 like ourselves, and done his will whilst on earth, now enjoy hap¬ 
 piness and immortality in heaven; to whom, as to fit agents, 
 informed of our frailties by their own experience, and not daring, 
 perhaps, immediately to address ourselves to so great a Judge, we 
 offer up our prayers for what we want. And we find his mercy 
 the greater, as, not being able to pry into the secrets of hi<? divine 
 will, we may sometimes make choice of a mediator before him, 
 who is banished eternally from his presence: and yet he from 
 whom nothing is hidden, having regard to the purity of the sup¬ 
 plicant, rather than to his ignorance, or the situation of the person 
 ■to whom he applies himself, hears those v/ho pray in this manner. 
 
42 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 as if that person were really a saint: which will most plainly 
 appear from the following story ; I say most plainly, not consider¬ 
 ing the judgment of God, but that of man. 
 
 There lived in France a person whose name was Musciat; who, 
 from a wealthy merchant, became a courtier, and went into Tus¬ 
 cany with Charles, surnamed Lackland, brother to the King of 
 France, who was instigated to that expedition by Pope Boniface. 
 This gentleman, finding his afi’airs considerably perplexed, and 
 lying, as is usual to persons in trade, in abundance of hands ; nor 
 being able to right them himself, without a good deal of time and 
 trouble, resolved to entrust them with several people ; and settled 
 everything to his mind, excepting some debts which were standing 
 out from persons living in Burgundy. The reason was, he had 
 found them to be a set of perverse, ill-conditioned, rascally fellows, 
 and he could not for his life conceive, where a man might be met 
 with bad enough to match them : after much thinldng about it, he 
 at last called to mind one Ciapperello da Prato, who used to come 
 much to his house at Paris ; and being a little pragmatical fellow, 
 the French, not knowing the meaning of his true name, but think¬ 
 ing him to have been called Cappello, gave him the diminutive 
 name of Ciappelletto, or Chappelet, by which he was generally 
 known there. 
 
 Now the character of the man was this : Being by trade a 
 scrivener, he was really ashamed if any writings of his (he did not 
 draw many indeed) were found without some fault, or flaw ; and 
 would do that sort of work for nothing with more pleasure than a 
 just thing that he was to be well paid for. He was glad at all 
 times of being a false witness, whether it was required of him or 
 not: and as great regard was had to an oath in France, he, who 
 made no scruple to forswear himself on every occasion, was sure 
 of every cause that depended on his single testimony. To foment 
 quarrels and disputes was his utmost pleasure, especially amongst 
 friends or relations ; and the more mischief he occasioned, the 
 greater was his satisfaction. Was a man to be dispatched at any 
 time ; he was the person to undertake it, and would do it with his 
 own hands. He was a great blasphemer of God and his saints, 
 swearing and cursing on every occasion. He went to church at 
 no time, but spoke always of the holy sacraments in the same 
 abominable terms, as he would do of the vilest things in the world ; 
 on the contrary, he was eternally at taverns, and places of bad 
 
FIRST DAY. 
 
 43 
 
 repute. Of women he was as fond as a dog is of a stick ; but to 
 unnatural vice, no wretch so abandoned as himself. He would 
 pilfer and steal with as much conscience as others give to charity. 
 He was a glutton and drunkard to the ruin of his constitution. 
 He was also a most notorious gamester ; making use always of 
 false dice. And, to sum up his character in few words, perhaps 
 his equal in wickedness has not yet been born. Yet, bad as he 
 was, he had all along been screened by the favour and interest of 
 Musciat, as well from the resentment of private persons, whom he 
 had often injured, as from that of the court, to which he gave 
 daily provocation. 
 
 This man coming into Musciat’s thoughts at last, who was no 
 stranger to every part of his life, he concluded him to be such an 
 one as the tempers of the people he had to deal with required; 
 and sending for him, he addressed him thus : 
 
 Master Chappelet, you know that I am about to leave this 
 country, and as I have affairs to settle with some people of Bur¬ 
 gundy, who are full of quirks and deceit, I do not know any one 
 that I can employ so fit to manage them as yourself : you have a 
 good deal of spare time, and if you will undertake it, I will pro¬ 
 cure you recommendatory letters from court, and allow you a 
 reasonable part of what you recover.” 
 
 Chappelet, who found himself much embarrassed in the world, 
 and likely to be more so when his great friend was gone, without 
 he.sitating at all about, it, answered that he was willing. They 
 agreed upon terms ; Musciat gave him a deputation, and procuring 
 him the letters he had promised, he set out for Burgundy ; where, 
 being quite a stranger, he endeavoured, contrary to his former 
 manner, to do the business he came about by fair means ; reserv¬ 
 ing a diftere7'it behaviour to the last. He lodged with two brothers ; 
 who were usurers ; and they entertained him well on MusciaTs 
 account; and falling sick there, they had physicians to him, and 
 servants to attend him ; nor was anything omitted that could be 
 of service, but all in vain ; for this worthy good man, who was 
 advanced in years, and had been also an irregular liver, gre w worse 
 and worse in the judgment of the physicians ; so that he was 
 looked upon as a dead man ; at which the brothers were greatly 
 concerned. And one day being near the chamber where he lay, 
 they began to have some talk tog^ether about it; and one said to 
 the other : 
 
44 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 “What shall we do with this fellow^ We have a fine affair 
 upon our hands, by means of his wickedness. For to turn him 
 out in this condition would afford matter for reproach, and also be 
 a proof of our want of understanding; the people seeing us receive 
 him before into our house, and supply him 'with physic, and all 
 things necessary; and now send him out whilst he is dying, with¬ 
 out his having been able to do anything that we ought to be 
 offended at.—And on the other hand, he has been such a vile 
 fellow always, that he will never be brought to confess, and to 
 receive the sacraments of the church ; and should he die without 
 them, no church will receive his body ; but he must be put into 
 the ground like a dog. Or should he confess, his sins will appear 
 so enormous, that the like were never known : nor can any priest 
 be found that will give,him absolution : and without that he must 
 still be thrown into a ditch : and should this happen, the people 
 of this country, who think ours an iniquitous trade, and are daily 
 reviling us, would be apt to raise a mutiny, and declare publicly, 
 that they will no longer bear with these Lombards, these extor¬ 
 tioning villains, whom the church disdains to receive into her 
 bosom ; and make that a pretence to plunder us of all we are 
 worth, and abuse our persons into the bargain ; so that it will be 
 bad for us on all sides, should this man die.’^ 
 
 Chappelet, whom we observed not to lie far off, heard all this, 
 as sick people are often quick of hearing, and calling them to him 
 he said : 
 
 “ I would have you be in no doubts or fears of harm to your¬ 
 selves on my account. I have heard what you have been talking 
 about, and am confident the thing would happen as you say, were 
 everything to be as you suppose ; but I will take care that it shall 
 happen otherwise : I have been guilty of so much wickedness, in 
 my lifetime, that to add one sin at my death, will not make the 
 ■sum much greater : therefore send out for the most able and reli¬ 
 gious priest you know of, if a religious one can be found, and I 
 vsdll take such care of your affairs, as well as of my own, that you 
 shall have reason to be satisfied.^’ 
 
 The brothers expected no great matters from this; but went 
 however to a convent, and desired that some learned and holy per¬ 
 son would come, and take the confession of a Lombard, who was 
 sick in their house. Accordingly, a venerable old friar, of great 
 sanctity and learning, and much reverenced by the whole city, wad 
 
FIRST DAY. 
 
 45 
 
 ordered to go with them; who being come into the room, and 
 seated by the sick man’s bed-side, began, after some heavenly con¬ 
 solations, to inquire of him, how long it was since he had last 
 confessed. To whom Chappelet, who had never confessed in his 
 whole life, answered: 
 
 “ Holy father, it has been usual with me always to confess once 
 a week at least; and sometimes oftener; but it is true, since I 
 have been sick, my affliction has been such, that I have not con¬ 
 fessed at all.” 
 
 The friar replied: “ Son, it is well, thus you should always do; 
 and I perceive, as you have confessed so often, that I shall have 
 but little trouble, either in hearing or asking you questions.” 
 
 “ Good father, do not say so,” cried Chappelet: “ I have never 
 so often confessed, but that I would always mention every sin that 
 I could recollect from the hour I was born. Therefore I beg you 
 would examine me as particularly as if I had never confessed at 
 all; and do not regard my languishing condition ; for I had much 
 rather do what may disoblige the flesh, than, by consulting the 
 ease of my body, bring damnation on my soul, which my Saviour 
 has purchased with his most precious blood.” 
 
 The good old man was ravished with these expressions, esteem¬ 
 ing them proofs of a well-disposed mind ; and having commended 
 his piety, he asked him whether he had ever offended God by the 
 knowledge of wom^. To whom Chappelet, fetching a deep sigh, 
 replied: 
 
 “ I am ashamed to speak the truth, lest I should be thought to 
 offend by vain-glory.” 
 
 “ Speak out boldly,” said the priest, “ for there can be no harm 
 in telling truth, whether at confession or any other time.” 
 
 “ Since you make me easy in this,” quoth Chappelet, “ I will 
 speak out; I am as pure, in that respect, as when I first came into 
 the world.” 
 
 “ God bless my son,” said the friar, “ you have done well; and 
 this is so much the more meritorious, as you have liberties far 
 beyond us, of doing otherwiseand he added, “ but were you 
 never given to gluttony T 
 
 Chappelet answered with a groan ; 
 
 “Yes, very often ; for besides fasting in Lent, as all devout 
 persons do, I have accustomed myself to live three days in a week 
 fit least on bread and water ; and I have drunk the water some- 
 
46 • THE DECAIitEROH, 
 
 times, especially if I have been fatigued with praying, or perfonn* 
 ing a pilgrimage, with as much pleasure as drunkards drink wine ; 
 and sometimes I have wished for salads, and have eat my bread 
 with more pleasure than a person ought, who fasts out of devotion.” 
 
 “ My son,” replied the friar, “ these are very natural and trivial 
 crimes, and I would not have you burthen your conscience more 
 than is necessary : every one, be he ever so holy, eats with a good 
 appetite after fasting, and drinks with pleasure when he has been 
 fatigued.” 
 
 ‘‘ Do not tell me these things to comfort me only,” said Chap- 
 pelet, “ you know 1 cannot be ignorant, that whatever relates to 
 the service of God should be done sincerely, and with a good 
 will, otherwise we are guilty of sin.” 
 
 “ I am well satisfied,” returned the friar, “ in your being of that 
 opinion, and much approve the purity of your conscience : but 
 tell me, have you not been guilty of the sin of covetousness, desir¬ 
 ing more than was fit, or detaining what was not your due 1” 
 
 ‘‘ I would not have you think so,” said Chappelet, “ because you 
 see me in the house with these usurers: I have no concern with 
 them, but came purely to persuade them to leave off that abomin¬ 
 able way of living; and believe I might have prevailed, had it not 
 pleased God to visit me in this manner. My father left me a 
 plentiful fortune, and I immediately disposed of the greater part 
 of it to religious uses ; and betook myself to trade for a mainten¬ 
 ance, and to have it in my power to relieve the poor in Christ: I 
 cannot say indeed that I have not been desirous of gain \ but I 
 always gave half to the poor, and kept the other part for my own 
 necessary occasions; and God hath so far blessed me, that my 
 affairs have always prospered.” 
 
 “You have done well,” said the confessor : “ but have you not 
 been often transported with anger and passion 1” 
 
 “ Very often truly !” answered the penitent, “but who can for¬ 
 bear, seeing the common degeneracy of mankind, who are every 
 day breaking the commandments of God, and are not kept in awe 
 by his judgments 1 I could rather choose to be out of the world, 
 than to see youth run after vanity, swear, and forswear, haunt 
 taverns, neglect going to church, and follow the ways of the world 
 before those of God.” 
 
 “ My son,” said the friar, “ passion here is commendable; nor 
 shall I enjoin you any penance for it: but have you been trans* 
 
 ■* 
 
 V 
 
FIRST DA Y. 
 
 47 
 
 ported by rage at no time, to murder, or use indecent expressions^ 
 or to do any other injury 
 
 “ Alas, sir !” answered Chappelet, “ how can you, who appear to 
 be so good a man, mention any such thing % Do you believe, had 
 I ever entertained such thoughts, that God would have suffered me 
 to live 1 These are the actions of robbers and villains, whom I 
 never look upon without offering up a prayer to God for their 
 conversion.” 
 
 “ God bless thee again, my dear child,” said the good old man; 
 “ but have you never borne false witness against, or spoken ill of 
 another, or taken away that from him which properly belonged to 
 him r 
 
 “Yes, reverend father,” answered he, “I must needs confess I 
 have spoken ill of another, for I had once a neighbour, who used 
 to beat his wife without cause ; and I gave him a bad character to 
 her parents ; so much did I pity the poor woman, who was always 
 ill treated by him, as often as he got drunk.” 
 
 “ But,” said the friar, “ you tell me you have been a merchant, 
 did you never cheat any person, as is common for them to do 1” 
 
 “Yes, in good truth, sir,” he replied, “but I know only of one 
 person, who, having brought the money for a piece of cloth which 
 I had sold him, I put it into a bag without counting it, and at the 
 month’s end, when I came to tell it over, I found fourpence too 
 much ; but as I was not'able to find the owner again, after keep¬ 
 ing it a year, I gave it to the poor.” 
 
 “ This is a mere trifle,” said the friar, “ and you did well to dis¬ 
 pose of it in that manner.” 
 
 He then put some other questions to him, which Chappelet an¬ 
 swered as he had done the rest; and just as he was proceeding to 
 absolution, Chappelet cried out, 
 
 “ There is another thing hangs upon me, which I have not con¬ 
 fessed.” 
 
 The priest inquired what that was ; and he answered, 
 
 “ I remember once making my maid clean the house on a holi¬ 
 day ; and I have not shewed that regard for the Lord’s day which 
 I ought” 
 
 “ Oh !” said the friar, “ that is a small matter, my son.” 
 
 “ Do not call it so, dear father,’’ quoth the other, “ Sunday is a 
 day much to be reverenced, being the day on which our Lord rose 
 from the dead.” 
 
48 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 “ Then,” said the priest, “ is there anything more T 
 
 “Yes,’’ answered he, “I remember, once in my life, to have spit 
 in the house of God.” 
 
 The friar smiled, and said, “ My son, that is not to be regarded; 
 we ourselves spit there every day.” 
 
 “ And you are much to blame for it,” returned he, “ for nothing 
 should be kept so clean as the temple of God, where we offer sacri¬ 
 fice.” In short, he told him many more things of that kind, and 
 at last, as he could weep when he pleased, he feU groaning and 
 sobbing, as though he would burst his very heart. 
 
 “ Son, what is the matter said the friar : 
 
 He answered, “Alas, sir ! there is one sin left behind, which I 
 could never endure to confess, the shame to mention it is so great, 
 and which, as often as I recollect, I lament in the manner you now 
 see ; nay, I am convinced that God will never forgive it.” 
 
 “ Go, go, my son,” quoth the friar, “ what is that you say % I tell 
 you, that if all the wickedness that ever was committed by man, 
 or can be committed whilst the world endures, was to be amassed 
 in one person, if that person was thoroughly penitent, as I see you 
 are, so great is God’s mercy, that upon confession, it would all be 
 forgiven him ; tell me then what it is.” 
 
 “ Alas! father,” said Chappelet, shedding abundance of tears, 
 “ my sin is so heinous, that I despair altogether of pardon, unless 
 you assist me, and move God by your prayers.” 
 
 “ Speak out, then,” said the friar, “ and I promise to intercede 
 for you.” 
 
 Chappelet yet kept weeping, and would say nothing ; the priest 
 exhorting him all the while to clear his conscience ; and after he 
 had held him some time in suspense, he fetched a deep sigh, and 
 said, 
 
 “ Since you have promised to pray for me, I will disclose it: 
 you must know then, that when I was a child, I once cursed my 
 mother and her«» iie began to lament afresh in a most grievous 
 manner. 
 
 “ My good son,” said the friar, “ does this seem so great a sin *? 
 Men are cursing God every day, yet he pardons them upon repent¬ 
 ance ; and do you think you shall never be forgiven % Weep 
 not; but let this be your comfort, that though you had even a 
 hand in nailing Christ upon the cross, yet would that sin be for¬ 
 given on such a repentance as yours.” 
 
FIRST DA Y. 
 
 49 
 
 “What do you say'?” quoth Chappelet; “what! to curse my 
 dearest mother, who bore me day and night in her womb for nine 
 months, and suckled me many hundreds of times at her breast! 
 No, the sin is so great, that I must inevitably perish, unless your 
 prayers prevent i^t.” 
 
 The friar finding he had no more to say, absolved and gave him 
 his benediction ; and, supposing that he spoke truth all the while, 
 thought him the most pious man living. And, indeed, who could 
 think otherwise, having it all from a dying man ] He afterwards 
 said to him, “ Monsieur Chappelet, by God’s assistance you will 
 soon recover ; but if it should please the Almighty to take your 
 blessed and well-disposed soul unto himself, will you give leave 
 for your body to be buried in our convent 1’’ 
 
 “I would have it laid nowhere else,” answered he, “both because 
 you have promised to pray for me, and as I have always had a 
 great regard for your order ; therefore, when you go home I beg 
 you would take care that the real body of our Lord, which was 
 consecrated at your altar this morning, may be brought to me ; for, 
 unworthy as I am, I intend, with your leave, to receive it, and 
 after that extreme unction ; so that though I have been a great 
 sinner all my life, I may die at least like a Christian.” 
 
 The holy man was much pleased, and told him that he said 
 well, and promised that it should be brought that day ] and so 
 it was. 
 
 The brothers being a little suspicious that he intended to im¬ 
 pose upon them, had posted themselves behind a partition of the 
 room, where they heard all that passed ; insomuch that they could 
 scarcely refrain from laughing ; and said one to the other, 
 
 “ What a strange fellow this is ! whom neither age, sickness, 
 fear of death, which is at hand, nor of God, at whose tribunal he 
 must shortly appear, are sufficient to deter from his wicked courses, 
 or to prevent his dying as he has always lived \ ” But as he had 
 obtained burial in the church by that means, they cared no farther. 
 He then received the sacrament, and growing worse and worse had 
 extreme unction, and died the evening that he had made this ex¬ 
 traordinary confession. The brothers took immediate care that 
 he should be honourably interred, and sent forthwith to the con¬ 
 vent to desire they vrould come, as was usual, and perform vigils 
 and matins for the deceased : and the priest, to whom he had con¬ 
 fessed, went upon this notice to the prior, and had a chapter called^ 
 
 4 
 
5 ^ 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 when he informed them how holy a person Chappelet was, as he 
 could easily perceive by his confession : and hoping that God 
 would work many miracles by him, he persuaded them to receive 
 his body with all due reverence and devotion ; to which the prior 
 and the credulous brotherhood all consented, and that night they 
 came in a body to the place where the corpse lay, and sang the 
 great and solemn vigils ; and in the morning they all went in their 
 hoods and surplices, with books in their hands, and the cross 
 carried before them for the body, singing all the way; and they 
 brought it witn the utmost solemnity to their church, being fol¬ 
 lowed by the whole city : and having set it down there, the good 
 confessor mounted the pulpit, and told them wonderful things 
 concerning his life, fastings, chastity, simplicity, innocence, and 
 sanctity ; speaking more particularly of that great crime, which he 
 had confessed with so much concern, as scarcely to be persuaded 
 that God would forgive him. And from thence he took occasion 
 to reprimand his audience in this manner : “Yet you, wicked as 
 you are, make no scruple to curse God, the holy mother of God, 
 and all the host of heaven, for the least trifle.” He flourished 
 much concerning his truth and purity ; and worked so far upon 
 them by his discourse, to which all yielded an implicit faith, that 
 when the service was ended they pressed forward to kiss the de¬ 
 ceased’s hands and feet; and the funeral clothes were immediately 
 rent to pieces, every one thinking himself happy who could get a 
 single rag. All that day he was kept, so that every one might see 
 and visit him ; and at night most honourably interred in a marble 
 sepulchre : and on the following day was a great procession of 
 devout persons, to worship at his shrine with lighted tapers, and to 
 offer the waxen images which they had vowed. And such was the 
 fame of his sanctity, and the people’s devotion towards him, that 
 nobody in time of trouble would apply themselves to any other 
 saint but him, calling him St. Chappelet, and affirming, that God 
 had wrought many miracles by him, and’ still continued to work 
 for such as recommended themselves devoutly to him. 
 
 Thus lived and died master Ciapperello da Prato, and became a 
 saint as you have heard, of whom I will not say but he may be 
 happy ; for though his whole life could not be worse, it is not 
 impossible, but, before the hour of his death, he might be such a 
 penitent, that God should have mercy on him, and receive him 
 into his kingdom. But as this we know nothing of, we have much 
 
FIRST DA Y. 
 
 5 » 
 
 more reason, from what appears, to conclude that he is more likely 
 in the hands of the devil in purgatory, than amongst the angels in 
 Paradise. And if it be so, great is God’s mercy towards us ; who, 
 not regarding our errors, but the purity of our intention, whenever 
 we make choice of an improper mediator, hears us as well as if we 
 had applied ours'elves to one truly a saint. And therefore, that 
 his grace may preserve us in our present calamity, and in this 
 cheerful and agreeable society, let us praise his name, as we first 
 began ; recommending ourselves to him in time of need, with a 
 full assurance of being always heard. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL II. 
 
 Abraham tk'’JeWy at the instigation of Jcannot de Chivigniy goes to the 
 court of Rome, and seeing the wickedness of the clergy there, returns to 
 Paris, and becomes a Christian. 
 
 B ' IjOME parts of Paraphilus’s story made them laugh heartily; 
 I and the whole was much commended by the ladies, who 
 had been very attentive ; and, as it was now ended, the 
 queen ordered Neiphile, in the next seat to her, to go on in the 
 method she had prescribed, who, being as aftable in behaviour as 
 her person was beautiful, very cheerfully answered that she was 
 willing, and began in this manner :— 
 
 Pamphilus has shewed us, in his novel, the great goodness of 
 God in not regarding any errors of ours, which proceed from the 
 blindness and im.perfection of our nature. And I intend to set 
 forth in mine, how the same goodness of God (by bearing with the 
 vices of those persons, who, though obliged to give testimony both 
 in their words and actions concerning it, yet do the reverse) dis¬ 
 plays itself in the most plain and evident manner ; whence we 
 may be taught more steadily to persevere in what we believe. 
 
 At Paris there lived, as I have been told, a great merchant, and 
 a worthy person, called Jeannot de Chivigni, a dealer in silk, and 
 an intimate friend to a certain rich Jew, whose name was Abra- 
 Jiani, a merchant also, and a very honest man ; and .leannot, being 
 IK) stranger to his good and upright intentions, was greatly troubled 
 that the soul of so wise and well-meaning a person should perish 
 through his unbelief. He began, therefore, in the most friendly 
 manner, to entreat him to renounce the errors of Judaism, and 
 embrace the truth of Christianity, which he might plainly see as 
 
53 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 the most wise and holy institution, daily to gain ground, and 
 flourish more and more, whereas their religion was dwindling to 
 nothing. The Jew answered, that he esteemed no religion like 
 his own ; that he was born in it, and in it he intended to live and 
 die ; nor could anything make him alter his resolution. Notwith¬ 
 standing this, Jeannot began, in a few days, with the same argu¬ 
 ments over again, setting forth, in as awkward a manner as a 
 merchant must be supposed to do, for what reasons our religion 
 ought to be preferred : and though the Jew was well read in their 
 law, yet, whether it was his regard to the man, or that Jeannot 
 had the spirit of God upon his tongue, he began to be greatly 
 pleased with his arguments ; but continued obstinate, nevertheless,, 
 in his opinion, nor would suffer himself to be converted. Jeannot 
 continued his most earnest solicitations, insomuch that the Jew, 
 overcome at last by them, said: “I perceive, Jeannot, you are 
 very desirous I should become a Christian ; I am willing to do as 
 you would have me, but first I have a mind to go to Rome, to see 
 him whom you call God^s vicar on earth, and to consider his ways 
 a little, and those of his brother cardinals ; and if they appear in 
 such a light to me that I may be able to comprehend by them, 
 and by what you have said, that your religion is better than mine,, 
 as you would persuade me, I will then do as I said ; otherwise I 
 will continue a Jew as I am.” When Jeannot heard this he was 
 much troubled, and said to himself : “ I have lost all my labour, 
 
 which I thought well-bestowed, expecting to have converted this 
 man ; for should he go to Rome, and see the wickedness of the 
 clergy there, so far from turning Christian, were he a Christian, 
 he would certainly become a Jew.” Then applying himself to 
 Abraham, he said : “ Alas ! my friend, why should you be at the 
 great trouble and expense of such a journey 1 Not to mention the 
 dangers, both by sea and land, to which so rich a person as your¬ 
 self must be exposed, do jmu think to find nobody here that can 
 baptize you 1 Or if you have any doubts and scruples, where will 
 you meet with more able persons than are here to clear them up 
 for you, and to answer such questions as you shall put to them 1 
 You may suppose the prelates to be like what you see in France ; 
 but more perfect indeed, as they are nearer to the principal pastor. 
 Then let me advise you to save this journey against another time, 
 when you may want some pardon or indulgence, and probably 
 then I may bear you company. 
 
FIRST DAY. 
 
 53 
 
 Tho Jerr answered, “ I believe it is as you say; but to make 
 short of the matter, I am fully resolved, if you would have me to 
 do what you have so much solicited, to go thither ; else I will in 
 no wise comply.’^ Jeannot seeing him determined, said, “ God be 
 with you!” and, supposing that he would never be a Christian 
 after he had seen Eome, gave him over for lost. The Jew took 
 horse, and made the best of his way to Eome, where he was most 
 lionourably received by his brethren, the Jews ; and, without say¬ 
 ing a word what he was come about, he began to inspect narrowly 
 into the manner of living of the pope, the cardinals, and other 
 prelates, and of the whole court; and, from what he himself per¬ 
 ceived, being a person quick of sight, and as he was informed by 
 ■others, he found that, from the highest to the lowest, they were 
 given to all sorts of lewdness, without the least shame or remorse ; 
 so that the only way to obtain any thing considerable was, by 
 applying to prostitutes of every description. He observed, also, 
 that they were generally drunkards and gluttons, and, like brutes, 
 more solicitous about their bellies than any thing else. Inquiring 
 farther, he found them all such lovers of money, that they would 
 not onlj^ buy amd sell man’s blood in general, but even the blood of 
 Christians, and sacred things, of what kind soever, whether bene¬ 
 fices, or pertaining to the altar : and they drove as great a trade 
 of this, as there is in selling cloth and other commodities at Paris : 
 that to palpable simony they had given the plausible name of pro¬ 
 curation, and debaucheries they called supporting the body ; as if 
 God had been unacquainted with their wicked intentions, and, 
 like men, was to be imposed upon by the names of things. These 
 and other things which I shall pass over, gave great offence to the 
 Jew, who was a sober and modest person ; and now thinking he 
 had seen enough, he returned home. 
 
 As soon as Jeannot heard of his arrival, he went to see him, 
 thinking of nothing so little as his conversion ; and they received 
 one another with a great deal of pleasure : and in a day or two, 
 after he had recovered from his fatigue, Jeannot began to inquire 
 of him what he thought of the holy father, the cardinals, and the 
 rest of the court! To whom the Jew immediately answered: “ To me 
 it seems as if God was much kinder to them than they deserve; for, 
 if I may be allowed to judge, I must be bold to tell you, that I 
 have neither seen sanctity, devotion, or anything good in the clergy 
 of Eome; but, on the contrary, luxury, avarice, gluttony, and 
 
54 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 worse than these, if worse things can be, are so much in fashion 
 with all sorts of people, that I should rather esteem the court of 
 Eome to be a forge, if you allow the expression, for diabolical 
 operations than things divine ; and, for what I can perceive, your 
 pastor, and consequently the rest, strive with their whole might 
 and skill to overthrow the Christian religion, and to drive it from 
 off the face of the earth, even where they ought to be its chief 
 succour and support. But as I do not see this come to pass, which 
 they so earnestly aim at; on the contrary, that your religion gains 
 strength, and becomes every day more glorious ; I plainly perceive 
 the Spirit of God to be the protector of it, as the most true and 
 holy of all others. For which reason, though I continued obstinate 
 to your exhortations, nor would suffer myself to be converted by 
 them, now I declare to you, that I will no longer defer being made 
 a Christian. Let us go then to the church, and do you take care 
 that I be baptised according to the manner of your holy faith. 
 Jeannot, who expected a quite different conclusion, was the most 
 overjoyed man that could be ; and taking him to our Lady’s church 
 at Paris, he requested the priests there to baptize Abraham ; and 
 they, finding that it was his desire, immediately performed it; Jean¬ 
 not being his sponsor, gave him the name of John. He afterwards 
 took care to have him well instructed in our faith, in which he 
 made a speedy proficiency, and became, in time, a great and good 
 man. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL III. 
 
 MelcMzedeck, a Jew, by a story of the three rings, escapes a tnost dangerom 
 snare, which Saladin had prepared for him. 
 
 HIS novel was universally applauded when Philomena tiius 
 began :— 
 
 Neiphile’s story puts me in mind of what happened to a certain 
 Jew ; for as enough has been said concerning God and the truth of 
 our religion, it will not be amiss if we descend to the actions 
 of men. I proceed, therefore, to the relation of a thing, which 
 may make you more cautious for the time to come, in answering 
 questions that shall be put to you. For you must know, that, as 
 a man’s folly often brings him down from the most exalted state 
 of life to the greatest misery, so shall his good sense secure him m 
 the midst of the utmost danger, and procure him a safe and hon^ 
 
FIRST DA K 
 
 55 
 
 Durable repose. There are many instances of people being reduced 
 by their foolishness, which I choose to omit, as they happen daily; 
 but what great cause for comfort a person’s good understanding 
 may at some times afford, I shall make appear, as I promised, in 
 the following short novel. 
 
 Saladin was sq brave and great a man, that he had raised him¬ 
 self from an inconsiderable person to be Sultan of Babylon, and 
 had gained many victories over both the Turkish and Christian 
 princes. This monarch, having in divers wars, and by many extraor¬ 
 dinary expenses, run through all his treasure, some urgent occasion 
 fell out, that he wanted a large sum of money. Not knowing 
 which way he might raise enough to answer his necessities, he at 
 last called to mind a rich Jew of Alexandria, named Melchizedeck, 
 who let out money to interest. Him he believed to have where¬ 
 withal to serve him ; but then he was so covetous, that he would 
 never do it willingly, and he was unwilling to force him. But as 
 necessity has no law, after much thinking which way the matter 
 might best be effected, he at last resolved to use force under some 
 colour of reason. He therefore sent for, and received him in a 
 most gracious manner, and making him sit down, he thus addressed 
 him : “ Honest man, I hear from divers persons that thou art very 
 wise, and knowing in religious matters ; wherefore I would gladly 
 know from thee which religion thou judgest to be the true one, 
 viz. the Jewish, the Mahometan, or the Christian?” The Jew 
 (truly a wise man) found that Saladin had a mind to trap him; 
 and perceiving that he must gain his point should he prefer any 
 one religion, after considering a little how best to avoid the snare, 
 his invention at last supplied him with the following answer. 
 “ The question which your Highness has proposed is very curious; 
 and, that I may give you my sentiments, I must beg leave to tell 
 a short story. 
 
 “ I remember often to have heard of a great and rich man, who, 
 among his most rare and precious jewels, had a ring of exceeding 
 great beauty and value ; and being proud of possessing a thing of 
 such worth, and desirous thi.^ it should continue for ever in his 
 family, he declared, by will, that to which soever of his sons he 
 should give this ring, him he designed for his heir, and that he 
 should be respected as the head of the family. That son to whom 
 the ring was given, made the same law with respect to his 
 descendants, and the ring passed from one to another in a long 
 
t 
 
 % 
 
 9 
 
 
 56 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 succession, till it came to a person who had three eons, all virtuous 
 and dutiful to their father, and all equally beloved by him. And 
 the young men, knowing what depended upon the ring, and am¬ 
 bitious of superiority, began to entreat their father, who was now 
 growing old, every one for himself, that he would give the ring to 
 him. The good man, equally fond of alb was at a loss which to 
 prefer; and as he had promised all, and being willing to satisfy 
 all, privately got an artist to make two others, which were so like 
 the first, that he himself scarcely knew the true one ! and at his 
 death gave one privately to each of his sons. They afterwards all 
 claimed the honour and estate, each disputing them with his 
 brothers, and producing his ring; and the rings were found so 
 much alike, that the true one could not be distinguished. To 
 law then they went, which should succeed, nor is that yet decided. 
 And thus it has happened, my lord, with regard to the three laws 
 given by God the Father, concerning which you proposed your 
 question: every one believes he is the true heir of God, has his 
 law, and obeys his commandments; but which is in the right is 
 uncertain in like manner as of the rings.” 
 
 Saladin perceived that he had escaped the net which was 
 spread for him ; he therefore resolved to discover his necessity to 
 him, to see if he would lend him money, telling him at the same 
 time what he designed to have done, had not his discreet answer 
 prevented him. The Jew freely supplied him with what he 
 wanted, Saladin afterwards paid him with a great deal of honour, 
 made him large presents, besides maintaining him nobly at hii: 
 court, and was his friend as long as he lived. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL IV. 
 
 A monk having committed an o^ence, for which he ought to have beer., 
 severely punished, saves himsdf by wittily proving his abbot guilty of 
 the very same fault. 
 
 If 
 
 HUS ended Philomena, when Dioneus, who sat next to her 
 (without waiting the queen’s order, as knowing that he 
 was to follow in course), spoke as follows : 
 
 I understand you right, ladies, we are assembled here to 
 
 amuse ourselves by telling stories: whilst nothing, then, is done 
 contrary to this intention, I suppose every one has liberty to relate 
 
 V 
 
FIRST DA Y. 
 
 57 
 
 what he thinks will be most entertaining; therefore, having heard 
 how, by the pious admonitions of Jeannot de Chivigni, Abraham 
 the Jew was advised to his soul’s salvation; and also how Mel- 
 ohizedek, by his good sense, saved his wealth from the designs of 
 Saladin; I shall, without fear of reproof, shew, in few words, 
 how cunningly a monk saved his bones from the punishment 
 intended him. 
 
 There was once, in the territories of Lunigiana, a monastery, 
 better stored both with monks and religion than many are now-a- 
 days, to which belonged a young monk, whose constitution neither 
 fasting nor praying could humble. Now it happened one day, early 
 in the morning, whilst his brethren were all asleep, that, taking a 
 w'alk about their church, which stood in a lonesome place, he cast 
 his eye upon a farmer’s daughter, who was gathering herbs, and 
 immediately felt a strong temptation, ill suiting with his pro¬ 
 fession ; and drawing near, he entered into discourse with her, and 
 prevailed upon h^r to go to his cell with him, before anybody was 
 stirring ab^>^d ro see them ; where, whilst they were diverting 
 themsf^ivos together, it happened that the abbot, being just awake, 
 an.fl pass'by the door, thought he heard something of a noise 
 'vVicnvn ; and laying his ear to listen, could distinguish a woman’s 
 voice. At first he was inclined to make him open the door, but he 
 afterwards thought of a different method, and returned to his 
 chamber to wait till he came out. The monk, though he was 
 pleased with his companion, could not help being a little suspicious 
 of a discovery, and imagining that he heard somebody treading at 
 the door, he peeped through a crevice, and saw the abbot standing 
 to listen ; and knowing that he was detected, and should be soundly 
 punished, he became very uneasy. Yet, without showing any 
 thing of it to the girl, he was contriving how to get clear of the 
 affair; and he hit on a stratagem which succeeded to his heart’s 
 desire. Pretending that he could stay no longer—“ I must go,” he 
 cried, “ and will contrive a way to get you off without being seen ; 
 lie still, then, till I return.” He now locked the door after him, 
 and carried the key to the abbot, as is usual when they stir out 
 of the monastery, and putting a good face on the matter, he said 
 —“ Reverend father, I could not get all my wood home this morning, 
 and if you please 1 will go now and fetch the remainder.” The 
 abbot, willing to make a more perfect discovery, took the key, 
 and gave leave. No sooner was the other departed, but he began 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 58 
 
 to consider what he had best do in this case ; whether to open the 
 door in presence of all the monks, that so, the offence being known 
 to all, they could have no room to murmur when he proceeded to 
 punishment; or, whether he should not rather inquire of the 
 damsel herself, how she had been brought thither. Supposing, 
 also, that she might be a person’s daughter whom he would not 
 have disgraced in that public manner, he thought it best to see who 
 she was first, and then come to some resolution. So stepping 
 privately to the chamber, he went in, and locked the door after 
 him. The girl, on seeing him, was in great confusion, and fell a 
 weeping ; whilst our abbot, finding her to be young and handsome, 
 was seized (old as he was) with the same desires as the young 
 monk had been, and began to reason thus with himself : “ Why 
 should I not take a little pleasure when I may have it % for plague 
 and trouble I know enough every day. She is handsome, and 
 nobody can ever know it. If I can persuade her, I see no reason 
 why I should not. Such another offer may never fall in my way, 
 and I hold it best to take it whilst I can have it.” Upon this, his 
 purpose of going thither being quite changed, he went nearer, and 
 began to comfort her, desiring her not to weep ; and making some 
 farther advances, acquainted her, at last, with his intention ; and 
 she, who was made neither of flint nor steel, easily complied. The 
 monk, who, under pretence of going to the wood, had concealed 
 himself in the dormitory; on seeing the abbot go alone to his 
 chamber, promised himself success; but when he saw him lock 
 the door, he thought it past all doubt; and coming from the place 
 where he lay hid, he heard and saw through a grating in the door 
 all that passed between them. The abbot, after he had stayed 
 some time, locked the door again, and returned to his chamber ; 
 and supposing the monk to be now come from the wood, he resolved 
 to reprimand and imprison him, that so the girl might remain 
 solely to himself; and causing him to be sent for, he gave him a 
 severe rebuke, and ordered him to prison. The monk answered, 
 very readily, —“ Good sir, I have not been so long of the Bene¬ 
 dictine order, to be acquainted with all the particularities thereto 
 belonging : your reverence instructed me well in the observance 
 of fasts and vigils ; but you never told me how I was to behave 
 with regard to women. But, as you have so lately set me an ex¬ 
 ample, I promise if you will forgive me, to follow it, and to do 
 hereafter as I have seen you.” The abbot being quick of appre- 
 
 V 
 
FIEST DA Y. 
 
 59 
 
 hension, found the monk knew more than he expected, and being 
 ashamed to punish him for a crime of which himself was known 
 to be guilty, he pardoned him ; and enjoining his silence, they 
 had the girl conveyed privately out of the monastery, wliither she 
 was afterwards often said to return. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL V. 
 
 The Marchioness of Monferrat^ by an entertaAnment of hens, and some 
 witty speeches, cures the King of France of his dishonourable love. 
 
 lONEUS’S story had put all the ladies to the blush, at the 
 very beginning ; and they looked at each other with a sort 
 of smile all the time it lasted ; giving him to know, by a 
 gentle reprimand, that such sort of tales should not be told among 
 women. The queen then pointed to Flamnietta, who sat next, to 
 take her turn, who most cheerfully began in this manner : 
 
 It is no little joy to me, to find the force of smart and witty 
 replies so well set forth in what is already passed among us. And, 
 as it is accounted a mark of good sense in men, to aim at ladies of 
 superior quality to themselves ; so is it no less a token of the 
 greatest discretion in women, to take care never to be surprised in 
 love by men of higher degree. For which reason I shall now re¬ 
 late, how a woman by her wit and address may ward off an attack 
 of that kind, when there is a design upon her honour. 
 
 The Marquis of Monferrat was a person of great valour, and 
 being standard-bearer to the church, was gone in a general crusade 
 of the Christian princes against the Turks. And one day as they 
 were discoursing of his prowess at the court of Philip, surnamed 
 the Short-sighted, who was preparing in France for the like ex¬ 
 pedition, a courtier said, in the presence of the king, that the whole 
 world had not so accomplished a pair as the marquis and his lady; 
 for as much as he excelled other cavaliers in valour, so much was 
 she superior to the rest of her sex in worth and beauty. These 
 words so affected the king, that from that very moment, though 
 he had never seen her, he began to be passionately in love. And 
 he resolved to go by land as far as Genoa, that he might have an 
 honourable pretence for paying her a visit, thinking that, as the 
 marquis was absent, he could not fail of accomplishing his desires. 
 With this design, having sent the greatest part of his company 
 
6o 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 before, he set forward with a small retinue, and being come within 
 a day^s journey of thie place he sent her word, that on the morrow 
 she might expect his company at dinner. The lady very cheerfully 
 replied, that she should esteem it a singular favour, and would 
 make him heartily welcome. 
 
 A long while she could not conceive why so great a prince should 
 come to see her, when her husband was from home ; but supposing at 
 last that the fame of her beauty must have drawn him thither, she 
 resolved nevertheless, as she was of a noble spirit, to shew him due 
 respect: for which purpose she summoned the principal gentry, 
 who were left in the country, to consult them about what was 
 necessary for his reception, reserving the entire management of the 
 feast to herself. And, buying all the hens that were in the country, 
 she ordered the cooks to get nothing else for his majesty’s dinner, 
 but to dress them all the different ways possible. 
 
 Next day the king came, and was received by the lady with great 
 joy, and had all due honour paid him ; and finding her even ex¬ 
 ceed what had been said before in her favour, he v/as greatly as¬ 
 tonished ; he then retired a while into the apartments, which were 
 provided for him, to repose himself ; and when dinner was ready 
 his majesty and the lady sat down at one table, and their attendants 
 at other tables, all placed according to their respective qualities. 
 
 Here the king was served with dishes one after another, and 
 with the most costly wines, feasting his eyes yet more with the 
 sight of the lady, and was extremely pleased with his entertain¬ 
 ment. But observing at last that all the different courses, however 
 tossed up and variously cooked, were nothing but hens, he began 
 to wonder ; and though he knew that the country about was well 
 stored with venison and wild fowl, and he had signified his inten¬ 
 tion time enough for them to have provided both, yet, being un¬ 
 willing, how great soever his surprise might be, to mention any 
 thing but concerning the hens, turning a merry countenance to the 
 lady, he said, “ Madam, are only hens bred in this country, and no 
 cocks V* 
 
 The lady, who well understood the meaning of his question, now 
 thinking that she had a fit opportunity of letting him know her 
 sentiments, boldly answered: “Not so, my Lord; but women, 
 however they may differ in dress and titles, are the same here as in 
 other places.” 
 
 The king hearing this, immediately found out the meaning of 
 
FIRST DAY. 
 
 6i 
 
 the entertainment; as also what virtue lay couched under her 
 answer. And being sensible that words would be spent in vain on 
 such a lady, and force he could not use ; he therefore judged it 
 more becoming his honour to stifle his ill-conceived passion ; and 
 so without more words (as being afraid of the lady’s replies), when 
 dinner was over, that he might shadow his dishonourable coming 
 by a hasty departure, he thanked her for the honour he had received, 
 took his leave, and posted away to Genoa. 
 
 N O V E L VI. 
 
 A plain honest man, hy a jest accidentally let fall, very wittily reproves the 
 
 hypoc7'isy of the clergy. 
 
 MILIA, whose turn came next (the genteel reproof given by 
 the marchioness to the king of France, being approved 
 bj^ the whole assembly), began in this manner :— 
 
 Nor will I conceal a most severe expression made use of by an 
 honest simple man to a most sordid and avaricious monk, which 
 you will both commend and laugh at. 
 
 There was, not long since, in our city, a friar belonging to the 
 Inquisition, who, though he laboured much to appear righteous 
 and zealous for the Christian faith, yet was he a much better in¬ 
 quisitor after such as had full purses, than those who held hetero¬ 
 dox opinions. By which great care of his, he soon found out a 
 person better stored with money than sense. 
 
 This man, not so much out of profaneness as want of thought, 
 and perhaps overheated vrith liquor into the bargain, unluckily 
 said to one of his companions, that he had better wine than Christ 
 himself had ever drunk : which being reported to the inquisitor, 
 and he understanding that the man’s estate was large, and that he 
 was full of money, sent all his myrmidons, had him seized, and com¬ 
 menced a process, not so much with a design of amending him in 
 matters of faith, as to ease him of part of his money, as he soon 
 did. 
 
 The man being brought before him, he inquired whether it was 
 true what had been alleged against him ; and the poor man im¬ 
 mediately answered, that it was, and told him in what manner the 
 words were spoken. To whom the most holy inquisitor (devoted 
 to St. John with the golden beard) replied : “ What! dost thou 
 
62 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 make Christ a drunkard, and curious in the choice of wines, like 
 your common sots and frequenters of taverns 1 and now wouldst 
 excuse it as a small matter 'i And so it may seem to thee ; but I 
 tell thee, should I proceed with the rigour of justice, thou wouldst 
 be burnt alive for it.” With these and such-like words, as if he 
 had to do with a down-right atheist, he so terrified the poor wretch, 
 that he was forced to have recourse to a little of St. John’s golden 
 grease (a most sovereign remedy against the pestilential avarice of 
 the clergy, especially of the lesser friars, who are forbidden the 
 use of money, although it be not mentioned by Galen in his book 
 of medicines), with which he anointed his hands to such purpose, 
 that the fire and faggot, with which he had been threatened, were 
 changed into a cross ; which, being yellow and black, seemed like 
 a banner designed for the Holy Land. The money being paid, he 
 was to stay there for some time, being ordered, by way of penance, to 
 hear mass of the holy cross every morning, to visit him also at 
 dinner-time, and to do nothing the rest of the day but what he 
 commanded ; all which he performed punctually : and one morn¬ 
 ing it happened, that, during mass, the gospel was read, wherein 
 were these words : “ You shall receive a hundred for one, and so 
 possess eternal life which he kept thoroughly in his mind, and 
 being come, at dinner time, the inquisitor asked him, whether he 
 had heard mass that morning. “Yes, sir,” replied the man very 
 readily.—“ Hast thou heard anything therein,” quoth the inquisitor, 
 “ wherein thou art doubtful, or desirous to ask any questions 
 —“ No, surely,” said the honest man, “and believe all that I have 
 heard most steadfastly ; only one thing, I remember, which occa¬ 
 sions great pity in me for you and the rest of your brethren, as to 
 what will become of you in the other world.”—“And what are 
 those words,” replied the other, “ which make you pity us so much V’ 
 —“ 0, good sir,” said the man, “ do you remember the words of 
 the gospel? ‘You shall receive a hundred for one.’”—“Well, what 
 of them?” quoth the inquisitor.—“I will tell you, sir,” continued 
 he : “ Ever since I have been here, have I seen sometimes one, and 
 sometimes two great cauldrons of broth, given out of your great 
 abundance every day to the poor, after you and your brethren 
 have been sufficiently regaled : and now, if for every one of these 
 you are to receive a hundred, you will all of you be drowned in 
 broth !” This set the whole table a laughing, and the inquisitor 
 was quite confounded, knowing it to be a satire upon their great 
 
FIRST DA K 
 
 ^3 
 
 hypocrisy , and were it not that he had been much blamed for his 
 former prosecution, he would have given him more trouble : he 
 ordered him, therefore, in a rage, to go about his business, and to 
 come near him no more. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL VII. 
 
 BergaminOy hy telling a tale of a certain witty person named PrimassOy 
 very handsomely reproves the avarice which had lately appeared in M. 
 Cane della Scala. 
 
 HE pleasantries of Emilia, and her agreeable story made 
 them all laugh heartily, and they commended the con¬ 
 trivance of the cross. After which Philostratus, who was to 
 speak next, began:—It is a commendable thing, most worthy ladies, 
 to hit a fixed mark; but more so, to see a thing suddenly appearing, 
 as suddenly hit by an archer. The scandalous and most wicked lives 
 of the clergy, furnish matter enough for reproach and raillery, to 
 such as are so disposed, without much thinking upon the matter : 
 and therefore, though the honest man did well in touching master 
 inquisitor, by aiming at the hypocritical charity of the friar, who 
 gave that to the poor which they would otherwise either throw 
 away, or give to the hogs ; yet is he more to be commended, of 
 whom (the last story leading me to it) I am going to speak, who 
 reproved M. Cane della Scala, a most magnificent person hereto¬ 
 fore, of a sudden and unusual kind of avarice, which had lately 
 appeared in him, figuring by other persons in a pretty novel, that 
 which he intended to say concerning themselves, and which was 
 as follows : M. Cane della Scala was known all over the world, as 
 well for the wealth with which fortune had blessed him, as for his 
 being one of the greatest and most magnificent lords that had lived 
 in Italy since the days of the Emperor Frederick II. This person 
 had determined to make a most sumptuous feast at Verona, to 
 which people began to flock from all parts, those especially of the 
 best fashion ; when, on a sudden, whatever was the cause, he 
 altered his mind, and making such as came some little amends for 
 their trouble, he sent them away. One person only remained un¬ 
 satisfied, whose name was Bergamino, of incredible wit and parts, 
 who was still in hopes that things would at length turn out to his 
 advantage. But M. Cane della Scala (having been made to under- 
 
64 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 stand, that whatever was given to him was entirely thrown away,}; 
 neither spoke to, nor took the least notice of him. Bergamino 
 waited some days, and perceiving that no account was made of 
 him, and finding his stock grew low with the expense of horses 
 and servants at the inn, he became melancholy, yet resolved to 
 wait longer, as not thinking it right to depart: and having brought 
 three costly suits with him, which had been given him by other 
 lords, for his more splendid appearance at this feast; the landlord 
 beginning to grow importunate, he first pawned one, and staying 
 a little longer, a second ; and he had now begun to live upon the 
 credit of the last, resolving, when that was spent, to go away. In 
 the meantime it happened that he met with M. Cane della Scala 
 at dinner, where he presented himself before him with a sorrowful 
 countenance ; which the other observing, out of mockery rather 
 than to take any delight in what should come from him, he said : 
 “ How farest thou, Bergamino ] Thou seemest melancholy ; what 
 is the reason V’ Bergamino, without any premeditation, yet as if 
 he had thought long upon the matter, made a proper reply in the 
 following storv:— 
 
 O V 
 
 “You must understand, sir, that Primasso was a person well 
 skilled in grammar, as well as a good and ready poet, by which 
 means he became so famous, that though his person was not uni¬ 
 versally known, his fame and character were in every one’s mouth. 
 
 Now it came to pass, that being once at Paris in a poor condition, 
 as his virtue met with no better fortune, being little encouraged 
 by such as were the most able, he heard much talk of the abbot of 
 Cligni, who, next to the pope, was reputed to be the richest prelate 
 of the church : of him it was said, that he always kept a most 
 grand and hospitable court, and all were entertained freely that 
 came thither, provided it was whilst the abbot was at dinner. 
 Primasso hearing this, and being desirous of seeing great and 
 worthy persons, resolved to be a witness of the magnificence of 
 this abbot. He inquired, therefore, how far he dwelt from Paris ? 
 Being answered, about six miles, be supposed that, if he set out 
 early in the morning, he should be able to reach thither by dinner. 
 Accordingly he asked the way ; and having nobody to keep him 
 company, lest he should mistake the road, and so come to a place 
 where no victuals could be had, he took three loaves with him, 
 depending upon finding water enough, for a little served him, 
 wherever he went. The loaves he put in his bosom, and he nicked 
 
FIRST DA Y. 
 
 65 
 
 V. 
 
 
 
 his time so well, that he arrived at the abbot’s exactly at the hour 
 ■ of dining; and entering into the great hall, and beholding the 
 number of tables which were laid forth, and the vast preparations 
 making in the kitchens, and every thing else getting ready for 
 dinner, he said to himself, ‘ This man is truly as generous as he 
 has been always'reported/ Whilst he was considering these things 
 attentively, the steward of the household ordered water to be 
 brought, and they washed their hands, and sat down every o-ne at 
 his respective table. Now it happened that Primasso was placed 
 facing the door where the abbot was to make his entrance. It was 
 the custom in this court that neither wine, bread, nor any manner 
 of food whatever, should be served to any of the tables, till the 
 lord abbot himself was seated : whereupon the steward, having all 
 things in readiness, acquainted his lord, that nothing now was 
 wanting but his presence. The abbot ordered the door to be 
 thrown open ; and, as he was entering the hall, the first person he 
 chanced to cast his eyes upon, was Primasso ; who being a stranger, 
 as to his person, and but meanly apparelled, an ungenerous, as well 
 as an unusual thought came into his mind. ‘ Behold,’ said he to 
 himself, ‘to whom I give my substance to be consumed !’ And 
 turning back, he ordered the door to be shut again, and inquired 
 of the people within, whether they could give any account of that 
 poor fellow, that sat over against the door : they all answered that 
 they could not. Primasso, who had a kind of traveller’s appetite, 
 and had not been used to fast so long, seeing the abbot did not 
 yet come, took one of the loaves out of his bosom, and began to 
 devour it. The abbot, after he had waited a considerable time, 
 sent one of his servants to see whether the fellow was gone ; the 
 servant brought word that he stayed, and was eating bread, which 
 he seemed to have brought with him. ‘ Let him eat of his own,’ 
 replied the abbot, ‘ if he has it, for he shall taste none of mine to¬ 
 day.’ Gladly would the abbot have had him gone away of himself, 
 for he did not think it right to dismiss him. Primasso had now 
 finished one loaf, and finding the abbot did not yet come, he began 
 with the second, which was again reported to his lordship, who had 
 sent to inquire as before. At length the abbot not coming, and 
 Primasso having eaten up his second loaf, now attacked the third. 
 When this news was carried to the abbot, he began to consider 
 with himself in this manner : ‘ What strange fancy has possessed 
 me to-day 1 What means this avarice, this scorn that I now shew i 
 
 5 
 
66 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 And who is it that I thus disdain? For many years have 1 
 entertained all that would come, gentle or simple, poor or rich, and, 
 as it has sometimes happened, the most paltry fellows imaginable; 
 yet never before did I grudge it to any, as I now do to this person: 
 surely avarice should have no influence over me in the case of a 
 poor man. For aught I know, he may be a most extraordinary 
 person, mean as he appears, and how unwilling soever I have 
 hitherto been to shew him respect.’ Having argued thus with 
 himself, he would needs know who he was, and finding him to be 
 Primasso, who was come only to behold his grandeur; and know¬ 
 ing him to be a learned and worthy person, he became quite 
 ashamed, and was desirous of making amends for his behaviour to 
 him, by shewing him all possible respect. And having feasted him 
 as mmch as he cared for, he ordered him to be sumptuously apparelled 
 and putting money into his pocket, he made him a present of a 
 horse, and left him at full liberty either to stay witli him, or to 
 <iepart at pleasure ; wherewith Primasso, being highly satisfied, 
 gave him his most hearty thanks, and returned to Paris on horse¬ 
 back, although he came thither on foot.” M. Cane della Scala, who 
 was a man of good understanding, without any farther explanation, 
 easily understood what Bergamino meant to say, and, smiling upon 
 him, replied : “ Well have you set forth your necessities and virtue, 
 as well as my avarice; and truly I never found myself so over¬ 
 powered with that vice, as now in your case : but I will banish it 
 from me with the same correction that you have taught me.” So 
 he ordered his landlord to be paid his full charges, put Bergamino 
 on a suit of his best clothes, gave him money in his pocket, and a 
 good horse to ride on, and left it to his own choice whether to 
 depart, or stay there with him. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL VIII. 
 
 Gulielmo Borsiere, by a few smart words, checks the miserable covetousness 
 
 of M. Ermino dd Grimaldi. 
 
 AURETTA, who sat next to Philostratus, hearing them 
 commend Bergamino’s wit and perseverance, and knowing 
 that it was now her turn, without waiting for any com¬ 
 mand, commenced in this manner :— 
 
 The last story puts m© in mind how a courtier of wit reproached. 
 
 V 
 
FIRST DAY. 
 
 67 
 
 to good purpose, the covetousness of a certain rich merchant; which, 
 although it may resemble the other, will not be the less agreeable, 
 . as it tended to as good an end. 
 
 There lived, not long since, at Genoa, a gentleman named Signior 
 Ermino de’ Grimaldi, who, as was generally believed, surpassed all 
 the people of Italy in estate and wealth ; and, as no person in Italy 
 could equal him in riches, so neither was there in the whole world 
 one like him for greediness and sordid avarice. For, so far was he 
 from being a friend to others, that he even denied himself common 
 necessaries ; contrary to the custom of the Genoese, who delight 
 to dress and live well. On which occasion he had lost his true 
 name of Grimaldi, and was now known by no other than that of 
 Ermino, Avarice. 
 
 It came to pass, that, whilst by spending nothing, he went on 
 accumulating wealth, there came to Genoa a well-bred and witty 
 gentleman called Gulielmo Borsiere, one nothing like the courtiers 
 of the present day ; who, to the great reproach of the debauched 
 dispositions of such as would now be reputed fine gentlemen, should 
 more properly style themselves asses, brought up amidst the filthi¬ 
 ness and sink of mankind, rather than in courts. And as, in tormer 
 days, they spent their time in making up differences between gentle¬ 
 men, or in bringing about alliances by marriage, affinity, or friend¬ 
 ship ; and would divert themselves, and those about them, with 
 facetious and witty repartees, and at the same time, like kind 
 fathers, reprove and lash such as deserved it, although with little 
 recompence : these upstarts of the present age employ their whole 
 life in speaking ill of, and sowing dissensions among, their neigh¬ 
 bours, reporting scandals and lies, and this in the presence of any 
 one, upbraiding him with injuries, shame, and defamation, true or 
 not true, upon the least occasion ; till by their false and deceitful 
 flatteries, they bring gentlemen at last to every thing that is vile 
 and wicked. And him we see most caressed by his untoward mas¬ 
 ters, who uses the most wicked expressions and commits the vilest 
 actions, to the eternal shame of the present world, and a demonstra¬ 
 tion that virtue is gone from among us, and hath left us wallowing 
 in the sink of debauchery. But to return from whence I have been 
 led by a just resentment farther than I intended : This Gulielmo, 
 whom I before mentioned, was jnuch visited and respected by the 
 better sort of people at Genoa; when having made some stay here, 
 and hearing much talk of Ermino's sordidness, he became desirous of 
 
68 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 seein-g him. Now Ermino had been informed of Gulielmo’s worthy 
 character, and having, however covetous he was, some small sparks 
 of gentility, he received him in a courteous manner, and entering into 
 discourse together, he took him, and some Genoese who came along 
 with him, to see a fine house which he had lately built: and when he 
 had shewed every part of it, he said : “ Pray, sir, can you, who have 
 heard and seen so much, tell me of something that was never yet 
 Been, to have painted in my hall V’ To whom Gulielmo, hearing 
 him speak so simply, replied, “ Sir, I can tell you of nothing which 
 has never yet been seen, that I know of; unless it be sneezing, or 
 some thing of that sort; but if you please, I can tell you of a thing 
 which, I believe, you never saw.’’ Said Ermino (little expecting 
 such an answer as he received), “ I beg you would let me know 
 what that is.” Gulielmo immediately replied, “ Paint Liberality.” 
 When Ermino heard this, such a sudden shame seized him, as quite 
 changed his temper from what it had hithertt) been, and he said, 
 “ Sir, I will have her painted in such a manner, that neither you, 
 nor any one else, shall be able to say, hereafter, that I am unac¬ 
 quainted with her.” And from that time, such effect had Gulielmo’s 
 words upon him, he became the most liberal and courteous gentle¬ 
 man, and was the most respected, both by strangers and his own 
 citizens, of any in Genoa. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL IX. 
 
 The King of Cyprus was so much affected by the icords of a gentlewoman 
 of Gascoyne, that from being a vicious prince he became very virtuous. 
 
 I * queen s last command rested on Eliza, who, without wait- 
 
 _ing for it, began in this manner :— 
 
 It often happens that much pains have been taken, and 
 many reproofs spent, in vain upon a person when sometimes a word 
 thrown in by chance, and without any such design, has done the 
 business , which appears plainly from the novel recited by Lauretta j 
 and I purpose, also, in a very short story, to demonstrate the same! 
 A good thing said may often be of service, and ought to be regarded,, 
 whoever the person is that reports it. 
 
 During the reign of the first King of Cyprus, after the conquest 
 of the Holy Land, by Godfrey of Boulogne, it happened that a gentle¬ 
 woman of Gascogne went on a pilgrimage to visit the holy sepul¬ 
 chre, and, on her return home, being arrived at Cyprus, she was ill. 
 
Flj^sr DA V, 
 
 69 
 
 treated by a parcel of villains, and making her complaint without 
 receiving any redress, she resolved at length to go to the king ; but 
 she was told, that she would only lose her labour, for he was so care¬ 
 less in every respect, and so little of a man, that, far from avenging 
 the injuries done to others, he suffered an infinite number of the 
 most shameful affronts offered to himself; insomuch that whoever 
 were offended at him might vent their resentment at any time in 
 the most opprobrious language. Which, when she had heard, 
 entirely despairing of redress, she yet proposed some comfort to her¬ 
 self in her calamity, to upbraid him for his meanness of spirit; and 
 coming all in tears before him, she said, “ My lord, I appear in your 
 presence not expecting to be revenged for the injuries I have sus¬ 
 tained : but this small satisfaction I entreat, that you would tell 
 me how you can bear those which I hear are committed towards 
 yourself, that I may from thence be instructed patiently to bear my 
 own ; which, God knows, were it in my power, I would willingly 
 consign to you, since you endure them so well.” The king, who till 
 that hour had been dull and inactive, as if he had been roused from 
 a long sleep, began with avenging that lady’s wrongs in the strictest 
 manner, and from that time forward was most zealous in the punish¬ 
 ment of every one who dared to do any thing contrary to the honour 
 of his crown. 
 
 -o- 
 
 N O V E L X. 
 
 Master Albert of Bologna puts a lady to the blush, who thought to have 
 done as much to him, because she perceived him to be amorously inclined 
 towards her. 
 
 FTER Eliza had finished, the last charge remained to the 
 queen ; wdio, in the most becoming manner, began as 
 follows:— 
 
 Most virtuous ladies, as the stars when the sky is clear are the 
 ornament of heaven, and as flowers in the spring are the beauty ( f 
 meadows j in like sort is an easy manner of speaking, and a face¬ 
 tious and pleasant discourse, set off and embellished by choice and 
 elegant expressions, which by being short, are better suited to 
 women than men, insomuch as many words, when fewer would 
 serve the purpose, are most disagreeable in the former. For there 
 are few women now who understand any thing that is smart and 
 witty when they hear it; or, if they do understand, scarcely know 
 hov/ to make a reply; which is much to the disgrace of our sex 
 
70 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 For that virtue which adorned the minds of women in former times, 
 is passed in our days into the ornaments of the body; and she 
 whose habit is most gaudy, and set off with embroideries and fan¬ 
 tastic ornaments, is most esteemed ; not considering that, were you 
 to load an ass with that finery, it would be able to carry more than 
 any one of them ; and, therefore, in that particular, they deserve 
 not so much respect as the ass. I am ashamed to mention these 
 things, because, whilst I censure other women, I am taxing myself. 
 Such showy painted things, what are they else but statues, dull and 
 insensible ; or if they answer a question, they had better have been 
 silent. Truly, they would have you think, that their not knowing 
 how to converse with men of sense proceeds from their simplicity, 
 and purity of mind, and therefore they call their own foolishness by 
 the name of modesty; as if there were no other honest woman but 
 she who converses with her chambermaid, laundress, or kitchen- 
 woman ; and as if nature designed them no other kind of conversa¬ 
 tion. Most sure it is, that in this, as well as in other things, you are to 
 consider when, where, and with whom, you speak; for sometimes 
 it happens, that a man or woman, intending by some jest or other 
 to put a person to the blush, without having compared their strength 
 of wit with that of the other person, may find it recoil upon them¬ 
 selves. Therefore, that we may be always upon our guard, and not 
 verify the proverb which is in every one’s mouth, that women always 
 choose the worst, I desire that this day’s last novel, which is to come 
 from myself, may make us all wise, to the end that as we are dis¬ 
 tinguished from others by birth and quality, we may not be behind 
 them in discreetness of behaviour. 
 
 It is not long since a famous physician was living at Bologna 
 (and perhaps may be so still), of extraordinary note in his profes¬ 
 sion, called Master Albert, one of so sprightly a disposition, though 
 he was seventy years old, that notwithstanding his natural heat and 
 vigour had quite forsaken him, yet disdained he not to receive the 
 sparks of love. For having seen, at an entertainment, a most beauti¬ 
 ful lady, a widow, called, as some say. Madam Malgherida de’ Ghi- 
 solieri, he was no less smitten than if he had been a younger per¬ 
 son : nor could he rest at nights, unless he had seen the fair by day. 
 This made him pass backwards and forwards, sometimes on foot, 
 and sometimes on horseback, so often by the door, that she, and 
 some other ladies of her acquaintance, could not help taking notice 
 of it; and would often make themselves merry to see a person o' 
 
FIRST DA K 
 
 7 i 
 
 his years and learning so ridiculously amorous ; supposing love to 
 be a passion peculiar to young people. Master Albert continuing 
 his marches to and fro by the house, it happened on a festival, that 
 this lady was sitting at the door with some of her friends, and seeing 
 him come at a distance, they all agreed to receive him handsomely, 
 and afterwards to rally him on the affair of his love. Therefore, 
 they rose up and invited him into a pleasant room, where he was 
 entertained wuth rich wine and sweetmeats ; and at length they 
 began to enquire of him, as modestly as possible, how he could ever 
 think of being in love with so fine a lady, seeing how much she had 
 been solicited by many brisk, gay young gentlemen. Master Albert, 
 perceiving that they had drawn him in among them, only to make 
 a jest of him, put a merry countenance on the matter, and replied : 
 “ Madam, it should seem no strange thing to any considerate person, 
 that I am in love, especially with you, because you so well deserve it. 
 And though the power be taken away by age, yet is the will re¬ 
 maining, as also the judgment to distinguish those who are most 
 worthy our affection ; and this in a greater degree, as age has more 
 knowledge than youth. The hope that prompted me, who am old, 
 to love you, who are courted by so many younger persons, is this ; 
 I have often, at an afternoon’s collation, observed ladies eating 
 lupines and leeks, and though in the leek there be no goodness at 
 all, yet is the head the least hurtful, as well as the most agreeable 
 to the taste : but you, guided by a wrong appetite, will generally 
 hold the head between your fingers, and eat the stalk, which is not 
 only good for nothing, but has also a bad relish. Suppose, there¬ 
 fore, you choose a lover in the same manner ; I shall be the happy 
 person, and the rest of your lovers all discarded.*’ 
 
 The lady was in some confusion, as well as her companions ; and 
 she said to him, “ Sir, you have given us a very just and reasonable 
 reprimand : I shall always value your respect, as being a learned 
 and worthy person ; and you may ever, as far as is consistent with 
 my honour, command me.” Master Albert arose, gave the ladies 
 thanks, took his leave very merrily, and departed. Thus she, n-evei 
 considering whom she jested with, met with her match ; of which, 
 if you are wise, you will hereafter be careful. 
 
 The sun was now descending in the west, and the heat of the 
 day much abated, when the novels were all ended; upon which 
 the queen pleasantly said, “Nothing more remains to be done 
 during my administration for the present day but to give you a 
 new queen to-morrow, who must take her turn, according to the 
 
72 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 best of her judgment, in ordering every thing that may be neces¬ 
 sary for the continuance of our mirth. And though the day ought 
 to continue till it is night, yet, unless you take time a little before¬ 
 hand, you cannot so well provide for what is to come ; and, that 
 there may be time enough to prepare whatever the queen shall 
 think proper for the next day, I think the following days ought to 
 begin at this hour. In regard then to Him by whom all things live, 
 and for our own well-doing, I appoint Philomena to be queen the 
 second day.” And when she had thus spoken, she arose from her 
 seat, and having taken the crown from her own head, she rever¬ 
 ently placed it on Philomena’s, humbly saluting her first herself, 
 and afterwards the rest of the company did the same, submitting 
 themselves cheerfully to her government.—Philomena saw herself 
 crowned with a gentle blush ; and calling to mind what Pampinea 
 had just now said, that she might not seem remiss in her duty, she 
 confirmed all the oflacers which Pampinea had appointed; then 
 she ordered the morrow’s provision, as also the supper, so near 
 approaching (they being to continue there), and afterwards spoke 
 in this manner:— 
 
 “ My dear friends, although Pampinea, more through her own 
 courtesy than any merit of mine, has made me your queen, yet am 
 I not disposed to follow my own judgment as to our manner of 
 living, but rather to join my opinion with yours ; and, therefore, 
 that you may know what I intend to do, and so alter it at your 
 pleasure, I shall declare it in few words. If I have well considered 
 the method that has been taken to-day, it seems agreeable enough, 
 and till we either grow weary, or find it inconvenient, I resolve not 
 to change it. Holding on, then, as we have begun, we will rise 
 and divert ourselves awhile by walking, and when the sun is down 
 we will sup in the open air, and after we have had some songs and 
 other diversions, it will be time to go to bed : to-morrow morning, 
 whilst it is cool and pleasant, we will rise and take a walk where 
 we like best, and return, as we have done to-day, about dinner¬ 
 time, and dance ; and, after reposing ourselves as before, come here 
 again to continue our novels, which to m^e seems full as entertain¬ 
 ing as it may be useful. There are some things, indeed, which 
 Pampinea could not accomplish, by reason of her late promotion, 
 which I propose to perfect; namely, to keep you within the bounds 
 of some particular subject, to which your novels are all to relate, 
 and which is to be given you beforehand, that you may have time 
 
FIRST DA Y. 
 
 73 
 
 to think of some pretty story to the purpose ; which, if you please, 
 shall be this :—As from the beginning of the world, people have 
 been all along conducted by fortune through the various chances 
 of life, and will be so to the end of it, you are all of you to relate 
 a case where a perso-n, after going through a variety of troubles, 
 beyond all hope and expectation, at last meets with success.” They 
 all approved the order that was given, and determined to obey it; 
 Dioneus only excepted, who, after the rest were silent, said *. 
 “ Madam, I approve your order, as the rest have done, and think 
 it both pleasant and commendable ; but one special favour I beg 
 may be granted me, whilst this company continues together, 
 namely, not to let me be constrained by the law you have made, 
 to relate a story according to the given theme, unless I please, but 
 that I may choose something I like better. And that you may not 
 think that I request this as if I were unfurnished with discourses 
 of this kind, I am content to be the last in every day’s exercise.” 
 The queen, knowing him to be a merry companion, and well con¬ 
 sidering that he would not have moved this request, but with a 
 design to make the company laugh, when they were weary of any 
 particular subject, agreed to what he desired, with the consent of 
 them all. They now arose, and went to a crystal stream, which 
 fell from a little hill into a vale shaded with trees, where, washing 
 both their hands and their feet, much mirth passed among them, 
 till supper drawing near, made them return to the palace. When 
 that was over, the queen ordered the musical instruments to be 
 brought, and that Lauretta should begin a dance, Emilia singing 
 to her, and Dioneus playing upon the lute ; with which Lauretta 
 immediately complied, and Emilia sung the followiug song in a 
 very fascinating manner. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 With my own charms so blest am I, 
 
 Each other passion I defy ; 
 
 For ever as I gaze, and find 
 
 That good which still contents the mind ; 
 
 Nor former flame, nor future love. 
 
 The dear enjoyment can remove. 
 
 II. 
 
 Nor does the good I thus possess 
 Become by long admiring less : 
 
74 
 
 THE DECAMEROn. 
 
 No—greater far’s the joy I feel, 
 
 Than heart can think, or tongue reveal; _ , 
 
 - • 'r- -'How great it is, they only know, ' ' . 
 
 :!;r: > Who long .have sweetly languish’d'So. • - 
 
 ' '■ ' ■' ‘ III- ’ \'V, 
 
 ■ / 'And I (the more I fix my eyes, ' ' ^ 
 
 ‘ And feel the pleasing passion rise) ■ •' ' ■ ' 
 
 .f., I ! Each.thought direct, and wish confine, : 
 
 • _ ,, ^ To make the promis’d blessing mine, 
 
 '/ And hope ere long a greater joy : 
 
 .* ‘ . Where is the nymph so blest as I ? 
 
 The song being ended, in which they all joined, though the 
 words occasioned some speculation; and after a-few other little 
 sonnets, a good part* of the night,being now spent, the queen 
 thought proper to put an end to the first day; lights being conse¬ 
 quently called for, she ordered every one to their respective 
 chambers, t<) rep(;ae themselves till the next mornin.« 
 
MM 
 
3 
 
 THE SECOND DAY. 
 
 LREADY had the sun ushered in the new day, the birds 
 upon the blooming branches attesting it with their merry 
 songs, when the ladies and gentlemen arose, and went 
 into the garden ; where they spent some time in walking, and 
 weaving chaplets of flowers; and, as they had done the day 
 before, after taking a repast in the open air, and dancing, they 
 reposed themselves till the clock struck nine ; at which time they 
 took their places, as the queen had appointed, in the same pleasant 
 meadow around her. She being of a most graceful person, and 
 having on her a crown of laurel, looked round in a most cheer¬ 
 ful manner on the whole assembly, and then signified to Neiphile 
 that she should begin; who, without offering any excuse, spoke 
 as follows:— 
 
 NOVEL I. 
 
 Martellino, feigning himself to he a cripple, pretends to he cured hy being 
 laid upon the body of Saint Arrigo ; but his roguery being discovered, he 
 gets soundly beaten, and is afterwards apprehended, arid in danger oj 
 being hanged, but at last escapes. 
 
 T often happens, that he who endeavours to ridicule other 
 people, especially in things of a serious nature, becomes 
 himself a jest, and frequently to his great cost; as you will 
 perceive by what, in obedience to the queen’s command, I am now 
 going to relate: an affair, which had a very unlucky beginningj 
 and which, beyond all expectation, ended happily enough to one 
 of our city. 
 
 There lived, not long since, at Triers, a German, called Arrigo, 
 who was a poor man, and served as a pcrter, when any one pleased 
 to employ him ; yet was he reputed a person of a good life; on 
 which account (whether true or false I know not) it was affirmed 
 by the people of Triers, that, at the very instant of his death, the 
 beUs of the great church rang of their own accord, which was 
 accounted a miracle, and all declared that this Arrigo was a saint, 
 and they flocked to the house where the corpse lay, and carried it 
 
76 
 
 THE DEL AMERON. 
 
 as a sanctified body to the great church ; bringing thither the halt, 
 lame, and blind, expecting that, by the touch of it, they would all 
 recover. In so great a concourse of people, it happened, that three 
 of our own city arrived there, one of whom was named Stecchi, 
 another Martellino, and the third Marchese; persons that fre¬ 
 quented the courts of princes, to divert them as buffoons and 
 mimicks. None of these having ever been there before, and seeing 
 the great crowd of people running from all parts of the city, they 
 were much surprised at it; and hearing the cause, were very de¬ 
 sirous of seeing the corpse. They left their baggage, therefore, at 
 the inn, and Marchese said, “We will see this saint; but I do not 
 know how we shall contrive to get near enough, for the street is 
 full of soldiers and persons in arms, whom the governor has 
 stationed there, to prevent any tumult in the city: and besides, 
 the church is so thronged with people, that it will be impossible to 
 get in.” 
 
 Martellino, who was eager to be a spectator, replied, “ I will find 
 a way, notwithstanding, to get close to the very body.”—“ How,” 
 said Marchese,“is that possible—“Til tell you,”answered Mar¬ 
 tellino : “ I intend to counterfeit a cripple, whilst thou shalt sup¬ 
 port me on one side, and Stecchi on the other, as if I were unable 
 to walk by myself, bringing me towards the saint to be cured; and 
 you will see every body make way for us to go on.” They were 
 much pleased with the contrivance, and went accordingly into a 
 private place : when Martellino distorted his hands, fingers, arms, 
 legs, mouth, eyes, and his whole countenance besides, in such a 
 manner, that it was frightful to behold him ; and nobody that saw 
 him, but would have imagined that he was really so lame and de¬ 
 formed. Being carried in that guise by Marchese and Stecchi, 
 they directed their way to the church, crying out in a most piteous 
 manner all the way, to make room for God’s sake ! to which the 
 people condescended. In a little time they attracted the eyes of 
 every one, and the general cry was, “ Room, room !” till at length 
 they came where the body of St. Arrigo lay ; when Martellino was 
 taken from them by some persons that stood around, and laid all 
 along upon the body, to the end he might, by that means, receive 
 the benefit of a cure. All the people’s eyes were now upon him, 
 expecting the event; when he, who was master of his business, 
 first began to stretch his fingers, then his hands, afterwards his 
 arms, and at last his whole body; which, when the people saw. 
 
SECOND DA Y. 
 
 77 
 
 they set up such shouts in praise of St. Arrigo, that a clap of thun¬ 
 der would hardly have been distinguished. Now it happened that 
 a Florentine was not far off, that knew Martellino very well (not 
 whilst his body was distorted, but after his pretended cure), who 
 fell a laughing, and cried, “ Good God ! who would not have taken 
 him to have been really a cripple T Which some of the by-standers 
 hearing, they immediately said, “And was he not sol”—“No,” 
 answered the other, “ as God is my judge, he was always as straight 
 as any person here ; but he has the art, as you have now seen, of 
 turning his body into what shape he pleases.” There needed 
 nothing further to set them all on fire; they therefore pressed most 
 violently on, crying out to seize the villain, that blasphemer of 
 God and his saints, who being in no wise disordered comes here 
 to make a jest of our saint and us. Whereupon they dragged him 
 by the hair of the head, and threw him upon the ground, kicking 
 him and tearing the clothes off his back ; nor was there a person 
 there that did not endeavour to give him a blow; whilst Mar¬ 
 tellino kept crying out for God’s sake to have mercy; but all to no 
 purpose : for the blows thickened faster upon him. Marchese and 
 Stecchi now began to be in some pain for themselves, and not 
 daring to help him, they cried out with the multitude, “ Kill him! 
 kill him !” contriving all the time how to get him out of their 
 hands : nevertheless he had certainly been murdered, but for the 
 following expedient. Marchese, knowing that the officers of jus¬ 
 tice were at the door, ran to the lieutenant that commanded, cry¬ 
 ing out, “Sir, help me, for God’s sake; here’s a fellow that has 
 picked my pocket of a hundred florins ; I beg you will assist me 
 in getting them back again.” And immediately twelve of the Ser¬ 
 jeants ran where Martellino was in the utmost jeopardy, and with 
 the greatest difficulty got him away, all trodden under foot and 
 bruised as he was; and carried him to the palace, followed .by 
 many of the people, who had been incensed against him ; and who 
 now hearing that he was taken up for a cut-purse, and seeing no 
 other way of revenging themselves, declared that they had also 
 been robbed by him. On hearing these complaints, the judge, who 
 was an ill-tempered man, took him aside and examined him ; whilst 
 Martellino answered him in a jesting manner, making no account 
 of their accusations. At which the judge being provoked, ordered 
 him to be tied by the neck, and soundly lashed, that he might make 
 him confess the crimes he was charged with, in order to hang him 
 
78 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 afterwards. He being therefore bound down to the ground, the 
 judge asking him if those things with which he was accused 
 were true ; and telling him that it would be in vain to deny them; 
 he then made answer and said, “ Mj’- lord, I am ready to confess 
 the truth; but please to order first all my accusers to say when 
 and where I robbed them, and I will then tell you truly what I am 
 guilty of, and what not.” The judge readily consented, and having 
 summoned some of them before him, one said he had picked his 
 pocket eight days ago ; another four days, and some made answer 
 that he had robbed them that same day. Martellino replied, “ My 
 lord, they are liars; for I had not been here many hours (and would 
 to God I had never come at all!) before I went to view this saint, 
 where I got abused as you now see. That this is true, the officer 
 who keeps your book of presentations, as also my landlord, will 
 testify for me : therefore I beg you would not torture and put me 
 to death, at the instances of these people.” When Marchese and 
 Stecchi heard what passed before the judge, and that their friend 
 was severely handled, they began to be in great fear about him, 
 saying to themselves, that they had taken him out of the frying- 
 pan, to throw him into the fire : and tfiey ran from place to place, 
 to find out their landlord, whom they acquainted with what had 
 happened : he, laughing heartily at their story, carried them to 
 one Alexander Agolanti, a person of great interest in the city, to 
 whom they related the whole afiair, entreating him to have pity 
 on poor Martellino. Alexander, after much laughter, went to the 
 governor of the town, and prevailed upon him to have Martellino 
 brought into his presence. The messenger that went for him, found 
 him standing before the judge in his shirt, all terrified, because he 
 would hear nothing in his favour (having an aversion perhaps to 
 our country people), and being probably resolved to hang him at 
 all events: and he refused, till he was compelled, to deliver him 
 up. Martellino being brought before the governor, told him every 
 thing that happened ; and entreated him, as a special favour, that 
 he would let him go, saying, that till he came to Florence, he should 
 always think he had the rope about his neck. The governor was 
 highly diverted with the relation ; and ordering every one a suit 
 of apparel, beyond all their hopes they escaped from the most 
 imminent danger, and got safe and sound home. 
 
SECOND DA y. 
 
 1^) 
 
 NOVEL II. 
 
 Rinaldo dHA sti having been robbed-, comes to Castel Gulielmo, where hr ia 
 entertained by a widow lady, makes good his loss, and returns safe home. 
 
 HE ladies all laughed immoderately at Martellino’s adven¬ 
 ture, as did the gentlemen likewise, but more especially 
 Philostratus, who, as he sat next to Neiphile, was ordered 
 by the queen to begin his novel; and he immediately complied as 
 follows:— 
 
 I am going to relate a story, consisting partly of misfortune, and 
 partly of love, which may be of use to such as walk in love’s un¬ 
 certain paths ; in which it happens to those who have not said the 
 Pater Noster of St. Julian, that they often get a bad night’s rest, 
 though they lie in a good bed. 
 
 In the time of Azzo, marquis of Ferrara, a certain merchant, 
 named Einaldo d’Asti, came to Bologna to transact some affairs of 
 his own ; which being done, and he on his return home, it chanced, 
 as he came out of Ferrara, and was riding towards Verona, that he 
 fell in with some persons, who seemed to-^be merchants also, but 
 were in reality highwaymen, and unguardedly joined them. They, 
 finding him to be a merchant, and supposing therefore that he must 
 have money about him, resolved as soon as an opportunity offered, 
 to rob him; and, that he should have no suspicion, they rode on dis¬ 
 coursing with him like persons of reputation and character, shewing 
 themselves extremely complaisant and courteous, insomuch, that he 
 thought himself happy in meeting with such good company, as he 
 was alone, and had only one servant. Talking of various tilings, they 
 began at last to speak of prayers, and one of the rogues, there being 
 three in number, turned towards Einaldo, and said, “ And pray, sir, 
 what sort of prayer do you use when you are upon a journey — 
 “ In good truth,” answered Einaldo, “ I know little of those matters, 
 and am master of very few prayers ; but I live in an old-fashioned 
 way, and? can tell that twelve pence make a shilling ; nevertheless, 
 I always use, when I am upon a journey, before I go out of my inn, 
 to say one Pater Noster and one Ave Maria for the souls of the 
 father and mother of St. Julian, and after that I pray to God and 
 St. Julian to send me a good lodging at night: and let me tell you, 
 sir, very often have I met with great dangers upon the road, from 
 all which I still escaped, and when night drew on I always came to 
 
8o 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 a good lodging; which favour I firmly believe Saint Julian, to 
 whose honour I speak it, hath obtained of God for me; nor do I 
 think I should ever travel securely, or succeed in my lodging at 
 night, were I to forget this prayer:” 
 
 “ Then,” said the other, “ to be sure you offered up that prayer 
 this morning V’ 
 
 “ Most certainly I did,” answered Rinaldo. Said the rogue to 
 himself, having determined how to handle him, “ Thou wilt have 
 need enough of it; for, if I mistake not, thy lodging is like to be 
 none of the bestand afterwards he added, “ I have travelled 
 much myself, yet did I never say that prayer, though I have heard 
 it often commended, and I have always fared well, and now this 
 night shall you see which of us will get the better lodging ; I must 
 own, however, that instead of it I have used the dirupisti, or the 
 intemerata, or the de profundis, which, as my grandmother was wont 
 to tell me, are of singular virtue.” 
 
 Thus they travelled along, discoursing upon many subjects, and 
 waiting for a fit time and place to put their wicked purpose in exe¬ 
 cution ; when at length it happened, that the time, growing late, 
 and the place private, being at the ford of a river near Castel 
 Gulielmo, they made their assault, and robbed and stripped him to 
 the shirt; and leaving him there on foot they said to him, “ Go, see 
 if thy St. Julian will provide as good a lodging for thee to-night, 
 as we shall have so, passing the river, away they went. The ser¬ 
 vant, like a rascal as he was, seeing his master attacked, rode away 
 without offering the least assistance, and never stepped till he came 
 to Castel Gulielmo ; where, it being late when he got in, without 
 giving himself any farther trouble, he took up his lodging. Rinaldo 
 remained there in his shirt, without shoes or stockings; the weather 
 extremely cold, and snowing incessantly ; not knowing what to do, 
 the dark night coming on apace, and he all over in a tremble, with 
 his teeth chattering for cold, now began to look round for shelter 
 where he might continue that night, for fear of being starved to 
 death; but seeing none (the whole country being laid waste by the 
 late war,) and being forced away by the cold, he trudged on towards 
 Castel Gulielmo, not knowing whether his servant was gone thither 
 or elsewhere, but supposing, if he got admittance, that he should 
 meet with relief. But before he came within a mile of the town, it 
 grew quite dark; and it was so late when he got thither, that finding 
 the gates locked, and the bridge d^^-wn up he could obtain no 
 
SECOND DAY, 
 
 8} 
 
 entrance. Grieving much at this, and now quite discouraged, he 
 looked about to see if he could find a cover from the snow: when 
 by chance he spied a house hanging a little way over the walls of 
 the castle ; under which he proposed to stand all night, and then to 
 depart; there he found a door in the wall, but fast locked; and 
 gathering some straw together which was lying about, he sat down 
 thereon, all pensive and sad, and making loud complaints to St. 
 Julian; telling him, this was not according to the confidence he had 
 always reposed in him. But St. Julian, who had a regard for him, 
 soon provided a better lodging. There was a widow lady in that 
 castle, of great beauty, whom the Marquis Azzo loved as his life, 
 and kept in that house under which Binaldo had taken shelter. 
 That very day the marquis was to come to stay all night with her; 
 she having secretly provided a bath for him, and a most elegant 
 supper. Every thing being now ready, and only the marquis’s 
 company wanting, an express arrived with dispatches, which re¬ 
 quired him to take horse instantly : he therefore sent to the lady to 
 excuse him, and posted away ; at which she was much concerned, 
 and not knowing how to pass her time, resolved to go herself into 
 the bath which she had provided for the marquis, and then to sap 
 and go to bed. Now it happened, that the bath was near to the 
 door where poor Binaldo was sitting; so that she being therein, 
 heard all his complaints and shiverings : whereupon she called her 
 maid, and ordered her to look over the wall at the door threshold, 
 and inquire who that person was there, and what he wanted. She 
 went, and by the clearness of the sky could just discern Binaldo 
 sitting in the manner before described ; and having demanded of 
 him who he was, he made answer as well as he could, trembling 
 all the while so much that she could scarcely understand him, tell¬ 
 ing her how he came thither, and entreating her not to let him 
 perish with cold. The girl was moved to compassion, and return¬ 
 ing to her mistress, related the whole story, who had pity on him 
 likewise ; and recollecting that she had the key of the door, which 
 served for the private admission of the marquis sometimes, she 
 said, “ Go and open the door gently: we have victuals enough, 
 and nobody to sit down, and we may also spare him a lodging.’^ 
 The maid commended her great charity, and having opened the 
 door and found him almost frozen to death, she said, “ Make haste, 
 good man, and get thee into this bath, which yet is warm with 
 ivhich he immediately complied, without waiting for any farthej 
 
 6 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 tk^ 
 
 invitation : and he found himself so much refreshed by the warmth 
 of it, that he seemed restored from death to life. Then the lady 
 sent him some clothes, which had been her husband’s, and which 
 fitted him as well in all respects, as if they had been made for him. 
 Expecting her further commands, he began to thank God and St. 
 Julian, who had delivered him from the prospect of a most terrible 
 night, and brought him at last where he was like to meet with good 
 entertainment. The lady, having now reposed herself a little, or¬ 
 dered a great fire to be made in the hall, and coming thither, she 
 inquired concerning the honest man, what sort of a person he was 1 
 To whom the maid replied, “ Madam, now he is clothed, he seems 
 to be a good handsome man, and well behaved.”—“ Go then,” said 
 she, “ and call him, and bid him come to the fire, and he may also 
 sup with me, for I fear he has had but a sorry supper.” When 
 Rinaldo came into the hall, and saw the lady, who appeared to 
 him to be a woman of conseqiience, he made her the most profound 
 reverence, shewing all possible acknowledgments for the favours 
 he had received. And the lady, finding him to answer the cha¬ 
 racter she had received of him from her maid, made him sit down 
 freely by the fireside with her ; and inquired concerning the mis¬ 
 fortunes which had brought him thither, of which he gave her a 
 faithful account, and obtained her easy credit, she having heard 
 something of the servant’s coming thither before: she then told 
 him what she knew of the matter, and Jiow the fellow was to be 
 met with in the morning. Supper being now served up, they 
 washed their hands, and sat down together. He was tall in per¬ 
 son, and agreeable enough both in countenance and behaviour, 
 and a middle-aged man : she often, therefore, cast her eye upon 
 him, and finding him to suit her fancy, as soon as supper was 
 ended, advised with her maid whether she might not fairly (since the 
 marquis had put such a slight upon her) make use of the opportunity 
 which fortune had thrown in her way. The girl, who knew how 
 to please her mistress, readily concurred. The lady now returned 
 to the fire, where she had left Rinaldo by himself, and looking 
 pleasantly at him, she said, “Why so thoughtful, sir? does the 
 loss of your horse and a few clothes affect you so much ? Comfort 
 yourself ; you are in my house , and I can tell you farther, that, 
 seeing you in my husband’s clothes, i could not help thinking’ 
 several times to-night, that he himself was present, and I was going 
 more than once to have saluted you.” Rinaldo was too great a 
 
SECOND DA y 
 
 83 
 
 connoisseur in love-matters not to take her meaning. The affair, 
 therefore, was soon agreed, and to bed they went, and, in the morn¬ 
 ing, to prevent the least suspicion, she gave him some old clothes, 
 and filled his pocket with money, begging of him to keep it secret; 
 and having directed him where to find his servant, she let him out 
 at the same door he came in at. He therefore, as soon as it waa 
 broad day, entered into the castle as if he had come a great way 
 off, where he found the fellow, and soon clothed himself out of his 
 portmanteau ; and as he was going to mount his man’s horse, by 
 great fortune, it happened that the three rogues, who had robbed 
 him the day before, were taken up on some other account, and 
 brought into the castle : when by their own confession, he got his 
 horse, clothes, and money, returned to him, and lost nothing but 
 a pair of garters, which they knew not what was become of. Hinaldo 
 now thanked God and St. Julian, and, mounting his horse, arrived 
 safe at his own house, and the verynextday the three villains were 
 exhibited in public, dancing on nothing. 
 
 NOVEL III. 
 
 *r)ire& young gentlemen lavish away their fortunesy and a nephew of theirs 
 returning home in as desperate a conditioriy falls in company with an 
 Abbot, whom he afterwards found to be the King of England's daughter, 
 who marries him, and maJces good his uncles losses, resettling them in 
 their former prosperity. 
 
 LL admired the adventures of Rinaldo d’Asti, and commended 
 his devotion, giving thanks to God and St. Julian who had 
 succoured him in his great necessity. Nor was the lady 
 blamed (though they did not care to speak out) for making use of 
 the opportunity that offered : whilst they were laughing at these 
 things, Pampinea, finding that she was to speak next, after a little 
 considering what she was to say, and receiving the queen s com¬ 
 mand, began at last in this manner :— 
 
 The more we speak of the acts of fortune, so much the more, to 
 such as consider them attentively, there remains to be spoken : 
 which none need wonder at, who consider that all things, which 
 we foolishly call our own, are in her power ; and that she blindly 
 wills them from one to another incessantly, and without any rule 
 or method that can be discovered by us. Which, though it bo 
 shewed every day in every thing, and has also been enlarged upon 
 
 6—9 
 
THE DECAMERON, 
 
 84 
 
 in some former novels, nevertheless, as the queen is pleased that 
 this should be our present subject, I shall add a story to what has 
 been said already, which I think you will not dislike. 
 
 There dwelt, formerly, in our city, a knight named Tebaldo, who, 
 as some report, was of the family of the Lamberti; though others 
 say he belonged to the Agolanti: but be that as it will, he was the 
 most wealthy knight of all that lived in his time, and had three 
 sons ; the eldest was called Lamberto, the second Tebaldo, and the 
 third Agolante, all courteous and genteel young persons ; though 
 the eldest was not above eighteen when their father died, leaving 
 them in possession of his vast wealth; who, finding themselves so 
 rich, and having nobody to control them, began to spend apace, 
 by keeping vast numbers of servants, and fine horses, and dogs, 
 and hawks, with open house for all comers, making continual tilts 
 and tournaments, and sparing no diversions that belong to gentle¬ 
 men ; indulging themselves besides in every youthful lust and 
 passion. They had not led this life long, before their riches began 
 to waste, and their rents not being sufficient to defray their current 
 expenses, they mortgaged and sold first one estate, and then another; 
 so that they saw themselves coming to nothing, and then poverty 
 opened their eyes, which had been hitherto kept shut. One day, 
 therefore, Lamberto called his two brothers together, and set forth 
 to them the great repute in which their father had lived, and the 
 wealth he had left them, and how much they were now impover¬ 
 ished, through their inordinate expenses; advising them, in the 
 best manner he was able, that, before matters grew worse, they 
 should sell the little that was left, and retire from that quarter. 
 His advice was followed ; and, without taking any leave, or making, 
 the least stir, they left Florence, and went directly for England. 
 Coming to London, they took a little house, and lived as frugally 
 as possible, letting out money at interest. And fortune was so 
 kind to them, that in a few years they got a great deal of money; 
 by which means, it happened, that first one and then another re¬ 
 turned to Florence, where they recovered back a great part of their 
 estates, and purchased others to them, and got married ; and keep¬ 
 ing on their banking trade still in England, they sent a nephew 
 thither, whose name was Alessandro, to manage their business. 
 The three brothers, therefore, continued at Florence; and, for¬ 
 getting to what misery they had been reduced by their former ex¬ 
 travagance, and notwithstanding they all had families, began to 
 
SECOND DA Y. 
 
 s*i 
 
 spend immoderately, having large credit from the merchants. Theii 
 expenses were supported for some years by returns from Alessandro, 
 who had let out money to the barons upon their castles, and other 
 estates, which turned to good account. Whilst the three brothers 
 continued spending in this manner, and borrowing whenever they 
 stood in need, liaving their whole dependance upon returns from 
 England, contrary to every one’s expectation, a war broke out there 
 between the king and his son, which divided the whole kingdom, 
 some taking part with one, and some with the other; on w'hich 
 account, the barons’ castles, which were in Alessandro’s possession, 
 were seized on, and nothing now was left him that turned to any 
 profit: but living in hopes of peace every day, and then that he 
 should have both principal and interest, Alessandro still continued 
 in the kingdom, whilst the three brethren at Florence abated 
 nothing of their extravagance, but continued borrowing more daily. 
 And no money coming for some years, as was expected, they lost 
 all their credit, and people being desirous of getting what was their 
 due, their effects were seized, which not being found sufficient, they 
 were thrown into prison for the remainder, and their wives and 
 children dispersed up and down the country, in a most distressed 
 condition, with no prospect but of misery for the rest of their lives. 
 Alessandro, after v/aiting some years, and finding no likelihood of 
 peace in England, but that he continued there to no purpose, and 
 in danger of his life, resolved for Italy ; and he set out by himself; 
 and as he was going out of Bruges, he overtook a young abbot, 
 clothed in white, attended with a great equipage: two ancient 
 knights followed, related to the king. These Alessandro joined; 
 and having made himself known to them, was well received. 
 
 Travelling together, he modestly inquired who those monks were 
 that rode before, with such a retinue, and whither they were going 1 
 When one of the knights made answer, and said, “ He that rides 
 first is a young gentleman, a relation of ours, who is lately made 
 abbot of one of the richest abbeys in England ; and, because he is 
 younger than is required by the law for such a dignity, we are 
 going to Kome to entreat our holy father to dispense with his want 
 of years : but this is to be a secret.” The new abbot riding some¬ 
 times before his company, and sometimes behind (as is usual with 
 persons on the road), got sight at last of Alessandro, who was a 
 graceful, well-behaved young gentleman, and was so taken with 
 him at the very first view, that he never saw any one he liked better: 
 
86 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 and having called him aside, he inquired who he was, whence he 
 came, and whither he was going. Alessandro answered him very 
 ingenuously, and, at the same time, made him an offer of his little 
 service. The abbot was much pleased with his modest and pretty 
 manner both of speaking and behaviour; finding, though his busi¬ 
 ness was mean, that he was a gentleman. And being full of com¬ 
 passion for his losses, he began to comfort him in a friendly manner, 
 bidding him to be of good courage, for if he were a worthy man, 
 God might exalt him to a higher pitch than that from which for¬ 
 tune had cast him down ; and desired him, as he was going towards 
 Tuscany, to make one in his company, because he was likewise 
 travelling thither. Alessandro returned thanks for the encourage¬ 
 ment he had given him, and said, he was entirely at his service. 
 The abbot riding on (having got some new fancies in his head, 
 since the sight of Alessandro) chanced, after some days’ travelling, 
 to come to a country village, which afforded but bad accommoda¬ 
 tions ; and, because the abbot had a mind to lie there, Alessandro 
 made him alight at the house of a person with whom he was ac¬ 
 quainted, and provided him a bed in the least incommodious part 
 of the house. And being now become steward of the household, 
 as it were, to the abbot, he disposed of the company in different 
 parts of the town, in the most convenient manner he was able. 
 And after the abbot had supped, it being now midnight, and every 
 one gone to rest, Alessandro then inquired of the landlord where 
 he was to lie. Who made answer, “ In good truth, sir, you see my 
 house is quite full, so that I and my family must be forced to sleep 
 on benches; yet there are some granaries in the abbot’s chamber : 
 I can carry a pallet-bed for you thither, and you may rest as well 
 as you can.”—“ But, landlord,” quoth Alessandro, “ how can I be 
 in the abbot’s chamber, it being so small that there is no room for 
 any of his monks 1 If I had thought of it before the curtains were 
 drawn, the monks should have lain in the granaries, and I would 
 have gone where the monks are.” Said the host, “ The case is this; 
 you may lie there, if you please, as well as any where in the world : 
 the abbot is asleep, and his curtains drawn ; I can convey a little 
 bed thither softly, and you may rest very comfortably.” Alessandro, 
 finding that it might be done without disturbing the abbot, con¬ 
 sented, and accommodated himself there with as little noise as 
 possible. 
 
 The abbot, whom his love kept awake, heard what passed 
 
SECOND DA Y. 
 
 87 
 
 between Alessandro and his landlord ; and finding that Alessandro 
 was there, he began to reason with himself in this manner; “ I 
 have now a fit opportunity to compass my desires; if I let this 
 pass, the like may never offer again.” Resolving therefore to make 
 use of it, and supposing that all was quiet in the house, he called, 
 with a low voice, “ Alessandro !” and bade him come and lie down 
 by him : who, after many excuses, undressed himself, and went to 
 his bed. The abbot now laid his hand upon the other’s breast, as 
 n lover would do; which Alessandro was much surprised at, and 
 began to fear that he had some bad design ; which, as soon as the 
 abbot perceived, he could not help smiling; and having laid his 
 bosom bare, he took Alessandro’s hand and put it upon it, saying, 
 “ Be not afraid ; convince yourself of what I am.” Alessandro laid 
 his hand there, and found two breasts smooth and delicate like 
 polished ivory, which convinced him that it was a woman : and he 
 was going to have been more familiar ; when she interrupted him, 
 saying, “ Before you come nearer to me, observe what I am going 
 to say : I am a woman, and not a man, as you see, and was now 
 travelling to the pope, for him to dispose of me in marriage : but 
 whether it be your good fortune or my unhappiness, since I first 
 saw you, the other day, I could not forbear loving you, and I assure 
 you, no woman ever loved a man better than I do you : I therefore 
 am determined to marry you in preference to any other person ; 
 and if you will not accept of me, go from whence you came.” 
 Though she was unknown to Alessandro, yet, when he considered 
 the company that was with her, he supposed she must be a lady 
 ot distinction, and her person he saw was beautiful; therefore, 
 without much consideration, he declared, that if she was willing, 
 he should be highly pleased. She then rose up in bed, and turning 
 towards a crucifix that stood upon the table, gave a ring into his 
 hand, and made him espouse her. The next morning they pro¬ 
 ceeded on theii journey to Rome ; and in a day or two she, with 
 the two knights and Alessandro, were introduced to his holiness, 
 and, after the proper ceremony was over, she addressed herself to 
 him in this manner : “ Holy father, you know better than anybody 
 that they who desire to live honestly and well should avoid, as 
 much as in them lies, all occasions which may lead them to act 
 otherwise. For which reason have I come away, with a great part 
 of the treasure of my father, who is King of England, and was 
 about to marry me, young as I am, to the King of Scotland, who 
 
88 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 is very old, to beg that your holiness would dispose of me in mar* 
 riage. Nor was it the age of the King of Scotland that made me 
 fly, so much as the fear of doing, through my frailty, was 1 married 
 to him, what should be contrary both to the laws of God, and to 
 the honour of our royal house. As I was coming with this inten¬ 
 tion, I accidentally beheld this young gentleman, whose merit and 
 behaviour make him worthy of the greatest princess, although his 
 family be less noble. Him have I chosen, nor will I think of any 
 other, however it may seem to my father or any one else. The 
 principal inducement then to this journey is removed : but I chose 
 to proceed, that I might visit the holy places with which this city 
 abounds, and also your holiness, to the end that the contract of 
 marriage, made only in the presence of God, may be declared in 
 yours, and so made public to the world : wherefore I humbly 
 entreat your blessing, to make us more capable of pleasing Him, 
 whose vicar you are, that we may live together to the honour of 
 God and of you, and at length die so.” Alessandro was greatly 
 surprised, and overjoyed when he heard his wife was the King of 
 England’s daughter ; but the knights were enraged beyond measure, 
 and, had it not been in the pope’s presence, they had certainly 
 offered violence to Alessandro, and perhaps to the princess like¬ 
 wise. On the other hand, the pope was in amaze, both at her dress 
 and the choice she had made ; but seeing what was done could not 
 be remedied, he was willing to satisfy her request; and having 
 comforted the two knights, whom he saw in confusion, and recon¬ 
 ciled them to the lady and Alessandro, gave orders for what he 
 would have done. And when the day appointed was come, he 
 made the lady appear most royally dressed before all the cardinals, 
 and other great personages, who had been invited to a most mag¬ 
 nificent feast, where she appeared so beautiful and courteous, that 
 every one was charmed with her : in like manner was Alessandro 
 richly apparelled; in his aspect and behaviour being more like a 
 prince than a person brought up to trade, and was much honoured 
 by the two knights. The pope saw the marriage celebrated with 
 all imaginable grandeur ; and, after receiving his benediction, they 
 took their leave. Alessandro and his lady were desirous, when 
 they left Eome, of seeing Florence, where fame had already carried 
 the news of their marriage ; and they were received with the 
 utmost respect. She immediately took the three brothers out of 
 prison, paying all their debts, and settled them and their wives 
 
SECOND DA y. 
 
 89 
 
 their former estates. This gained them the good-will of every one; 
 and departing thence, they took Agolante with them, and came to 
 Paris, where the king received them in a most honourable manner. 
 Frora thence the two knights went to England, where they pre¬ 
 vailed so far with the king, that he forgave his daughter, and 
 received them with all possible demonstrations of joy, making his 
 son-in-law a knight, and creating him Earl of Cornwall. Alessan¬ 
 dro's behaviour and conduct were such, that he accommodated 
 matters between father and son, which was of great service to the 
 kingdom, and gained the love and esteem of every one. Agolante 
 recovered all that was due to him, and returned to Florence im¬ 
 mensely rich, being first knighted by Count Alessandro, who lived 
 happily with his princess; and it is reported that, through his 
 prudence and valour, and the assistance of his father-in-law, he 
 made a conquest of Scotland, and was crowned king thereof. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL IV. 
 
 Landolpho Buffalo, falling into poverty, became a pirate, and was taken by 
 the Genoese, and suffered shipwreck ; but saved himself upon a cask of 
 jewels, and was taken out of the sea by a woman at Corfu, and after¬ 
 wards returned home very rich. 
 
 AURETTA sat next to Pampinea, and finding her tale now 
 brought to a fair conclusion, began thus :— 
 
 Most kind ladies, there is no greater act of fortune, in 
 my opinion, than to see one of low condition arrive at princely 
 dignity, as Pampinea has just now showed us in the case of Ales¬ 
 sandro. And though it be necessary that whoever discourses on 
 the subject proposed, should keep within the very same terms, yet 
 shall I not scruple to relate a story, which notwithstanding it 
 contained greater hardships than the former, had not so glorious 
 an end. I am sensible that, in this respect, I shall be the less 
 regarded ; but, as I am able to give you no better, I hope you will 
 excuse me. 
 
 It is generally said, that the sea coast from Reggio to Gaeta is 
 the pleasantest part of Italy; that part of it near Salerno, which 
 the inhabitants caU the Coast of Malfi, is full of little towns, gar¬ 
 dens, rivulets, as also rich people expert at merchandise; amongst the 
 rest there is a town called Ravello, in which were many wealthy 
 persons, and one especially, called Landolpho Ruffolo, who, not 
 
90 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 content vith his great store, but willing to make it double, was 
 near losing all he had, and himself also. This man, having settled 
 his affairs, as other merchants are used to do, bought a large ship, 
 and freighting it all on his own account, set sail for the island of 
 Cyprus. He there found many ships laden with the same commo 
 dities, in regard to which it was necessary for him not only to make 
 a quick mart of his goods, but he was also farther constrained, if he 
 meant to dispose of them at all, to sell them for a trifle, to his great 
 loss and almost ruin : grieving much thereat, nor knowing what to 
 do, seeing that from great wealth he was reduced almost to poverty, 
 he resolved either to die, or to repair his losses from other people, 
 before he would return home poor, as he came from thence so rich. 
 Meeting with a merchant, who bought his great ship of him, with 
 the money made of that and his other merchandize, he purchased 
 a light little vessel fit for a pirate, arming and furnishing it with 
 every thing proper for that purpose, intending to make other 
 people’s goods his own, and especially those of the Turks. And 
 fortune was abundantly more favourable to him in this way of life, 
 than she had been in merchandize ; for, in the space of a year, he 
 took so many Turkish prizes, that he found he had not only got his 
 own again, but made it more than double. Being now comforted 
 for his former loss, and thinking he had enough, and for fear of a 
 second disaster, he resolved to make the best of his way home with 
 what he had acquired : and as he was still fearful of trade, he had 
 no mind to employ any more of his money that way, but set sail in 
 the little vessel in which he had gained it. He was no sooner in 
 the Archipelago, but night drew on, and a sirocco or great south¬ 
 east wind arose, directly contrary to their intended course, which 
 made such a sea, that the ship could not bear up against it, and 
 they were glad to get into a bay under the cover of a little island, 
 to wait for better weather. Landolpho had just entered the har¬ 
 bour when two Genoese ships came in from Constantinople to avoid 
 the same storm : and as soon as the men in them saw the small 
 bark, they blocked her up in the passage, and understanding whom 
 she belonged to, and that the owner was known to be rich; as men 
 addicted to plunder and rapine, they resolved to make it their own 
 prize; landing some of their men, therefore, well armed with cross¬ 
 bows and other weapons, they possessed themselves of a station, to 
 prevent any of the crew’s issuing out of the bark, unless they ran 
 the hazard of their lives, whilst the rest got into the loiig boat, and 
 
SECOND DA y. 
 
 9* 
 
 the sea being favourable, they soon boarded Landolpho’s vessel, 
 and took all his people, and every thing in it, without the loss of a 
 man, leaving him nothing but a waistcoat; and after they had 
 cleared the vessel, they sunk her. The day following, the wind 
 being changed, they set sail, and had a good voyage all that day; 
 but night coming on, the wind became boisterous again, and the 
 storm was such that the two ships were parted, whilst that wherein 
 poor Landolpho was, drove with the utmost violence upon the 
 coast of Cephalonia, and broke all to pieces. The poor wretches 
 that were on board (the sea being covered with all sorts of mer¬ 
 chandize, and with chests, tables, <fec., as is common in such cases), 
 notwithstanding it was dark, and the waves very great, endeavoured, 
 such as were able to swim, to lay hold of such things as they saw 
 floating. Amongst these was the unfortunate Landolpho, who, 
 though he had wished for death a thousand times the day before, 
 rather than to be carried home a beggar; now he saw death at 
 hand, was sufficiently terrified, and got hold of a plank, like the 
 rest, in hopes that, by delaying his fate, God would send him some 
 means for his escape: and riding upon it as well as he could, being 
 driven by the wind backwards and forwards, he supported himself 
 till it was day-light, and then looking round him he could see 
 nothing but clouds and water, and a chest driving towards him, 
 which came so near him sometimes, that he was afraid it would 
 dash against him ; when he would endeavour, with the little 
 strength he had left, to put it by with his hand ; at length it hap¬ 
 pened that a great blast of wind sent it with such violence against 
 the board whereon he was sitting, that it was overset, and he soused 
 over head and ears in the water ; but rising again, and swimming 
 more out of fear than any strength, he found himself at such a dis¬ 
 tance, that he was afraid he could not recover it; getting therefore 
 to the chest, which was nearer, he laid his breast upon it as well 
 as he could, and put his arms round it, and in this manner was he 
 carried up and down, eating nothing, because he had it not, and 
 drinking more than he desired, without knowing where he was, or 
 seeing anything but water for a day and a night. The next morn¬ 
 ing (whether it was through God, or the force of the winds) 
 Landolpho, who was well nigh become a sponge, holding his 
 arms strongly about the chest, as we often see people seize upon 
 any thing to avoid being drowned, drew near to the island of 
 Corfu, where, by good fortune, a poor woman vid& scouring her 
 
92 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 dishes with salt water and sand, who, when she saw him approach, 
 and not perceiving him to be of any shape or figure, cried out and 
 retreated : as he was unable to speak, neither could he see much; 
 but, as the waves pleased, he was carried to the land, and then she 
 could distinguish the shape of the chest; and looking more nar¬ 
 rowly, she saw an arm laid over it, and then a face, when she sup¬ 
 posed how the case was; and being moved by compassion, stepped 
 a little way into the sea, which was now calm, and taking hold ot 
 the hair of his head, drew both him and the chest to land, and with 
 much trouble unfolded his arms from the chest, which she set 
 upon her daughter’s head who was with her ; and she carried him 
 like a little child to the town, and put him into a stove, and chafed 
 and washed him with warm water, by which means the vital warmth 
 began to return, and he got some strength. In due time she took 
 him out of the stove, and comforted him with wine and good cor¬ 
 dials, and kept him some days till he knew where he was; she then 
 restored him his chest, and told him he might now provide for his 
 departure. He, who remembered nothing about it, received it 
 from the hands of the woman, as supposing it might serve for his 
 expences a small time, how little soever it was worth ; and finding 
 it very light, was something disheartened; however, as she was 
 out of the way, he broke it open, and found a great quantity of 
 jewels, both such as were set, and others, of which he had some 
 judgment, and knowing their value, he was now thoroughly com¬ 
 forted, praising God for not having yet forsaken him; but as he had 
 been twice buffeted by fortune already, and being fearful of a third 
 mishap, he judged that great caution was requisite to bring these 
 things safe home; he wrapped them up, therefore, in old rags, as 
 well as he could, and told the w^oman that he had no further use 
 for the chest, but that she might keep it if she would give him a 
 sack in its stead, which she was very glad to do : and now return¬ 
 ing her a thousand thanks, he departed with his sack upon his 
 neck, and passed over in a bark to Brandizio, and so from one sea 
 to another, till he came to Trani, where he met with merchants of 
 his own town, who clothed him out of charity, after he had told 
 them all that had happened to him, excepting that of the chest o^ 
 jewels ; they also gave him a horse, and sent company with him to 
 Ravello, whither he said he was resolved to return; and finding 
 himself there in safety, he thanked God for it: and now he inquired 
 more narrowly into his sack than he had done before, and found so 
 
SECOND DAY, 
 
 93 
 
 many valuable jewels, that, rating them at the lowest p?iees, he 
 was twice as rich as when he left home. Finding means therefore 
 to dispose of them, he sent a sum of money to the woman at Corfu, 
 who had taken him out of the sea, and treated him so kindly; and 
 also to the merchants at Trani for clothing him; and he lived 
 handsomely upon the remainder (without having any more mind 
 to trade) the rest of his life. 
 
 NOVEL V. 
 
 Andreuccio, of Perugia, coming to Naples to huy horses, met with three 
 remaricable accidents in one night; from all which he escapes, and returns 
 with a ruhy of value. 
 
 pHE jewels found by Landolpho put me in mind, said Flam- 
 metta, whose turn it was now to speak, of a story which 
 contains as many perils as the last, although it be different 
 in this respect; viz. that the first happened in the course of some 
 years, whereas these fell out in the space of one night, as you shall 
 hear. There lived, as I have heard, at Perugia, a young man named 
 Andreuccio di Pietro, a dealer in horses, who, hearing of a good 
 market at Naples, put five hundred florins of gold into his purse ; 
 and, having never been from home before, went with some other 
 dealers, and arrived thither on a Sunday in the evening: and, 
 according to the instruction he had received from his landlord, he 
 went into the market next morning, where he saw many horses to 
 his mind ; cheapening their price as he went up and down, without 
 coming to any bargain. But to shew people that he came with an 
 intent to buy, he unadvisedly pulled out his purse on all occasions ; 
 insomuch, that a certain Sicilian damsel (who was at every one’s 
 service for a small matter) got a sight of it, as she was passing along, 
 without being observed by him : and she said to herself, “ Who is 
 there that would be my betters, if that purse were minef’ and passed 
 on. Along with her was an old woman, of Sicily likewise, who, 
 as soon as she saw Andreuccio, ran to embrace him; which the 
 young woman observing, without saying a word, stepped aside to 
 wait for her. He immediately knew her, to her great joy, and 
 without much discourse there, she having promised to come to his 
 inn, he went on about his business, but bought nothing all that 
 morning. The young woman taking notice first of the purse, and 
 then of the old woman’s knowledge of him, and contriving how to 
 
94 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 come at all or part of the money, began to enquire of her, as cau* 
 tiously as might be, if she knew who that man was, or whence he 
 came, or what was his business, and also how she happened to 
 know him : which she answered in every particular as fully as he 
 himself could have done, having lived a long time with his father 
 in Sicily, and afterwards at Perugia; telling her also the cause of 
 his coming thither, and when he was to return. Thinking herself 
 now sufficiently instructed, both concerning his kindred, and their 
 names, she grounded her scheme upon it in the most artful manner 
 possible ; and going home, she sent the old woman out upon busi¬ 
 ness for the whole day, to hinder her returning to him ; and in the 
 mean time, toward the evening, she dispatched a young woman, 
 v/ell-trained for such services, to his lodgings, who found him, by 
 chance, sitting alone at the door, and inquiring of him whether he 
 knew such a person, he made answer, that he was the man : upon 
 which she took him a little aside, and said, “ Sir, a gentlewoman 
 of this city would gladly speak with you, if you please.” On 
 hearing this, he began to consider the matter; and, as she seemed 
 to be a creditable girl, he held it for granted that the lady must be 
 in love with him ; thinking himself as handsome a man as any in 
 Naples : he answered, therefore, that he was ready, and demanded, 
 where and when the lady would speak with him. The girl replied, 
 “ She expects you at her own house as soon as it is agreeable to 
 you.” 
 
 Without saying a word then to the people of the inn, he bade 
 her shew him the way ; and she brought him to her house, in a 
 certain street famous for such sort of guests: but he, knowing 
 nothing of the matter, nor at all suspecting, but that he was visiting 
 a place of repute, and a lady that had taken a fancy to him, went 
 into the house, and going up stairs (whilst the girl called aloud to 
 her mistress, telling her that Andreuccio was there), found her at 
 the top waiting for him. She was young and beautiful enough, 
 and very well dressed. Seeing him appear, therefore, she ran down 
 two or three steps with open arms to meet him ; and taking him 
 about the neck, she stood some time without speaking a word, as 
 if prevented by her over-great tenderness ; at last, shedding abun¬ 
 dance of tears, and kissing him over and over, she said (her words 
 being interrupted as it were with transport), “ O my Andreuccio ! 
 you are heartily welcome.” He (quite astonished at being caressed 
 in such a manner) replied, Madam, I am proud of the honour to 
 
SECOND DA Y. 
 
 95 
 
 wait upon you.” She then took him by the hand, and led him, 
 without saying a word more, through a large dining-room into her 
 own chamber, which was perfumed with roses, orange-flowers, and 
 other costly odours, where was also a fine bed, and other rich fur¬ 
 niture, far beyond what he had ever seen before, which convinced 
 him that she was some great lady : and sitting down together upon 
 a couch at the bed^s feet she addressed herself to him in this 
 manner : “ Andreuccio, I am very sure you must be under great 
 astonishment both at my tears and embraces, as being unacquainted 
 with me, and perhaps never having heard of me before : but you 
 will now hear what will surprise you more, namely, that I am your 
 sister : and I assure you, that since God has indulged me with the 
 sight of one of my brethren, as I wished to have seen them all, I 
 could die contented this very moment; if you be unacquainted 
 with the particulars of my story, I will relate them. Pietro, my 
 father and yours, as I suppose you must know, lived a long time 
 at Palermo, where he was much respected for his behaviour and 
 good-nature (and may be so still) by all that knew him. Amongst 
 others that liked him on that account was my mother, a widow 
 lady ; who, notwithstanding the regard due to her father and bro¬ 
 thers, as well as to her own honour, cohabited with him, till at 
 length I was born, and am now what you see. Having occasion 
 afterwards to retire from Palermo, and to return to Perugia, he left 
 me there an infant, with my mother, and from that time, as far as 
 I can learn, took no more notice either of me or her; which, were 
 he not my father, I could blame him for; considering what in¬ 
 gratitude he shewed to my mother, to omit the love he owed to me 
 his child, begotten of no vile prostitute, who, out of her abundant 
 love, had put herself and all her wealth into his hands, without 
 having any farther knowledge of him. But to what purpose 1 Ill 
 actions, done so long since, are easier blamed than amended : yet 
 so it was; he left me, as I said, at Palermo, an infant, where, when I 
 grew up, my mother, who was rich, married me to one of the family of 
 the Gergenti; who, out of regard to me and her, came and lived at 
 Palermo, where, falling into the faction of the Guelphs, and having 
 begun to treat with our King Charles, he was discovered by Frede¬ 
 rick, king of Arragon, before his scheme could take effect, and 
 forced to fly from Sicily, at a time when I expected to have been 
 the greatest lady in the island. Taking away what few effects we 
 were able (T c.all them few, with regard to the abundance we wero 
 
96 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 possessed of), and leaving our estates and palaces behind us, we 
 came at length to this place, where we found King Charles so grate¬ 
 ful, that he has made up to us, in part, the losses we had sustained 
 on his account, giving us lands and houses, and paying my husband, 
 and your kinsman, a pension besides, as you will hereafter see: 
 thus live I here, where, thanks ba to Heaven, and not to you, my 
 dearest brother, I now see you.’* Which when she had said, she 
 wept and embraced him again. 
 
 Andreuccio hearing this fable so orderly, so artfully composed, 
 and related without the least faltering or hesitation ; remembering, 
 also, that his father had lived at Palermo, and knowing, by his own 
 experience, how prone young fellows are to love; beholding too 
 her tears and affectionate caresses, he took all she had said for 
 granted ; and when she had done speaking, he made answer and 
 said, “ Madam, it should not seem strange to you that I am sur¬ 
 prised : for, in truth (whether it was that my father, for reasons 
 best known to himself, never mentioned you nor your mother at 
 any time ; or, if he did, that I have forgot it), I have no more 
 knowledge of you, than if you had never been born. And it is the 
 more pleasing to me to find a sister here, as I the less expected it, 
 and am also alone : nor is there any man, of what quality soever 
 who would not value you ; much more, therefore, shall I, who am 
 but a mean trader. But one thing I beg you would clear up to me, 
 viz.. How came you to know that I was here i” When she replied 
 in this manner : 
 
 “ A poor woman, whom I often employ, told me so; for she 
 lived, as she informed me, with our father a considerable time, both 
 at Palermo and Perugia ; and were it not that it appeared more 
 reputable that you should come to me at my house, than I go to 
 you at another person’s, I had come directly to you.” She then 
 inquired of him particularly, and by name, how all their relations 
 did 1 To all which he answered her fully; believing more firmly, 
 when there was the more reason for suspicion. Their discourse 
 lasting a long time, and the season being sultry, she ordered, in 
 Greek, wine and sweetmeats for him; and he making an offer 
 afterwards to depart, because it was supper-time, she would by no 
 means suffer it; but seeming to be under great concern, she em¬ 
 braced him, and said, “ Alas ! now I plainly see how little account 
 you make of me ; that, being with a sister whom you never saw 
 before, and in her bouse, which you should always make your 
 
SECOND DA Y. 
 
 97 
 
 home, you should yet think of going to sup at an inn. Indeed 
 you shall sup with me ; and though my husband be abroad, which 
 I am much concerned at, I know, as a woman, how to pay you 
 some little respect.” He, not knowing what answer to make, 
 said, “ I love you as much as it is possible for me to love a sister ; 
 but it will be wrong not to go, because they will expect me to 
 supper all the evening.” She immediately replied, “We have 
 a present remedy for that, I will send one of my people to tell 
 them not to expect you : but you would favour me mors, and do 
 as you ought, if you would send to invite your company hither to 
 supper, and afterwards, if you chose to go, you might all of you 
 depart together.” He said, he should not trouble her that evening 
 with his companions, but she might dispose of him as she pleased. 
 She now made a pretence of sending to his inn, to tell them not to 
 expect him to supper; and after much other discourse, they sat 
 down, and were elegantly served with a variety of dishes, which 
 she contrived to last till it was dark night, and rising then from 
 table, he offered to go away; but she declared, that she would by 
 no means suffer it, for Naples was not a place to walk in when it 
 was dark, especially for a stranger : and as she had sent to the inn 
 concerning his supping with her, so had she done the like about his 
 bed. He believing this to be true, and glad also of being with her, 
 was easily prevailed upon. After supper, their discourse lasted a 
 long time, being lengthened out on purpose ; and as it was now 
 midnight, she left him in her own chamber to take his repose, with 
 a boy to wait upon him; and she, with her companions, retired 
 into another room. It was sultry hot, on which account Andreuccio, 
 seeing himself alone, stripped into his doublet, and pulling off his 
 breeches, he laid them under his bolster, and having occasion to 
 retire, he asked the boy to shew him a conveniency; who pointed 
 to a corner of the room where there was a door and desired him to 
 enter it. He went in without the least suspicion, and setting his 
 foot upon a board, which not being nailed at the other end to the 
 rafter on which it was laid, straight flew up, and down they went 
 together. 
 
 Heaven was so merciful to him, however, he got no harm, though 
 it was a great height, but was grievously daubed with the filth, of 
 which the place was full. Now, that you may better understand 
 this, and what followed also, I shall describe the place to you. In 
 a straight alley (as you see often between two houses), on some 
 
 7 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 98 
 
 tracings reaching from one to the other, were some boards laid, 
 and a place to sit upon, and it was one of these boards that fell 
 down with him. Finding himself now at the bottom, he called in 
 great distress to the boy; but he, the moment he heard him fall, 
 ran to tell his mistress, who hastened to his chamber, to see if his 
 clothes were there, and finding both them and the money, which 
 he, out of a foolish mistrust, always carried about him (and for the 
 sake of which she had laid this snare, pretending to have been of 
 Palermo, and the sister of this Perugian), she took no farther care, 
 but made the door fast, out of which he passed, when he fell 
 Finding the boy made no answer, he called out louder, but to no 
 purpose ; and now perceiving the trick, when it was too late, he 
 climbed up the wall which parted that place from the street, and 
 getting down from thence, he came again to the door, which he 
 knew full well; there did he knock and call in vain for a long 
 time; lamenting much, and seeing plainly his calamity; “Alas! 
 (quoth he) in how little a time have I lost five hundred florins, and 
 a sister besides!” 
 
 And using many other words, he now began to batter the door, 
 and to call out aloud; and he continued doing so till he roused 
 many of the neighbours, and, among the rest, one of the women 
 where he had been, pretending to be half asleep, opened the case¬ 
 ment, and called out, “ Who makes that noise there V ’— 
 
 “ Oh 1” cried he, “ don’t you know me, I am Andreuccio, brother 
 to Madam Fiordaliso ;” when she replied, “ Prithee, honest fellow, 
 if thou hast had too much liquor, get thee to bed, and come to¬ 
 morrow. I know nothing of Andreuccio, nor what thy idle tale 
 means; but go about thy business (I say once again) and let us 
 rest.”—“ What! (said he,) don’t you know what I say ? You know 
 well enough, if you will: but if our Sicilian relationship be so soon 
 forgotten, give me my clothes which I left with you, and T’ll go 
 with all my heart.” She then replied, with a sneer, “ The man is 
 in a dream ;” and shut the window at the same time. 
 
 Andreuccio, convinced of his loss, through his great griet became 
 outrageous ; and, resolving to recover by force what he could not 
 by fair words, took a great stone, and beat against the door harder 
 than ever ; which many of the neighbours hearing who had been 
 awaked before, and supposing that he was some spiteful fellow, 
 that did this to annoy the woman, and provoked at the noise which 
 he made ; they called out, one and all (in like manner as dogs all 
 
SECOND DAY. 
 
 99 
 
 join ill barking at a stranger), “ It is a shameful thing to come to 
 a woman’s house at this time of night, with thy idle stories : get 
 the iaway, in God’s name, and let us sleep ; and if thou hast any 
 business with her, come to-morrow, and do not disturb us now.” 
 Encouraged, perhaps, by these last words, a bully in the house, 
 whom he had neither seen nor heard of, came to the window, and 
 with a most rough and terrible voice called out, “ Who is that be¬ 
 low Andreuccio, raising up his head at this, beheld an ill looking 
 rascal with a great black beard, yawning and rubbing his eyes, as 
 if he was just risen from bed, was awaked out of his sleep. He 
 made answer, therefore, not without a good deal of fear, “ I am 
 brother to the lady withinbut the other (never waiting to let 
 him make an end of his speech) replied, “ I’ll come down and beat 
 thee, until thou canst not stand, for a troublesome drunken beast 
 as thou art, disturbing every body’s rest in this mannerand he 
 clapt to the window. 
 
 Hereupon some of the neighbours, who knew more of the fellow’s 
 disposition and character, called out softly to Andreuccio, and said, 
 “ For Heaven’s sake, honest man, go away, unless thou hast a mind 
 to lose thy life ; it will be much the best for thee.” Terrified there¬ 
 fore with his voice and aspect, and persuaded also by these people, 
 who seemed to speak out of mere good will, Andreuccio, quite cast 
 down, and out of all hopes of receiving his money, now directed 
 his course towards that part of the city, from whence he had been 
 led by the girl the day before (without knowing whither he was 
 going) in order to get to his inn. But being offensive to himself, 
 on account of the scent he carried about him, and desirous of wash¬ 
 ing in the sea, he turned to the left, through a street called Cata- 
 lana, and went towards the highest part of the city, where he saw 
 two people coming with a lantern, and (fearing that they were the 
 watch, or some ill-disposed persons) stepped into an old house that 
 was near, to hide himself. It happened that these people were 
 going into the very same place ; and one of them having laid down 
 some iron tools there, which he carried upon his neck, they had 
 some discourse together about them. And as they were talking, 
 said one to the other, “ There is the most confounded stink (what¬ 
 ever be the meaning of it) that ever I smelt in my life.” When, 
 holding up the lantern, they saw wretched Andreuccio, and, in a 
 good deal of amaze, demanded who he was ] He made no answer; 
 and drawing nearer with the light they asked what he ^Jd 
 
 t' 
 
 2 
 
lOO 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 there in that condition 1 He then related to them his whole ad¬ 
 venture : and they, easily imagining the place where the thing had 
 happened, said to one another, “ This must certainly have been in 
 the house of Scarabon Firebrand f and then, turning towards him, 
 proceeded thus: “ Honest man, you ought to be very thankful 
 that you fell down, and could not return into the house, for other¬ 
 wise you would certainly have been murdered as soon as ever you 
 went to sleep, and so have lost your life as well as your money. 
 But what signifies lamenting? You may as soon pluck a star out 
 of the firmament, as recover one farthing ; nay, you may chance to 
 be killed, should the man hear that you make any words about it.” 
 
 Having admonished him in this manner, they said, “ See, we 
 have pity on you, and if you will engage in a certain affair with us, 
 which we are now about, we are very sure that your share will 
 amount to more than you have lost.” He, like a person in despair, 
 told them he was willing.—That day was buried the Archbishop 
 of Naples, whose name was Signor Phillippo Minutolo, in rich 
 pontifical robes, and with a ruby on his finger worth upwards of 
 five hundred florins of gold, whom they proposed to strip and rifle 
 and they acquainted him with their intention. He then, more 
 covetous than wise, went along with them ; and, as they were 
 going towards the cathedral, he smelt so strong, that one said to 
 the other, “ Can w^e contrive no way to wash this man a little, to 
 make him sweeter?” And the other made answer, “We are not 
 far from a well, where there are usually a pulley -and a great 
 bucket; let us go thither, and we may make him clean in an in¬ 
 stant.” Coming there, they found the rope, but the bucket was 
 taken away ; they therefore agreed to tie him to the rope, and to 
 put him down into the well, and when he had well washed himself, 
 he was to shake the rope, and they would draw him up. Now it 
 happened that, after they had let him down, some of the watch, 
 being thirsty with the heat of the weather, and having been in 
 pursuit of some persons, came to that well to drink, and as. soon aa 
 the two men saw them, they took to their heels ; the watch how¬ 
 ever saw nothing of them. Andreuccio now having washed him¬ 
 self at the bottom of the well, began to shake the rope; they there¬ 
 fore laid down their clothes and halberds upon the ground, and 
 began to draw the rope, thinking the bucket was fastened thereto, 
 and full of water : and when he found himself at the top, he let 
 go the rope, and clung fast to the edge of the well. They imme* 
 
SECOND DAY, 
 
 lOl 
 
 diately threw down the rope on seeing him, and ran away, frighted 
 out of their wits; which greatly surprised him ; and had he not 
 held fast, he had fallen to the bottom, and perhaps lost his life. 
 Getting out in this manner, and beholding their weapons, which 
 he knew belonged not to his companions, he wondered the more; 
 and being in doubt what the meaning of it could be, he went away 
 without touching anything, lamenting his fate, and not knowing 
 whither. As he was walking along, he met with his companions, 
 who returned to help him out of the well; and were surprised to 
 see him, inquiring of him who had helped him out. He replied, 
 that he could not tell them ; and related the whole affair, and what 
 he had found by the well-side : upon which they perceived how it 
 happened, and laughing heartily, they acquainted him with the 
 reason of their running away, and who they were that had drawn 
 him up. Without making more words, it being now midnight, 
 they went to the great church, into which they found an easy ad¬ 
 mittance, and passed directly to the tomb, which was of marble, 
 and very magnificent; and with their levers raised up the cover, 
 which was very heavy, so high that a man might go under, and 
 propped it; which being done, said one, “ Who shall go in T — 
 '*‘Not I,” cried the other, “ but Andreuccio shall.”—“ I will not go 
 in,” quoth Andreuccio ; then they both turned towards him, and 
 said, “ What ! won’t you go in 1 We will beat your brains out this 
 moment, if you don’t.” Terrified at their threats, he consented, 
 and being now within, he began to consider with himself in this 
 manner : “ These fellows have certainly forced me in here to de¬ 
 ceive me, and therefore, when I have given them every thing, and 
 am endeavouring to get out again, they will certainly run away, 
 and I shall be left destitute.” For which reason he resolved to 
 make sure of his part, beforehand ; and remembering the ring of 
 value which he had heard them speak of, as soon as ever he got 
 into the vault, he took it off the archbishop’s finger, and secured 
 it, giving them afterwards the pastoral staff, mitre, and gloves, and 
 stripping him to his shirt, he told them there was nothing else. 
 But they affirming that there was a ring, bid him seek every where 
 for it, whilst he assured them that he could no where find it, and, 
 pretending to look carefully about, he kept them some time waiting 
 for him : at length they, who were fully as cunning as himself, 
 calling to him to search diligently, suddenly drew away the prop 
 which supported the cover, and left him shut up in the vault. 
 
toe 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 Wliich, when he perceived, you may easily suppose what condition 
 he was in. Many a time did he endeavour with his head and 
 shoulders to raise it up, but in vain ; till, overcome with grief, he 
 fell down at last upon the dead body ; and whoever had seen him 
 at that time, could scarcely have said, whether there was more life 
 in one than the other. But when he came to himself he lamented 
 most bitterly, seeing that he was now brought to the necessity cf 
 one of these two evils, namely to die there with hunger, and the 
 stench of the dead carcase, if no one came to help him out: or, if 
 that should happen, and he be delivered, in that case to be hanged 
 for a thief. As he was in this perplexity, he heard the noise of 
 many persons in the church, whom he supposed were come to do 
 what he and his companions had been about, which added greatly 
 to his fear : but after they had raised up the lid and propped it, a 
 dispute arose which should go in ; and none caring to do it, after 
 a long contest, said a priest, “ What are you afraid of 1 Do you 
 think he will eat you % Dead men cannot bite ; I will go in my 
 self.” And immediately clapping his breast to the edge of the 
 vault, he attempted to slide down with his feet foremost; which 
 Andreuccio perceiving, and standing up he caught fast hold of one 
 of his legs, as if he meant to pull him in. The priest upon this 
 making a most terrible outcry, got out immediately ; and the rest 
 being equally terrified, ran away, leaving the vault open, as if they 
 had been pursued by a hundred thousand devils. Andreuccio, 
 little expecting this good fortune, got out of the vault, and so out 
 of the church, the same way he came in. And now day-light 
 began to appear, he wandered with the ring on his finger he knew 
 not whither, till, coming to the sea-side, he found the way leading 
 to his inn : there he met with his companions and his landlord, 
 who had been in pain all that night for him ; and having related 
 to them all that had pased, he was advised to get out of Naples 
 with all speed ; with which he instantly complied, and returned to 
 Perugia, having laid out his money on a ring, whereas the intent 
 of his iournev was to have bought horses. 
 
SECOND DA F. 
 
 103 
 
 NOVEL VI. 
 
 Madam Beritola wa^ found on an island with two goats, having lost her 
 two sons, and went from thence to Lunigiana, where one of her sons 
 became servant to the lord thereof; and being found with his daughter, 
 was by him sent to prison ; afterwards, when the country of Sicily rebelled 
 against King Charles, that same son was known again by his mother, and 
 was married to his master’s daughter ; and his brother being found like¬ 
 wise, they both returned to great estate and credit. 
 
 HE ladies and gentlemen were much diverted with the 
 adventures that befel Andreuccio, as related by Flam- 
 metta ; when Emilia, perceiving the story to be at an end, 
 began, by the queen’s order, in this manner: 
 
 Very great and grievous are the changes of fortune, which, as 
 often as we discourse of, so often do they rouse and awaken our 
 understandings, which are but too easily enchanted by her flatteries; 
 and I am persuaded, that to hear them recounted must be agreeable 
 both to such as are happy, and such as are miserable; inasmuch 
 as it is a caution to the former, and afi'ords matter of comfort to 
 tlie latter. Wherefore, though great things have been already 
 treated of, yet I do purpose to relate a story no less true than 
 lamentable; which, though it ended well, yet such and so many 
 were the bitter thwartings, that one would scarcely imagine they 
 could ever be sweetened by any subsequent joy. 
 
 You must understand, then, that after the death of the Emperoi 
 Frederick II. Manfredi was crowned king of Sicily; with whom 
 lived, in great favour, a Neapolitan gentleman, whose name was 
 Arrighetto Capece, and who had, for his wife, a most beautiful and 
 worthy lady of Naples, called Beritola Caracciola. This gentleman 
 having the government of the island in his hands, and under¬ 
 standing that King Charles I. had gained the battle of Benevento, 
 and slain Manfredi, flnding also that the whole kingdom had 
 revolted to the conqueror, and reposing but little trust in the 
 scanty faith of the Sicilians, nor being willing to become a subject 
 to the enemy of his former master, he prepared secretly to leave 
 the place ; which being discovered by the inhabitants, he and many 
 other of Manfredi’s friends and servants were delivered up prisoners 
 to King Charles, who took possession also of the island. In such 
 a sudden change of affairs. Madam Beritola, not knowing what 
 W8<s become of her husband, and fearful of what was already come 
 
104 
 
 THE DECAMEROH, 
 
 to pass, to avoid reproach, left everything behind her, and taking 
 only a child of eight years old, called Goffredi, and being with 
 child of another, she embarked, in the utmost distress, in a little 
 vessel, for Lipari : there she brought forth another son, whom she 
 called Scacciato, or the Expelled, and having provided a nurse, they 
 went on board again with a design to return to her relations at 
 Naples. But it happened contrary to her expectation: for the 
 vessel, which was bound for Naples, was carried by a contrary 
 wind to the island of Ponzo ; where, getting into a little harbour, 
 they waited for a more favourable season to pursue their voyage ; 
 there they went on shore, and finding a solitary place, she sat down 
 all alone, to lament the fate of her dear Arrighetto, and this she 
 did every day; whilst it happened, that being employed in this 
 meditation one day, without any of the ship’s crew knowing where 
 she was, they were surprised by a pirate ship, and carried off. 
 Madam Beritola, when her daily lamentation was ended, returned, 
 as usual, to see her sons, and was surprised to find nobody; but 
 suspecting what must have happened, and casting her eye towards 
 the sea, she saw the ship at no great distance, dragging her little 
 vessel after it; on which she plainly perceived that she had lost 
 her children, as well as her husband ; and seeing herself there poor 
 and abandoned, nor expecting ever to meet with any of them again, 
 she fell down in a swoon upon the shore, calling upon her husband 
 and her children. There was no one near, either with cold water 
 or any other means, to bring her to herself; so that her spirits 
 might the more freely wander at their pleasure ; but when she was 
 a little recovered, then did her tears and lamentations break out 
 afresh, whilst she called out for her children, and ran to every 
 cavern to find them ; till, perceiving at last it was all to no purpose, 
 and dark night drawing on, yet hoping still, without knowing why, 
 she began then to take some care of herself, and, leaving the sea 
 shore, returned to the cave where she was used to make her lamen¬ 
 tation : she passed that night not without infinite pain and grief; 
 and day-light appearing, she, who had eat nothing the evening 
 before, being now pinched with hunger, fed upon the green herbs 
 as well as she could; sadly reflecting on what would become of 
 her the rest of her life: whilst she was full of these melancholy 
 reflections, she beheld a goat enter a cave near her, and, after some 
 little stay, come out again and go into the woods : upon which she 
 arose, and went in where she saw the beast issue forth, and found 
 
SECOND DAY, 
 
 £05 
 
 two young kids, yeaned perhaps that very day, which she thought 
 at that time the prettiest things in the world; and having milk 
 yet in her breasts from her late delivery, she took them carefully, 
 and applied them to her bosom, and they sucked as naturally as if 
 she had been their mother, and from that time made no distinction 
 between one and the other : and thus the lady thinking that she 
 had now met with company in this solitary place, feeding also on 
 herbs, and drinking of water, and lamenting her husband and 
 children as often as she reflected on her past life, became at length 
 disposed to live and die there, growing as familiar with the goat as 
 with her offspring. By this way of life becoming almost wild, it 
 happened, in some months, that a vessel from Pisa arrived there by 
 chance, and continued many days, on board of which was a gentle¬ 
 man called Conrado de’ Malespini, with his most virtuous lady, 
 who had been upon a pilgrimage to visit all the holy places in 
 Puglia, and were now returning home ; when, to divert themselves, 
 they went on shore with their servants and some dogs, and being 
 not far from the place where Madam Beritola was, the dogs met 
 with the two kids, who being now large ones, were feeding abroad, 
 and, as they were closely pursued, fled for refuge to her in the cave : 
 she arose on seeing this, and getting a stick, beat the dogs away; 
 in the meanwhile Conrado and his lady, who were following the 
 dogs, came upon her, and beholding her all swarthy, meagre, and 
 hairy, were greatly surprised, and she much more, at their appear¬ 
 ance. When, by her entreaties, he had drawn his hounds back, 
 they desired she would acquaint them who she was, and what she 
 did there : whereupon she related to them all that had happened 
 to her, and her resolution to stay; which, when Conrado had under¬ 
 stood, who knew her husband very well, he was moved with pity, 
 and endeavoured, by many arguments, to draw her from her cruel 
 design, making an ofifer either to send her home, or to keep her at 
 his own house in the same rank as if she was his sister, where she 
 might wait for better times. When she would not comply with 
 these kind proposals, he left his wife with her, desiring that she 
 would order victuals to be brought, and let her put on some of her 
 clothes, because her own were all ragged, and endeavour, by every 
 possible means, to bring her away. The lady continued with her, 
 and lamented her misfortunes, until the victuals and clothes were 
 brought, when she prevailed upon her to clothe herself, and to eat; 
 and after much entreaty, she, declaring that she would never go 
 
THE DECAMERON, 
 
 io6 
 
 any more where she was known, persuaded her to depart with them- 
 for Lunigiana, together with the two kids and goat, which were 
 now come back, shewing all tokens of joy to her, to the great wonder 
 of the lady. 
 
 As soon as the weather was favourable. Madam Beritola went on 
 board with Conrado and his lady, being followed by the goat and 
 kids; and, because she wished to be known by nobody else, she 
 would be called by no other name than that of the Goatherdess. 
 The wind was favourable, and soon brought them into the river 
 Magra, where they got on shore, and went to their castle : there sho 
 lived with Conrado’s lady in a widow’s dress, like a waiting-woman, 
 behaving herself with all obedience and humility, still loving and 
 nursing her goats.—Let us now return to the pirates, who had 
 seized upon the little bark at Ponzo, which brought Beritola thither, 
 and leaving her there, as having not been seen by them, they car¬ 
 ried the rest of the people away to Genoa, where, when the booty 
 came to be divided among the owners of the ship, it happened that, 
 amongst other things, the nurse and two children fell to the share 
 of one Guasparrino d’Oria, who sent them to his own house, to be 
 kept as servants. The nurse was exceedingly sorrowful at the loss 
 of her mistress, and the low state of life to which she saw herself 
 and the children now reduced, and wept for a considerable time 
 but when she saw that tears were of no effect, and that they were 
 slaves together, poor as she was, yet was she wise and prudent, and 
 having comforted herself in the best manner she was able, and con¬ 
 sidering their condition, she believed that if they were known it 
 might turn to their disadvantage; and hoping besides that their 
 affairs might take a new turn, and they regain their former con¬ 
 dition ; for this reason she determined to discover their names to 
 nobody, unless she saw a proper time for it: and she told every 
 one who inquired about them, that they were her sons, and the 
 eldest she called not Goffredi, but Jeannot di Procida; as for the 
 younger, she did not regard changing his name; and she told 
 Goffredi, frequently, the reason why she had done so, and to what 
 dangers he would be exposed should he be known, which the child, 
 who was sensible enough, carefully observed. 
 
 They continued in the house of Guasparrino many years, poorly 
 clad, and worse shod, employed in the most servile offices, which 
 they bore with great patience : but Jeannot, being now in his 
 faxteenth year, and having a spirit much beyond the condition of a 
 
SECOND DA Y, 
 
 Z 07 
 
 servant, despising the meanness of his station, he left Gnasparrino, 
 and went on board the ships which were bound for Alexandria; 
 and travelling afterwards into divers parts, could in no way advance 
 himself. In the end, about three or four years after his departure 
 from Guasparrino, being grown tall and comely in his person, and 
 having understood that his father, whom he thought to have been 
 dead, was yet alive, but kept in prison by King Charles ; despairing 
 now altogether of his fortune, he wandered up and down as a vaga¬ 
 bond, till he came to Lunigiana, where by chance he became servant 
 to Conrado de’ Malespini, and was much liked as such. He seldom 
 saw his mother, she being commonly with Conrado’s wife, nor did 
 he know her any more than she recognised him; so much had 
 time altered both since they last saw one another. Ijiving thus in 
 the service of Conrado, it happened that a daughter of his, whose 
 name was Spina, being the widow of one Nicholas de Grignano, 
 returned home to her father’s ; and being a very agreeable young 
 lady, and only sixteen years of age, soon cast her eyes on Jeannot, 
 and he on her, in such a manner, that they became enamoured of 
 each other; which love of theirs was not long without taking 
 effect, and was carried on many months before it was discovered. 
 For which reason, growing too secure, they were now not so cautious 
 as they ought to have been in such an affair ; and, as they were 
 walking one day into a pleasant grove, well planted with trees, 
 leaving the rest of their company behind, they passed on before ; 
 and supposing that the others were far enough off, they made choice 
 of a fine bed of flowers for their amorous amusement. Dallying 
 there too long, though the time seemed short to them, they were 
 surprised first by the mother, and afterwards by Conrado himself ; 
 who, being grieved beyond measure, ordered three of his servants 
 to seize, and carry them bound to a certain castle of his; resolving, 
 out of his extreme rage and passion, to put them both to a shameful 
 death. The mother, though she was much troubled, and thought 
 her daughter worthy of punishment for the crime she had com¬ 
 mitted, yet, perceiving what her husband’s intention was, she could 
 not bear that he should proceed to such extremities, and begged 
 that he would not, in his old age, be so far hurried away witii 
 passion, as to murder his own daughter, and to stain his hands 
 with the blood of a servant ; but rather shew his resentment in a 
 different manner, namely, by committing them to close imprison¬ 
 ment, there to pine and lament the folly they had committed. By 
 
io8 
 
 THE DECAMEEOA. 
 
 these and other persuasions the good lady prevented his putting 
 them to death ; and he now gave orders to have them sent to 
 separate prisons, where they should be well watched, and kept with 
 little food and great severity, till he should farther resolve what to 
 do with them. What their life now was in captivity and continual 
 tears, with more fasting than was needful for them, any one may 
 easily imagine. 
 
 Jeannot and La Spina remaining in this comfortless condition, 
 £jid a whole year being spent without Conrado taking any further 
 notice of them, it happened that Peter, king of Arragon, by means 
 of John diProcida, caused the island of Sicily to revolt, and gained 
 it from King Charles ; on which account Conrado, who was of the 
 Ghibeline faction, made great rejoicings, which Jeannot being 
 informed of by some of his keepers, fetched a deep sigh, and said: 
 “ Alas! for these fourteen years have I been wandering through 
 the world, waiting only for this event; and now the thing is come 
 to pass, that I may be destitute of all hope, I am in prison, from 
 which I never expect to depart with life!’^—“And what,” said the 
 keeper, “ hast thou to do with the affairs of princes 1 Or what 
 business hast thou with Sicily When he replied, “ My heart is fit 
 to burst, when I call to mind the rank my father held there ; for 
 though I was but an infant when I fled from thence, I can very 
 well remember his being governor under King Manfredi.”—“And 
 who was thy father, then ” continued the keeper. “ My father,’ 
 replied he, “ I may now safely discover, since I now see myself out 
 of all danger from such a discovery : his name was, and is still, if 
 he be living, Arrighetto Capece ; and I am not Jeannot, but 
 Goffredi; and I make no doubt, if I was at liberty, but by returning 
 to Sicily I might obtain great promotion.” The honest man, 
 without asking any more questions, reported all this, as soon as he 
 had an opportunity, to Conrado, who, seeming to the keeper to 
 take no notice of it, went directly to Madam Beritola, and inquired 
 of her whether she ever had a son by Arrighetto, who was called 
 Gofiredi. The lady replied, in tears, that if her eldest son was 
 living, he was so called, and was now twenty-two years of age. 
 Conrado hearing this, immediately concluded it must be the same 
 person, and if this should prove so, a method occurred how he 
 might at the same time shew mercy, and take away his daughter’s 
 disgrace and that of his family, by making her his wife : he conse¬ 
 quently called Jeannot secretly before him, and examined him 
 
SECOND DA Y. 
 
 109 
 
 particularly with respect to his past life ; and finding, by many 
 manifest tokens, that he was truly Goffredi, the son of Arrighetto 
 Capece, he thus addressed him : “ Jeannot, you know how great an 
 injury you have done me in the person of my daughter ; for, as I 
 always treated you well, you ought to have considered my honour 
 and interest in all things as became a servant: many people there 
 are, who, had they been used by you in this manner, would have 
 put you to an ignominious death, which my pity for you would 
 not permit. Wherefore, seeing, as you inform me, that you are 
 honourably descended both by father and mother, I will put an 
 end to your trouble, if you yourself are willing, and releasing you 
 from your captivity, restore at once both your honour and my own. 
 You know that my daughter La Spina, whom, unluckily for you 
 both, I found in dalliance with you, is a widow, and of a good 
 fortune : you are no stranger either to her temper or family; 
 concerning your own circumstances, at present, I shall say not a 
 word. Therefore I am disposed, if you are so inclined, that as 
 you have dishonourably made her your mistress, you now make 
 her honourably your wife ; and, accepting you for my son, I give 
 you leave to remain with me as long as you both please.^’ 
 
 Imprisonment had made great alteration in the person of Jean¬ 
 not ; but the greatness of mind which he possessed from his birth, 
 was not at all impaired, any more than the afiection he still bore 
 towards his mistress : and though he most earnestly desired what 
 Conrado had now so frankly offered, and saw himself entirely in 
 his power; yet could he by no means dissemble what his brave 
 soul prompted him to speak on this occasion, and therefore he re¬ 
 plied in this manner : “ Sir, neither a desire of power, a thirst of 
 wealth, nor any other motive, could ever induce me to plot like a 
 traitor against your life or estate. I have loved your daughter, 
 do still, and always shall love her, because I hold her worthy of 
 it: and if I have committed a crime, it is a crime inseparable from 
 youth. Would people but once call to mind that they have been 
 young themselves, and compare our offences with their own, those 
 offences would appear less grievous. I have always wished for 
 what you now offer, and should have requested it long since, could 
 I have thought it would have been granted me ; it is now the more 
 pleasing, as it was less expected: but if you intend nothing of 
 what you say, feed me no longer with expectation, but rather send 
 me back to my prison, where, use me as you please, I shall always 
 
£10 
 
 THE DECAMEROPi, 
 
 love and honour you for her sake.” Conrado was astonished at 
 hearing this, and esteeming him to be of a generous disposition, 
 and fervent in his affection towards the lady, he valued him the 
 more ; wherefore he raised him up, and embraced him, and with¬ 
 out more delay sent for his daughter : her confinement had made her 
 pale and meagre, and quite a different person from what she used 
 to be : there, by mutual consent, were the espousals solemnized ; 
 and after some days, without any body knowing what was done, 
 having furnished them with every thing that was proper, and now 
 thinking it a fit time to please the two mothers, he called his own 
 wife and the Goatherdess together, and to the latter he said, “What 
 would you say now, if I should shew you your eldest son married 
 to one of my daughters T She replied, “ I can only say this, that 
 I shall think myself more obliged to you, if possible, than I am 
 at present, as you will restore to me what is dearer that my own 
 life ; and by doing it in that manner, you will in some measure 
 recall all my lost hopes and with these words she began to weep. 
 To his wife he then said, “ And what will you think if I shew you 
 such a son-in-law T —“ Whether he be a gentleman or a peasant,” 
 answered she, “ if you like it I shall be pleased.”—“ Well,” replied 
 Conrado, “ I hope in a few days to make you two happy women.” 
 When the young couple had in a measure recovered their former 
 looks, and had furnished themselves with suitable apparel, he one 
 day asked Goffredi, if it would not add greatly to his joy could he 
 have a sight of his mother % “I cannot believe,” replied he, “ that 
 her misfortunes have suffered her to live so long; but if it should 
 be so, nothing could be more desirable; for, by her assistance, I 
 might reasonably expect to recover my estate in Sicily.” Conrado 
 then sent for both the ladies, who expressed the utmost satisfaction 
 at beholding the bride, wondering nevertheless what inspiration 
 had guided Conrado to this extraordinary courtesy in marrying her 
 to Jeannot; whilst Beritola, considering what she had heard from 
 Conrado, began to observe him very attentively; and by a hidden 
 virtue, which had roused in her some resemblance of her son’s fea¬ 
 tures in his infancy, without waiting for any other proofs, she threw 
 her arms about his neck, whilst excess of maternal joy and pity 
 denied her the power of utterance; but, as if they had locked up 
 all her senses, she swooned away in his arms. He, remembering 
 to have seen her often in the castle without knowing her, was all 
 amazement; yet now, by mere instinct of nature, immediately 
 
SECOND DA K. 
 
 itt 
 
 oilled her to mind; and, blaming himself for his long insensibilitj% 
 embraced her in a most tender and affectionate manner. Beritola 
 had no sooner recovered her senses, by the help of Conrado's wife 
 and daughter, who administered cold water and other necessary 
 helps for such purpose, but she again began to embrace her son, 
 using many kind and tender expressions full of maternal affection; 
 he likewise expressing the same dutiful reverence to her. These 
 affectionate greetings were repeated over and over, to the great joy 
 of the beholders, whilst they recounted to each other their several 
 misfortunes; and Conrado, having signified to his friends, who 
 heard it with great joy, the new alliance made by him, and appointed 
 a magnificent entertainment, suitable to the occasion, Goffredi 
 addressed himself to him in the following manner : “ Sir, you have 
 made me a happy man on many accounts, and treated my mother 
 always with the utmost respect; wherefore, that nothing may be 
 left undone which it is in your power to do, 1 humbly beg you would 
 oblige my mother and myself, and grace our entertainment with 
 the presence of my brother, who now lives as a servant in the house 
 of Signor Guasparrino d’Oria, who, as I told you before, took us 
 as a privateer ; and, at the same time, that you would also send a 
 proper person to Sicily, to learn the state of the country, and to 
 inform himself concerning my father, whether he be alive or dead. 
 If he be alive, then to know fully in what state or condition he is, 
 and to come afterwards to us, and give us an account.’^ 
 
 The motion made by Goffredi was so pleasing to Conrado, that 
 without more delay he sent two discreet persons, one to Genoa, and 
 the other to Sicily : he who went to Genoa, having met with Guas¬ 
 parrino, entreated him, on the part of Conrado, to send him Scac- 
 ciato, or the Expelled, and his nurse, relating every thing that 
 Conrado had done with regard to Goffredi and his mother ; which, 
 when Guasparrino had heard, he was greatly surprised, and he re¬ 
 plied : “ True it is, that I am ready to oblige Signor Conrado to 
 the utmost of my power ; I have had such a boy as you speak of, 
 and his mother, about fourteen years, whom I shall willingly send 
 him ; but tell him from me not to be too hasty in giving credit to 
 what Jeannot shall say (who calls himself Goffredi), because he is a 
 more wicked boy than he may imagine.” Having said this, and 
 made the messenger welcome, he sent privately for the nurse, and 
 questioned her about the thing ; who, having heard of the rebel¬ 
 lion in Sicily, and understanding that Arrighetto was yet living, 
 
112 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 now laid all fear aside, and told him every thing as it had nap- 
 pened, and the reason for her acting in the manner she had done. 
 Guasparrino, finding the accounts which the nurse and messenger 
 gave to be entirely the same, began now to give credit to it; and 
 inquiring more narrowly into all the circumstances, for he was a 
 very cautious person, and finding them to fall exactly right, he 
 grew ashamed of himself for his vile treatment of his captive, and 
 to make him amends, since he knew of what consequence his father 
 had been, and now was, he gave him his daughter in marriage, a 
 beautiful young lady of about eleven years of age, and with her a 
 very large fortune. The time of feasting being over, he went on 
 board a galley, well armed, taking with him his son and daughter, 
 with the messenger and nurse, and arrived at Lerici, where he was 
 received by Conrado, and conducted from thence, with all his atten¬ 
 dants, to a castle of his, which was at no great distance, where a most 
 noble banquet was prepared for them. Now, as to the joy of the 
 mother in meeting again with her son ; of the two brethren in see¬ 
 ing one another ; and of all three, in beholding their faithful nurse ; 
 as well as the satisfaction also which was manifested by all towards 
 Guasparrino and his daughter, and by them again to the whole 
 company, and by the whole company to Conrado, his wife, chil¬ 
 dren and friends : this was bej^ond expression, and therefore I refer 
 it to your more able imagination. And, that it might be rendered 
 still more complete, it pleased God, a most liberal giver when he 
 makes a beginning, to add the good news of the life and prosperity 
 of Arrighetto Capece : for even as they were feasting, and the con¬ 
 course great both of lords and ladies, it chanced that the first 
 course was scarcely set upon the table, before the messenger arrived 
 who had been dispatched to Sicily, and brought an account, amongst 
 other things, concerning Arrighetto, that, being closely confined by 
 King Charles, when the insurrection first began in the country, the 
 people ran to the prison, and having slain the guards, they set him 
 at liberty, and appointed him their leader, he being Charles’s prin¬ 
 cipal enemy; and under his conduct they afterwards routed and 
 slew many of the French, on which account he became a great 
 favourite with King Peter, who had reinstated him in all his for¬ 
 mer possessions. The messenger further announced that he was 
 received with the utmost joy by him, for the most welcome news, 
 concerning his 'wiie and son, of whom he had not received the least 
 intelligenc since he had been a prisoner ; and that he had sent a 
 
SECOND DA K. 
 
 *13 
 
 yacht to bring them back, which was now at hand, with a great 
 finmber of gentry on board to bear them company. This was most 
 welcome news; and Conrado immediately rose, with some of his 
 friends, and went to meet the gentlemen and ladies, who were sent 
 to Beritola and Goffredi, and after giving them a most hearty wel¬ 
 come, he introduced them to the banquet, which was not half over ; 
 there they were beheld by the lady and by Goffredi with such joy, 
 that the like was scarcely ever known; and before they would sit 
 down, they paid their compliments on the part of Arrighetto in the 
 best manner they were able, both to Conrado and his lady, for the 
 honour conferred on his wife and son, as well as upon himself, with 
 the offer of any thing that lay in his power for them to command. 
 Turning also to Guasparrino, whose kindness came unlooked for, 
 they assured him, that as soon as Arrighetto knew what he had 
 done for the Expelled, similar acknowledgments would be made to 
 him. After which they sat cheerfully down with the new-married 
 people. Nor was it that day only that Conrado feasted his son-in- 
 law with all his relations and friends, but he continued to do so 
 for some time, till at length they desired to depart; and taking 
 leave in a most affectionate manner of Conrado and his lady, and 
 also of Guasparrino, they went on ship-board together; namely, 
 Beritola and the tw^o new-married couples, with their attendants; 
 and the wind proving fair, they soon got to Sicily, where they were 
 received by Arrighetto with incredible joy; and it is reported that 
 they lived for a long period together in the utmost felicity, with 
 thankful hearts to Heaven for the mercies received by them. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL VIL 
 
 The Sultan of Babylon sends one of his daughters to be married to the King 
 of Algarve, who, by divers accidents in the space of four years fell into 
 the hands of nine different men in different places. At length, bemg re^ 
 stored to her father, she went to the King of Algarve cls a maid, a/nd, as 
 at first she was intended, to be his wife. 
 
 'S;HE novel related by Emilia did not perhaps extend itself so 
 far in length, as it moved compassion in the hearts of the 
 
 young ladies for the accidents that had befallen Beritola, 
 which had caused them all to weep : but it being now ended, the 
 queen ordered Pamphilus to follow, whoj in obedience to her com¬ 
 mands, thus proceeded: 
 
THE DECAMERON, 
 
 II4 
 
 It is no easy matter for us, most gracious ladies, to have a 
 thorough knowledge of everything we do : for we often find that 
 many, supposing if they were rich that they should then live 
 securely and at ease, not only offer up their prayers to God, but 
 studiously incur all kinds of danger and fatigue to become so; 
 which, when effected, has been the occasion of their losing their 
 lives by the hands of such people as have thirsted after their wealth, 
 who, before they had attained to such riches, were their entire 
 friends : others, who from a low estate, have made their way to a 
 throne, amidst a thousand dangerous encounters, and through the 
 blood of their brethren and friends, expecting to find supreme feli¬ 
 city therein, have, besides the infinite cares and anxieties which 
 they have experienced in that station, found to their cost, at last, 
 that poison is often mingled in the golden cups of princes. 
 
 Many people there are who covet some bodily accomplishment, 
 as strength, beauty, &c., with which they who are endowed are 
 taught, that death, or a most calamitous life, is often occasioned 
 thereby. But because I would not speak of all our frail desires, I dare 
 affirm, that there is not one of them which we can fix upon with 
 any certainty of being happy by that choice ; the safest way then 
 is, to leave all to the good providence of God, who best knows our 
 wants, and is most able to supply them. Men offend in coveting 
 many things ; but you ladies sin chiefly on one point, namely, in 
 the desire of beauty; insomuch, that not being satisfied with that 
 share of it which nature has given you, you call in the assistance 
 of art, to improve it. It is upon this account that I shall relate 
 what happened to a beauti ul Saracen lady, who, in the space ot 
 four years, was, for her beauty, married nine several times. 
 
 It is now a long time since there lived a sultan of Babylon, called 
 Beminedab, who was fortunate in all his affairs. Amongst other 
 children, both male and female, he had a daughter named Alathiel, 
 who, in the opinion of all that saw her, was the fairest lady in the 
 whole world. And because the King of Algarve had afforded him 
 great assistance in a defeat occasioned to a most numerous army 
 of Arabians that had assailed him, and had demanded her after¬ 
 wards in marriage, he consented as a most special favour: and 
 providing a ship, well equipped for the purpose, with all necessary 
 provisions, and sending an honourable train both of lords and 
 ladies to bear her company, he commended her to the protection 
 of Heaven, and took his leave. The sailors, as soon as a fit oppoi- 
 
SECOND DAY, 
 
 ”5 
 
 tunity offered, hoisted their sails, and leaving the port of Alexan¬ 
 dria, sailed prosperously many days; when, having passed the 
 island of Sardinia, and now seeming to be near the end of their 
 voyage, on a sudden, contrary winds arose, which were so boisterous, 
 and bore so hard upon the ship, that they often gave themselves 
 over for lost. Nevertheless, for two days together, they tried all 
 the means they could devise, amidst an infinite number of tem¬ 
 pests, to weather it out; but all to no purpose, for every blast was 
 worse than the former. And not being able to comprehend by 
 marinal judgment where they were, or to see to any distance on 
 account of the clouds and dark night, being now not far from Ma¬ 
 jorca, they felt the ship split; and perceiving no hopes of escaping, 
 every one caring for himself only, they threw a little boat into the 
 sea, reposing more confidence of safety that way than by abiding 
 any longer in the broken ship. The men therefore that were in 
 the ship went into it, one after another ; although those who were 
 first down made strong resistance with their drawn weapons against 
 other followers ; and thinking to avoid death by this means, they 
 ran directly into it; for the boat, not being able to bear them all, 
 sunk straight to the bottom, and the people therein all perished. 
 The ship being driven furiously by the winds, though it was burst 
 and half full of water, was at last stranded near the Island of 
 Majorca, no other person remaining on board but the lady and her 
 women, all lying as it were lifeless, through the terror occasioned 
 by the tempest. It struck with such violence, that it was fixed upon 
 the sand about a stone’s throw from the shore; where it continued 
 all that night, the winds not being able to move it. When day-light 
 appeared, and the storm was something abated, the lady, almost 
 dead, lifted up her head, and began, weak as she was, to call first 
 one, and then another of her servants; but aU to no purpose, for 
 such as she called for were far enough from her: wherefore, receiv¬ 
 ing no answer, and seeing no one, she was greatly astonished; and 
 raising herself up as well as she could, she beheld the ladies that 
 were of her company, and some other of her women, lying all about 
 her ; and trying first to rouse one, and then another of them, she 
 scarcely found any that had the least understanding left; so much 
 had sickness and fear together affected them, which added greatly 
 to her consternation. Nevertheless, necessity constraining her, 
 seeing that she was alone, she knew not where, she shook those 
 that wero living tiU she made them get up, and perceiving that 
 
 —2 
 
li6 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 they were utterly ignorant of what was become of all the men, and 
 seeing the ship driven upon the sands, and full of water, she began 
 with them to lament most grievously. It was noon-day before they 
 could descry any person from on shore, or elsewhere, to afford them 
 the least assistance. At length, about that time, a gentleman, whose 
 name was Pericon da Visalgo, passing that way, with many of his 
 servants, on horseback, upon seeing the ship, imagined what had 
 happened, and immediately sent one of them on board, to see what 
 was remaining in her. The servant got into the ship with some 
 difficulty, and found the lady with the little company that was left 
 her, who had all hidden themselves, through fear, under the deck 
 of the ship. As soon as they saw him, they begged for mercy; but 
 not understanding each other, they endeavoured, by signs, to in¬ 
 form him of their misfortune. The servant carried the best account 
 he could to his master of what he had seen; who ordered the ladies, 
 and every thing that was in the ship of any value, to be brought 
 . on shore, conducting them to one of his castles, where he endea¬ 
 voured to comfort them under their misfortunes by this generous 
 entertainment. By the richness of her dress, he supposed her to 
 be some person of great consequence, which appeared more plainly 
 by the great respect that was paid to her by all the women : and 
 although she was pale and in disorder, through the great fatigue 
 she had sustained, yet was he much taken with her beauty; and he 
 resolved, if she had no husband, to make her his wife; or, if he 
 could not have her as such, still not to lose her entirely. Pericon 
 was a man of stern looks, and rough in his person; and having 
 treated the lady well for some time, by which means she had re¬ 
 covered her beauty, he was grieved that they could not understand 
 each other, and that he was unable to learn who she was; yet, being 
 passionately in love, he used all the engaging arts he could devise 
 to bring her to a compliance, but all to no purpose; she refused all 
 familiarities with him, which inflamed him the more. This the 
 lady perceived, and finding, after some stay there, by the customs 
 of the place, that she was among Christians, and where, if she came 
 to be known, it would be of no great service to her; supposing 
 also, that, at last, Pericon would gain his will, if not by fair means, 
 yet by force; she resolved, with a true greatness of spirit, to tread 
 all misfortune under foot, commanding her women, of whom she 
 had but three now alive, never to disclose her quality, unless there 
 should be hopes of regaining their liberty; recommending it farther 
 
SECOND DAY, 
 
 117 
 
 to them to maintain their chastity, and declaring her fixed resolu¬ 
 tion never to comply with any one besides her husband; for which 
 they all commended her, promising to preserve their honour, as 
 she had commanded them. Every day did his passion increase sc 
 much the more as the thing desired was more near, and yet more 
 difficult to be obtained: wherefore, perceiving that entreaty was 
 to no purpose, he resolved to try what art and contrivance could 
 do, reserving force to the last. And having once obser’o-sd that 
 wine was pleasing to her, not having been accustomed to it, as 
 being forbidden by her country’s law, he determined to surprise 
 her by means of this minister of Venus. And seeming now to have 
 given over his amorous pursuit, which she had used her best en¬ 
 deavours to withstand, he provided one night an elegant entertain¬ 
 ment, at which she was present, when he gave it in charge to the 
 servant that waited upon her, to serve her with several wines min¬ 
 gled together, which he accordingly did ; whilst she, suspecting no 
 such treachery, and pleased with the rich flavour of the wine, drank 
 more than suited with her modesty, and forgetting all her past 
 troubles, became gay and merry; so that, seeing some women dance 
 after the custom of Majorca, she also began to dance after the 
 manner of the Alexandrians; which when Pericon observed, he 
 supposed himself in a fair way of success, and plying her still with 
 more wine, continued this revelling the greatest part of the night. 
 At length, when the guests departed, he went with the lady into 
 her chamber, who having at that time more wine than modesty, 
 undressed herself before him, as if he had been one of her women, 
 and got into bed. He instantly followed, and accomplished his 
 purpose. They afterwards cohabited together without any reserve, 
 till at length, fortune, unwilling that she who was to have been the 
 wife of a king, should become the mistress of a nobleman, prepared 
 for her a more barbarous and cruel alliance. 
 
 Pericon had a brother, twenty-five years of age, of a most com¬ 
 plete person, called Marato; who having seen her, and flattering 
 himself, from her behaviour towards him, that he was not displeasing 
 to her : supposing also that nothing obstructed his happiness, except 
 the guard which his brother had over her; he consequently contrived 
 a most cruel design, which was not long without its wicked efiect. 
 There was by chance a ship in the haven at that time, laden with 
 merchandize bound for Chiarenza in Romania, of which two young 
 Genoese were the masters, who only waited for the first fair wind 
 
THE DECAMERON, 
 
 t\% 
 
 to go out: "with them Marato made a contract, to receive him with 
 the lady the following night. When night came, having ordered 
 how the thing should be managed, he went openly to the house, 
 nobody having the least mistrust of him, taking with him some 
 trusty friends, whom he had secured for that service, and concealed 
 them near the house: in the middle of the night, therefore, he 
 opened the door to them, and they slew Pericon as he was asleep 
 in bed with the lady ; seizing upon her, whom they found awake 
 and in tears, and threatening to kill her if she made the least noise. 
 They took also everything of value that belonged to Pericon, with 
 which Marato and the lady went instantly on board, whilst his 
 companions returned about their business. The wind proving fair, 
 they soon set sail, whilst the lady reflecting on both her misfor¬ 
 tunes, seemed to lay them much to heart for a time; till being 
 over persuaded by Marato, she began to have the same affection 
 for him that she had entertained for his brother ; when fortune, as 
 if not content with what she had already suffered, prepared another 
 change of life for her. Her person and behaviour were such, as to 
 enamour the two masters of the ship, who neglected all other 
 business to serve and please her; taking care all the while that 
 Marato should have no cause to suspect it. And being apprised of 
 each other’s love, they had a consultation together about it, when 
 it was agreed to have her in common between them, as if love, like 
 merchandize, admitted of partnership ; and observing that she was 
 narrowly watched by Marato, and their design thereby frustrated, 
 they took the opportunity one day, as the ship was under full sail, 
 and he standing upon the stern looking towards the sea, to go 
 behind and throw him over-board; whilst the ship had sailed on a 
 full mile before it was known that he had fallen in : as soon as the 
 lady heard of it, and saw no likely means of recovering him again, 
 she fell into fresh troubles, when the two lovers came quickly to 
 comfort her, using many kind and tender expressions, which she 
 did not understand; though indeed she did not then so much 
 lament Marato as her own private misfortunes. After some little 
 time, imagining that she was sufficiently comforted, they fell into 
 a dispute together which should have the first enjoyment of her; 
 and from words they drew their swords, and came to blows, the 
 ship’s crew not being able to part them, when one soon fell down 
 dead, the other being desperately wounded ; which occasioned fresh 
 uneasiness to the lady, who now saw herself left alone, without any 
 
SECOND DA Y. 
 
 119 
 
 one to advise and help her : she was fearful also of the resentment 
 of the two masters’ relations and friends : but the entreaties of the 
 wounded survivor, and their speedy arrival at Chiarenzo, saved her 
 from the danger of death. She went on shore with him there, and 
 they continued together at an inn; whilst the fame of her beauty 
 was spread all over the city, till it reached the ears of the Prince of 
 Morea, who was then by chance at Chiarenza. He was impatient 
 to get a sight of her; and after he had seen her, was so charmed, 
 that he could think of nothing else: and being told in what man 
 ner she came hither, he began to contrive means how to obtain her; 
 which when the man’s relations understood, they immediately sent 
 her to him, to her great joy, no less than the prince’s, now thinking 
 herself freed from all danger. The prince perceiving her rare 
 accomplishments, joined to a matchless person, though he could 
 have no information concerning her, yet concluded that she must 
 be nobly descended; and such was 1: is fondness for her, that he 
 treated her not as a mistress but a wife. She now recollecting 
 what she had already suffered, and being pretty well satisfied with 
 her present situation, began to be easy and cheerful, whilst her 
 charms increased to that degree, that she was the chief subject of 
 discourse throughout Eomania. Hereupon the Duke of Athens, a 
 young and gay person, a relation also to the prince, had a mind to 
 see her; and came one day thither under pretence of a visit to him, 
 as usual, with a noble retinue, when he was handsomely entertained. 
 Talking together, after some time, concerning the lady’s great 
 beauty; the duke asked whether she was such as fame had re¬ 
 ported ; to which the prince replied, “ she far exceeds it; but let 
 your own eyes convince you, and not my bare assertion.” The duke 
 soliciting the prince very earnestly to gratify his curiosity, they 
 went into her apartment together, when she received them with 
 great good manners and cheerfulness, being apprised of their 
 coming; and though they could not have the pleasure of conversing 
 together, as she understood little or nothing of their language, 
 yet they looked upon her, the duke more especially, as a prodigy 
 of nature, scarcely believing her to be a mortal creature; and, 
 without perceiving how much of the amorous poison he had taken 
 in by intently gazing upon her, and meaning only to gratify himself 
 with the sight of her, he soon became over head and ears in love. 
 After they had parted from her, and he had time to reflect, he began 
 to think the prince the happiest person in the universe, in being 
 
120 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 possessed of such a beauty; and, after much musing upon it, having 
 more regard to his lust than to his honour, he resolved at all 
 adventures to deprive him of that bliss, and to secure it for him¬ 
 self : and having a heart to put what he had resolved into execution, 
 setting all reason and justice aside, his mind was wholly taken up 
 in devising a fit stratagem for his purpose. One day, therefore, 
 according to a most wicked agreement, which he had made with a 
 valet de chambre belonging to the prince, whose name was Ciuriaci, 
 he gave secret orders to have his horses and things got ready for a 
 sudden departure; and the following night, taking a friend with 
 him, and being both completely armed, they were introduced by 
 that servant into the prince’s chamber, whom they found in his 
 shirt, looking out of a window towards the sea, to take the cool air, 
 the weather being very hot, whilst the lady was fast asleep. Having 
 then instructed his friend what he would have done; he went 
 softly up to the window, and stabbed him with a dagger through 
 the small of his back, and threw him out. Now the palace was 
 seated upon the sea-shore, and very lofty; and the window at 
 which the prince stood looking from, was directly over some houses, 
 which the force of the waves had beaten down, and which were but 
 little frequented ; on which account, as the duke had before con¬ 
 trived it, there was no great likelihood of its being discovered. The 
 duke’s companion when he saw that was over, took a cord which he 
 carried with him for that purpose, and seeming as if he was going 
 to caress Ciuriaci, threw it about his neck, and drew it so tight, 
 that he prevented his crying out, whilst the duke came to his 
 assistance, and they soon dispatched, and threw him down after 
 the prince. This being done, and plainly perceiving that they w*ere 
 not heard or seen by the lady, or any one else, the duke took a 
 light in his hand, and went on softly to bed, where she lay in a 
 sound sleep, and he stood beholding her for some time with the 
 utmost admiration ; and if she appeared so charming before in her 
 clothes, what was she not without them'I Not at all dismayed 
 with his late-committed sin, his hands yet reeking with blood, he 
 crept into bed to her, she taking him all the while for the prince. 
 
 After he had been with her for some time, he ordered his people 
 to seize her in such a manner, that she could make no outcry; and 
 going through the same back door at which he had been introduced, 
 he set her on horseback, and carried her away towards Athens. 
 But, as he was married, he did not choose to bring her thither, but 
 
SECOND DAY, 
 
 I 2 I 
 
 left her at one of his country seats, a little way out of town, where 
 he secretly kept her, to her great grief; allowing her, in a most 
 genteel manner, everything that was necessary. The prince’s ser¬ 
 vants waited till nine o’clock that morning, expecting his rising; 
 but hearing nothing of him, and thrusting open the chamber doors, 
 which were only closed, and finding nobody within, they concluded 
 that he and the lady were gone privately to some other place to 
 divert themselves for a few days, and therefore thought no more 
 about the matter. The next day it happened, by great chance, that 
 a fool going amongst those ruinous houses where the dead bodies 
 were lying, took hold of the cord that was about Ciuriaci’s neck, 
 and dragged him along after him: which surprised many people 
 to whom he was known ; who, by fair words and much persuasion, 
 prevailed upon the fellow to shew them where he had found him : 
 and there, to the great grief of the whole city, they saw the prince’s 
 body also, which they caused to be interred with all due pomp and 
 reverence. Inquiring afterwards who should commit so horrid a 
 deed, and perceiving that the Duke of Athens was not to be found, 
 but was gone privately away, they judged (as it really was) that he 
 had done it, and taken the lady with him. Immediately they 
 elected the prince’s brother to be their sovereign, inciting him to 
 revenge so horrid a fact, and promising to assist him to the utmost 
 of their power. He being afterwards fully assured of the truth of 
 what they had but before surmised, collected together all his 
 relations, friends, and vassals, and mustering a powerful army, 
 directed his course against the duke : who had no sooner heard of 
 these preparations, but he also levied a great army, and many 
 princes came to his relief. Amongst the rest, Constantins, son to 
 the Emperor of Constantinople, and Emanuel the nephew, attended 
 by a goodly body of troops, who were kindly received by the duke, 
 and the duchess more especially, being their sister-in-law. Things 
 tending every day more and more to a war, the duchess had them 
 both one day into her chamber, when, with abundance of tears, she 
 recounted to them the whole history and occasion of the war, and 
 the ill-usage she had received from the duke on account of this 
 woman, whom she imagined he kept privately; and complaining 
 very earnestly to them, she conjured them, for his honour, and her 
 own ease and comfort, to give her their best assistance. The two 
 young lords knew all this matter before, and therefore, without 
 asking many questions, they comforted her as well as they could, 
 
122 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 and informing themselves where the lady was kept, they took theii 
 leave. Hearing much talk of her beauty, they became very desirous 
 of seeing her, and entreated the duke to shew her to them; who> 
 never remembering what had happened to the prince, promised to 
 do so; and ordering a magnificent entertainment to be prepared in 
 a pleasant garden belonging to the palace where the lady was kept, 
 the next day he took them, and some more friends, to dine with 
 her. Constantins, being seated at the table, began, full of admi¬ 
 ration, to gaze upon her, declaring to himself that he had never 
 seen anything like her, and that the duke, or any other person, was 
 excusable, who, to possess so rare a beauty, should commit any act 
 of baseness or treason : and looking still more and more upon her, 
 and evermore commending her, it happened just to him as it had 
 done to the duke; for, going away quite enamoured of her, he had 
 given over all thoughts of the war, contriving only how to steal her 
 away from the duke, at the same time that he concealed his love 
 from every one. Whilst he was in this agitation, the time came 
 when they were to march against the prince, who was now advancing 
 near the duke’s territories : upon which the duke, with Constan- 
 tius and the rest, according to the resolution that was taken, 
 marched out of Athens to secure the frontiers, and to prevent the 
 prince’s passing any further. Contkiuing there for some days, and 
 Constantins having still the lady at heart, and concluding, now the 
 duke was absent, that he might more easily compass his intent, he, 
 that there might be a pretence for his return, feigned himself ex¬ 
 tremely sick : and, with the duke’s consent, leaving the command 
 of his troops to Emanuel, he returned to Athens to his sister’s, 
 where, after some days, having encouraged her to talk of her hus¬ 
 band’s baseness in keeping a mistress, he at last said, that if she 
 would give her consent, he would rid her of that trouble, by remov¬ 
 ing the lady out of the way. The duchess, supposing that this was 
 spoken out of pure regard to her, and not to the lady, replied, that 
 she should be very glad if it could be done in such a manner as the 
 duke should never know that she was in any way accessory ; which 
 Constantins fully promised, and she accordingly agreed that he 
 should do it as he thought most advisable. He provided, therefore, 
 with all secrecy, a light vessel, and sent it one evening near to the 
 garden where the lady was kept, having first informed some of his 
 people that were m it, what he would have them do ; and taking 
 others with him to the house, he was kindly received by the servants 
 
SECOND DAY. 
 
 123 
 
 in waiting there, and by the lady also herself, who took a walk with 
 him at his request, attended by the servants belonging to them 
 into the garden; when, drawing her aside towards a door 
 which opened to the sea, as if he had business to communicate from 
 the duke, on a signal given, the bark was brought close to the shore, 
 and she seized upon and carried into it, whilst he, turning back to 
 the people that were with her, said—“ Let no one stir or speak a 
 word at the peril of their lives; for my design is not to rob the 
 duke of his lady, but to take away the reproach of my sister.” To 
 this none being hardy enough to return an answer, Constantins, 
 boarding the vessel, bid the men ply their oars, and make the best 
 of their way, which they accordingly did, so that they reached 
 Egina by the next morning. There they landed, and reposed him¬ 
 self awhile with her, who had great reason to curse her beauty. 
 From thence they went to Chios, where, for fear of his father, and 
 to prevent her being taken away from him, he chose to abide as a 
 place of security: and though she seemed uneasy for a time, yet 
 she soon recovered, as she had done before, and became better 
 reconciled to the state of life wherein bad fortune had thrown her. 
 
 In the mean time Osbech, king of the Turks, who was constantly 
 at war with the emperor, came by chance to Smyrna, i^.nd hearing 
 how Constantins lived a lascivious life at Chios, with a mistress 
 that he had stolen, and no provision made for his safety, he went 
 privately one night with some armed vessels, and made a descent, 
 surprising many people in their beds before they knew of his com¬ 
 ing upon them, and killing all that stood upon their defence; and 
 after he had burnt and destroyed the whole country, he put the 
 prisoners and booty which he had taken on board, and returned to 
 Smyrna. Upon taking a view of the prisoners, Osbech, who was 
 a young man, saw this lady, and knowing that she was Constan- 
 tius’s mistress, because she was found asleep in his bed, he was 
 much pleased at it, and took her for his own wife, and they lived 
 together very happily for several months. Before this thing hap¬ 
 pened, the emperor had been making a treaty with Bassano, king 
 of Cappadocia, who was to fall on Osbech on one side, whilst he 
 attacked him on the other ; but they could not come to a full agree¬ 
 ment, because Bassano made a demand of some things which he 
 was unwilling to grant; yet now, hearing of what had befallen his 
 Bon, and being in the utmost concern, he immediately closed with 
 the King of Cappadocia, requesting him to march with all expedi- 
 
124 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 tion against Osbech, whilst he was preparing to invade him on his 
 part. When Osbech heard of this, he assembled his army before 
 he should be surrounded by two such mighty princes, and marched 
 on to meet the king of Cappadocia, leaving his lady behind, with 
 a faithful servant of his, at Smyrna : they soon came to a battle, 
 wherein his army was entirely routed, and himself slain. Bassano 
 remaining victorious, he proceeded on to Smyrna, the people mak¬ 
 ing their submission to him all the way as he went. But now 
 Osbech’s servant, whose name was Antiochus, who had the lady 
 in charge, although he was in years, yet seeing her so beautiful, 
 and forgetting the regard which was due to his lord, soon became 
 in love with her himself; and, as he understood her language, it 
 was a great comfort to her, because she had been forced to live for 
 some years like a deaf and dumb person, for want of understanding 
 other people, or being understood by them. This gave him great 
 advantages, and whikt his master was warring abroad, he spared 
 no pains to gain her consent, in which he succeeded: and when 
 they understood that Osbech was slain, and that Bassano carried 
 all before him, without waiting for his coming upon them, they 
 fled away privately, taking with them what belonged to Osbech of 
 any value, iLnd came to Rhodes. They had not been there long 
 before he was taken extremely ill; and having a merchant of 
 Cyprus along with him, who was his great friend, and finding him¬ 
 self at the point of death, he resolved to bequeath to him the care 
 of his lady and wealth also; and calling them both to him, he spoke 
 as follows:—“ I find myself declining apace, which grieves me 
 much, because I had never more pleasure in living than at present; 
 yet one thing is a great comfort to me, viz., that I shall die in the 
 arms of those two persons whom I love and value beyond all the 
 rest of the world; namely, in yours, my dearest friend, and in that 
 lady’s, whom I have loved, ever since I have known her, more than 
 my own life. I am uneasy, indeed, when I consider that I leave 
 her here a stranger, and destitute both of help and advice, and 
 should be infinitely more so if you were not with us, who, I know, 
 will take the same care of her, on my account, as you would of 
 myself; therefore I entreat you, in case I should die, to take my 
 affairs and her together, under your protection, and to act, with 
 regard to both, as you think will be most for the comfort of my 
 departed soul.—And you, my dearest love, let me beg of you never 
 to forget me, that I may boast, in the next world, that I have been 
 
SECOND DAY, 
 
 125 
 
 beloved by the fairest lady that ever nature formed; assure me of 
 these two things, and I shall die satisfied.” The merchant and 
 lady were both much concerned, and promised to fulfil his desires, 
 if he should chance to die; and soon afterwards he departed this 
 life, when they took care to have him decently interred; which 
 being done, and the merchant having dispatched all his affairs, and 
 wanting to return home in a Catalan ship that was there, questioned 
 the lady, to know what she intended to do, because it became neces¬ 
 sary for him to go back to Cyprus : she made answer, that she was 
 willing to go with him, hoping that, for the love he bore towards 
 his friend, he would regard her as his own sister. He replied, that 
 he was ready to oblige her in every thing; and, that he might the 
 better defend her from all injuries whatever, till they came to 
 Cyprus, she should rather call herself his wife. Being on board 
 the ship, they had a cabin and one little bed allotted them, agree¬ 
 able to the account they had given of themselves, by which means 
 that thing was brought about, which neither of them intended 
 when they came from Bhodes; for they forgot all the fine promises 
 they had made to Antiochus, and before they reached Baffa, where 
 the Cyprian merchant dwelt, they began to consider themselves as 
 man and wife. Now a certain gentleman happened to arrive at 
 Baffa about that time, on his own private affairs, whose name was 
 Antigonus, one advanced in years, and of more understanding than 
 wealth : for by meddling much in the affairs of the King of Cyprus, 
 he had found fortune very unkind to him. Passing one day by the 
 house where she lodged, the merchant being gone about his busi¬ 
 ness to Armenia, and seeing her by chance at the window, he took 
 more than ordinary notice of her, on account of her beauty; till at 
 length he began to recollect he had seen her somewhere before, but 
 could by no means remember where. She, also, who had long been 
 the sport of fortune, the time now drawing near when her sorrows 
 were to have an end, as soon as she saw Antigonus, remembered 
 that she had seen him in no mean station in her father’s service at 
 Alexandria. And having now great hopes of regaining her former 
 dignity by his advice and assistance, she took the opportunity of 
 the merchant’s absence to send for him. Being come to her, she 
 modestly asked him whether he was not Antigonus of Famagosta, 
 as she really believed. He answered, that he was, and added— 
 “ Madam, I am convinced that I know you, but I cannot call to 
 mind where it, is tha-t I have seen you; therefore, if it be no offencei 
 
126 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 let me entreat you to tell me who you are.” The lady, perceiving 
 him to be the same person, wept very much, and throwing her 
 arms about his neck, asked him, at last, as one confounded with 
 surprise, if he had never seen her at Alexandria 1 When he imme¬ 
 diately knew her to be Alathiel, the sultan’s daughter, whom they 
 supposed to have been drowned; and being about to pay homage 
 to her, she would not suffer him to do it, but made him sit down. 
 He, then, in a most humble manner, asked her where she had been, 
 and from whence she now came; because for some years it was 
 believed, through all Egypt, that she was drowned. She replied, 
 “ I had much rather it had so happened than to have led such a 
 life as I have done; and I believe my father, if he knew it, would 
 wish the same.” With these words the tears ran down her cheeks 
 in great abundance : and he replied, “ Madam, do not afflict your¬ 
 self before it is necessary to do so; tell me only what has happened 
 to you; perhaps it may be of such a nature, that, by the help of 
 God, we may find a remedy.”—“ Antigonus !” replied the fair lady, 
 “ I think when I see you that I behold my father: moved therefore 
 with the like duty and tenderness that I owe to him, I shall reveal 
 to you what I might have kept secret: there are few persons that 
 I should desire to meet with sooner than yourself to advise me; if, 
 therefore, when you have heard my whole story, you think there 
 is any probability of restoring me to my former dignity, I must 
 beg your assistance : if you think there is none, then I conjure you 
 to tell no person living that you have either seen or heard anything 
 about me.” After which, shedding abundance of tears during the 
 whole relation, she gave a full account of what had befallen her, 
 from the time of her shipwreck to that very hour. Antigonus 
 shewed himself truly concerned at what he had heard, and (think¬ 
 ing some little time about it) he said to her—“ Madam, since it has 
 never been known, in all your misfortunes, who you were, I will 
 restore you to your father, to whom you shall be more dear than 
 ever, and afterwards you shall be married to the King of Algarve.” 
 She inquiring how that could be brought about, he let her know 
 in what manner he intended to do it. Therefore, that no delay 
 might intervene to prevent it, he returned directly to Famagosta, 
 and waiting upon the king, he thus addressed him :—“ My liege, 
 you may, if you please, do great honour to yourself, and service to 
 me, who am impoverished on your account, and without any ex¬ 
 pense.” The king desiring to know by what means, Antigonus 
 
SECOND DA Y. 
 
 127 
 
 thus answered :—“ A young lady is just come to Baffa, daughter to 
 the sultan, who was generally thought to have been drowned, and 
 who, to preserve her honour, hath undergone great calamities, and 
 is now reduced, and desirous of returning to her father: if, there¬ 
 fore, you will be so good as to send her home under my conduct, 
 it will redound greatly to your honour, and prove much to my ad¬ 
 vantage, nor can the sultan ever forget the favour.” The king, 
 moved by a truly royal spirit, replied, that he was well pleased 
 with the proposal, and immediately sent in great state for her to 
 Famagosta, where she was received with all honour and respect, 
 both by him and the queen; and being questioned by them con¬ 
 cerning her misfortunes, she made such answers as she had been 
 before taught by Antigonus. 
 
 In a few days afterwards, at her own request, she was sent with 
 a great retinue both of lords and ladies, and conducted all the way 
 by Antigonus, to the sultan’s court; where, with what joy they 
 were all received, it is needless here to mention. When they had 
 rested awhile after their journey, the sultan became desirous to 
 know how it happened that she was now living, and where she had 
 been all this time, without his being ‘"ver able to hear a word about 
 her. When she, who had all Antigonus’s lectures perfectly by heart, 
 gave her father the following narration : “ Sir, about twenty days 
 after my departure from you, our ship was split in the night by a 
 violent tempest, and driven on the western coasts; nor did I ever 
 learn what befel the men that were in it: I only remember this, 
 that when day-light appeared, and I seemed recovered, as it were, 
 from death to life, certain peasants of the country spying the ship’s 
 wreck, came to plunder it; whilst I was carried first on shore, with 
 two of my women, who were immediately borne away by some 
 young fellows, and taken different ways, so that I could never 
 learn what became of either of them. I also was seized by two of 
 them, making the best defence I could; and as they were draggmg 
 me towards the wood by the hair of my head, four persons on horse¬ 
 back came riding by, when they immediately left me and fled. 
 But the gentlemen on horseback, who appeared to possess some 
 authority, came to me, and we spoke to each other, without know 
 ing what either of us said. At last, after conferring together, they 
 set me upon one of their horses, and carried me to a monastery of 
 religious women, according to their laws, where I was received 
 with great honour and respect. And after I had been there for 
 
128 
 
 THE DECAMERON 
 
 some time, and learnt a little of their language, they began to in¬ 
 quire of me who I was, and from whence I came ; whilst I (fearful of 
 telling the truth, lest they should have turned me out as an enemy 
 to their religion) made them believe that I was daughter to a gentle¬ 
 man of Cyprus, who sending me to be married to one of Crete, we 
 happened to be driven thither by ill weather, and shipwrecked. 
 Conforming to their customs in many things, for fear of the worst, 
 I was asked, at length, by the chief among them, whom they call 
 Lady Abbess, whether I desired to return to Cyprus; and I an¬ 
 swered, that I desired nothing more. But she, tender of my honour, 
 would never trust me with any persons that were going to Cyprus, 
 till about two months ago, certain French gentlemen with their 
 ladies came this way, one of whom was related to the abbess; who, 
 understanding that they were going to visit the holy sepulchre at 
 Jerusalem, where he, whom they believe to be God, was buried, 
 after he had been put to death by the Jews, recommended me to 
 them, and desired that they would deliver me to my father at 
 C3q)rus. What respect and civilities I received both from the 
 gentlemen and their ladies, would be needless to mention. Accord¬ 
 ingly we went on ship-board, and came in a few days to Baffa, 
 where, when I saw myself arrived, a stranger to every person, nor 
 knowing what to say to these gentlemen, who were to present me 
 to my father; behold (by the great providence of God), whom 
 should I meet with upon the shore, but Antigonus, the very mo¬ 
 ment we were landed. I called to him in our language (that none 
 of them might understand us) and desired him to own me as his 
 daughter. He easily understood my meaning, and shewing great 
 tokens of joy, entertained them as well as his narrow circumstances 
 would allow, and brought me to the King of Cyprus, who received 
 and sent me hither, with such marks of respect as I am no way 
 able to relate : if there be any thing omitted in this relation, Anti¬ 
 gonus, who has often heard the whole from me, will report it.’’ 
 Antigonus then turning to the sultan, said, “ My lord, according 
 both to her own account, and the information of the gentlemen and 
 their wives, she has said nothing but truth. One part only she has 
 omitted, as not suiting with her great modesty to report, namely, 
 what the gentlemen and their ladies told me, of the most virtuous 
 life that she had led amongst those religious women, and their great 
 concern at parting; which, if I were fully to recount to you, would 
 take up both this day and night too. Let it sufhce then that I 
 
SECOND DA Y. 
 
 have said enough (according to what I could both hear and see) to 
 convince you that you have the fairest, as well as the most virtuous 
 daughter of any prince in the world.” The sultan was overjoyed 
 with this relation; begging over and over, that God would pour 
 down his blessipgs on all who had shewed favour to his daughter ; 
 and particularly the King of Cyprus, who had sent her home so 
 respectfully: and having bestowed great gifts upon Antigonus, he 
 gave him leave to return to Cyprus; sending letters, as also » 
 special ambassador to the king, to thank him on her account. And 
 now, desiring that what he had formerly proposed should take 
 effect; namely, that she should be married to the King of Algarve; 
 he wrote to give him a full relation of the whole matter; adding, 
 that he should send for her, if he desired the match to proceed. 
 The king was much pleased with the news, and sent in great state, 
 and received her as his queen: whilst she, who had passed through 
 the hands of eight men, now came to him as a pure virgin, and 
 lived happily with him the rest of their lives. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL VIII. 
 
 The Count d* Anglers^ being falsely accused, was banished from France, and 
 left his two children in different ■parts of England. Returning afterwords 
 privately out of Ireland, he found them settled in great repute; from 
 tlMince he goes as a common servant into the King of France^ army, 
 ‘ind his innocence being made public at last, he is restored to his former 
 dignity. 
 
 HE ladies sighed very much upon hearing the various acci- 
 jdents that had befallen the fair lady; but who can say 
 what it was that gave occasion to those sighs % Perhaps 
 there were some ladies present who sighed more because they had 
 not been so often married as she, than out of any pity for the poor 
 woman. But be that as it will, having laughed much at Pam- 
 philus’s conclusion, and the queen perceiving the story to be now 
 at an end, laid her next charge upon Eliza, who began in this 
 manner:— 
 
 We have chosen a most spacious field for the subject of this day; 
 nor is there a person among us who could not run ten courses as 
 well as one: so copious are the great and wonderful changes cf 
 fortune ! And, therefore, amongst such an infinity of things, as J 
 vijn to recount one, let it be as follows : 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 When the Roman empire was translated from the French to the 
 Germans, an utter enmity and continued war arose between the two 
 nations : wherefore the King of France and his son, as well for the 
 defence of their own kingdom, as the annoyance of their adver¬ 
 saries, raised a great and powerful army, consisting of all their 
 kindred and allies, besides the force of their own kingdom, to go 
 against the enemy. But before they set out upon their expedition, 
 they chose not to leave the state without a governor; and knowing 
 Gualtier, count d’Angiers, to be a wise and worthy person, and one 
 entirely devoted to their interests, and also expert in military 
 affairs, although he seemed rather designed for a life of ease and 
 inactivity than martial toils, they made him viceroy during their 
 absence, and then set forwards on their expedition. The count 
 began to execute his office with all due conduct and discretion, on 
 all occasions, with the queen and her daughter-in-law ; and honour¬ 
 ing them as his mistresses and superiors, although they were left 
 subject to his guidance and authority. Now he had a very graceful 
 person, was about forty years of age, and as good-natured and 
 agreeable as man could be ; nor could the world shew a more com¬ 
 plete gentleman in all respects than himself. Whilst the king 
 therefore and his son were employed in the above-mentioned war, 
 it happened, that Gualtier’s lady dying, and leaving him two 
 children, a boy and a girl, and he being much at the ladies’ court, 
 consulting with them on the affairs of the kingdom, that the king’s 
 son’s wife cast her eyes upon him, and in regard both to his person 
 and virtue became secretly in love. Considering herself to be 
 young, and he now a widower, she concluded that her desires would 
 be more readily gratified, and that nothing obstructed it but the 
 shame of making the discovery, which she soon overcame. Being 
 one day alone, and thinking it a fit opportunity, she sent for him, 
 under pretence of other business. The count, whose thoughts were 
 quite different, came immediately to her, and sitting down together 
 upon a couch, he inquired the reason of her sending for him at that 
 time; she, after some silence, incited at length by her passion, 
 trembling also, and blushing with extreme shame, with words 
 broken and confused, declared her mind in this manner : “ My 
 dear lord and friend, it cannot have escaped your most acute judg¬ 
 ment, how great the frailty is of both the sexes, and for diverse 
 reasons, of one more than the other: therefore the very same offence, * 
 before an equitable judge, will be differently punished according to 
 
SECOND DA Y. 
 
 » 3 » 
 
 the different quality of the offenders. Besides, who will not say 
 that a poor man or woman, who have no other subsistence but what 
 they earn by their daily labour, are not more blamable, should 
 they be seduced and carried away by love, than a lady of w^ealth 
 and leisure, who has nothing to think of but how to divert and 
 please herself % Every one must allow it: this will be a sufficient 
 excuse, therefore, in such a case, for a lady who gives way to such 
 a passion, supposing her, at the same time, to make choice of a wise 
 and worthy person on whom she fixes her affection. These circum¬ 
 stances, thus concurring in myself, not to mention my youth, and 
 the absence of my husband, plead strongly in my behalf, and, it 
 they have their due weight with you, I may expect that ;^ou will 
 afford me that advice and assistance I now require from you. 1 
 must confess, that, not being able, on account of my husband’s 
 distance from me, to resist my most earnest desires, living also a 
 life of ease and indolence, as you see, I have suffered myself to be 
 quite led aside by them ; which, though it would redound but little 
 to my credit should it be known, yet, so long as it is a secret betw'een 
 us, there can be no room for reproach, and let me tell you, that love 
 has been so gracious to me, that far from taking away my under¬ 
 standing, it has rather enlightened it, by presenting you to me as 
 an object worthy of my affection ; a person whom I esteem as the 
 most accomplished nobleman this day in France, and one at present 
 without a wife, as I am a husband : wherefore I entreat you, by the 
 tender regard I have for you, that you would vouchsafe to show the 
 came towards me, and pity my youth, which consumes for your 
 sake, even as ice melts before the fire.” At these words the tears 
 poured down her cheeks so fast, that she was prevented from saying 
 any thing farther ; therefore, hanging down her head, and overcome 
 as it were with her lamentation, she reclined at length upon his 
 bosom. The count being a person of the strictest honour, began to 
 reprimand her fond and idle love; and when she would have 
 thrown her arms round his neck, he pushed her from him, protesting 
 that he would be cut in pieces before he would so wrong his lore 
 and master himself, or suffer others to do it. The lady hearing 
 this, forgot the love she had for him, and in a most vehement rage 
 exclaimed, “ Villain as thou art, and shall my request be despised 
 by thee in this manner ] As thou desirest to make me suffer, know 
 that I will either cause thy death, or f orce thee to leave thy country.’ 
 And with these words, tearing all her hair and clothes, she cried 
 
 9—2 
 
132 
 
 THE DECAM&RON. 
 
 out, most violently, “ Help ! help ! the Count d’Angiers is about tc 
 offer violence/’ He, seeing this, and fearing more from the envy 
 of the court than his own conscience, supposing also that more 
 credit would be given to her wicked story than his innocence, 
 hastened out of the chamber as fast as he could, and fled to his own 
 house, when, without delay, he set his children on horseback, and 
 made the best of his way to Calais. Upon the clamour of the lady 
 many flocked thither, who, seeing her in that condition, and hearing 
 the cause of her outcry, not only believed what she told them, but 
 concluded that the count’s genteel behaviour and assiduity at court 
 were merely to effect this purpose ; they ran therefore in the utmost 
 fury to his house to seize him, and not finding him there they 
 stripped it of everything of value, and pulled it down to the ground. 
 
 This disagreeable news soon reached the ears of the king and 
 prince in the camp, who, being greatly disturbed at it, sentenced 
 him and all his descendants to perpetual banishment, ofl'ering a 
 great reward to that person who should bring him either dead or 
 alive. The Count, uneasy that by the flight he had incurred the 
 imputation of guilt, arrived at Calais with his children, without 
 making himself known to any person; from whence he went 
 directly for England, and came to London in mean apparel, 
 having by the way taught his children these two things ; first, to 
 bear their misfortunes patiently, to which fortune had reduced 
 them without any fault of theirs : and in the second place, to be 
 exceedingly cautious never to reveal from whence they came, or 
 whom they belonged to, if they had the least regard for his life. 
 His son, named Lewis, was about nine years of age, and his 
 daughter Violante seven; and they both attended more to their 
 father’s admonition than could have been expected from their 
 youth, as will appear by the sequel. Thinking it best for their 
 greater security to change their names, he called the boy therefore 
 Pierrot, and the girl Jeannette, and then went like common 
 French beggars about the city asking charity. Now it happened, 
 that, as they were waiting at a church door one morning, a certain 
 great lady, who was wife to one of the king’s principal officers of 
 state, cast her eyes upon them, and asked him where they came 
 from, and whether those were his children 1 He replied, that he 
 came from Picardy, and that the misbehaviour of his eldest son, 
 who proved a very unhappy young man had obliged him to quit 
 his country, with these two other children. The lady, who was 
 
SECOND DA Y. 
 
 133 
 
 A compassionate temper, was pleased with the looks of the girl, 
 and she said to him, Honest man, if thou be content to leave thy 
 daughter with me, I like her countenance so much, that I would 
 willingly take her; and if she behave well, I will in due time 
 provide her a husband, so that she shall live comfortably all her 
 life.” He was rejoiced at the offer, and with tears in his eyes 
 resigned the child up to the lady, recommending her to her in a 
 most affectionate manner. Thus having disposed of his daughter, 
 and well knowing to whom, he resolved to stay there no longer, 
 but going across the island, begging all the way, and his son along 
 with him, not without the utmost fatigue, being not used to travel 
 on foot, he came at length into Wales, where dwelt another great 
 lord, an officer also and servant of the king, to whose palace, 
 which afforded rehef to all, they repaired for support: there it 
 happened, that the lord’s son and some other young noblemen 
 were diverting themselves with running, leaping, and some other 
 youthful exercises; and Pierrot, making one among them, outdid 
 them all in every sport. Which when the nobleman perceived, he 
 was mightily pleased with him, and inquired whom he belonged 
 to; and it being told him that he was a poor man’s son, who 
 came there to beg alms, the lord requested that he would give him 
 to him. The count, who desired nothing so much, freely consented, 
 though their parting was a little grievous; and having now 
 provided for both his children, he determined to stay no longer in 
 England, but, as soon as he had an opportunity, he passed into 
 Ireland, and came to Stanford, where he hired himself to a certain 
 knight, who belonged to the retinue of an earl in that county, and 
 did the duty of a common servant for many years. In the mean 
 time Violante, now called Jeannette, who continued with the 
 lady at London, increased in beauty, and every other accomplish¬ 
 ment, as well as in stature ; insomuch that she became the delight 
 both of the lord and lady, as well as of every one that knew her; 
 whilst the lady, who had no other notion of her quality than what 
 she had received from herself, was thinking of marrying her 
 according to her supposed rank; when it pleased God, the just 
 rewarder of people’s merits, seeing that she was nobly born, and 
 punished only for other people’s wickedness, to order it otherwise. 
 The lady had an only son by her lord, of whom they were both 
 exceedingly fond, and deservedly so, on account of his excellent 
 <lisposition and character; who, being about six years older than 
 
m 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 Jeannette, and beholding her extraordinary beauty and merit, wai^ 
 so much in love, that he cared for no other woman. Supposing, 
 however, that she was of low extraction, he was afraid to demand 
 her of his father and mother, and, through fear of being repri¬ 
 manded for placing his affections so low, he kept it smothered in 
 his breast; for which reason it preyed more upon him than if he 
 had divulged it, till at length he fell ii to a grievous fit of sickness. 
 Hereupon several physicians were sen for, who had regard to one 
 symptom after another, till, not being able to make out what his 
 disorder was, they gave him over. This occasioned the utmost 
 affliction both to his father and mother, who were continually 
 requesting him to tell them the secret cause of his malady; to 
 which he either made no answer brit by sighs, or else that he 
 found himself continually wasting. 
 
 Now one day it happened that a certain young physician, though 
 profound in science, was sitting by his bedside, and feeling his 
 pulse, when Jeannette, who attended carefully upon him, out of 
 respect to his mother, chanced to come at that very instant into 
 the room; upon seeing her the young gentleman, without uttering 
 a word, or making one sign, conceiv d more strongly in his heart 
 the passion of love, when his pulse began to beat higher than usual, 
 which the physician soon perceived and, being surprised, kept his 
 fingers some time upon it, to see how long that difference would 
 last. As she went out of the room again it abated; wherefore, 
 thinking that he had now found out in some measure what the 
 disorder was, pretending, also, as if he wanted to speak to Jeannette, 
 and still holding him by the hand, he had her called back: she 
 returned instantly, when the pulse beat as before, which ceased at 
 her departure. The physician, now fully satisfied, got up, and 
 taking the father and mother apart, he spoke in this manner to 
 them :—“ The welfare of your son is not in the power of the phy¬ 
 sicians, but it lies in the hands cf Jeannette, whom I find, by cer¬ 
 tain tokens, that he is desperately in love with ; although, by what 
 I can perceive, she knows nothing of it. You see now what you 
 have to do, if you value his life.” The lord and lady were well 
 enough pleased to hear there was one way to save their son’s life, 
 though the fear of being obliged to do what they most dreaded 
 gave them concern; namely, their marrying Her to Him; therefore, 
 after the physician was departed, they went together to their son, 
 when the lady said to him as follows :—“ I coula never have b^^ 
 
SECOND DA Y. 
 
 I3S 
 
 lieved, my dear, that you would have concealed any of your wants 
 from me, especially since your not being gratified in that respect 
 has been attended with such evil consequences; for you might 
 have been confident, as you may still, that there is nothing which 
 I would not do for your ease and welfare, as much as for my own. 
 But since you have done so, God has been more merciful to you 
 than you would be to yourself; for I know now that it is all occa¬ 
 sioned by love, whoever the person is : and why should you have 
 been ashamed to tell me ? It is natural to one of your age; and 
 were you a stranger to love, I should think you of little worth.— 
 Then lay yourself open to me, and cast away all that drooping and 
 melancholy, which has brought this disorder upon you, assuring 
 yourself, that there is nothing you can desire of me, wherein I will 
 not gratify you to the utmost of my ability, for I love you as dearly 
 as my own life. Away, then, with this bashfulness, and tell me 
 plainly if I can be of service with regard to this love of yours; and 
 if you find me not in earnest, then believe me to be the crudest of 
 mothers.^’ The young gentleman changed colour at hearing these 
 words; but considering afterwards that none could sooner serve 
 him than his mother, he spoke, without the least reserve, to this 
 effect s Madam, nothing has made me keep my love a secret so 
 much as what I have observed in many people, when they grow 
 into years; they forget that they ever were young : but now I find 
 you considerate in that point, 1 shall not only confess your sus¬ 
 picion to be true, but will also name the person to you, provided 
 you will, according to promise, use your best endeavours in my 
 behalf; and by that means you may save my life.” The lady, 
 thinking to serve him in a different manner from what he himself 
 intended, bade him speak out, and she would endeavour that he 
 should have his will. He then replied :—“ Madam, the beautiful 
 and agreeable behaviour of Jeannette, and her not pitying me, or 
 being even sensible how much I love her, which I have yet revealed 
 to no person living, have brought me to this condition. If there¬ 
 fore you make not your word good to me, you may depend upon it 
 my life is short.” She, thinking it a more proper time to comfort than 
 reprove him, said, with a smile, “ And have you then languished 
 so long for this 1 Have a good heart, and when you grow better 
 leave the matter to me.” The young spark, full of hopes, began 
 now to shew speedy symptoms of amendment, to the mother’s great 
 comfort, who was contriving how to perform her promise; and one 
 
136 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 day, calling Jeannette to her, she began by way of discourse, to 
 ask her if she ever had a sweethearts She blushed, and replied, 
 “ Madam, it ill becomes a poor young woman like myself, who is 
 driven from her own house, and subject to other people’s will and 
 pleasure, to think of love.” ' She then rejoined : “ If you have no 
 lover, I will procure one for you, that you may live with some 
 comfort; for so pretty a girl as you are should never be without.” 
 Jeannette said, “Madam, as you have taken me from my father, 
 and brought me up like your own child, I am obliged to do all in 
 my power to please you : but in this particular, I think I am in the 
 right not to do it. If you mean to give me a husband, him I shall 
 respect, but no one else. For, of all that my ancestors possessed, 
 there is nothing now remaining to me but their virtue, and this 1 
 intend to keep as long as I live.” This was quite contrary to her 
 intention, as to the promise she had made her son; though, like 
 a prudent lady, she seemed to commend her for it, and said, “ But 
 if the king, who is young, should have a fancy for you, would you 
 deny him T She immediately replied. His majesty might use force, 
 but he should never have her consent, but upon terms of honour. 
 The lady, seeing what her resolution was, said no more, but re¬ 
 solved to put her to the proof; saying to her son, that, when he 
 got well, she would put them into a room together, and he might 
 do with her as he pleased; for it was performing a base office for 
 her to proceed any farther in that way for him. This was by no 
 ^.i»3ans pleasing to the young gentleman, who relapsed immediately 
 upon it: which the lady perceiving, she laid open her intention to 
 Jeannette, and found her more resolute than ever. Her husband 
 being made acquainted with the whole matter, it was agreed by 
 them (though much against their inclinations), that he should 
 marry her; preferring their son’s Kfe, with a wife much beneath 
 him, to his death without one. This was soon put in execution to 
 Jeannette’s great joy; who gave thanks to Heaven for its mercy 
 vouchsafed towards her; but all the while she would make no other 
 discovery of herself, than that she was daughter to a person in 
 Picardy. They lived afterwards very happily together. Let us 
 now return to Pierrot, whom we left in Wales with a great officer 
 belonging to the king of England : he grew much in favour with 
 his lord, and being graceful and manly in person, and more expert 
 at all militarj’^ exercises than any one in the country, was known 
 “^very where by the name of Pierrot the Picard; and as God had 
 
SECOND DA Y. 
 
 *37 
 
 been gracious to his sister, so was he no less kind and merciful to 
 him; for the plague happened to break out in that country, which 
 swept away half the people, and a great part of those w’ho were 
 left had fled for refuge into other lands, so that the nation appeared 
 quite desolate. In this mortality, the lord and lady, with their 
 son, brethren, and nephews, and near relations, all died, and there 
 was none of the family left besides an only daughter, just of age 
 to marry, and a few servants. As soon as the plague w'as over, 
 she took him for her husband, on account of his extraordinary 
 merit, and made him lord of all her inheritance. And it was not 
 long before the king of England, hearing of the late lord’s death, 
 and knowing Pierrot’s worth and valour, substituted him in his 
 place, and gave him the same power and command. Such was the 
 fate of^the two innocent children of the Count dAngiers, whom 
 he had left destitute. 
 
 It was now eighteen years since he came from Paris, and having 
 suffered great hardship during his abode in Ireland, and as he was 
 at present grown old, he was willing to know what was become of 
 his children. Being quite altered as to his person, and finding 
 himself more robust and active than in his youth, which he had 
 spent in ease and indolence; he left the service where he had been 
 for so long a time, and set forward in a mean dress for England : 
 coming, therefore, to the place where he had left Pierrot, he found 
 him to be a great and mighty lord, and in perfect health, which gave 
 him the utmost satisfaction; but yet he was resolved not to discover 
 himself, till he should know what was become of Jeannette. Travel¬ 
 ling still on for London, and inquiring cautiously there concerning 
 the lady with whom he had left his daughter, he discovered that 
 Jeannette was married to her son, which pleased him infinitely, 
 esteeming all his past sufferings as nothing, since he had found 
 both his children alive and in prosperity. Desirous now of seeing 
 her, he repaired to the house like a poor man, and being taken 
 notice of by James Lamiens (for that was the husband’s name), 
 he had pity on him, and ordered one of his servants to give him 
 relief. Jeannette had several children by him, the eldest of whom 
 was about eight years old, all very beautiful; and seeing the count 
 begin to eat, they came about him, and were as much pleased with 
 him, as if by some secret instinct they had known him to be their 
 grandfather; whilst he, knowing them to be his grandchildren, 
 shewed a thousana little fondnesses towards them, which made 
 
138 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 them unwilling to leave him, when their governor would have 
 called them away. On hearing this, Jeannette came out of her 
 chamber, and threatened to whip them, if they would not obey 
 their master; this set the children a crying, and they said, they had 
 much rather stay with the honest man who loved them better than 
 their master did; which made the lady and count both laugh 
 heartily. He arose, not as a father, but like a poor man, to pay 
 reverence to his daughter, as to a great lady; feeling great pleasure 
 at the sight of her, whilst she had not the least knowledge of him: 
 so much was he altered, having grey hairs, a long beard, and a black 
 and meagre countenance, that he was nothing like the same per¬ 
 son. The lady, now seeing how unwilling the children were to go 
 away, ordered their master to let them stay a little. In the mean 
 time, her husband's father came home, and being told this circum¬ 
 stance by the master, and holding her always in great contempt, 
 he said, “ Let them stay with a mischief to them ! they only show 
 from whence they are descended; they are beggars by the mother’s 
 side, therefore no wonder that they herd with beggars.” The count 
 was much grieved at hearing these words, but was forced to bear 
 this injury, as he had done many others. The lady’s husband had 
 taken notice all this time of the children’s fondness towards the 
 count, and was uneasy at it; yet so tender was he of them, that 
 rather than make them uneasy, he gave orders that if the honest 
 man was willing to stay in his service, he should be received. He 
 replied, that he should be glad of it, but was only able to look after 
 horses, which he had been used to all his life. He had a horse 
 assigned him, therefore, to take care of, and when his business was 
 over, he used to play with the children. Whilst fortune had thus 
 disposed of the Count d’Angiers and his children, it came to pass, 
 that, after making many treaties with the Germans, the King of 
 France died, and was succeeded by that son, whose wife had occa¬ 
 sioned the count’s banishment; and the last truce being now 
 expired, a bloody war broke out afresh, when the King of England, 
 who was his kinsman, sent him large supplies of people, under the 
 command of Pierrot, one of his generals, and James Lamiens, son 
 to another of his generals, with whom went the count as a servant- 
 when he did more service, both by his valour and good counsel, than 
 was expected from him. In the course of the war, the Queen of 
 France chanced to be taken ill, and finding herself past all hopes 
 of recovery, made a confession of aU her sins to the Archoishop 
 
SECOND DAY. 
 
 159 
 
 I 
 
 [ of Rouen, esteemed by all as a most holy person: and, amongst 
 other things, she mentioned the great wrong she had done to the 
 Count d’Angiers ; nor was she content with speaking this to him 
 only, but she also declared it before many other worthy persons ; 
 desiring their intercession with the king, that, if he or his children 
 were any of them Kving, they might be restored to their former 
 
 i condition : soon after this she died, and was honourably interred. 
 This confession being reported to the king, after much concern for 
 the injury done to so great a man, he issued out a proclamation, 
 that if any person could give tidings of the count, or his children, 
 they should be well rewarded, since the queen had declared him in- 
 
 I nocent of the crime for which he had fled his country; and that his 
 majesty meant to exalt him to the same, or even greater, honours 
 than he had before. When the count heard this, he went imme¬ 
 diately to James Lamiens, and desired him to go along with him 
 to Pierrot; saying, he would then shew them what the king de¬ 
 sired. Being all met together, the count declared to Pierrot that 
 he was now resolved to discover himseK; for, “ Pierrot,” says he, 
 “James Lamiens,who is here present, has married your sister,and 
 has had no fortune with her : therefore I intend that he shall have 
 
 I the benefit of the king’s proclamation, both for yourself, as son to 
 Count d’Angiers, for Violante your sister and his wife, lastly for 
 myself, wLo am the Count d’Angiers and your father.” 
 
 Pierrot, hearing this, and looking steadfastly upon him, soon 
 called him to mind, and fell down with tears at his feet: whilst 
 James Lamiens was surprised with so much wonder and joy 
 together, that he scarcely knew what to say ; and blushing for the 
 
 I little respect he had shewed him, he humbly asked pardon, which 
 the count readily granted: and when they had talked over their 
 several fortunes, sometimes in tears, and then again in joy, they 
 would have had him put on suitable apparel, which he would by 
 no means consent to, being desirous that James Lamiens should 
 first secure the reward, and, by presenting him in that garb, make 
 the shame for his ill usage so much the greater. J ames hereupon 
 went with the count and Pie rot before the king, offering for the 
 promised reward to produce both the count and his children. The 
 king then ordered a most magnificent present to be brought, telling 
 him it was his own upon thos conditions. J ames then stepped 
 back a little, and presented the count as his servant, and Pierrot, 
 saying, “ Behold, sir, the father and sou ; as for the daughter, she 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 t 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
140 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 is my wife; but with the leave of Heaven, you shall see her before 
 it is long/’ The king, on hearing this, looked earnestly at the 
 count, and, notwithstanding his being so much changed, soon called 
 him to mind, and, with tears in his eyes, raised him from the ground, 
 on which he was kneeling, and kissed and shook him bj’' the hand ; 
 he welcomed Pierrot also in a most friendly manner; and ordered 
 that the count should have clothes, servants, horses, and every thing 
 suitable to his quality, which was accordingly done. The king 
 showed great respect also to James Lamiens, and inquired particu¬ 
 larly about every thing that had befallen them : to whom, after he 
 had received the reward for making the discovery, the count said : 
 “Receive this royal bounty at the hands of his majesty, and re¬ 
 member to tell your father, that your children and my grandchildren 
 are not meanly descended with regard to their mother.” James 
 received the presents, and sent for his wife and mother to Paris; and 
 Pierrot also brought his lady, and they were received by the king, 
 along with the count, with the utmost joy, who restored them all 
 they had lost, with large additions of fortune. They had afterwards 
 permission to return home, leaving the count at Paris, where he 
 continued to his dying day in more repute and glory than ever. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL IX. 
 
 Bernard of Genoa is imposed upon by one Amh'ose, loses his money, and 
 orders his wife, who is quite innocent, to he put to death. She makes her 
 escape, and goes in man's dress into the service of the Sultan ; there she 
 meets with the deceiver; and, sending for her husband to Alexandria, has 
 him punished; she then resumes her former habit, and returns with her 
 husband rich to Genoa. 
 
 B l I/IZA having discharged her duty by the last moving story, 
 3 the queen, who was of a most graceful person, taking the 
 next turn upon herself, spoke with a smile to this eftect:— 
 We must make good our agreement with Dioneus; and there¬ 
 fore, as only he and I remain to speak, I shall begin with my story, 
 and leave him to the last, as he has desired. It is a common saying, 
 that the deceiver lies at the mercy of the deceived : which I think 
 can only be proved true by circumstances of that kind, which have 
 happened in the world ; this then I propose to shew you, hoping a 
 relation of this sort will not be disagreeable, to the end you may be 
 upon your guard against such as would deceive you. 
 
 There happened together in an inn at Paris some Italian mer- 
 
SECOND DA >. 
 
 141 
 
 chants, who had come thither upon their different occasions, and 
 meeting at supper one night, and conversing merrily of one thing 
 after another, they came at last to talk of their wives, whom they 
 had left behind them: when one of them said, in a jesting way, 
 “ I do not know what my wife does with herself, but I am sure if I 
 meet with anything that pleases me, I forget my love for her, and 
 make use of the opportunity.”—“And so do I,” quoth another; 
 “ for whether I believe it or not, my wife will do as she pleases.” 
 A third was of the same opinion, and all seemed to agree that their 
 wives at home lost no time in their absence. Only one man among 
 them all, named Bernard Lomellin, of Genoa, avowed the contrary; 
 declaring that he had a wife, in whom were centred all the virtues 
 that could adorn either sex : that she was young and beautiful in 
 her person; that she was mistress of her needle; that no man¬ 
 servant waited with more dexterity at his master’s table, than he 
 was served by her, she being thoroughly discreet and well bred : 
 that, besides her skill in horsemanship, and the management of a 
 hawk, there was no merchant understood accounts better: and 
 coming at length to what began the dispute, he declared, with an 
 oath, that no woman upon earth could be more virtuous and chaste 
 than she was ; for he firmly believed, where he to be absent from 
 her ten years, she would have to do with no other person. Amongst 
 the merchants who had been talking upon this subject, was a young 
 fellow called Ambrose of Piacenza, who made the greatest jest in 
 the world of what Bernard said last in praise of his wife, asking 
 him, whether the emperor had given him this privilege, exclusive 
 of the rest of mankind i Bernard, a little agitated, said, not the 
 emperor, but God Almighty, who was something more powerful 
 than the emperor, had bestowed this favour upon him. Ambrose 
 replied, “ I make not the least doubt, but that you think you speak 
 truth: but in my opinion, you have not enough considered the 
 nature of things: for if you had, I do not believe your understanding 
 80 mean not to find many reasons to make you think more coolly of 
 the matter. Wherefore, that you may not imagine that we, who 
 have spoken so much at large concerning our wives, suppose them 
 of a different make from yours, but that we have, merely, regard 
 to the natural propensity of all, I shall beg leave to reason a little 
 with you upon this subject. I have always understood, that man 
 is the most noble of God’s creatures, and that woman is in the next 
 degree to him : now as man is allowed to be *nore perfect, he must 
 
1^2 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 consequently have more resolution and constancy. In like manner, 
 women are always more wavering and fickle, as T could shew by 
 several reasons, which I shall omit at present. If therefore man, 
 who is allowed to have the most stability, cannot (I will not say 
 resist a woman, that should entreat him) but even desire, and do 
 all that lies in his power, to get into the company of a woman that 
 he likes, and this not once in a month, but a thousand times every 
 day, what can you think a woman, naturally weak, can do against 
 the entreaties, flatteries, gifts, and a thousand other means, which 
 an artful lover knows how to use^ Do you think she can resist 1 
 Affirm it as you will, I can never think you in earnest. You say 
 your wife is flesh and blood, and therefore subject to the same 
 desires with other women ; and her strength to resist those desires 
 must be the same : be she then e'«'^T so virtuous, it is possible for 
 her to do like other women ; and if it be possible, you should never 
 have denied it in that positive manner, and maintained the con¬ 
 trary, as you have done.’^ 
 
 Bernard replied, and said, “ I am a merchant, and not a philoso¬ 
 pher, and shall answer you as such; I tell you, therefore, that 
 what you say, may be the case of women of little understanding, 
 and who have no sense of shame ; but such as are wise have that 
 regard for their honour, that they become more firm than men, 
 who are not so tender in that point; and such an one is my wife.” 
 —“Truly,” said Ambrose, “if for every fault of this kind they 
 were to have a horn spring out of their foreheads, to bear testimony 
 against them, I believe few would be guilty; but so far from 
 having a horn grow, if they be wise, there is nothing to make the 
 least discovery; and as shame and loss of character happen only 
 when things are made public, therefore what they can accomplish 
 in secret, they rarely fail to do : or, if they abstain, it is through 
 their folly. Take this then for a rule—that woman only is chaste 
 who has never been asked ; or she who herself has asked and been 
 refused. And though I am convinced of this by natural and just 
 reasons, yet I should not speak as I do, if I had not tried the 
 humours and affections of many different women. Let me also 
 tell you, that if I was in company with your most virtuous wife, I 
 should not doubt my obtaining the same favour from her, that I 
 have gained from many others.” Bernard was provoked at this, 
 and said, “ There is no end of disputing; you assert and I assert, 
 which is all nothing: but since you say they are so easily warped. 
 
SECOND DAY, 
 
 £43 
 
 and have such an opinion of your own power that way; to 
 convince you of my wife’s virtue. I will forfeit my head, if you 
 ever bring her to a compliance, upon condition, that, if you 
 should not prevail over her, you only lose a thousand florins of 
 gold.” Ambrose»replied, with a good deal of warmth, “ What 
 service will your life be to me, if I should win it 1 But if you 
 have a mind to put the thing to the trial, deposit five thousand 
 florins, which are of less value than your life, against one thousand 
 of mine; and as you fix no time, I will oblige myself to go to 
 Genoa, and in less than three months, from the day of my 
 departure, to gain my will of your wife, and to bring such tokens 
 of that back with me, as you yourself shall confess to be just; 
 provided you will give me your word, that you will neither come 
 to Genoa in that time, nor write to her about that matter.” 
 Bernard said he liked the wager; and though the other merchants 
 endeavoured all they could to prevent it, as well knowing what 
 mischief might ensue ; yet the two merchants were so warm, that, 
 in spite of all their friends could do, they immediately signed the 
 articles to that purpose. Bernard therefore stayed behind, whilst 
 Ambrose made the best of his way to Genoa ; w’here he continued 
 a day or two, informing himself, as cautiously as possible, of the 
 name of the street where the lady lived, as also of her character, 
 when he soon heard all that Bernard had related to be true, and a 
 great deal more; which made him conclude that he had come 
 thither upon a very foolish errand: but meeting with a poor 
 woman who frequented the house, to whom the lady was very 
 kind, he wrought so far upon her, by means of a bribe, that he 
 was carried in a chest, made according to his own direction, not 
 only into the house, but even into the lady’s bed-chamber; where 
 it was to be left for some days, for the greater security, as if the 
 good woman was going abroad. 
 
 When night came, and the lady, as he supposed, was asleep, he 
 opened the chest with certain instruments, which he had carried 
 with him for that end, and went softly into the room, where a 
 light was burning, by which he observed carefully the form and 
 situation of the chamber, and also the pictures, and every thing 
 remarkable in it; which he endeavoured to keep in his memory. 
 Coming then to the bed-side, and seeing the lady and a little girl 
 that was in bed with her both fast asleep, he found her as beautiful 
 as if she had been dressed ; but yet he could perceive no sign to 
 
*44 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 carry away concerning her, unless it was a mole upon her left 
 breast; with which being pretty well satisfied, and not daring,, 
 from the lady’s known character, to presume farther ; after being 
 there the greatest part of the night, he took a purse, and also a 
 gown, with a ring and girdle ; all which he put into his chest, and 
 went into it again, making it fast as before, where he continued 
 two nights, without the lady’s perceiving any thing of the matter. 
 The third day the woman came for the chest, according to her 
 appointment, and carried it back, when Ambrose satisfied her 
 according to promise, and hastened away to Paris with those 
 tokens before the limited time. There he summoned the merchants 
 together, who were present when the wager was laid, declaring to 
 Bernard that he had won, having brought the tokens which he 
 had promised to produce. First, then, he described the chamber 
 and the paintings, and shewed those things, which he said he had 
 received from herself. Bernard owned that the chamber was as he 
 had described it; and he remembered, also, that the things which 
 he had brought belonged to his wife ; but he added, that he might 
 have an account of the room, as well as procure the other things, 
 from some of the servants; therefore, if he could say nothing 
 more, this did not seem sufiicient to entitle him to the wager. 
 When Ambrose replied, “ Truly this ought to satisfy you; but 
 since you would have me say something more, know then, that 
 Madam Zineura your wife has a mole upon her left breast.” 
 When Bernard heard this, he was struck to the very heart, and his 
 countenance changed in such a manner, as to convince them, if 
 he had not said another word, that Ambrose spoke truth; and 
 after some time he replied, “Gentlemen, what Ambrose says is 
 true; and as I own myself to have lost he may come when he 
 pleases, and I will pay him.” 
 
 The money therefore was paid the next day, and Bernard set out 
 for Genoa most cruelly incensed against his wife ; and being come 
 to a country-house of his about twenty miles off, he sent a servant 
 whom he could trust, with a couple of horses and a letter to her; 
 wherein he acquainted her with his return, and that he would have 
 her come away along with the servant; whom he had charged, at 
 the same time, as soon as he came to a fit place, to put her to death, 
 and repair to him. His servant delivered the letter to his mistress, 
 who received the news with great joy; and the next morning she 
 set lorwaxds witn him. As they travelled along, talking of divers 
 
SECOND DA Y. 
 
 145 
 
 things by the way, they came into a solitary vale surrounded with 
 trees, which the servant thought a fit place for the execution of his 
 master’s orders : therefore, drawing a knife out of his pocket, and 
 taking the lady by the arm, he said, “ Madam, commend your soul 
 to God, for here you must die.” She, in .the utmost astonishment, 
 begged for God’s sake that, before he put her to death, he would 
 tell her what she had done to offend him in that manner. “ Madam,” 
 said the servant, “ you have done me no harm; and as to your hus¬ 
 band, I can only say this, that he ordered me to kill you by the 
 way, without shewing you the least mercy; threatening otherwise 
 to hang me up. You know full well my obligations to him, and 
 that I must not resist his commands; I am sorry for you, God 
 knows, but I cannot help it.” The lady wept, and said, “ Alas ! 
 do not murder me, who have never injured you, for the sake of 
 another person : God is my witness, who knoweth all things, that 
 I never did any thing to deserve this from my husband; but, set¬ 
 ting that aside, you may, if you please, serve God, your master, and 
 myself, in this manner; namely, do you take my clothes, leaving 
 me only your hat and doublet, and carry them to my lord and 
 yours, telling him that you have killed me ; and I swear, by that 
 life for which I shall be indebted to you, that I will go where 
 neither he, you, nor any person in this country, shall ever hear 
 more concerning me.” The servant, who was loath to put her to 
 death, was easily prevailed upon; and leaving her his coat and hat, 
 and some money which she had about her, and entreating her not 
 to make any stay, went straight to his master, telling him that he 
 had obeyed his commands, and left the body to be devoured by 
 wolves. After some time Bernard returned to Genoa, and the fact 
 being discovered, he was much blamed for what he had done. 
 The lady being left alone, as soon as night came on, she disguised 
 herself as well as she could, and went to a neighbouring village, 
 where she procured what she wanted of an old woman, and she 
 mended and cut the doublet shorter, and turned her shift into a 
 pair of trowsers; and having cut her hair and appearing in every 
 respect like a common sailor, she went to the sea-side, where she 
 met a Catalonian gentleman, named Senor Encararch, w^ho being 
 just come on shore to refresh himself at a spring of fresh water, 
 she fell into discourse vp-ith him, and, agreeing to enter into his 
 service, went on board, calling herself Sicurano da Finale. There 
 she had obtained better clothes, and she proved so expert and 
 
 10 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 146 
 
 diligent a servant, that he was greatly pleased with her. Soon 
 afterwards this gentleman sailed to Alexandria, carrying with him 
 a number of falcons as a present to the sultan, who often enter¬ 
 tained him at his table; and taking particular notice of the beha¬ 
 viour of Sicurano, who waited always upon her master, he begged 
 her of the gentleman much against his will; and in a little time 
 she was in as great favour with the sultan, as she had been with 
 her former master. Now at a certain time of the year there was to 
 be a fair at Acre, which was under the dominion of the sultan, and 
 where there was a great resort both of Christian and Turkish mer¬ 
 chants, for whose greater security the sultan used to send one of 
 his ordinary officers with a band of soldiers. And the time now 
 drawing near, he resolved to send Sicurano for that purpose, being 
 well skilled in the languages ; and she arriving at Acre as captain 
 of the guard for the merchants, discharged her duty with great 
 care and diligence, conversing daily with Sicilian, Pisan, Genoese, 
 Venetian, and other Italian merchants, whom she was chiefly ac¬ 
 quainted with, because they were of her own country. As she was 
 one day therefore in a shop belonging to some Venetian merchant, 
 amongst some other toys, she cast her eye upon a purse and girdle, 
 which she soon knew to be her own; but without making any such 
 discovery, she asked whom they belonged to, and whether they 
 were to be sold*? Now it happened that Ambrose was come 
 thither with a great stock of goods, along with these merchants on 
 board their ship, and hearing that the captain of the guard made 
 inquiry whom those things belonged to, he stepped forwards, and 
 said, with a laugh, “ Sir, they are mine, and not to be sold; 
 but if you like them, they are at your service.” Sicurano seeing 
 him laugh, supposing it was at some action or behaviour of hers, 
 and therefore, with a more settled countenance, she said, “ I sup¬ 
 pose you laugh to see me, a man professing arms, inquiring after 
 such womanish toys.”—“ Sir,” replied Ambrose, “ I do not laugh 
 at that; but I laugh only at the manner by which I obtained 
 them.” Sicurano then replied, “ Good sir, if it be not too much 
 trouble, teU me how that was.” “ Sir,” quoth Ambrose, “ a lady 
 of Genoa, called Zineura, wife to one Bernard Lomellin, gave them 
 to me one night when I lay with her, and desired I would keep 
 them for her sake. I laugh therefore at Bernard's folly, who laid 
 me five thousand florins to one thousand, that I could not obtain 
 my will of her; which I did, and won my wager; whilst he, who 
 
SECOND DA Y. 
 
 147 
 
 leserved to have been punished for his brutality more than she, 
 'vho did no more than what all women do, returned to Genoa, and 
 by what I can find, had her put to death.” Sicurano now found 
 out the grounds of Bernard’s displeasure; and as she perceived 
 this man had been the cause of it, she determined not to let him 
 go unpunished: but seeming to be pleased with his story, she 
 became more acquainted with him ; and when the fair was ended, 
 she took him with her to Alexandria, and made him hire a shop, 
 and lodged money in his hands, which turned to such account that 
 he was very willing to stay there. Sicurano, desirous of making her 
 innocence appear to her husband, agreed with some Genoese mer¬ 
 chants, under some pretence or other, to have him brought thither; 
 and being come in a poor and wretched plight, she had him pri- - 
 vately to a friend’s house to be taken care of, till it should be time 
 to put her purpose in execution. Now Sicurano had made Ambrose 
 tell the story before the sultan, who seemed pleased with it; but 
 as soon as her husband vras come, she determined to wait no longer; 
 and taking a fit opportunity, she prevailed upon the sultan to send 
 for Ambrose and Bernard both before him, and in the presence of 
 Bernard, to make the other confess by force, if he would not own 
 it otherwise, how the affair was, which he had boasted of concerning 
 Bernard’s wife. Accordingly, they were brought face to face, and 
 the sultan, with a stern countenance, commanded Ambrose before 
 a number of people, to speak the truth, namely, how he had won 
 of Bernard the five thousand florins. Sicurano also, who was pre¬ 
 sent, and in whom Ambrose put a good deal of confidence, declared, 
 with a great deal of anger in her looks, that he should be severely 
 -chastised if he did not: being terrified therefore on both sides, and 
 in some measure compelled, expecting also to restore only the five 
 thousand florins without any other punishment, he related the 
 whole affair. Which being done, Sicurano, as minister to the sul¬ 
 tan, turned to Bernard, and said, “ What did you then to your 
 wife, on account of this lie I” He replied, “ Being outrageous with 
 ' the loss of my money and the shame to which I was exposed, for 
 the injury I thought I had sustained from her, I ordered one of 
 my servants to murder her, and, as he informs me, she was imme¬ 
 diately devoured by wolves.” 
 
 " These things being related in presence of the sultan, and many 
 other witnesses, without his knowing Sicurano’s purpose, she said, 
 therefore, “ My lord, you now see plainly what great reason the 
 
 10—2 
 
148 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 poor woman has to boast of her gallant and husband; for the 
 one deprives her of her good character with lies, and ruins her hus¬ 
 band at the same time; whilst the other, shewing greater regard 
 to that person’s falseness, than to the virtue of his wife (of which 
 he might have been assured by long experience), has her murdered, 
 and devoured by wolves. Besides, such is the respect that they 
 both bear towards her, that she is now known to neither of them, 
 though they have been long entertained by her. But, that you may 
 more perfectly understand what both have deserved, and if, at my 
 request, you will punish the deceiver, and excuse the person who 
 was deceived, she shall forthwith appear before you and them.” 
 The sultan, who was disposed to shew favour to Sicurano in every 
 thing, agreed that the lady should appear; at which Bernard was 
 much surprised, supposing she was dead; whilst Ambrose, fore¬ 
 seeing what was likely to happen, began to think of something 
 worse than repayment of the money, not knowing whether he had 
 most reason to fear or hope in consequence of her appearing there; 
 and he waited her coming with the utmost consternation. The 
 sultan having thus given leave, Sicurano threw herself at his feet, 
 and, laying aside her manly voice, and demeanour, she said, “ My 
 lord, I am the miserable and unfortunate Zineura, who, for the 
 space of six years, have wandered over the world in man’s disguise, 
 being most basely aspersed by that villain Ambrose, and given up 
 to a servant by that most cruel and unjust man, to be murdered 
 and devoured by wolves.” And, shewing her breast, she made it 
 appear that she was the same woman. Turning then to Ambrose, 
 she resolutely demanded, when it was that he had lain with her, as 
 he had formerly vaunted? But he, knowing her again, was so 
 struck with shame, that he could not utter a word. The sultan, 
 who had all along taken her for a man, was so surprised at what he 
 heard and saw, that it appeared to him more like a dream than 
 truth : but upon recollecting himself, and seeing everything plainly 
 made out, he most highly commended the life, constancy, and 
 behaviour, of Zineura, heretofore called Sicurano; and ordering 
 proper apparel and attendants for her, pardoned Bernard, at her 
 request, the death he had justly merited ; who, now knowing her 
 again, kneeled down and begged pardon, which she readily granted, 
 however unworthy he was of it, and embraced him as her husband. 
 The sultan then ordered Ambrose to be tied to a stake, in the most 
 eminent part of the city, and his naked body to be smeared over 
 
SECON±y DAY, 
 
 149 
 
 with honey, and to hang there till he should drop in pieces; which 
 sentence was soon put in execution. He next gave charge that all 
 his substance should be given to Zineura, which did not amount to 
 less than ten thousand double ducats ; and making a most sump¬ 
 tuous feast in honour of Bernard, as her husband, and Zineura as 
 a most worthy lady, he presented her with plate and money, to the 
 amount of ten thousand ducats more; and providing a ship for 
 them, when the feast was over, he gave them leave to depart to 
 Genoa; which they did with great joy, and were received with the 
 utmost respect, especially Zineura, who was thought to be dead; 
 and the same esteem was continued towards her as long as she 
 lived. As for Ambrose, he was not only destroyed the very day he 
 was impaled, by wasps and hornets, with which the country 
 abounds, but he was eaten to the very bones; which, being bound 
 together by the sinews, remained hanging there for some time, as 
 a testimony of his villany. And thus it is that the deceiver lies at 
 the mercy of the deceived. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL X. 
 
 Paganino da Monaco carries away the wife of Signior Ricciardo d% Chinzica^ 
 whOf understanding where she ivas, went thither, and growing acquainted 
 with Paganino, he demanded her hack, which the other consents to, pro- 
 vided she is willing: she r(fuses to return; and upon Riceiardo^s death 
 became the wife of Paganino. 
 
 LL the company commended the queen’s story, and especially 
 Dioneus, who was the only person left to speak for that 
 day; and, having said much in praise of it, he began to 
 this effect:—Ladies, part of the queen’s novel has made me change 
 my intention, with regard to what I meant to relate for another; 
 which is the brutishness of Bernard (though it happened well for 
 him), and of all such as himself, who think as he did ; namely, that 
 whilst they are travelling about from place to place, and diverting 
 themselves sometimes with one lady and sometimes with another, 
 they conclude that their wives sit with their hands before them all 
 the while, as if we do not know to the contrary. I shall therefore 
 shew you how great the folly is of all such people; and of those 
 especially, who, supposing themselves to be more powerful than 
 nature hath really formed them, think to cover all by fabulous 
 demonstrations; and endeavour to make other persons’ constitu- 
 
150 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 tions and tempers square with their own, however contrary it may 
 be to their natural bent and inclination. There lived once at Pisa, 
 a certain judge, endowed with greater genius of mind than bodily 
 ability, whose name was Signior Ricciardo di Chinzica ; who, being 
 persuaded that there was no more in marrying than in pursuing his 
 studies, determined, as he was very rich, to have a very young and 
 a very handsome wife ; whereas, had he known how to advise him¬ 
 self as well as he did other people, he should have avoided both the 
 one and the other. Accordingly, Signior Lotto Gualandi bestowed 
 his daughter upon him, whose name was Bartolomea, one of the 
 briskest and most beautiful ladies in all Pisa, though there are few 
 of them all that are not as red as a fox ; and having brought her 
 home in great state, he made shift to pass the wedding night. 
 Being a better judge now of his own strength, he began to teach 
 her a new calendar, shewing her that there was scarcely a day in 
 the year but what was dedicated to some saint or other, and some 
 days had more saints than one ; in reverence to whom, as he proved 
 by many reasons, a man and his wife ought to keep asunder at 
 those times. Adding, also, that those saints days had their fasts; 
 besides the four seasons of the year, the vigils of the apostles, and 
 a thousand other holidays, with Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays, 
 and all Lent; as also certain observations of the moon, and many 
 other exceptions ; as thinking, perhaps, that it was convenient to 
 keep as many holidays with regard to his wife, as to his pleadings 
 in court. And in this manner he lived, to her great discontent, 
 scarcely conversing with her once a month, and keeping a strict 
 watch over her, for fear some other person should teach her what 
 belonged to working-days, as he had done to holidays. In the 
 mean time, it happened that the season growing extremely hot, he 
 wished to go, for his diversion, to one of his country-seats, near the 
 Black Mountain, and to take his lady with him for a few days; 
 and, to make it more agreeable to her, they went out together one 
 day a fishing, when he and the fishermen were in one boat, and she 
 was in another, along with some ladies, who went to see the sport. 
 Being drawn by their diversion many miles into the sea, without 
 perceiving it, and whilst they were very intent looking on, they 
 were surprised by a privateer belonging to onePaganino da Monaco, 
 a famous pirate, who seized that vessel which had the women on 
 board ; and seeing this fair lady, he carried her into his own ship 
 in sight of her husband, who had now reached the shore; and 
 
SECOND DA Y. 
 
 ISI 
 
 without meddling with any thing else, sailed directly away. How 
 sorrowful Ricciardo was at seeing this you may easily imagine, who 
 was jealous of the very air itself : and accordingly he made many 
 fruitless complaints, both at Pisa and elsewhere, of the villany of 
 these corsairs, without knowing who it was that had taken his wife, 
 or whither she was carried. 
 
 Paganino now was much pleased with the lady, seeing her s(> 
 handsome; and being without a wife, resolved to keep her as 
 such ; and, perceiving that she was under some concern, he used 
 many kind and tender expressions, till she soon forgot the 
 calendar she had learned ; and, long before she reached Monaco, 
 the judge and his laws were quite gone out of her head, and she 
 lived with all the comfort in the world with Paganino. In 
 some time, it came to Ricciardo’s ears what was become of his 
 wife, and he consequently set off with the utmost impatience, to 
 fetch her back, supposing no other person so proper as himself, 
 and resolved to give any sum of money for her ransom. Being 
 arrived there, he saw her and she him ; and that night she told 
 Paganino of it, informing him what she meant to do. The next 
 morning Ricciardo meeting with Paganino, they soon became ac¬ 
 quainted together ; Paganino seeming all the time to know nothing 
 of him, but waiting to see what he meant to do. As soon as 
 a fit opportunity offered Ricciardo began to set forth the occasion 
 of his coming thither, and, in as handsome a manner as he could, 
 to desire he would take what ransom he thought fit, and restore 
 him his wife. Paganino answered very courteously—“Sir, you 
 are heartily welcome ; but the case, in short, is this; I have a 
 young woman in the house with me (though whether she is your 
 wife, or any other person’s, that I cannot tell; for I neither knew 
 you nor her before she lived with me), if you are her husband, as 
 you say, I will bring you to her, since you seem to be a gentleman, 
 and she must certainly know you. If she agrees with your story, 
 and is willing you should take her away, your behaviour has been 
 such, that I shall desire no other recompence than what you are 
 pleased to give me. But if it should prove otherwise, I must tell 
 you, that you offer me great w ong to attempt to take her from 
 me ; for I am a young man, and know what to do with a wife as 
 well as another person ; especially such an one as she, who is thf 
 most agreeable woman I ev r saw.” Ricciardo replied, “Most 
 certainly, sir, she is my wife ; and, if you please to take me where 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 ^52 
 
 slie is, you will soon be convinced of it, for she will immediately 
 throw her arms about my neck, therefore I desire it may be as 
 you have proposed.’^—“ Let us go then,” quoth Paganino : and 
 when they were come into the house, and sat down together in 
 the hall, he ordered her to be called, and she being dressed, and 
 ready for that purpose, came to them, taking no more notice of 
 Ricciardo, than she would have done of any other stranger that 
 should come into the house with Paganino, which, when the 
 judge perceived, who expected she would have seen him with 
 great joy, he was much surprised and began to say to himself, 
 “Surely the grief I have sustained for the loss of her, has so 
 changed my looks, that she does not know me again.” He there¬ 
 fore said to her, “ My love, it has cost me dear to take you a 
 fishing, for I was never so grieved in my whole life, as since I lost 
 you; and yet you seem not to know me ; so cruelly are you silent. 
 Do not you see that I am your Ricciardo, come to pay whatever 
 ransom the gentleman might demand, in whose house we now are 
 together, to have you back with me 1 And he is so kind as to 
 offer to restore you at what price I shall fix myself.” The lady 
 then turning to him, said with a smile, “Do you speak to me, 
 sir 1 Take care you do not mistake your person, for I do not 
 remember ever in my whole life, to have seen you before.” He 
 replied, “ Do you take care what you say; look well at me ; if 
 you will remember, you may plainly see that I am your husband 
 Ricciardo di Chinzica.” The lady made answer, “You will 
 excuse me, sir, it is not so modest as you may suppose, to gaze 
 much upon you ; but I have looked enough to know, that I never 
 saw you in my whole life till now.” Ricciardo supposed that she 
 did this through fear of Paganino, and that she was unwilling to 
 confess before him ; for which reason he desired, as a favour, to 
 talk alone with her in the chamber. Paganino replied that he 
 was willing, provided he would not offer to kiss her against her 
 will. He ordered her then to go upstairs with him, to hear what 
 he had to say, and to answer him as she thought proper. And 
 being retired together, he began to say to her, “ Alas, my life, my 
 soul, the sweet end of all my wishes! do not you know your 
 Ricciardo, who loves you more than himself % How can this be 1 
 Am I so altered, my jewel % Look upon me a little.” She began 
 to laugh, and, without letting him proceed farther, said, “ I am 
 not so forgetful, you are very sensible, not to know that you are 
 
SECOND DAY, 
 
 153 
 
 Ricciardo de Chinzica, my husband; but during the time I was 
 with you, it very ill appeared that you had any knowledge of me \ 
 for were you really as wise as you would be thought, you must 
 have perceived that I was young and lively, and consequently not 
 to be imposed upon by the mere form of matrimony, but if you 
 prefer the study of the laws, you ought never to have married: 
 though, in truth, you seem rather a proclaimer of feasts and fasts, 
 than a judge ; yet, let me tell you, should you allow your labourers 
 in the field as many holidays as you take yourself at home, you 
 would never reap one grain of corn. I have met with a person whom 
 I like very well, who keeps none of your Fridays a.nd Saturdays, nor 
 your feasts, vigils, and long Lents : him, therefore, I intend to abide 
 with while my youth continues, and to let the fasting part alone till 
 I grow old. Therefore you may go about your business, and keep 
 as many of those days without me as you please.’^ He was 
 exceedingly troubled at this, and said, after she had done speak¬ 
 ing, “ My dear love, what words are these that I hear come from 
 you? Have you no regard for your parents’ honour, and your 
 ■own ? Had you rather abide here in a mortal sin, as this man’s 
 harlot, than at Pisa as my wife ? He will soon grow weary of you, 
 and turn you off with great contempt; but I shall always love 
 you, and when I die, leave you mistress of my house. Can an 
 inordinate and shameful appetite make you careless of your 
 honour, and of me, who love you more than my own life ? Do 
 not say so, my dearest! Go along with me ; now I know what 
 the grievance is, I will endeavour to redress it: my joy ! my 
 treasure ! change your mind, and depart with me, for I have 
 never known a happy day since you were taken from me.”—“ Sir,” 
 she replied, “I desire nobody to be careful of my honour but 
 myself: my parents should have had regard to that when they 
 made me your wife, and if they were careless of me at that time, 
 why should I now be mindful of them ? And as for my living in 
 a mortal sin, never trouble your head about that; I am here 
 considered as Paganino’s wife, but I lived at Pisa rather like a 
 mistress to you ; there was so much to do between us with respect 
 to the times of the moon, the quadratures and conjunctions of the 
 planets ; whereas here we mind no such thing. But you say you 
 will strive to do better : it is impossible, our complexions are so 
 widely different. Go home, therefore, and try to keep yourself 
 alive, for that is as much as you are able to do: and as for his 
 
154 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 discarding me, should that ever happen (which at present seems 
 far from his thoughts), I will never return to you ; for the world 
 will afford me some resting place or other. In the mean time, I 
 tell you once more, that here we have no feasts and fasts, and here 
 I intend to stay : therefore either go directly about your business, 
 or I will call out that you design to force me.” The judge was 
 now in a sad perplexity; and being thoroughly sensible of his 
 folly, in marrying so young a person, he left the room, and had 
 some talk with Paganino, which signified nothing; in the end, 
 therefore, he was forced to leave his wife, and he returned to Pisa, 
 where he ran raving about the streets, making no answer to any 
 friend that accosted him, except that his strumpet would keep no 
 holidays; and soon afterwards he died. Which news came no 
 sooner to the ears of Paganino, but he married her out of respect 
 to the love she had for him ; and they lived happily together, 
 banishing all fasts, Lents, and such things from their houses. 
 Wherefore, it seems plain to me, my dear ladies, that Bernard 
 quite mistook the cause in his dispute with Ambrose.— 
 
 This story made them laugh tiU their sides ached, and all agreed 
 that Dioneus was in the right, and that Bernard was a monster. 
 But the queen now considering that it grew late, and that they 
 had all finished their stories, and her government was at an end,, 
 according to their agreement at the beginning, she took the garland 
 from her own head, and put it upon Neiphile, saying pleasantly to 
 her, “ Hereafter the government of this little people be yours : ” 
 and she sat down. Neiphile, blushing at the favour done her, 
 appeared like a rose in April, with her eyes, though a little cast 
 down, sparkling like the morning star. After the murmur of the 
 company was a little abated, applauding the choice, and she had 
 resumed her courage, she spoke to this effect:—“ As I am now 
 your queen, I shall keep to the method which has been hitherto 
 observed, and which you have approved of by your concurrence, 
 and tell you in a few words what I would farther have done. 
 You all know that to-morrow will be Friday and the next day 
 Saturday, both of which are inconvenient days, on account of 
 laying in provisions. Moreover, Friday is a day to be reverenced, 
 on account of our Saviour’s passion : therefore I hold it fit that 
 we rather pray that day, than attend to novels. Now concerning 
 Saturday, it is usual to make every thing clean on that day : many 
 people also observe it a last, in honour of the holy Virgin, as well 
 
SECOND DAY. 
 
 155 
 
 us the ensuing sabbath, whereon no labour may be done. Where¬ 
 fore, as we cannot go on exactly in the same manner as we first 
 began, I hold it best to suspend the relation of any more novels : 
 and as we shall then have been here four days, except we would 
 admit of some new guests, who might probably come to us, it will 
 be convenient to' go to another place, which I have already fixed 
 upon, and where I have made provision for you. On Sunday 
 evening, when we shall be there assembled, let our next argument 
 still be the mutability of fortune, which I intend shall be as 
 follows: namely, of such persons as have acquired, by their 
 diligence, something greatly wanted by them, or else recovered 
 what they had lost. Let every one think of something to say 
 upon this subject which may be useful, or at least entertaining ; 
 saving always his privilege to Dioneus.” They all commended 
 what the queen had ordered, and agreed it should be done : she 
 afterwards called the master of the household, to give directions 
 for that night’s entertainment, and for what else was necessary 
 during her royalty: which being over, she gave the company 
 leave to go wherever they pleased. They took a walk therefore 
 into the garden, where they amused themselves till supper-time : 
 and having supped with great cheerfulness and mirth, and being 
 risen from table, Emilia began a dance by the queen’s command j 
 whilst the following song was sung by Pampinea, the rest joining 
 in a chorus. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 Of all I want or wish possest; 
 Which of us here should sing but I ? 
 
 Come, gentle Cupid, heavenly gueRfi, 
 The constant source of all my Joy. 
 
 II. 
 
 And teach my late desponding lyre 
 No more in plaintive notes to mourn. 
 But mirth and am’rous joy inspire, 
 Whilst in your pleasing flames I bum. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yon first before my eyes have plac’d 
 An ardent lover gay and young : 
 
 With every manly virtue grac’d. 
 
 And soft persuasion on his tongue. 
 
cse THE DECAMEROH, 
 
 IV. 
 
 But what crowns all my hope is thiz, 
 
 Our hearts and wishes fondly join ; 
 
 ‘ ' That mutual and the same our bliss. 
 
 His love’s sincere and fixed as mine. 
 
 Cupid, ’tis to your gift I owe 
 That in this world I’m amply blest; 
 
 May Heaven, in whom I trust, bestow, 
 
 In that to come, eternal rest! 
 
 They sung many other songs also, and led up several more 
 dances, playing divers kinds of music: but the queen judging 
 that it was now time to go to bed, they went, with a light before 
 them, to their respective chambers, bestowing the two following 
 days in the manner which she had before prescribed to them; 
 and waiting with impatience for Sundav. 
 
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THE THIRD DAY. 
 
 HE rising sun had now changed the complexion of the 
 morning from scarlet to yellow, when the queen arose, on 
 Monday, and had all her company called up : whilst the 
 master of the household had sent, long before, many things that 
 were necessary, as also people to order what should be done : and 
 seeing the queen now upon the march, he had every thing else 
 packed up, and removed bag and baggage ; the company of ladies 
 and gentlemen following behind. The queen marched on with 
 an easy pace, attended by her ladies and the three gentlemen, and 
 conducted by the music of nightingales, and other tuneful birds, 
 along a path not much frequented, but enamelled with various 
 flowers, which began to open their bosoms to the ascending sun ; 
 and, directing their course full west, chatting merrily with her 
 company all the way, in a little more than two miles she brought 
 them to a most beautiful palace, seated upon an eminence in the 
 middle of a large plain. When they were entered therein, and 
 had seen the great hall and the chambers, most elegantly fitted up, 
 and furnished with every thing that was proper, they greatly 
 extolled it, judging its lord to be truly a magnificent person. 
 Going afterwards below stairs, and observing its spacious and 
 pleasant court, the cellars stored with the richest wines, and 
 delicate springs of water every where running, they commended 
 it yet more. From thence they went to rest themselves in an 
 open gallery (which overlooked the court) set out with all the 
 flowers of the season; whither the master of the household 
 brought wine and sweetmeats for their refreshment. 
 
 They were now shewn into the garden, which was on one side of 
 the palace, and walled round about; which seemed so full of beau¬ 
 ties at their first entrance, that they were more attentive in viewing 
 every part. All round and through the midst of it were large 
 straight walks covered with vines, which seemed to promise a 
 plenteous vintage; and being all in blossom, they gave so delicious 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 158 
 
 a scent, joined with other flowers then blowing in the garden, that 
 they thought themselves amongst the spiceries of the east. The 
 sides of these walks were closed with white and red roses and jessa¬ 
 mine, in such a manner, as to exclude the morning, and even the 
 mid-day sun. What variety of plants, and how elegantly disposed, 
 it would be needless to mention, since there was nothing belonging 
 to our climate which was not there in great abundance. In the 
 middle of this garden, what seemed more delightful than any thing 
 else, was a plot of ground like a mea ow; the grass of a deep green, 
 spangled with a thousand different flowers, and set round with 
 orange and cedar trees, whose branches were stored with ripe fruit 
 and blossoms, at the same time affording a most pleasing object to 
 the eye, as well as a grateful odour to the smell. In the centre of 
 this meadow was a fountain of white marble, beautifully carved; 
 and (whether by a natural or artificial spring, I know not) from a 
 figure standing on a column in the midst of the fountain, a jet of 
 water spouted up, which made a most agreeable sound in its fall: 
 the water which came from thence ran through the meadow by a 
 secret passage; when, being received into canals, it appeared again, 
 and was carried to every part of the garden, uniting in one stream 
 at its going out, and falling with such force into the plain, as to 
 turn two mills before it got thither. The sight of this garden, its 
 form and contrivance, with the fountains and the springs proceed¬ 
 ing from it, pleased the gentlemen and ladies so much, that they 
 spared not to say, if there was a paradise on earth, it could be in 
 no other form, nor was it possible to add any thing to it. Whilst 
 they were walking about, therefore, diverting themselves with 
 weaving chaplets of flowers, and h'stening to the various melody of 
 the birds, who seemed to vie with each other, a new beauty pre¬ 
 sented itself to them, which they had before taken no notice of; 
 namely, they perceived the garden to be full of a hundred different 
 creatures: in one place they saw rabbits issuing forth; from an¬ 
 other quarter they saw hares: here were goats lying down, and 
 there were deer grazing, with many others passing backwards and 
 forwards at their pleasure, as though they were tame. When their 
 senses had sufficiently feasted on these several beauties, the table 
 was spread by the side of the fountain, and, after half a dozen 
 songs and some dances, they sat down to eat, being served in a 
 sumptuous manner with every thing that was nice and elegant; 
 and when they had done feasting, they began again to sing and 
 
THIRD DA Y. 
 
 *59 
 
 dance, till the queen commanded them to give over, and permitted 
 such as were so disposed to take their ease. Accordingly some 
 departed ; and others, charmed with the pleasantness of the place, 
 stayed to read or play at chess. At nine they arose, and went into 
 the meadow to fhe fountain-side, and being seated there as usual, 
 they waited for the time when they should begin their novels upon 
 the subject which the queen had proposed: the first who wag 
 ordered to speak was Philostratus, who then addressed them. 
 
 NOVEL 1. 
 
 Masetto da Lamporecdiio, pretending to he dumb, is taken in to he gardener 
 to a monastery of nuns ; what happens in consequence. 
 
 HERE are many people so simple as to imagine, that, after 
 a young lady puts on the veil, she is no longer subject to 
 the passions of other women; as if by becoming a nun 
 she were converted into stone : and if they hear any thing con¬ 
 trary to this opinion, are as much offended, as though some very 
 heinous and unnatural crime were committed ; never thinking of 
 themselves, who cannot be satisfied, although they have the liberty 
 of doing as they will; nor considering the prevalency of leisure 
 and solitude. In like manner, there are others who think that the 
 spade and pick-axe, with hard labour and gross feeding, quench all 
 lustful appetites, depriving the people of all sense and understand¬ 
 ing ; but how much they are both mistaken, I shall, at the queen^s 
 command, now shew you, keeping close to the subject which she 
 has given us. 
 
 There was formerly in our neighbourhood (and may be still) 
 a monastery of nuns, famous for their sanctity (which shall be 
 nameless, because I would not lessen their characters), in which 
 were only eight young ladies with an abbess ; there was also a gar¬ 
 dener to look after the garden, who not being satisfied with his 
 salary, made up his accounts with their steward, and returned to 
 Lamporecchio, from whence he came. Amongst many others who 
 were to welcome him home, was a young fellow called Masetto, who 
 enquired of him where he had been all that time % The honest 
 man (whose name was Nuto) told him. The other inquired again 
 in what capacity he served the monastery ? When he replied, “ I 
 had the care of the garden, and used to go to the wood for faggots 
 
i6o 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 I drew water for them also, with such-like seiwices , but my wages 
 were so small that they would scarcely find me shoes ; and besides 
 they are all so young and giddy, that I could do nothing to please 
 them ; for when I have been in the garden, one would cry do this, 
 and another do that, and a third would take the spade out of my 
 hand, and tell me that thing is in a wrong place, and they have 
 given me so much trouble altogether, that I have left them; though 
 the steward desired, at my departure, that if I met with a proper 
 person, to send him ; but let me be hanged if I do.’^ When Masetto 
 heard this, he had a great desire to be amongst them, supposing, 
 by what Nuto had said, that he might be able to gain his ends, 
 and that it might be more difficult if he let the other into the secret. 
 Therefore he said to him, “ You do very right to come away : what 
 has a man to do among so many women ] He might as well be 
 with as many devils : for it is not once in ten times they know what 
 they would be at.” After they had done talking together, Masetto 
 began to contrive what method he should take to get introduced ; 
 and being assured that he could do all the work that Huto had 
 mentioned, he had no fears upon that account: all the danger 
 seemed rather in his youth and person ; whether for that reason he 
 might not be rejected. After much reflection, he reasoned thus 
 with himself: “ I live far enough ofi‘, and nobody knows me : sup¬ 
 pose I feign myself dumb, they will certainly receive me then.” 
 Resolved on this, without saying a word where he was going, he 
 took an axe upon his shoulder, and went like a poor man to the 
 monastery; and finding the steward in the monastery court, he 
 made signs like a dumb person for a little bread, and that he would 
 cleave wood if they had any occasion. The steward gave him some¬ 
 thing to eat, and afterwards shewed him divers pieces of wood, 
 which Nuto was not able to rend, but which he, in a little time 
 (being very strong), split all to pieces. The steward, having occa¬ 
 sion to go to the wood, took him along with him ; where, making 
 him fell several trees, by signs he made him load the ass with them, 
 and drive him home before him : this he did very well; and the 
 steward wanting him for other things, he continued there for several 
 days, till at length the abbess saw him, who asked the steward what 
 the man did there % “ Madam,” he replied, “ this is a poor man, 
 deaf and dumb, who came the other day to ask charity, which I 
 gave him, and he has done many things for us since : I believe, if 
 he knows any thing of a garden, and could be prevailed upon to 
 
THIRD DA Y, 
 
 i6i 
 
 Stay, that he might be of good service, for we want such a person, 
 and he is strong, and will do what work we please : besides, there 
 will be no fear of his seducing any of the young ladies.”—“Why, 
 truly,” quoth the abbess, “ you say right: do you see if he knows 
 how to work, and try to keep him ; and make much of him, giving 
 him a pair of shoes, and an old coat, and let his belly be filled with 
 victuals.” Which the steward promised to do. Masetto, who was 
 at no great distance, but seemed busy in sweeping the court, heard 
 all this, and said merrily to hiniself, “Yes, if you let me stay here, 
 I’ll do your business, with a witness.” Now the steward perceiving 
 that he knew how to work, inquired of him by signs whether he 
 was willing to stay; and the other made him to understand that 
 he was willing ; therefore, taking him into the garden, he shewed 
 him what he wished to have done, and went about other business 
 relating to the monastery. Now the nuns used to come every day 
 to tease and laugh at him, saying anything before him, imagining 
 that he heard them not. Which the abbess took no notice of, not 
 apprehending the least danger; and one day being laid down to 
 rest himself, two nuns, who were walking in the garden, came to 
 the place where he pretended to be asleep: and as they stood 
 looking upon him, one, who was a little more forward than the 
 other, said, “ Could I be assured of your secrecy, I would tell you 
 of a thought I have often had in my head, which might be of service 
 to yourself.” Said the other, “You may speak safely, for I never 
 will disclose it.” When the first nun began in this manner: “We 
 are kept here in strict confinement, and not a man suffered to come 
 near us, but our steward, who is old, and this dumb man : where¬ 
 fore I have often had a mind to gratify a certain curiosity with this 
 fellow ; for he is the fittest in the world for our purpose, being such 
 an idiot, that he cannot expose us if he would: what is your 
 opinion“ Alas !” quoth the other, “ what is that you say % Do 
 not you know that we have promised our virginity to God ?” “ Oh I 
 but sister,” she replied, “ how many things do we promise every 
 day, which we never perform % If we have promised, there will be 
 others found that shall be more punctual.” “ But,” said the other 
 lady, “ if we should be with child, what would become of us then 1 ” 
 She replied, “You think of the worst before it happens : it will be 
 time enough then to talk of that; there are a thousand ways ot 
 managing in such a case, that nobody will ever be the wiser, unless 
 we ourselves make the discovery.” She was now prevailed upon. 
 
i63 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 and said to her friend, “ How shall we contrive this matter V* The 
 other replied, “You see it is about nine o’clock, and I believe our 
 sisters are all asleep ; let us look round the garden, and if nobody 
 be in it, what have we to do, but for one of us to lead him into 
 yonder arbour, whilst the other keeps watch'?” This was done 
 accordingly, and they used to serve one another in the same man¬ 
 ner, till at length they were discovered by the other nuns, who all 
 took the same liberty : and last of all the lady abbess herself, 
 excited by the same curiosity, had him conveyed into her chamber, 
 and kept him there several days; till having satisfied his incli¬ 
 nations, he now resolved to depart. One night, therefore, he broke 
 his long silence, and acquainted her with his intentions of going 
 away. She was in the utmost astonishment to hear him speak, and 
 said, “What is the meaning of this? I thought you had been 
 dumb.”—“ Madam,” replied he, “ so I was, but not naturally ; I had 
 a long disorder, which deprived me of my speech, and which was 
 restored to me but this night, for which I am very thankful.”—The 
 lady was too prudent to let him depart, for fear of his scandalizing 
 the monastery; and in some little time, the steward happening to 
 die, he was appointed to succeed him : and the people were made 
 to believe that their prayers, together with the merits of the saint 
 to whom the monastery was dedicated, had effected this miracle. 
 The affair was carried on so privately afterwards among them, that 
 there was no suspicion of that sort till after the death of the abbess, 
 when Masetto, being now in years, and wealthy, was desirous of 
 going home : and their manner of living being no longer a secret, 
 his desire was the more readily complied with. Thus, taking no 
 care of his children, but bequeathing them to the place where they 
 were bred and born, he returned to his native country, having taken 
 such advantage of his youth, as amply to provide for ease of his 
 ^1d aP 50 . 
 
I, 
 
 THIRD DA Y. 163 
 
 NOVEL II. 
 
 An equerry helmging to King Agilulf lies with his queen: of which the 
 king making a secret discovery, set a mark upon him by shearing the hair 
 off his head: upon which he who was so shorn, cut that of his fellem^ 
 servants in like.manner, and so escaped further punishment. 
 
 queen ordered Pampinea to follow, who began pleasantly 
 in this manner:—There are some people so indiscreet in appearing 
 to know what they had better be unacquainted with, that they 
 think, by reproving other people’s inadvertencies, to lessen 
 their own shame : whereas they make that vastly greater. This I 
 shall show to be true, by its contrary ; setting forth the craft 
 which a certain fellow (of no more account than Masetto) made 
 use of to outwit a very wise and worthy prince. Agilulf, king of 
 Lombardy, fixed the seat of his kingdom, as his predecessors had 
 done, at Pavia ; having taken to wife Teudelinga, late queen of 
 Vetari, who was king of Lombardy likewise ; a beautiful and 
 most virtuous lady, but unhappy in having a lover. The affairs 
 of the kingdom being now in a prosperous way, by the good 
 management of King Agilulf, it happened that one of the queen’s 
 equerries (a man of low extraction, though in other respects far 
 above the station wherein he was placed ; comely and also grace¬ 
 ful in his person as the king himself) fell immoderately in love 
 with her. His low rank did not prevent his seeing the incon¬ 
 venience with which this passion might be attended ; therefore he 
 was so wise as to make discovery of it to no one ; not even so 
 much as, by his looks, to herself. And though he lived without 
 the least hopes of ever attaining his desire, yet he could not help 
 glorying in having fixed his affections so high ; and being entirely 
 captivated, he took more than ordinary care (far beyond the rest 
 of his fellow-servants) to do everything that he thought would 
 please hex*. Whence it happened, that if sh 0 had a mind to ride 
 out at any time, she oftener rode the horse that he had the care of 
 than any other; which he esteemed a singular favour, never 
 stirring from the stirrup ; and could he but touch her clothes, he 
 was then the happiest man in the world. But as we often see 
 that love most violent where there is the least probability of 
 success, so it happened to this groom ; for his passion was such, he 
 
 II—2 
 
 ^^iHILOSTRATUS having concluded his novel, which made 
 the ladies sometimes blush and sometimes smile, the 
 
THE DECAMEROS 
 
 i6i 
 
 b?iiig withont the least hope whaterer, that he often resolTed, as 
 he 'Bras unable to disclose it, to die. Considering in vhat manner, 
 he resolved at length that it should be done in a way to convince 
 her that it was for her sake: yet he was willmg first to -ay his 
 fortune, if it ^ere posible, to obtain his desire, not by speaking, 
 or even writing to her, to make her sensible of his love (for he 
 knew both were to no pnipose^, but choosing rather to do it by 
 stratagem; which was some way or other to personate the king, 
 and so to get admittance into her chamber. 
 
 In order then to see what dress and manner his majesty used to 
 go to the queen, he hid himself often in the night in a great room 
 in the palace, that was between the kings apartment and tiiat of 
 the queen ; and one night he saw the king come out of his 
 chamber, wTapx>ed in a large mantle, with a lighted torch in one 
 hand, and a wand in the other, and go to the queen’s Lidging- 
 room, when, without speaking a word, he would knock two or 
 three times at the door with his stick, and it was immediately 
 opened, and the torch taken out of his hand; which being ob¬ 
 served by hiTTL and seeing the king return in like manner, he de¬ 
 termined to do the same Accordingly, he procured such a mantle 
 as that of the king, with a torch and wand ; and having first 
 washed himself very clean, that the smell of stables might not 
 make a discovery to the queen of what he was, he hid himself as 
 usual till every one was asleep, which he thought a fit time either 
 to succeed in his desires, or to bring u|>on himself, by a most 
 daring cause, that death he had long wished for. Therefore he 
 struck a light, with which he kindled his torch, and folding him¬ 
 self well in the mantle, he went to the door, rapping twice with his 
 stick. The door was immediately opened by a damsel half asleep, 
 who took the light out of his hand, and set it in a comer of the 
 room, while he stripped ofiT his mantle, and got into the queen’s 
 bed. There he had the full gratification of his wishes, without a 
 word being ^jken on either side (for he knew the king’s temper 
 at certain times, and especially when he was disturbed, was such, 
 that he would neither speak himself nor be spoken to); and having 
 stayed as long as he thou^t it was safe to stay, he took his 
 mantle and torch, and stole softly to his own bed. He was 
 scarcely got therein, before the king came to the queen’s chamber, 
 at which she was much surprised, and had the boldness then to 
 S'^y to him, “ My h/rd, what is the meaning of your returning so 
 
THIRD DA Y. 
 
 165 
 
 qtdckly 1 It is but this mcsieTit that yon left me. and then yon 
 stayed longer than nsnal” The ^ing, at hearing this, concinded 
 that she had been imposed np-on by somebody or other, who had 
 assTimc»i his person and manner: bnt, like a wise Ti -^rij when he 
 fonnd that she was entirely ignorant of it, as well as every one 
 else, he resolved that she shcnld continne so: not Hke a great 
 many simple people, who wonld have been apt to say, “I never 
 was with yon to-night before: who was it that was here I How 
 did he come ? In what manner did he go asray I” All which 
 must have given the lady great nT> easiness, and the thing would 
 have been in every one’s mouth : whereas by his discreet silence, 
 he avoided both the one and the other. Seeming then more at 
 ease in his looks and talk, than he was really in his mind: he said 
 to her, “And is my coming again to you, so soon, disagreeable I 
 howeva-, I will leave yon for to-night** Bemg now highly 
 incensed against the villain that dared presume to do him that 
 injury, he left the room, resolving to hnd him ont if it were p'cssi- 
 ble; for he concluded he must be in the house, as there seemed 
 no way for him to have got out Taking a sTr all light therefore in 
 a lantern, he went into a long chamber in his palace, which was 
 
 over the stables, where all his mmilv lav in dinerent beds : and 
 
 • • 
 
 supposing, whoever he was, that he should find a di^erence in the 
 beating of his heart and pulse, he began to eiamine them all frem 
 one end to the other. They were every one asleep, except that 
 person who had been with the queen, who seeing the king come 
 into the room, and supposing what the occasion was, thought it 
 oest to counterfeit sleep, and to see what he meant to do. His 
 majesty had now laid his hand upon many of them without nnd- 
 ing cause to suspect any one, till coming to that person, he 
 immediately said to himself, “ This is the mam’* Being desirous 
 that nobody should know anything of his designs, he at present 
 did nothing more but just cut off, with a pair of scissors that he had 
 in his pocket, a part of his hair, which they wore very long at that 
 time, in order to know him again the next morning; and so 
 returned directly to his chamber. The 7r.ir> was wise enough to 
 know what was the intent of this j therefore, without delay, he 
 took a pair of scissors which they used for their horses* and clip¬ 
 ping all the people’s hair above their ears in like manner, went to 
 bed again without being perceived by any one. In the momiug 
 the ^iug arose, and ordered, before the palace gates were opened. 
 
i66 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 that his whole lamily should come before him, whicli accordingly 
 they did, standing with their heads uncovered; when he began to view 
 them one after another, to find out the person whom he had marked, 
 and perceiving that many of them had their hair cut alike, he 
 began to wonder, and said to himself, “ This fellow, though he be 
 of low condition, is of no common understanding.’^ Therefore, 
 seeing that he could in no way find out the person, without mak¬ 
 ing a great stir and noise; and unwilling also to incur a shame of 
 that sort, for the sake of a little revenge, he thought it best to let 
 the person know, by a word or two, that he was observed, and ta 
 admonish him for the future. Then turning to them all, he said, 
 “ Whoever he is, let him do so no more ; and all go about your 
 business.” Another person would have put them to the rack, to 
 find out what would be much better concealed, and which, when 
 discovered, what revenge soever was taken, would, instead of 
 lessening, have enhanced the disgrace, and brought dishonour 
 upon the lady. They all wondered at hearing the king’s words, 
 and asking one another what could be the meaning of them; but 
 nobody was wise enough to understand them, except the man 
 aimed at; who kept it to himself as long as the king lived, never 
 daring to run the like risk any more. 
 
 o 
 
 NOVEL III. 
 
 A lady, under pretence of confessing, and a pure conscience, being in love 
 with a young gentleman, makes a sanctified friar bring them together, 
 without his knowing any thing of her intention. 
 
 HE boldness and great subtlety of the groom were as much 
 commended as the king’s extraordinary discretion ; when 
 the queen, turning to Philomena, bade her follow, who 
 began pleasantly in this manner :— 
 
 I design to acquaint you with a trick, that a certain lady put 
 upon a friar, which will be so much more agreeable to us lay-people, 
 as they are a set of folks who think themselves both better and 
 wiser than other people ; whereas, it is quite otherwise, they being 
 for the most part such persons as are unable to raise themselves in 
 the world, and therefore take shelter in places where they may be 
 maintained in laziness and luxury. This then I shall do, not so 
 much out of compliance with the order enjoined me, as to shew 
 
THIRD DA Y. 
 
 167 
 
 you, that even the religious themselves, to whom we over-credulous 
 women yield too implicit a faith, may be, and often are, tricked 
 and imposed on, not by the men only, but even by us. 
 
 In our city (more full of craft and deceit, than friendship and 
 faithful dealing) there lived not long since a lady whose beauty and 
 good behaviour niade her equal to most of her sex : her,name, as 
 well as that of every other person concerned in this novel, I shall 
 beg leave to conceal, out of regard to some persons that might be 
 offended, who may now pass it over with a smile : this lady, I say, 
 knowing herself to be nobly descended, and being married to a 
 tradesman, who was a clothier, she could by no means bring down 
 her spirit, which made her deem a man of that rank, however rich 
 he was, as unworthy of a gentlewoman; and observing that he had 
 not the least understanding in any thing out of his own business, 
 she determined not to admit of his embraces any farther than she 
 was obliged, but to make choice of a gallant that should be more 
 worthy of her. Accordingly she fell in love with a gentleman, of 
 suitable years, to that degree, that unless she saw him every day, 
 she could get no rest at night. But he, knowing nothing of the 
 matter, had not the least regard to her ; whilst she was so cautious 
 that she would neither trust to letters nor messages for fear of 
 danger; and knowing that he was much acquainted with a certain 
 friar, one of a gross person, yet esteemed by all as a very religious 
 man, she judged that he would be the fittest agent to go between 
 her and her lover. After thinking which would be the properest 
 method to take, she went one day to that church to which he be¬ 
 longed, and having called him aside, she told him, that, when he 
 was at leisure, she had a mind to confess. 
 
 The friar, seeing her to be a person of distinction, immediately 
 gave leave, and when that was over, she said, “ I am come to you, 
 father, for your advice and assistance. I have informed you of my 
 relations and my husband, who loves me more than his own life, 
 and who, as he is very rich, obliges me in every thing that I ask 
 for ; for which reason T love him more than I do myself; but, set¬ 
 ting apart what I would do for him, were I capable of so much as 
 harbouring a thought which should be contrary to his honour 
 and will, I should judge no woman more deserving of death than 
 myself. Now there is a person whose name I am a stranger to, 
 but who seems to be of some figure, and, if I mistake not, an ac¬ 
 quaintance of yours, a well-looking man, with brown clothes; who. 
 
i68 
 
 THE DECAMEEOM 
 
 being unacquainted, perhaps, with my upright intentions, seems to 
 lay constant wait for me ; nor can I stir out of door, or so much as 
 to the window, but he is always there: I wonder he is not after 
 me now: which gives me infinite concern, because such things 
 often bring scandal upon us. Sometimes I have thoughts of letting 
 my brothers know; but then 1 consider that men frequently deliver 
 messages in such a manner, that words ensue, and from words, 
 blows: therefore, to prevent both scandal and mischief, I have 
 hitherto held my tongue, resolving to acquaint you, rather than any 
 other person, both because you are his friend, and as it is your 
 duty to correct such abuses, not only in friends, but also in stran¬ 
 gers. I entreat you then, for God’s sake, that you would exhort 
 him to leave off those ways ; there are other ladies enough, who 
 may be of that stamp, and would be proud of a gallant; but I am 
 another sort of person, and such a thing gives me the greatest un¬ 
 easiness.” Having said this, she hung down her head, as if she was 
 going to weep. The holy father immediately understood who the 
 person she meant was ; and having commended her for her good 
 disposition, believing it was all true that she said, he promised to 
 take care that she should have no more disturbance of that kind; 
 and knowing her to be rich, recommended works of charity, and 
 alms-giving to her, mentioning his own particular necessities. The 
 lady then said, “ I beg of you, sir, if he should deny it, to tell him 
 without any scruple, that I informed you myself, and am very un¬ 
 easy about it.” Having now confessed, and remembering what he 
 had told her concerning charity, she put a sum of money into his 
 hand, desiring he would say mass for the souls of her deceased 
 friends ; and rising from his feet, she departed to her own house. 
 In some little time, the gentleman came, according to custom, to 
 the friar; who, after talking awhile to him upon indifferent 
 matters, took him aside, and reproved him in a gentle manner, 
 for his design upon the lady: he was much surprised, having 
 never taken any notice of her, and but seldom passed by the house, 
 and would have excused himself, but the other would not suffer 
 hi m ; and said, “ Never pretend to be surprised, nor spend your 
 breath in denying it, for it is to no manner of purpose : this is no 
 common report, she herself told me ; such behaviour is very un¬ 
 becoming in you : and, let me tell you, if there is a woman in the 
 world averse to such follies, it is she : therefore, for her comfort, 
 uid your credit, I exhort you to refrain, and let her live in quiet.” 
 
THIRD DA Y. 
 
 169 
 
 The gentleman, more qTtick of apprehension than the friar, easily 
 took the lady’s meaning; and seeming to be out of countenance, pro¬ 
 mised to concern himself with her no more: accordingly, he took his 
 leave, and went directly towards the lady’s house, who was gene¬ 
 rally looking out for him at the window, and who now appeared 
 so gracious and well pleased at the sight of him, that he found 
 himself not mistaken : and from that time he used frequently to 
 pass that way, under the pretence of other business, to her great 
 satisfaction. 
 
 In some time, when the lady perceived that she was as agreeable 
 to him, as he had been to her, and being willing to give him some 
 farther proofs of her affection, she returned to the friar, and throw¬ 
 ing herself at his feet in the church, she began to lament most 
 grievously. He seeing this, asked, with a great deal of concern, 
 what new accident had happened ? When she replied, “ It is only 
 that cursed friend of yours, whom I complained to you of the other 
 day : I think in my conscience, he is born to be a perpetual plague 
 to me, and to make me do what I should never think of otherwise ; 
 nor shall I ever dare afterwards to lay myself at your feet.”— 
 “What,” said the friar, “and does he continue still to give you 
 trouble'!”—“Indeed, sir,” quoth she, “since I have made my com¬ 
 plaint to you, he seems to do it out of mere spite ; and for once that 
 he used to come this way before, he now passes at least seven times. 
 And would to God those walks and wanton gazes would content 
 him; for he is now grown so audacious and impudent, that no 
 longer since than yesterday, he sent a woman to my house with his 
 nonsense ; and, as if I had wanted purses and girdles, he sent me 
 a purse and girdle ; at which I was, and am still, so much offended, 
 that, had not the fear of God, and regard to you, prevented me, I 
 had certainly done some wicked thing or other. But I kept my 
 temper, nor would I do or say anything, till I had first made you 
 acquainted. Moreover, having returned those things to the woman 
 that brought them, with the intent that she should carry them 
 back; and after giving her an angry farewell, fearing afterwards 
 lest she might keep them herself, and tell him I had received them, 
 as I am told those people often do, I called her back, and took 
 them out of her hand in great rage ; and have now brought them 
 to you, that you may give them to him again, and tell him, that I 
 want nothing that belongs to him; for, thank God and my husband, 
 I have purses and girdles enough. Therefore, good father, I now 
 
170 
 
 THE DECAMEROH, 
 
 tell you, that if he does not desist, I will immediately acquaint my 
 husband and my brothers ; for, happen what will, I had much 
 rather that he should suffer, if it must be so, than that I myself 
 should bear any blame on his account.” 
 
 Having said this, she took a rich purse and girdle from under her 
 gown, shedding abundance of tears, and threw them into the friar’s 
 lap: who, believing all she had told him, was disturbed beyond 
 measure, and said, “ I do not wonder, daughter, that you make 
 yourself uneasy for these things, nor can I blame you; but I much 
 commend you for following my instructions. I reproved him the 
 other day, and he has ill performed what he promised : however, I 
 will give him such a reprimand for what he has done before, and 
 now also, that he shall be no more a plague to you ; for Heaven’s 
 sake, then do not suffer yourself to be hurried away by passion, sO' 
 as to tell any one ; because it may be of bad consequence. Never 
 fear any blame to yourself, for I will bear testimony of your virtue 
 both to God and man.” 
 
 The lady seemed now to be a little comforted ; and leaving this 
 discourse, as well knowing the avarice of him and his brethren, she 
 said, “ Holy father, for some nights past, many of my relations, 
 have appeared to me in a vision, demanding alms ; especially my 
 mother, who seemed to be in such affliction, that it was terrible to 
 behold : I believe it is her concern to see me in all this trouble, 
 through this most wicked fellow; therefore I desire, for the sake 
 of their souls, that you would say the forty m^asses of St. Gregory, 
 that God may deliver them from that fiery penance and having 
 said this, she put into his hand a florin of gold. The holy father 
 received it very cheerfully, confirming her devotion by good words 
 and divers examples, and, having given her his blessing, let her 
 depart. When she was gone, never thinking how he was imposed 
 upon, he sent for his friend ; who, finding him a little out of tem¬ 
 per, supposed he had been discoursing with the lady, and he waited 
 to hear what he would say ; who accordingly began with his former 
 reproofs, chiding him severely for what the lady had now com¬ 
 plained of, concerning his offered present. The honest gentleman, 
 who as yet could not guess where all this tended, seemed faintly to 
 deny his sending a purse and girdle, that he might not be entirely 
 discredited by the good man, if it should have happened that the 
 lady had given him any such thing : at which the friar, in a good 
 deal of passion said, “ How can you deny it, you wicked man 1 
 
THIRD DAY. 
 
 I7i 
 
 Behold, here it is ; she herself brought it me with tears : see if you 
 know it again.” The gentleman appeared quite ashamed, and said, 
 “ Yes, indeed I know it; I confess I have done very ill, and, I 
 promise you, now I know her disposition, that you shall have no 
 more complaints 'upon that score.” After many such words, the 
 simple friar gave him the purse and girdle; and, exhorting him to 
 do so no more, let him go about his business. The gentleman, now 
 convinced of the lady’s good-will towards him, and that this was 
 her present, went overjoyed to a place where he might obtain the 
 sight of her, and shewed her both the purse and girdle, which gave 
 her great satisfaction, as her scheme seemed now to take effect. As 
 nothing was at present wanting to complete it but the husband’s 
 absence, it fell out soon after, that he was obliged to go to Genoa ; 
 and no sooner had he mounted his horse, and was departed, but 
 she went again to the holy man, and, after making great complaints 
 and lamentations, she said, “ Good father, I tell you plainly that I 
 can no longer suffer this ; but, as I promised to do nothing without 
 first consulting you, I am come to excuse myself to you; and to 
 convince you that I have great reason to be uneasy, I will tell you 
 what your friend, that devil incarnate, did this very morning. I 
 know not by what ill fortune he came to know that my husband 
 went to Genoa yesterday, but so it is ; this morning he came into 
 my garden, and got upon a tree to my window, that looks into the 
 garden ; which he opened, and would have come into the chamber, 
 when I arose, and was beginning to cry out, and should have done 
 so, had he not begged of me, for Heaven’s sake and yours, to be 
 merciful \ telling me who he was : upon which I ran and shut the 
 window. Now judge you if these things are to be endured ; it is 
 upon your account only, that I have suffered them so long.” The 
 friar was the most uneasy man in the world at hearing this : “ And 
 are you sure,” said he, “that it was that person, and no other 
 “ Bless me! ” quoth she, “ do you think I could be so mistaken 1 I 
 tell you it was he; and if he should deny it, don’t believe him.” 
 “ Daughter,” quoth the friar, “ I can say no more than it was a most 
 vile, audacious action, and you have done your duty: but I beg of 
 you, as God has preserved you hitherto from dishonour, and you 
 have followed my advice twice before, that you would do so now: 
 leave it then to me, without saying a word to any of your relations, 
 and see if I cannot manage this devil unchained, whom 1 always 
 took for a saint: If I can reclaim him from this lewdness, it will 
 
172 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 be well; if not, along with my benediction, I shall give you leave 
 to do as you shall think most proper.’* “For this once, then,” quoth 
 she, “ I will give no trouble; but do you take care that he be not 
 offensive for the time to come, for I promise you to come no more 
 upon this account;” and, without more words, she went away, 
 seemingly very uneasy. She was scarcely got out of the church, but 
 in came the gentleman, when he took him aside, using all the op¬ 
 probrious language that could be used to a man, calling him both 
 villain and traitor; whilst he who had undergone these rebukes 
 twice before, stood in great perplexity, waiting for him to speak 
 first; but at last he said, “ Why, what have I done to deserve this 
 treatment*?” When the friar replied, “ Mark the impudence of the 
 fellow! he speaks neither better nor worse, than if these things had 
 happened some years ago, and were now out of his mind. Pray, 
 have you forgotten whom you injured this morning*? Where were 
 you a little before day-breakP’ “That I cannot tell,” replied the 
 other; “but you soon heard of it, wherever I was.” “You say 
 right,” quoth he, “ I did hear of it: I suppose you thought yourself 
 sure, now the husband is from home. A very pretty fellow truly! 
 he gets into people’s gardens in the night, and climbs up the walls 
 by the help of the trees ! You think, I suppose, that you shall be 
 able to seduce the lady by your importunity, that you get up to the 
 windows at nights in that manner. There is nothing she so much 
 detests as yourself, and yet you will persist. Truly, you are much 
 the better for what has been said to you; but I assure you, she has 
 hitherto held her peace purely at my request, and not out of the 
 least regard to j^^ou : but she will conceal it no longer: and I have 
 now consented, if you give her any farther disturbance, to let her 
 take her own course. What would become of you, should she tell 
 her brothers of itP' The honest man now perceived what he had 
 to do, and, having quieted the friar with large promises, took his 
 leave, and the following night got into the garden, and so up by the 
 tree into the window, which was open, and where the lady stood 
 expecting him. She received him with much joy, giving many 
 thanks to the holy father for shewing him the way; and from that 
 time they had frequent opportunities of being together, without 
 standing in any farther need of such a mediator. 
 
o 
 
 THIRD DA Y, 1 73 
 
 NOVEL IV. 
 
 A young scHiolarf lamed Felix^ teaches one Puccio how he may he saved, 
 by performing a penance which he shews him: this he puts into execution, 
 and, in the meantime, Felix amuses himself with his wife. 
 
 Philomena had finished her story, which was much 
 |[4 Am I commended by Dioneus, the queen, casting her eyes on 
 Pamphilus, said : “ Do you continue this amusement by 
 some story that shall be agreeable.” He replied that he was very 
 willing, and began thus :— 
 
 Some people there are, who, whilst they endeavour to get to 
 heaven themselves, inadvertently send others thither ; which was 
 the case with a neighbour of ours, as you shall hear. Near to St. 
 Brancazio, as I am informed, there lived an honest man, and one 
 of good substance, whose name was Puccio di Binieri, who, being 
 spiritually minded, and having much converse with the Francis¬ 
 cans, was usually called Friar Puccio. This man, I say, regarding 
 only his religious affairs, and having no family besides a wife and 
 a maid-servant, used to be constantly at church, spending his 
 whole time in saying his Pater Nosters, hearing sermons, and 
 going to masses ; and for fasting, and all kinds of holy discipline, 
 he was as devout as the best. His wife, whose name was Isabella, 
 a lady of about twenty-eight years of age, and as fresh as a rose, 
 was sick of all this fasting, and would gladly have been at rest 
 many times when he was recounting to her the holy life of our 
 Lord, the preachings of Father Anastasius, and the lamentations 
 of Mary Magdalen. Now at that time there returned from Paris 
 a monk belonging to the convent of St. Brancazio, a comely young 
 man, of good parts and learning, with whom our Puccio contracted 
 an acquaintance; and being able to solve all his scruples, and 
 appearing to be very religious. Friar Puccio would frequently 
 invite him to his house, both to dine and sup, whilst his wife 
 shewed him great civility on her husband’s account. 
 
 Coming often to the house in this manner, he soon cast his eye 
 upon Puccio’s wife, and as he perceived himself no way disagree¬ 
 able to her, he took the first opportunity of making a discovery of 
 his inclinations ; but though he found her disposed to a com¬ 
 pliance, he could in no way contrive the means, for she would go 
 nowhere out of her own house, and there it could not be, for 
 Puccio was never far from home, which threw him into a kind of 
 
*74 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 despair. At last it came into his head how the thing might be 
 carried on in the house without any suspicion, though the husband 
 was there all the time ; and being one day together, he spoke to 
 Puccio in this manner; “ I understand, brother Puccio, that all 
 your desire is to become holy, but it seems to me as if you took 
 quite a round-about way, whilst there is a much shorter path, 
 which the pope and the other great prelates know and follow, yet 
 are unwilling it should be divulged, for the sake of the clergy, that 
 live chiefly on the charities of the people, who then would have 
 no farther need to give them alms. Now as you are my friend, 
 and have entertained me well at your house, if I thought you 
 would teU no person, and would regard it, I should reveal it to 
 you.’’ Puccio was extremely impatient to know the secret, 
 swearing by all that was sacred, never to divulge it without his 
 consent, and promising, if possible, to observe it. “ As you make 
 this promise,” quoth the other, “ I will tell you. You must under¬ 
 stand then, that the holy doctors of the church maintain that 
 penance, in the manner I am going to lay down, is necessary to 
 happiness. But take notice, I do not say that, after this penance, 
 you will be no more capable of sinning. No ; all the sins com¬ 
 mitted before that time shall be forgiven, and the sins afterwards 
 shall not be numbered to your damnation; but you may wash 
 them away with holy water, like other venial sins. A man then 
 must begin this penance by a strict confession of all his sins ; 
 after which, fasting and abstinence are necessary for forty days ; 
 during which space you must refrain even from your own wife. 
 Besides this, you must have some place in your own house where 
 you may look towards heaven all night long. Thither you are to 
 go in the evening, where a table is to be fixed in such a manner 
 that, as you stand upon your feet, the small of your back must 
 lean upon it, whilst your arms are extended like a crucifix ; and if 
 you can make them reach to any peg of wood, it is so much the 
 better. In this manner you are to gaze towards heaven, without 
 altering your posture till the morning ; and, if you had been a 
 scholar, you should have repeated some prayers which I would 
 have taught you; but as you are not, you must say three hundred 
 Pater Nosters, with so many Ave Marias, in honour of the Trinity ; 
 and, fixing your eyes upon heaven, you are still to remember God, 
 the Creator of heaven and earth, and to bear in mind Christ’s 
 passion, standing in the manner that he was nailed to the cross ; 
 
THIRD DAY, 
 
 '75 
 
 and, when the bell sounds in the morning, you may throw yourself 
 upon your bed to sleep. You must afterwards go to church, and 
 hear three masses at least, and say fifty Pater Nosters and the like 
 number of Ave Marias; and when this is done, you may go fairly 
 and honestly about any business you shall have to do ; afterwards 
 get your dinner, and be at church in the evening, where you must 
 say a few prayers which I shall give you in writing, without which 
 all would signify nothing, and in the evening return as before ; 
 and if you follow this method, as I have formerly done, I hope, 
 before the expiration of your penance, that you will perceive 
 wonderful things of the eternal beatitudes ; supposing, at the-*- 
 same time, tliat you are thoroughly devout.’’ Puccio then replied. 
 This is no such long and grievous affair, and, with God’s per¬ 
 mission, I will begin next Sunday and, taking his leave, he 
 went and related the whole to his wife : she immediately under¬ 
 stood what the meaning was of his standing in that place till the 
 morning, and made answer, “ That she was satisfied with that, or 
 any thing else that he should do for the good of his soul; and, to 
 render his penance more effectual, she meant to keep him company 
 with fasti’^ g, but with nothing else.” So far they were agreed : 
 and, wnen Sunday came, he entered upon his course, whilst the 
 monk came every evening to sup with her, bringing with him 
 plenty of meat and drink, and he stayed with her always till 
 morning, when it was Puccio’s time to come to bed. Now the 
 room that he had fixed upon for his penance was next to that 
 where the lady lay; and one night having just got through a 
 hundred of his Pater Nosters, he thought he heard something of a 
 noise in the next room ; and, making a full stop there, he called 
 out to know what was the meaning of it. She made answer and 
 said, laughing to herself, “ You know very well I can never sleep 
 when I go to bed fasting, and that is the case now.” Poor Puccio 
 imagined that her not sleeping was really occasioned by her going 
 to bed without her supper : therefore he said, very honestly and 
 kindly to her, “ I have always bid you not to fast; but since you 
 would do it, even try and rest as well as you can.” She replied, 
 “Do you take care of the affair you are now upon, never fear but 
 I shall do well enough.” In this manner they went on, during 
 the whole time of penance, and they contrived means of being 
 frequently together afterwards , so that, to make my first and last 
 v/ords agree, whilst Puccio was aiming only to get to heaven him- 
 
176 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 self, he made the monk, who had shewed him the way, extremely 
 happy, as well as the lady. 
 
 NOVEL V. 
 
 RlcnardOf mrnamed the Beau, makes a 'present of a fine horse to Fran¬ 
 cisco Vergellesi, upon condition that he should have the liberty of 
 speaking to his ‘wife: and she making him no reply, he answers for her, 
 which accordingly has its effect. 
 
 HE ladies all smiled at Pamphilus’s story, when the queen 
 laid her next commands upon Eliza, who began pretty 
 smartly, according to her usual manner, to this effect:— 
 There are many people who know so much, that they think 
 others know nothing at all; and who whilst they are designing to 
 overreach others, are themselves outwitted : therefore, I hold that 
 person very unwise, who puts another man’s wits to the test, 
 without any occasion : but as all of you may not be of my opinion, 
 1 will tell you what happened to a knight of Pistoia. 
 
 In the town of Pistoia there lived, not long since, a knight, 
 named Francisco, of the family of the Vergellesi; a rich and 
 prudent man in all respects, but covetous beyond measure, who 
 being made provost of the city of Milan, and having furnishch^ 
 himself with every thing necessary for such a high office, excepting 
 a fine horse, he was at a loss where to meet with one that should 
 please him. In the same town lived also a young gentleman, 
 called Picciardo, of no great family, but rich enough: a person 
 so neat always and exact in his dress, that he was called the 
 Beau; and who had long admired and followed the lady of 
 Francisco, but hitherto without success. Now he was possessed 
 of one of the most beautiful horses in all Tuscany, which he set a 
 high value upon; but as it was known what a respect he bore 
 towards Francisco’s wife, Francisco was given to understand, that, 
 if he would ask it of him, the other would gladly make him a 
 present of the horse upon that account. He, therefore, moved by 
 his avarice, requested the Beau to sell him his horse, expecting, at 
 the same time, that he should receive him as a gift. The other 
 was much pleased with this, and said, “ Sir, all you have in the 
 world could not purchase the horse; but you may have him for 
 nothing, provided I may first have leave to say a word or two to 
 your wife in your presence, at such a distance from every one that 
 
THIRD DA Y. 
 
 177 
 
 1 may not be overheard. Francisco, overswayed by his covetous 
 temper, and thinking to make a jest of the other, answered, that 
 he was willing, as soon as he pleased; and leaving him in the 
 hall, he went up stairs to his wife, to tell her how easily he was 
 going to get the horse; and to enjoin her to hear what the beau 
 had to say, but to make him no answer, little or much. She 
 blamed him for it, but, being bound to obey, she went with him 
 into the hall, to hear what the other had to offer : who, taking her 
 to the farthest part of the room, began in this manner : “I make 
 no doubt, most worthy lady, but that you have long perceived 
 how great a slave I am to the force of your beauty, which far 
 exceeds that of all the ladies I ever beheld : not to mention your 
 personal accomplishments, enough to vanquish the most resolute 
 and insensible of men ; therefore, it would be needless to tell you, 
 by words, that my love is the most fervent that a man can possibly 
 have for a woman; and so it shall continue whilst life shall 
 actuate these frail limbs ; and even to eternity, if we love in the 
 next world as we do in this. Be assured, then, that you can call 
 nothing your own, so much as me and mine: and to give you 
 proofs of this, I should take it as a singular favour, if you would 
 command me such a service as it is possible for me to perform, 
 seeing there is nothing I should refuse for your sake. To you, 
 therefore, whose I am, and on whom all my peace and happiness 
 depend, I address myself for relief; humbly hoping, as I am 
 wounded to the heart by your beauty, that your merciful goodness 
 will not suffer me to perish. For suppose I should die, you could 
 not help saying to yourself, Alas ! why did 1 not shew some pity 
 to my poor beau. Which remorse would be greatly to your dis¬ 
 quiet : think, therefore, before it be too late : for it is in your 
 power to make me either the happiest or most miserable of men. 
 I hope, however, that the love I bear you will not be rewarded 
 with death ; but that you will speak one word of comfort to raise 
 my drooping spirits, which are ready to take flight, whilst I am 
 now before you.” Here he ended, and with tears streaming from 
 his eyes, and fetching some deep sighs, sat expecting the lady^s 
 answer; whilst she, who had been hitherto unmoved, notwith¬ 
 standing all his tilts, balls, serenades, and such-like gallantries, 
 was now heartily affected with his last most tender expressions ; 
 and began to feel that passion to which she had been hitherto a 
 stranger ; and though she was silent, out of regard to her husband’s 
 
 12 
 
178 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 commands, yet could she not avoid, disclosing, by her sighs, what 
 she had much rather have declared by words. 
 
 The beau, having waited some time, and finding she made no 
 answer, at first wondered very much ; but he soon began to suspect 
 that it was a trick of her husband’s : and looking earnestly at her, 
 and observing the sparkling of her eyes, cast now and then 
 towards him, and some secret sobbings which she strove in vain to 
 stifie ; he began to take courage, and immediately hit on a new 
 method, namely, to answer himself in the same manner as if she 
 had spoken ; which he did to this eftect:—“ Dear sir, I have most 
 assuredly been a long witness of the great love you bear towards 
 me, and am now further convinced of it from your words, with 
 which I am well satisfied, as indeed I ought: and if I appeared 
 displeased o» hard-hearted, do not imagine that I was really so; 
 I always loved you far beyond every other person, but that 
 behaviour was necessary, for fear of other people, and to preserve 
 my own character: the time is now come that I have it in my 
 power to repay your love : then have a good heart; in a few days 
 my husband goes to be provost at Milan, and as you have given 
 him your favourite horse for my sake, I promise you, upon my 
 word, that then you shall have admittance, and (that I may have 
 no occasion to speak to you again upon the subject, till the very 
 time) take notice, that, as soon as you shall perceive two hand¬ 
 kerchiefs hanging out of the window, which looks toward the 
 garden; be careful nobody sees you, and come to me through the 
 door into the garden, where I shall be expecting you.” Having 
 said this, as for the lady, he answered in his own person as 
 follows: “ Dear madam, I am so transported with your reply, that 
 I scarcely know how- to return you due thanks ; but, were I able, 
 no time would be sufficient to do it in the manner I could wish, 
 and as I ought : I leave it therefore for you to imagine, as I find 
 it impossible to be described ; you may depend, however, on my 
 being punctual to what you have proposed, and I shall always 
 have a due sense of the great favour conferred upon me. Nothing 
 now remains, my dearest love, but till that time to bid you adieu.” 
 Notwithstanding all that he had spoken, she said not one word: 
 \ipon which he arose, and made towards the knight, who was 
 coming to meet him ; and said to him with a smile, “ Well, what 
 think you, sir, have I performed my promise or not?”—By no 
 means (answered he) for you promised I should speak to your 
 
THIRD DA Y, 
 
 179 
 
 lady, and you have given me a statue to talk to/’ The knight 
 was much pleased with this, and if he had a good opinion of his 
 lady before, he had now a better. Afterwards he said, “ You 
 allow, I suppose, that the horse is mine.” The beau replied, 
 “ Most certainly I do; but could I have thought no better success 
 would have ensued on the bargain, I would have given him with¬ 
 out any consideration; for as it is, you have bought him, and I 
 not sold him,” The knight laughed heartily, and being now 
 provided with a horse, he set out in a few days for Milan, when 
 he entered upon his office. The lady being then at liberty, began 
 to think a little of the beau’s words, and the regard he had for 
 her ; and seeing him often pass by her house, she said to herself, 
 “ What am I about 1 Why do I lose all this time 1 My husband 
 is at Milan, and will not return these six months, and when shall 
 1 meet with such another lover 1 There is none here that I need 
 be afraid of. I do not see why I may not make use of the oppor¬ 
 tunity, whilst I may have it. Nobody will know it, or if they 
 should, it is better to do it and repent, than to repent and not to 
 do it.” Having therefore resolved, she put two handkerchiefs out 
 of the window, as the beau had said. This he saw with a great 
 deal of joy, and that very night went privately to the garden-door, 
 which was open, as was also the door into the house, where he 
 found the lady waiting for him : and though this was their first 
 meeting, it was not the last, for, during the husband’s stay at 
 Milan, and even after his return, they found means of being 
 frequently together, to the mutual joy of both parties. 
 
 o 
 
 NOVEL VI. 
 
 Rkclardo Minutolo is in love with the wife of PhilippeUo Fighinolf,; and 
 knowing her to he jealous of her husband, makes her believe that he was 
 to meet his wife that night at a bagnio. Accordingly she goes thither ; 
 and, imagining she had been with her husband all the time, finds herself 
 at last with Ricciardo. 
 
 LIZA had now concluded her story; and, having com¬ 
 mended the beau’s ingenuity, the queen laid the next 
 charge upon Flammetta, who began, with a smile, as 
 follows:— 
 
 It may be convenient to quit our own city at present, which, as 
 it abounds in everything, is no less fruitful in e^^mples relating to 
 
 12—2 
 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 iSo 
 
 most subjects ; and to recount, as Eliza has done, what has come 
 to pass in other countries: therefore, passing over to Naples, I 
 shall set forth how one of those sanctified ladies, who seemed 
 averse to all love intrigues, was, by the dexterous management of 
 her lover, brought to taste the fruits of love, before she had known 
 the flower of it; which will both divert you as to what is already 
 past, and caution you in certain points for the time to come. 
 
 There lived at Naples, one of the most ancient and pleasant 
 cities in all Italy, a young gentleman of great wealth, as well as 
 nobly descended, called Ricciardo Minutolo ; who, notwithstanding 
 he had a beautiful lady for his wife, was enamoured of another, 
 who was thought to surpass all the women in Naples, and was 
 called Catella, being the wife of a young gentleman, named 
 Fhilippello Fighinolfi, whom she loved and valued above all 
 things. Now Ricciardo being in love with this lady, and doing 
 everything which he thought might gain her affections, but to no 
 manner of purpose, he fell into despair; and as he was unable to 
 get the ascendancy over his passion, he had no pleasure in living, 
 at the same time that he knew not how to die. Continuing in 
 this disposition, he was one day advised by the ladies of his 
 acquaintance to give it over as a vain pursuit, seeing that Catella 
 regarded nothing so much as her own husband, of whom she had 
 that entire jealousy that she was fearful of every bird that flew 
 over his head, lest it might snatch him from her. Ricciardo, 
 hearing of this jealous disposition, began now to conceive hopes 
 of success ; and making a pretence of laying all such views aside, 
 he gave it out that he had taken a fancy to another lady, towards 
 whdhi he used the same gallantries as he had before done to 
 Catella : and in a little time it was universally believed that it 
 was no longer Catella that he fancied, but this second lady ; inso¬ 
 much that she began now to put off that reservedness which had 
 hitherto appeared in her behaviour, and to shew the same open¬ 
 ness and affability to him as to her other neighbours. 
 
 Now it happened, the season of the year being sultry, that some 
 companies of gentlemen and ladies went to divert themselves on 
 the sea-shore, where they were to dine and sup; and Ricciardo 
 knowing that Catella was gone thither with a party of people, he 
 went likewise with a set of his friends; and, after much importun¬ 
 ing, as if he was not fond of continuing there, he was persuaded to 
 ioin companies with Catella and her friends : there they all began 
 
THIRD DAY, 
 
 i8l 
 
 to banter him concerning this new love of his, whilst he seemed so 
 much affected with it, that they talked the more upon that subject. 
 At length, being dispersed up and down, as is usual in those places, 
 and Catella remaining only with a few friends where Eicciardo 
 was, he threw in a word, as it were, relating to an intrigue of her 
 husband’s, which gave her a violent fit of jealousy, and she grew 
 extremely impatient to know the truth of it: in a little time, there¬ 
 fore, she began to entreat Eicciardo, that, for the sake of the lady 
 whom he loved most, he would make that matter clear to her, 
 relating to Philippello. “You have conjured me,” he replied, “by 
 a person, on whose account I can refuse nothing that is asked me, 
 only you must promise never to speak a word to him, or any other 
 person about it, till you find it really so, which I will shew you 
 how you may be satisfied of, as soon as you please.” She was now 
 more strongly possessed of the truth of it, and promised to be 
 silent. Taking her then apart, that they might not be overheard, 
 he thus addressed her: “ Madam, if I now loved you in the manner 
 I formerly did, I could not endure to tell you what must occasion 
 so much uneasiness ; but as that is at an end, I shall be less fearful 
 of making a full discovery. I do not know whether your husband 
 was provoked at my loving you ; or whether he had any suspicion 
 of my being respected by you ; but be this as it will, he has taken 
 an opportunity, when I had the least cause to be jealous, of at¬ 
 tempting to do by me, what he might suspect I meant to do to 
 him; namely, to seduce my wife ; for which purpose he has tried 
 frequent messages, with which she has constantly made me ac¬ 
 quainted ; and returned such answers to them as I directed her: 
 and this very morning I found a woman in close conference with 
 her, and imagining who she was, I asked my wife what the woman 
 wanted. When she told me that she came from Philipello ; ‘ who 
 from such answers,’ continued she, ‘ as you have made me send, 
 from time to time, begins to have hopes of prevailing; and he now 
 says that he wants me to come to a resolution, and that he can so 
 order it, that we may meet privately at a bagnio ; and he begs and 
 entreats me most earnestly to be there ; and were it not that you 
 have made me hold him in suspense with such frivolous answers, 1 
 should have dealt with him in such a manner, that he should never 
 have troubled me more.’ I bore all the rest patiently, but now he 
 has proceeded too far, and accordingly I resolved to tell you, that 
 you might see how he has rewarded your most faithful love, for 
 
i 82 the DECAMERON. 
 
 which I was just at death’s door ; but, lest you should think this 
 all groundless, and that yourself may be an eye-witness of it, 
 I ordered her to tell the woman that she would meet him there at 
 nine o’clock, when every body would be asleep; with which answer 
 she went away well pleased. Now I would not have you suppose 
 that I intend to send her thither; but, were I in your place, I 
 should go instead of her, and after you have been some time to¬ 
 gether, I would then make a discovery of myself to him; by which 
 means you will shame him from being ever guilty of the like prac¬ 
 tices hereafter, and, at the same time, prevent the injury which is 
 designed both to yourself and me.” 
 
 Catella, without considering who it was that told her this, or what 
 his designs might be, gave credit to it, as jealous people usually do 
 to such-like stories; and calling to mind other circumstances to 
 confirm it, she said, with a great deal of passion, that she would 
 certainly do so, and that she would so confound him, that he should 
 never dare to look women in the face more. 
 
 K-icciardo was highly pleased, and now thinking that his scheme 
 was likely to take effect, he confirmed her in that resolution, 
 desiring her nevertheless not to mention what she had heard, which 
 she accordingly promised. The next morning, then, he went to the 
 woman who kept the bagnio, which he had mentioned to Catella, 
 and begged her assistance in the affair, which she easily agreed to ; 
 and they contrived how it might be best effected. There was a dark 
 room in the house, where she made up a bed, as he had directed 
 her, and as soon as he had dined he went thither to wait for Catella. 
 Whilst she, giving more credit to his words than she ought, returned 
 home full of spleen; when it happened, by chance, that Philipello 
 came home likewise very thoughtful, and perhaps might not show 
 that fondness towards her that he usually did, which made her 
 suspect the more ; and she said to herself, “ Truly he is taken up 
 with thinking of the lady whom he is to meet to-morrow, but I will 
 prevent itand she was considering all night long what she should 
 say to him at their meeting. In a word, at nine o’clock she took a 
 friend with her, and went directly to the bagnio, and seeing the 
 good woman, she inquired if Philipello was there. She having 
 learned the lesson from Ricciardo, said, “ Are you the lady that is 
 to speak to him here 1” Catella answered, “ I am.” “ Then,” said 
 she, “ go in there.” Catella, who went to seek what she would 
 not willingly have found, was conducted into the room where 
 
 <«5: 
 
 
THIRD DA Y. 
 
 ' 8 ^ 
 
 Ricciardo lay: her face being covered with a veil, and she made 
 fast the door, whilst he arose and went to meet her, saying, with a 
 low voice, “ My dear, I am glad to see you.” In the mean time 
 she made no answer, for fear of a discovery. At length, when she 
 thought it a proper time to shew her resentment, she broke out in 
 the following manner: “ Miserable women as we are! How ill placed 
 is the love that we bear to our husbands ! For these eight years 
 have I loved you more than my whole life; whilst you, most wicked 
 man, give yourself up entirely to another woman. Whom do you 
 think you are now with”? You are with her whom you have so 
 often deceived with your false flatteries, pretending affection, when 
 you have placed it elsewhere. You villain, I am Catella, and not 
 Ricciardo’s wife. Do you know my voice or not I am, I teU you; 
 and I think it long till I bring you into the light, to confound you 
 with shame as you deserve. Alas! whom have I loved in this 
 manner for so many years! Who, but this wretch, who, supposing 
 himself in bed with another woman, hath shewed more fondness 
 than he ever did to me since we were married. Why do not you 
 answer, you villain 1 Are you struck dumb at what I have said ? 
 I have a good mind to pull your eyes out of your head. You 
 thought it had been all a secret, but you are mistaken.” Ricciardo 
 was pleased at hearing these words, and returned no answer but 
 by his caresses; whilst she, resuming her complaints, said, “ If 
 you think to wheedle me in this manner you are mistaken ; I will 
 never rest till I have exposed you to all our neighbours and friends. 
 Am I not as handsome as the wife of Ricciardo % Am I not as 
 good a gentlewoman as she 1 Hands off; touch me not. I know 
 full well that your fondness, since I have made the discovery, is all 
 forced ; but if I live you shall repent it. I see no reason why I 
 should not send to Ricciardo, who once entirely loved me, and yet 
 could never boast that I vouchsafed to give him one kind look; 
 and who knows what mischief may then ensue 1 You thought you 
 had been with his wife all this time, and you are equally guilty as 
 if you really had; therefore, were I to prove criminal with him 
 you could not blame me.” Her complaints were long and out¬ 
 rageous ; till at length he began to think that if she was suffered 
 to depart in this mood, it might be of bad consequence, therefore 
 he resolved to undeceive her : and holding her so fast in his arms, 
 that she could not get away, he said to her, “ My life, do not make 
 vourseii uneasy, that which I could not have by dint of love, I 
 
4 
 
 i 84 the DECAMERON. 
 
 have obtained by stratagem : I am your Ricciardo.” She hearing 
 this, and knowing his voice, would have leaped out of bed, but 
 could not; and as she was going to cry out, he laid his hand upon 
 her mouth, and said, “ Madam, what has been now done cannot 
 be undone again, were you to cry all your life long; and if it be 
 made public by any means, two things must happen. The first, 
 which is of great concern to you, is, that your honour and good 
 name will be called in question; for though you should allege your 
 being deceived, I will contradict it, and say that you came hither 
 for reward, and because I would not give you as much as you 
 expected, for that reason you made all this disturbance; and you 
 know that people are always more ready to believe what is bad, 
 than what is good, of another, on which account my story would 
 find the most credit. In the second place a mortal enmity must 
 ensue betwixt me and your husband ; and things may be carried 
 so far, that he may kill me, or I him, which would give you great 
 uneasiness: therefore, my dearest life, do not lessen yourself and 
 make mischief between us. You are not the first nor will be the 
 last that is imposed upon. It is not to deprive you of your honour, 
 but it is the abundant regard I have for you that has put me upon 
 using this device : and from henceforth myself, and all I am worth, 
 shall be at your service ; as you are discreet then in other things, I 
 hope you will be so in this.” 
 
 She expressed the utmost grief whilst he was speaking these 
 words ; but yet she listened so far to what he said, as to be con¬ 
 vinced that it was reasonable ; when she replied, “ I do not know 
 how God will enable me 'ftHibear both the injury and the trick you 
 have put upon me ; I will make no noise here, where I have been 
 brought by my own foolishness and over great jealousy ; but this 
 you may depend upon that I shall never be at quiet till I see my¬ 
 self revenged one way or other: therefore let me go; you have 
 gained your point, and have done what you pleased ; it is time to 
 leave me, leave me then I beseech you. Ricciardo, who saw the 
 anguish of her heart, had resolved not to part with her before he 
 made peace; using all the kind and tender expressions he could 
 think of to mollify her ; and he prevailed so far at last, that her 
 former insensibility was turned into extreme love. 
 
 
THIRD DAY, 
 
 i8s 
 
 NOVEL VII. 
 
 Tedaldo, having a misunderstanding with his mistress, leaves Florence, 
 he returns thither afterwards in the habit of a iiilgrim, and makes him- 
 self known to her ; ,when he convinces her of her mistake, and saves her 
 husband from being put to death for his murder, for which he had been 
 ccmdemned He then reconciles him to his brethren, and lives upon good 
 terms with her for the future. 
 
 LAMMETTA, who, having been commended by all, was 
 now silent; when, to prevent loss of time, the queen gave 
 immediate orders to Emilia, who began thus : 
 
 I choose to return to our own city, which the two ladies who 
 spoke last had departed from ; and to relate how one of our own 
 citizens regained his lost mistress. 
 
 There lived at Florence a young nobleman, called Tedaldo Ele, 
 who, being in love with a lady named Monna Ermellina, wife to 
 one Aldobrandino Palermini, was on account of his good qualities, 
 deserving of success. But ill fortune was still in his way; for 
 after the lady showed a liking to him, all at once she refused to see 
 him, and woidd receive no more messages from him, which threw 
 him into utter despair ; but as his love was a secret, the cause of 
 his melancholy was unknown. Divers means were used to regain 
 the love, which had been lost without any fault of his; but finding 
 all in vain, he resolved to separate himself from the world, that he 
 might deprive her, who had been the cause of his malady, of the 
 pleasure of seeing him in that condition. Getting, therefore, 
 together what money he could privately raise, without saying a 
 word of his intention to more than one friend, he went away, and 
 came to Ancona, calling himself Philippo di Sanlodeccio, and he 
 hired himself to a merchant, with whom he went on shipboard to 
 Cyprus ; who was so taken with his behaviour, that he not only 
 allowed him a good salary, but took him in partner, entrusting 
 the greatest part of his affairs to his management; which he 
 ordered so discreetly, that, in a few years, he became a wealthy 
 and famous merchant. 
 
 Whilst he ^as in this employ, though he would sometimes call 
 to mind his cruel mistress, and be desirous of seeing her again; 
 yet such was his resolution, that for six years together he got the 
 better of his passion in this conflict; till one day it happened, 
 whilst he was at Cyprus that he heard a song composed by him- 
 
i86 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 self sung there ; in which was largely set forth the mutual love 
 which they bore to each other ; and concluding from thence, that 
 it was impossible she should ever forget him, he had such a desire 
 to see her, that he could no longer forbear it; and, settling his 
 affairs, he departed with only one servant to Ancona, and con- 
 signed all his effects to a merchant at Florence, an acquaintance 
 of his old friend at Ancona ; whilst he travelled privately with 
 his servant like a pilgrim, just returned from the holy land. 
 Being now arrived at Florence, he went to an inn, which was 
 kept by two brethren, near where his mistress lived ; when the 
 first thing he did, was to go to the house to endeavour to see her ; 
 but he found the windows and doors all made fast, which made 
 him suspect that she was either dead or else had changed her 
 dwelling. From thence he proceeded in a sorrowful manner 
 towards the house where his brethren lived, when he saw four of 
 them in mourning standing at the door, which surprised him very 
 much; and knowing himself so much altered since he had been 
 away, that he could not be easily known again, he applied himself 
 to a shoemaker, and inquired the reason of their being in black 1 
 who replied, “ About fifteen days ago, a brother of theirs, called 
 Tedaldo, who has been long absent, was murdered ; and I under¬ 
 stand they have proved in court, that he was killed by one Aldo- 
 brandino Palermini, who is arrested for it, because he had taken 
 a fancy to his wife, and returned privately to be with her.^’ 
 Tedaldo wondered much that any one should be so like himself, as 
 to be taken for him ; being troubled also for Aldobrandino, and 
 finding that his mistress was alive and well; it being now night, 
 he returned full of thought to ^s inn, and having supped along 
 with his servant he was put to bed in a garret. There, what with 
 his trouble, the badness of the bed, and perhaps his light supper, 
 he was kept awake till midnight; when he thought he heard 
 some persons come from the top of the house, and he saw a light 
 appear through the chinks of the door. Therefore, going softly to 
 peep, he beheld a pretty young woman holding a canie, whilst 
 three men were coming towards her, down stairs ; and, after some 
 laughing together, one of them said, “We are now safe, God be 
 thanked, since Tedaldo^s death is proved by his brethren upon 
 Aldobrandino Palermini, who has also confessed, and sentence is 
 now passed ; but yet it behoves us to keep it private ; for should 
 it be known, hereafter, that we are the persons, we should be in 
 
THIRD DAY, 
 
 187 
 
 the same danger that he is now in/’ Having said this to the 
 woman, who seemed pleased with it, they came downstairs, and 
 went to bed. Tedaldo, upon hearing what passed, began to reflect 
 how great and many were the errors to which the mind of man 
 was subject; first, thinking of his brethren who had mourned for 
 a stranger, and buried him by mistake for himself, and had after¬ 
 wards taken up an innocent person upon a bare suspicion, who 
 tras accordingly condemned through false witnesses ; considering 
 also the blind severity of the law, and the ministers and dispensers 
 of it, who, whilst they are solicitous to find out the truth, do often, 
 by their horrid tortures, confirm a falsity; and, instead of serving 
 the cause of God and justice, are rather the executioners of 
 iniquity and the devil. After this he thought of Aldobrandino, 
 and what was to be done to save his life. 
 
 In the morning then he went alone to the lady's house, and by 
 chance finding the door open, he entered, when he beheld her sit¬ 
 ting upon the ground in a little room, making sad lamentation. 
 “ Madam,” said he to her, “ do not trouble yourself ; your peace is 
 at hand.” She, lifting up her head, replied with tears, “ Honest 
 man, thou seemest to be a stranger, what knowest thou either of 
 my peace or affliction!” “ Madam, I am a messenger sent by God 
 from Constantinople, and am just now arrived, to turn your tears 
 into joy, and to save your husband’s life.” She made answer, “If 
 you are but now arrived, and come from Constantinople, what do 
 you know either of me or my husband!” He then related to her 
 the trouble of her husband, how long they had been married 
 together, with many other circumstances, to which she was no 
 stranger , at which, being surprised, she fell down upon her knees, 
 supposing him to have been a prophet; praying him, that if he was 
 come for Aldobrandino’s sake, to make all possible dispatch, for 
 the time was short. He, shewing himself to be a mighty religious 
 person, said, “ Raise yourself up, madam, and attend to what I am 
 going to say. This trouble is now come upon you on account of a 
 sin formerly committed ; therefore you must take care how you do 
 the like for the time to come, lest a greater calamity befal you.” 
 “ Alas ! ” quoth she, “ Sir, I have been guilty of more sins than one; 
 then tell me particularly what sin you mean, and I will do all in 
 my power to amend.” “ Madam,” returned he, “ I do not ask for 
 information: I know what sin it is: I do it only that you may 
 have the greater remorse bv confessing. But to come to the point. 
 
 
 
 
i8S 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 Had you ever a lover The lady was in great amaze at this, sup¬ 
 posing nobody had known anything of the matter ; though, from 
 the time that person was slain, who had been buried for Tedaldo, 
 something of that kind had been talked of, occasioned by some 
 words imprudently let fall by Tedaldo’s friend, whom he had 
 entrusted with the secret; and fetching a deep sigh, she said, “ I 
 perceive Heaven has revealed to you all the secrets of mankind, 
 therefore I shall make no scruple of telling you mine. I did love, 
 I confess, that unhappy young man whose death is now laid to 
 my husband, and which has given me also infinite concern ; for 
 though I might appear a little harsh to him, yet neither hath his 
 parting, long stay, nor miserable death, been able to drive him 
 from my heart.” The other then said, “ The poor man who is dead 
 never loved you, though Tedaldo did. But tell me what was the 
 reason of your quarrelling with him] Did he ever give you any 
 offence]” She replied, “ Most certainly he did not; but it was all 
 owing to a wicked friar, who, after I had mentioned to him, at 
 confession, my love for that person, and our familiarity together, 
 so terrified me, with denouncing eternal damnation to such prac¬ 
 tices, that I immediately resolved to break off all acquaintance with 
 him, and from that time rejected all his solicitations: though I 
 really think, had he persisted a little longer, for I suppose he went 
 away in despair, I might have relented at last, because I had a true 
 value for him.” “Madam,” quoth the stranger, “this is the sin 
 which now sticks close to you. It was of your own accord that you 
 first loved Tedaldo; there was no force in the case; you were 
 agreeable to each other, and acquaintance begot more love. *Why, 
 therefore, was he discarded in that cruel manner ] These things 
 should always be considered beforehand; and you should never 
 engage when you are likely to repent. Now, with regard to these 
 friars, you must understand that, being one of them, I must be 
 supposed to know something of their ways; and therefore if I speak 
 a little more freely concerning them, it will be more excusable, as 
 it is all for your good. Formerly they were religious good men; 
 but they who call themselves so now-a-days, and would be thought 
 such, resemble the others in nothing but their hoods ; nor in those 
 things entirely: for the first friars wore them coarse and scanty, 
 to shew their great contempt of all temporal things, when they 
 wrapped their bodies in such mean habits ; but now they are made 
 full shining, and of the finest cloth that can be got: and, resembling 
 
THIRD DAY. 
 
 189 
 
 in their cut the pontifical robes, they strut with them, like so many 
 peacocks, in churches and all public places; and as a fisherman 
 strives to take as many fish as possible with one cast of his net, so 
 do these with their large folds envelope and captivate young maids, 
 who have vowed chastity, widows, and other simple people : and 
 this is their whole care and study : so that, to speak properly, they 
 have not preserved the hoods of their predecessors, but only the 
 colour of them. Formerly, also, they were solicitous for people’s 
 salvation, but now they desire only women, and as much money as 
 they can get; for which purpose they terrify the ignorant with idle 
 stories, making them believe, that their sins are all to be purged 
 away with alms-giving and saying masses ; for which purpose one 
 sends bread, a second wine, and a third money, all for the souls of 
 their departed friends. It is most certain that prayers, and giving 
 of charities, are both pleasing to God : but if people knew what 
 sort of folks they were bestowed upon, they would sooner throw 
 what they part with in that manner to the hogs. They know full 
 well, that rich people are not so manageable as the poorer sort, for 
 which reason they are for engrossing wealth to themselves. They 
 cry down luxury, whilst they wallow in all kinds of debauchery. 
 
 They condemn usury and evil gains, in order to purchase some 
 great benefice or bishoprick, with what is given them by way of 
 restitution ; and which, being detained from them, would occasion 
 (they say) that person’s damnation. And when they are told of 
 these, and many other of their wicked practices, all the answer they 
 make, is, '‘Bo as we say, not as we c?o;’ as if it were possible for the 
 sheep to have more resolution and constancy than the shepherd. 
 
 But they would have you do as they say, namely, fill their purses 
 with money; entrust them with all your secrets; be chaste, patient, 
 forgivers of injuries, and never to speak an ill word, which are all 
 very good things; but for what reason ^ why, truly, that they may 
 then do what, if we acted otherwise, they could not! We all know, 
 without money there could be no sloth or idleness. If you spend 
 your money for your own diversion, they could not have it for their 
 maintenance : if you visit the women, they w^ould want the oppor¬ 
 tunity of being with them themselves : unless you are patient, and 
 a forgiver of injuries, they would not dare to come into your house 
 to corrupt your family. But why do I go through so many par¬ 
 ticulars % Let them first set the example, and then teach others. • 
 
 Suppose, however, what the friar told you to be true, namely, that 
 
190 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 it is a great crime to break the matrimonial vow: Is not murder as 
 bad? If, then, after Tedaldo had fallen into such despair, as to 
 leave his country, he had laid violent hands upon himself, would 
 not you have been the occasion of it ? Now, by your own confession, 
 he deserved no such usJige at your hands. This therefore is the 
 crime, which is attended with its due punishment; for, as you 
 broke your engagement without reason; in like manner without 
 reason, is your husband in danger of his life upon his account, and 
 yourself in great trouble. All that you can do then to be free, is 
 to promise, and to be as good as your word, that if ever he returns 
 from his long banishment, you will reinstate him into the same 
 degree of favour, that he enjoyed before you were over-persuaded 
 by that mischievous friar.” 
 
 When he had made an end of speaking, she replied in this 
 manner:—“ Good sir, I allow what you say to be right: to be sure, 
 they are a set of very bad people, though hitherto I had a quite 
 different opinion of them : I own myself also much to blame with 
 regard to Tedaldo, and would do as you say: but how is it possible? 
 He is dead; and what need is there then of making any promise 
 about him?” The stranger made answer, “Madam, I know he is 
 not dead, but alive and well, provided he has your good graces.” 
 She then replied, “ Be careful of what you say, I saw him before 
 our door stabbed in several places, and I lamented much over him; 
 which, I suppose, gave occasion to the scandalous story that was 
 raised about us.”—“Madam,” quoth he, “say what you please, I 
 assure you he is not dead; and, if you will promise what I desire, 1 
 hope you will soon see him.”—“ That,” she replied, “ I will do with 
 all my heart; nothing can give me greater pleasure than to see my 
 husband at liberty, and Tedaldo living.” He now thought it a fit 
 time to make a discovery of himself, and to give her more assurance 
 concerning her husband: therefore he said, “ Madam, for your 
 greater comfort, I haje one secret to entrust you with, which you 
 \ must keep as you val\ 3 e your husband’s life.” Then taking a ring 
 
 out of his pocket, which she had given him the last night of their 
 being together, he shewed it to her, saying “ Madam, do you know 
 this ?” She instantly remembered it, and replied, “ Yes, sir, I gave 
 it formerly to Tedaldo.” He then arose from his seat, and, throwing 
 off his hood, said, “And do you know me?” When she saw him 
 she was quite confounded, finding him to be Tedaldo, and was as 
 much afraid as she would have been of a ghost; considering him 
 
THIRD DAY. 
 
 191 
 
 not as returned from Cyprus, but as newly risen from the dead. 
 He then said to her, “ Doubt not. Madam; I am your Tedaldo, 
 alive and well; I never was dead, as you and my brothers believe.** 
 The lady began now to be a little better reconciled to him, and 
 throwing her arms 'about his neck, she cried, “ My dear Tedaldo, 
 you are welcome home.” He embraced her, and said, “ Madam, 
 we have no time now for these greetings ; I must go and take care 
 of your husband, of whom I hope that before to-morrow you will 
 hear such news as will please you; and if I succeed according to 
 my expectation, I will come and spend this evening with you; when 
 I shall be able to give you a more full account than my time will 
 permit at present.” 
 
 Eesuming his former habit, therefore, and taking his leave of 
 her, he went to the prison to. Aldobrandino, who lay expecting 
 nothing but death ; and being admitted by the favour of the 
 keeper as a confessor, he sat down by him, and spoke in this 
 manner: “ I am a messenger of God (who has regard to your 
 innocence) to bring you tidings of your deliverance; for his sake, 
 then, I request one little favour, which, if you grant, I make no 
 doubt but that before to-morrow night, you will hear of a pardon.” 
 Aldobrandino replied, “ Sir, you are a stranger to me, but I must 
 suppose you to be a friend, since you are so solicitous about my 
 deliverance. With regard to this fact, however, which has been 
 sworn upon me, I am entirely innocent; I may have been bad 
 enough in other respects, for which this may be a judgment upon 
 me. Then ask what you please, be the request of ever such con¬ 
 sequence, I promise to grant it, if I can obtain my liberty.” He 
 made answer, “ What I require is only a pardon for Tedaldo’s four 
 brethren, who have brought you into this trouble, supposing you 
 were concerned in murdering their brother, whenever they ask it 
 of you.” Aldobrandino replied, “Nobody knows the sweets ot 
 revenge, and how eagerly it is coveted, but they who have received 
 the injury; nevertheless, I forgive them, and if I obtain a pardon 
 I will do it in such a manner as shall be most agreeable to you.” 
 He was pleased with this, and bid him have a good heart, for that 
 before the next day at night he should be assured of his liberty; 
 and from thence went straight to the signiory, and taking one of 
 the lords aside, he said to him, “ Sir, it is the business of every 
 one to endeavour to find out the truth, especially such as are in 
 your station, in order that people may not suffer wrongfully; and 
 
192 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 that they who deserve punishment may have it; which, that it 
 may tend to your honour and the confusion of the guilty, is what 
 now brings me before you. You know you have proceeded with 
 severity against Aldobrandino, thinking you had proved the 
 murder upon him of Tedaldo. ‘This 1 aver to be false, as I shall 
 prove to you before midnight, delivering the very murderers into 
 your hands.” The worthy lord, who was under great concern foi 
 Aldobrandino, gave ear to the stranger’s story, and about mid¬ 
 night the two brothers and their maid were taken by his means, 
 being let into the house by him ; when they all confessed the fact, 
 namely, that they had slain Tedaldo without knowing him. Being 
 asked the reason, they declared that it was because he would have 
 forced one of their wives when they were abroad. After this was 
 known, he had leave to depart, and he went privately to the lady’s 
 house to give her a full account of what had passed; he after¬ 
 wards spent the night with her, when there was a firm and 
 thorough reconciliation. In the morning, having acquainted her 
 with what he meant to do, and enjoined her secresy, he went as 
 soon as time came to attend to the affair of Aldobrandino ; when 
 the lords, upon a full inquiry, released him, and sentenced the 
 others to lose their heads where the fact was committed. Aldo¬ 
 brandino being discharged, and knowing that it was all owing to 
 the stranger, he and his friends invited him to their houses to 
 make what stay he pleased, and shewed him all possible respect; 
 the lady especially,' who well knew to whom she was so obliging. 
 And now, thinking it time to bring about a reconciliation between 
 Aldobrandino and his brethren, who had gained so much ill-will 
 since his discharge that they were forced to go armed, he demanded 
 his promise. Aldobrandino answered that he was willing. He 
 therefore made him provide a great entertainment, to which his 
 relations an^ their wives were to be invited, and the four brethren 
 with their wi^es, and that himself would ask them as to his feast. 
 Accordingly he went to the four brethren, and after much entreaty 
 prevailed upon them, in order to regain Aldobrandino’s friendship, 
 to ask pardon; and when that was done, invited them the next 
 day to dine there, giving them his word for their security. 
 
 At dinner-time, therefore, the next day, Tedaldo’s four brethren, 
 all in mourning, with some of their friends, came first to Aldo¬ 
 brandino’s house, who wa» expecting them; when, laying their 
 arms down upon the ground, in presence of all the guests who 
 
THIRD DAY. 
 
 193 
 
 had been invited to bear them company, and offering themselves 
 to his mercy, they humbly asked his pardon. He received them 
 with abundance of tears, and saluting them one after another, 
 forgave the injury he had suffered. After this their sisters and 
 their wives came also, and were graciously received by Ermellina 
 and the other ladies. And the entertainment being now served 
 up, and everything agreeable, excepting a confirmed silence, occa¬ 
 sioned by the late sorrow, which was represented by the habit of 
 Tedaldo’s relations ; on which account the stranger’s contrivance 
 and invitation appeared unseasonable to many people. This he 
 soon perceived, and resolved, when he saw a fit time, to remove : 
 accordingly, when the dessert was served up, he arose and said, 
 “Nothing seems wanting to make this a merry meeting but the 
 presence of Tedaldo, whom, as you have had so long with you with¬ 
 out knowing him, I mean now to show you.”—Throwing off then 
 his monk’s disguise, he appeared in a green silk doublet, and was 
 known by all to their great surprise, who gazed upon him for a 
 considerable time before they could be convinced that he was the 
 very person; which he perceiving related many circumstances 
 concerning both themselves and him for their farther satisfaction. 
 Upon which the brethren and the rest of the men all ran and 
 embraced him, as did aM the women except Ermellina; which, 
 when Aldobrandino saw, he said, “ What’s the meaning of this, 
 Ermellina Why don’t you welcome Tedaldo home, when every 
 body else has done it 1” She replied, in the hearing of them all, 
 that no one could rejoice more sincerely than herself, as she was 
 obliged to him for her husband’s life; but the scandalous words 
 that had been given out concerning her when that person was 
 taken for Tedaldo had made her cautious. Aldobrandino replied, 
 “ Away with these idle stories ; do you think I regard them 1 He 
 has sufficiently cleared himself by his regard for my life : do then 
 as the rest have done.” She wanted nothing so much, and was 
 therefore not slow in obeying her husband’s order. Aldobrandino’s 
 liberality was so agreeable to all present, both men and women, 
 that their former misunderstanding was quite forgotten. After 
 Tedaldo then had received every one’s compliments, he tore the 
 mourning off all his kindred, and ordered other clothes to be 
 immediately brought; and having put them on, they concluded 
 the feast with singing, dancing, and such like diversions. From 
 thence they went to Tedaldo’s house, where they supped, and they 
 
 13 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
194 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 continued feasting many days. Whilst the people for some time 
 looked upon him with the utmost amazement, as one risen from 
 the dead; and perhaps his very brethren might have still enter¬ 
 tained some doubt about hirp, if one thing had not happened, 
 which made it clear who the person was that was slain, and which 
 was as follows :—Some sorry fellows of Lunigiana were going one 
 day past the house, and seeing Tedaldo at the door, they stopped 
 and said, “ How do you do, Fativolo Tedaldo replied, before 
 some of his brethren, “ You mistake your man.” They, hearing 
 him speak, were out of countenance, and asked pardon, saying, 
 “Never two people were more alike than you and a companion of 
 ours, called Fativolo da Pontriemoli, who has been come hither 
 these fifteen days, and we can’t learn what has befallen him. We 
 wondered indeed how he came by this dress, for he was a soldier, 
 as we are.” The eldest brother, hearing this, inquired more par¬ 
 ticularly as to his clothes, and finding all circumstances agree, it 
 now appeared plainly that it was Fativolo, and not Tedaldo, that 
 was slain, and this set every one right with regard to that affair. 
 Thus Tedaldo returned home rich, and continued his acquaintance 
 with the lady without any farther interruption. May the like good 
 fortune happen to us all. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL VIII. 
 
 Ferondo, by taking a certain drug^ is buried for dead, and by the abbot, 
 who has an intrigue with his wife, is taken out of the grave and put into 
 a dungeon, when he is made to believe that he is in purgatory : being 
 raised up again, he rears a child as his own, which the abbot had got by 
 his wife. 
 
 MILIA’S long novel was now brought to a conclusion 
 (though it did not appear long to the company, on 
 account of the variety of incidents with which it was 
 stored), when the queen gave a nod to Lauretta, who began in 
 this manner:— 
 
 I am going to relate a thing which has more the appearance of 
 fiction than truth, and which I call to mind, from what 1ms just 
 been told us, of one person’s being mourned for, and buried 
 instead of another. I purpose then to tell you how a living person 
 was buried as though he had been dead; how afterwards it was 
 believed by himself, as well as other people, that he was risen 
 
THIRD DAY. 
 
 *9S 
 
 from the dead, and not actually living all the time; and how one 
 obtained the name of a saint upon that score, and was adored aa 
 such, when he deserved rather to have been severely punished.— 
 There was in Tuscany a certain abbey, and is at present, 
 situated in a lonesome place ; of which a certain monk was chosen 
 abbot, who was religious enough in every respect, excepting the 
 affair of women, and this he managed so well, that he was never 
 suspected; therefore he was reckoned pious in all points. Now 
 it happened, that a rich countryman was acquainted with this 
 abbot, one of mean parts and understanding, but whose simplicity 
 would sometimes afford matter of mirth ; and in the course of their 
 acquaintance, the abbot found that he had a handsome wife, with 
 whom he grew most violently in love; but being informed thafr 
 Ferondo, however stupid in other things, was prudent enough as to 
 his care of her, he almost despaired of success; yet he managed so 
 artfully, that he prevailed upon Ferondo to bring her sometimes for 
 their amusement to his gardens at the abbey, when he would dis¬ 
 course to them of the beatitudes of eternal life, and of the pious 
 works of many righteous people departed hence; which had that 
 effect upon the lady, that she had a great desire to confess to him : for 
 this purpose she desired leave of her husband, which was granted. 
 Coming then to confession, greatly to his good liking, and sitting 
 at his feet, she began, before she entered upon her subject, to this 
 effect:—“ Sir, if God had given me a different sort of a husband 
 from what I now have, or if he had given me none at all, yet 
 with your instruction it would be easy for me perhaps to pursue 
 the path whieh you have pointed out to eternal life : but when I 
 consider what sort of a person I am tied to, I must look upon 
 myself as a widow, and yet in this respect worse than married, as 
 I can have no other husband as long as he lives. 'Besides, he is 
 so unreasonably jealous, that I live in constant misery with him : 
 therefore, before I proceed to confession, I must beg a little of 
 your advice in this particular; for, till I find some remedy here, 
 confession, or any other good work, will be of little effect.” This 
 touched the abbot in the most sensible part; and now thinking 
 that fortune had opened a way to what he had so long aimed at, 
 he replied:—“Daughter, I can easily believe how grievous it is 
 for a pretty young lady, as you are, to have a fool for your 
 husband, and it is worse to have a man that is jealous; therefore, 
 you must suffer extremely that have both one and the other. But 
 
 13—i 
 
196 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 to be plain with yon, I see no advice that can avail, or remedy, 
 but one; namely, to cure him of that jealousy. The remedy, in 
 such a case, I know well how to apply, provided you will keep it 
 a secret.”—“Father,” quoth the lady, “never fear; I would die 
 before I would make a discovery contrary to your injunction: 
 but how is it possible?” The abbot replied, “If we desire he 
 should be cured, it will be necessary for him to go first into 
 purgatory.”—“What, go there alive?” quoth the lady.—“He must 
 die first,” answered the abbot, “ and then go thither; and when 
 he shall have sufi‘ered enough to cure him of his jealousy, we shall 
 use a few prayers to bring him to life again, and it shall be done.” 
 —“Then I must remain a widow?” said the lady.—“For a time,” 
 he replied, “when you must be exceedingly careful not to be 
 prevailed upon to marry elsewhere, for that would be a very bad 
 thing, and as you must return to Ferondo, when he comes to life 
 again, he would be more jealous than ever.”—“Well,” quoth she, 
 “so Icng as there is a cure, and I am not to be a prisoner all my 
 life, do as you will, I am content.”—“ But,” continued he, “ what 
 reward shall I have for this service?”—“Father,” she replied, 
 “ whatever lies in my power to give; but what can such an one as 
 myself offer worthy the acceptance of a person like you?” He 
 made answer, “ Madam, it is in your power to do as much for me, 
 as it is mine for you. As I am ready then to perform what shall 
 be for your ease and comfort, so should you be mindful of me in a 
 point where my life and welfare are both concerned.”—“If it be 
 so,” quoth she, “ I am very ready.”—“ Then,” said he, “ you must 
 grant me your love, for which I entirely languish.” She was 
 started at this, and said, “ Alas ! my father, what is it you would 
 have ? I took you always for a saint. Do holy men request such 
 favours of ladies who come to them for advice?” The abbot 
 replied : “ My dearest life, let this not surprise you; my sanctity 
 is not the less on this account, because that abides in the soul, 
 and what I ask of you is only a sin of the body. But however 
 that may be, the force of your beauty is such that constrains me 
 to do thus: and I must tell you that you have reason to value 
 yourself upon it, as it captivates the saints, who are employed in 
 contemplating the beauties of heaven. Besides, although I am an 
 abbot, I am yet a man, and not old ; nor should you think much 
 of this, but rather be desirous of it, because all the time he is in 
 purgatory, T will supply his place, and it will never be so much as 
 
 4 
 
THIRD DAY. 
 
 197 
 
 suspected, because every one has the same opinion of me that you 
 yourself just now declared. Then refuse not what is thus offered 
 you \ there are enough that would be glad of it. Moreover, I 
 have jewels and other things of value, which I intend shall all be 
 yours. Do, therefore, my dearest love, what I would willingly do 
 for you.” The lady'had her eyes fixed on the ground, not knowing 
 how to deny him, and yet to grant the favour seemed not so well: 
 he, perceiving that she began to listen, and did not immediately 
 reply, supposed the conquest half made, and continued using such 
 sort of arguments as before, till he convinced her that it would be 
 a good action ; therefore she said at last with a blush, that she was 
 willing to comply, but not till her husband was sent to purgatory. 
 The abbot was well enough satisfied with this, and replied, “ He 
 shall go thither directly, only do you take care that he comes 
 hither to-morrow, or next day, to make some stay with me.” 
 Upon saying this, he put a fine ring into her hand, and dismissed 
 her. She was overjoyed with the present, supposing she should 
 have many more such; and returning to her friends, related 
 wonderful things of the abbot’s great sanctity, and they went 
 together to her own house. In a few days Ferondo went to the 
 abbey, and as soon as the abbot saw him he prepared a drug, 
 which came to him as a present from a great person out of the 
 East, and which was used when he had a mind to throw any 
 one into a trance; so that by giving more or less he could, 
 without doing them any harm, make them sleep as long as he 
 pleased : insomuch, that whilst its effect lasted, you would imagine 
 them to be dead; of this he took as much as would operate for 
 three days, and mixing it up with a glass of wine, without his 
 perceiving it, gave it to him to drink. He afterwards walked with 
 him into the cloisters with several of the monks, and they began 
 to be merry together as usual. In some little time it began to 
 work, and he was taken with sudden drowsiness, and he nodded 
 as he stood, and at last fell down in a profound sleep. 
 
 The abbot seemed much concerned at the accident, making 
 them unbutton his collar and throw cold water in his face, in 
 order to bring him to himself, as though it had been occasioned by 
 some fumes from his stomach, or such-like disorder: but when 
 they found all was in vain, and perceiving, by touching his pulse, 
 no signs of life remaining, it was concluded by all that he was 
 certainly dead : accordingly they sent to acquaint his wife and 
 
19S 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 relations, who immediately came thither, and having lamented over 
 him for a time, he was buried by the abbot’s direction, with his 
 clothes on, in one of their vaults. She went back to her own 
 house, giving out, that she resolved never to stir a step from a 
 little son she had by him; and continuing there, she took upon 
 herself the management of th^ child, as well as estate, which he 
 had left behind. The abbot, when night came, carried a monk of 
 Bologna with him, whom he could trust, and who was just come 
 thither upon a visit \ and taking Ferondo out of the vault, they 
 brought him into a dungeon, which served as a prison for the 
 monks that had committed any fault; when, stripping him of his 
 clothes, they dressed him in the habit of a monk, and left him 
 upon a bundle of straw, till he should come to himself; whilst 
 the monk, being instructed by the abbot as to what he would 
 have done, was to wait there without any body’s knowing any¬ 
 thing of the matter, till he had his senses. The next day the 
 abbot went, attended by some of his monks, to pay his visit of 
 condolence to the widow, whom he found in her weeds very 
 sorrowful; and, after a little consolation, he put her softly in 
 mind of her promise. She, finding herself now at liberty, and 
 seeing another valuable ring on his finger, gave her consent, and 
 it was agreed that he should come the next night. When that 
 time came, therefore, he put on Ferondo’s clothes, and taking his 
 faithful monk along with him, went thither, and stayed till the 
 morning; and this practice he followed so long, that he was 
 frequently seen passing backwards and forwards by the neighbours, 
 who all agreed, that it was Ferondo who walked there, doing 
 penance, and many strange stories were reported among the 
 simple country people about it, which were carried to the lady, 
 who knew full well what kind of ghost it was. The monk, as soon 
 as he perceived Ferondo growing a little sensible, came in, making 
 a most terrible noise ; and having a rod in his hand, began to 
 chastise him severely. Ferondo, crying very much, could say 
 nothing else but, “ Where am I V’ The other replied, “ Thou art 
 in purgatory.” “ How !” said Ferondo, “ and am I then dead 
 “Most surely,” answered the monk. Upon which he began to 
 lament for himself, his wife, and child, uttering the strangest 
 things in the world ; whilst the monk gave him something to eat 
 and drink, which Ferondo seeing, said, “ What 1 do dead people 
 eatr The monk replied, “Yes, and what I now bring, thy wife 
 
THIRD DAY. 
 
 199 
 
 Bent this morning to church, to have mass said for thy soul." 
 “God bless her!” quoth Ferondo, “we always lived happily 
 together.” When, finding himself hungry, he began to eat and 
 drink, and the wine being very bad, he said, “ Alas ! why did she 
 not give the priest some of that wine nearest to the wall T No 
 sooner had he filled his belly than he had the same discipline over 
 again : when he roaring out amain, said, “ What is all this for T 
 The monk answered, “ Because thou art jealous of thy wife, who 
 is one of the best of women.” “ Alas !” quoth he, “ you say true ; 
 she was a most dear creature ; but I did not know that it was a 
 sin to be jealous.” “Oh!” said the monk, “you should have 
 taken care of that whilst you were, in the other world ; and if it 
 should happen that you return thither, remember what I now say, 
 and be jealous no more.” “Then,” replied Ferondo, “do people 
 ever return thither again, after they have been dead]” “Yes,” 
 said the other, “if God so pleases.” “Oh I” quoth Ferondo, “if 
 that should be my case, I would be the best husband in the 
 world; I would never beat her, or say an angry word, unless it 
 were for the bad wine she has sent me, and letting me have no 
 candles, that I am forced to eat in the dark.” “ She sent candles 
 enough,” answered the monk, “ but they are all burnt out at the 
 mass.” “Well,” quoth Ferondo, “you say very true, and when I 
 go back she shall do as she pleases : but pray tell me who you are 
 that do all this unto me The monk replied, “ I am now dead ; 
 but I was of Sardinia, and am condemned to this ofiice, because I 
 formerly commended a certain master of mine for being jealous.” 
 “But,” said Ferondo, “is nobody here then besides us two.” “ Yes,” 
 replied he, “ thousands; but you can no more see or hear them, 
 than they can hear or see us.” “ Then,” quoth Ferondo, “ how far 
 may we be distant from our own countries *?” “ Many thousands 
 of leagues,” answered the other. “ Why truly that is far enough,” 
 quoth Ferondo, “then we must certainly be out of the world.” 
 In this manner was Ferondo kept there for ten months, whilst the 
 abbot continued his visits to the wife ; till at last she proved with 
 child, when it was thought convenient that he should be delivered 
 out of purgatory. The next night, therefore, the abbot went 
 into the dungeon, and called upon Ferondo, with a counterfeited 
 voice, saying, “Take courage, Ferondo : it is now ordered that 
 thou return into the other world, when thou shalt have a son by 
 thy wife, whom thou shalt name Benedict; because, through the 
 
 \ 
 
200 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 prayers of the holy abbot, and thy most virtuous wife, and the 
 intercession of St. Benedict, this favour is granted thee.'^ He was 
 overjoyed at hearing this, and said, “ Thanks be to St. Benedict, 
 my wife, and the abbot; I shall ever love and honour them.** 
 Accordingly, in the next wine that was sent him, the abbot mingled 
 as much of the former d^ug as would make him sleep four hours ; 
 when they put his own clothes upon him, and he was carried into the 
 vault where he had been interred. By break of day then he came 
 to himself, and seeing a glimmering of light through a crevice of 
 the vault, which he had been utterly deprived of for ten months, 
 he began to suppose himself alive, and he cried out aloud, saying, 
 “ Open the vault and let me forth.” At the same time he lifted 
 up the cover with his head, it being of no great weight, and was 
 making his way out, whilst the monks, having just ended their 
 morning service, ran thither, and knowing Ferondo’s voice, and 
 seeing him arise out of the vault, they were so terrified that they 
 fled to tell the abbot, who, seeming to them to be just risen from 
 prayer, said, “ Fear not my sons ; take the crucifix and holy 
 water, and follow me, that we may see what kind of miracle this 
 is.” Ferondo was q[uite pale, as might be supposed, having been 
 so long confined without seeing any light; but as soon as the 
 abbot appeared, he fell at his feet, saying, “ Your prayers, most 
 holy father, as it has been revealed to me, and those of my wife, 
 with the intercession of St. Benedict, have delivered me out of pur¬ 
 gatory, and brought me to life again, for which I shall ever be 
 thankful.” “Then go” quoth the abbot, “as this mercy is 
 bestowed upon you, and comfort your wife, who has been in the 
 utmost trouble ever since you departed from us.” He, seeming 
 also to hold the thing in great veneration, ordered the monks to 
 sing devoutly the Miserere. In the mean time, Ferondo returned 
 to his house, where every one that saw him fled, as if they had 
 seen some terrible sight, affirming that he was risen from the dead. 
 His wife also expressed the utmost consternation. In some little 
 time, however, after they were convinced of his being alive, they 
 began to ask him questions concerning the souls of their departed 
 friends, when he made the finest stories in the world about pur¬ 
 gatory ! relating to them, also, what had been revealed to him 
 before his resurrection. From that time he lived comfortably 
 with his wife ; and at length they had a son, whom they called 
 Benedict Ferondo. Ferondo's resurrection, and what he himself 
 
THIRD DAY. 
 
 201 
 
 reported about it, every one giving entire credit to his words, 
 added greatly to the character of the abbot^s extraordinary sanctity. 
 Ferondo also was cured of his jealousy ; and his wife had the 
 pleasure of the abbot’s company, as often as they could coii- 
 veniently meet together. 
 
 NOVEL IX. 
 
 Gilettw de Narhonne cures the King of France of a complaint, and demands 
 the Count de Roussilon in ma7'riage, as her reward; he marries her 
 against his will, and goes in a pet to Florence, where he fell in love with 
 a young lady, and lay with his own wife, when he thought himself in bed 
 vnth his mistress. She had two sons by him, and, by that means, matters 
 were accommodated at last between them. 
 
 ^HERE remained now only the queen to speak (saving his 
 privilege to Dioneus); therefore she began, without being 
 called upon, in this manner:— 
 
 Who can say anything now to please, since we have heard Lau¬ 
 retta’s story*? It is well for most of the company she was not the 
 first; for few would have been thought so agreeable after her; and 
 so I believe it will be with regard to such as are yet to speak; 
 however I shall keep to the subject, and give you my story, such 
 as it is. 
 
 There lived in France a gentleman named Isuard Count Rous¬ 
 silon, who, because he was in a bad state of health, kept always a 
 physician in his house, called Master Gerard de Narbonne. Now 
 the count had an only son, whose name was Beltram, a fine youth, 
 who was brought up along with other children of his own age, 
 amongst whom was a daughter to this physician, called Giletta, 
 who had an infinite esteem and love (more than was common at 
 sucli an age) for him ; whilst he, on account of his father’s death, 
 and his being left to the king’s care, was obliged to go to Paris, 
 which gave her the utmost concern: soon afterwards, her father 
 dying also, she would gladly, if she could have found a fit pretence, 
 have gone thither to have seen him; but such care was taken of 
 her, as she was an heiress, that it was impossible. Being now of 
 age to marry, and being unable to forget her first love, though she 
 had many offers, to whom her guardians would willingly have dis¬ 
 posed of her, she rejected them all, without assigning any reason. 
 In the mean time, her love growing more violent every day, as she 
 heard an extraordinary character of him, news was brought that 
 
202 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 the King of France had a dangerous complaint which succeeded a 
 swelling in his breast, from its not being well cured, that gave him 
 extreme trouble; nor could he meet with a physician, though he 
 had tried many, that was able to heal it; but, on the contrary, they 
 had made it worse, insomuch that he was determined to have no 
 more advice. This was agreeable enough to the young lady, not 
 only as it afforded a pretence for her going to Paris, but also, if the 
 disorder proved of the kind suspected, she had great hopes of 
 getting Beltram for her husband; upon which, mixing up such sort 
 of drugs as her father was wont to use in cases of that nature, she 
 hastened away to Paris, when the first thing she did, after she had 
 obtained a sight of Beltram, was to wait upon the king, to desire 
 he would acquaint her with his malady. His maj esty most graciously 
 condescended to grant her request: when she was instantly con¬ 
 vinced she was able to make a cure, and said, “ Sir, if you will give 
 me leave, I hope, without any pain or trouble, to restore your 
 health in eight days.’’ The king could not help making a jest of 
 this, saying to himself, “What! shall a woman undertake to do 
 that which has bafiled all the best physicians in the world]” He 
 thanked her, therefore, for her good intention, and told her that 
 he resolved to try no more medicines. The lady then replied, 
 “Sir, you ridicule my art, because you see me young, and a 
 woman; but I must remind you, that I do not pretend to this from 
 my own knowledge; but I rely upon the help of God, and the 
 judgment of Master Gerard de Narbonne, who was a most eminent 
 physician in his time, and my father.” The king, hearing this, 
 said to himself, “ Perhaps she is sent from God to my assistance : 
 why do I not, therefore, make trial of her, as she promises to cure 
 me, without any trouble, in so short a time]” He said, therefore, 
 to her, “ But suppose you should prove mistaken, what would you 
 forfeit for making me break my resolution]” She replied: “If 
 your majesty pleases, you may set a guard upon me ; and if you 
 are not cured in eight days, then burn me alive : but if I succeed, 
 and you get well, what reward am I then to have]” The king 
 made answer : “You seem to be a maiden, I will dispose of you in 
 marriage to a person of great account.” “Sir,” quoth she, “I 
 accept your offer of a husband, but I will name the person, except¬ 
 ing all of your royal house.” He immediately promised, and she 
 began to administer her medicines ; and before the limited time 
 she had wrought a thorough cure. He then said. “ Fair maid vmi 
 
THIRD DA Y. 
 
 203 
 
 have well earned a husband.” “ Then, sir,’’ she replied, “ I have 
 gained the Count de Roussilon, whoMi I have loved ever since I 
 was a child.” The king thought her demand very great, but, as he 
 had given his word, he would not depart from it. He sent for him, 
 therefore, and said to him, “ Beltram, you are now of age to take 
 upon you the government of your own country; I consequently 
 will that you return thither, and take a wife whom I shall recom¬ 
 mend to jmu.” “ And who is the lady, sir V’ replied Beltram. “ It 
 is she,” said the king, “ who has cured me with her medicines.” 
 Beltram knew and liked her well enough, only that he thought her 
 extract too low for his quality; upon which he said, with some 
 disdain, “And does your majesty then mean to give me a doctress 
 for my wife Surely I may do much better for myself.” “ Then,” 
 quoth the king, “ would you have me worse than my word 'I She 
 requested to have you, and I promised, upon condition that I was 
 made well.” “My liege,” replied he, “you may take away what I 
 now possess, or you may add to it if you please ; but this I assure 
 your majesty, that I will never consent to such a match.” “It is 
 my pleasure to have it so,” continued the king; she is a prudent 
 and beautiful lady, and you may be happier with her, than if you 
 were married to one of greater quality.” Beltram then held his 
 peace ; and the king ordered a magnificent entertainment in honour 
 of the nuptials, and, when the day came, Beltram espoused her, 
 much against his will, in the king’s presence, which being done, 
 he took his leave of his majesty, as if he was going to keep his 
 wedding in his own country; but, instead of that, he went a quite 
 different way, and came to Tuscany, where he heard that the 
 Florentines were at war with the Senesi, when he willingly joined 
 to them, and, having a command given him, he continued some 
 time in their service. The bride, not at all pleased with his be¬ 
 haviour, went to Roussilon, in hopes of gaining his affections by 
 her prudent management, where she was received as their lady and 
 mistress, and, finding every thing in disorder, on account of her 
 husband’s long minority, she used such care and diligence in 
 restoring all to its wonted tranquillity, that she gained the favour 
 and good-will of her subjects, who blamed the count highly for his 
 neglect of her. When that was done, she sent two knights to him, 
 to desire to know if it was on her account he stayed away from 
 home; and to tell him that she was willing to go elsewhere to 
 please him. But he answered roughly, that she might use her 
 
204 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 pleasnre; “ For,” said he, “ I will go to her only when she shall 
 have this ring upon her finger, and a son, begotten by me, in her 
 arms.” Now he valued the ring at a high rate, and never parted 
 with it from his finger, because of some secret virtue which he 
 supposed it to have. The knights looked upon the condition as 
 implying two impossibilities ; and, perceiving that he was not to be 
 moved from his resolution, they returned, and reported his answer. 
 The lady was much afflicted at this, and began to consider, if there 
 were no way to effect these two points, and consequently regain her 
 husband. Taking her measures then accordingly, she assembled 
 all the principal people of the country, when she recounted to them, 
 in a most tender and affectionate manner, all that she had done for 
 the love of the count, and what ensued thereupon; and she let 
 them know, that it never was her intention, by staying amongst 
 them, to keep him in perpetual banishment: wherefore she resolved 
 to spend the remainder of her life in pilgrimage, for the good of her 
 soul; and her desire was, that they would take the government 
 upon them, and inform the count that she had quitted possession, 
 and left the country with a design never more to return. As she 
 was speaking these words, they all began to weep, and they 
 entreated her much to change her resolution, but to no purpose. 
 Taking her leave, then, and being attended with only a maid ser¬ 
 vant and a relation, they set forward together like pilgrims, having 
 provided themselves well with money and jewels; and, witfiout 
 anybody’s knowing whither they were gone, they made no stop till 
 they came to Florence; there, by chance, they met with an inn 
 that was kept by a widow, where she stayed, with a desire of 
 learning some news concerning her lord. 
 
 The next day it happened that he passed by the house on horse¬ 
 back, along with his troop, when, though she knew him very well, 
 yet she asked the landlady who he was 1 “ It is a gentleman, a 
 stranger,” answered she, “one of the best-natured men in the 
 world, and much respected in this city, who is in love with a 
 gentlewoman of small fortune in this neighbourhood : she bears a 
 good character, but is yet unmarried, on account of her scanty 
 circumstances, and lives with her mother.” The countess, upon 
 hearing this, began to consider more fully of what she meant to 
 do; and, inquiring the person’s name and where she lived, she 
 went one day to the house, and, after the usual salutation, told the 
 old lady that she had a mind to speak to her: the other arose, and 
 
THIRD DAY, 
 
 205 
 
 said, with all her heart. They then went into a chamber by them- 
 Belves, and sitting down together, the countess began in this 
 manner : “ Madam, you seem to be as little obliged to fortune as 
 myself j but perhaps it is now in your power to do us both a kind¬ 
 ness.” The other 'replied that she should be very willing, if it 
 could be done honestly. The countess added, “I put myself 
 entirely into your hands; if you deceive me, you frustrate the 
 purposes of both.”—“ Speak out,” said the lady; “ you shall find 
 I never shall deceive you.” She then related her whole story, from 
 beginning to end, part of which the old lady had heard from 
 common report: and she added, “You now hear the two things 
 which I am to compass to gain my husband, with regard to which 
 there is no person in the world can serve me besides yourself, if it 
 be true, as I am told that he is violently in love with your 
 daughter.”—“ Madam,” quoth the lady, “ there is some appearance 
 of the count’s liking my daughter; but whether there be any thing 
 real, that I cannot pretend to say. But what has this to do with 
 your affair*?”—“ That,” answered she, “I shall soon tell you. But 
 you must first hear what I intend to do in consideration of this 
 service of yours. I understand that you have a daughter of age 
 to marry, whom you are forced to keep at home with you, for 
 want of a fortune to give her : now my design is, to advance such 
 a sum of money as you yourself shall think sufficient to marry 
 her reputably.” The lady liked the offer very well, but yet, having 
 the spirit of a gentlewoman, she replied; “ Tell me what you 
 want to have done, and if it appear fair and honest, I will do it 
 most willingly, and leave the reward to you.” The countess then 
 said: “You must give the count to understand, by some person 
 whom you can trust, that your daughter is ready to oblige him as 
 soon as she can be assured that he has that real love for her which 
 he pretends, and which she knows not how to credit, unless he 
 sends her the ring that he usually wears, and which, she hears, he 
 sets such a value upon. This ring you must give to me, and then 
 you may let him know that your daughter is at his service, and 
 that he may come privately hither as soon as he pleases, when you 
 must put me to bed to him instead of your daughter. Perhaps I 
 may prove with child ; so that, by having his ring on my finger, 
 and a son of his in my arms, which were the two conditions 
 required, I may live with him afterwards as my husband, and you 
 may be the happy instrument of it.” The lady was in some doubt 
 
2o6 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 at first, fearing some scandal might befal her daughter; but con¬ 
 sidering afterwards how fit it was that the good lady should have 
 her husband, she therefore promised her assistance, and in a few 
 days obtained the ring, much against his will, and afterwards put 
 the lady to bed to him instead of her daughter. Accordingly it 
 happened that she became with child of two sons, as the event 
 made manifest, which, as soon as she perceived, she said to the 
 lady, “ Madam, my end is now answered, I have nothing more to 
 do but to satisfy you for your trouble." She replied: “ If you are 
 contented, it is well; I did it out of no expectation of reward, 
 but only as it appeared to me quite a right thing."—“Madam," 
 continued the countess, “ I am entirely pleased, and I intend to 
 make you a recompense suitable to your great merit.” She then, 
 moved by her necessity, desired, with the utmost modesty, a 
 hundred pounds for her daughter’s portion: whilst the other, 
 knowing her great worth, and hearing her humble demand, gave 
 her five hundred and jewels to the amount of as much more, for 
 which she was very thankful; and, to take away all pretence of 
 the count’s coming any more to her house, removed with her 
 daughter to her friends in the country. In some time, Beltram, 
 hearing that his countess had departed out of his territories, went 
 thither, at the request of his subjects; whilst she stayed at 
 Florence till her time of labour came, when she was brought to 
 bed of two sons, very like their father, whom she took care to have 
 well nursed; and, in due time, without being discovered by any 
 person, she came to Montpelier, where she made some stay, to rest 
 herself and to make inquiry concerning her husband: when, 
 hearing that he was to make a great feast at Roussilon, on the day 
 of All Saints, she went thither in the same pilgrim’s dress as she 
 at first set out in ; and, just as the guests were going to sit down 
 at table, she pressed forwards through the midst of the crowd, both 
 of gentlemen and ladies, with her two children in her arms, tiU, 
 coming where the count was, she threw herself at his feet, saying 
 with tears, “ My lord, I am your unhappy wife, who have under¬ 
 taken a long pilgrimage, in order that you might return to your 
 own house. I conjure you, in the presence of God, that you abide 
 by the two conditions enjoined me by the two knights whom I sent 
 to you. Behold, not one son only of yours in my arms, but two; 
 and see, here is the ring.” The count was ccmfounded with admira¬ 
 tion, knowing the ring and seeing the children to be like him, and 
 
 ♦ 
 
THIRD DAY, 
 
 207 
 
 siiid : “ How can fchis be V She then related the whole story 
 before all the company: whilst he, knowing her to speak the 
 truth, perceiving also her constancy and good management, and 
 beholding two such pretty children, to satisfy also his promise, as 
 well as to oblige the whole company, who requested him to take 
 her as his wife ; upon all these considerations, I say, he laid his 
 inveterate hatred aside, and raised her up and saluted her, ac¬ 
 knowledging her for his lawful countess and the two babes for his 
 children : he ordered also suitable apparel to be brought for them, 
 to the great joy of the whole court; whilst the feasting continued 
 not that day only but many others; and from that time he shewed 
 her all due respect, and they continued happy together ao long as 
 they lived. 
 
 -o - 
 
 NOVEL X. 
 
 Alibech, a young girl desirous of becoming a Christian, travels to a desert 
 to consult some holy men as to the best means of serving and pleasing 
 God. Rusticus, a devout hermit, informs her that the Devil had escaped 
 from hell, that nothing could be more acceptable to God than his being sent 
 back again, and teaches her how to accomplish it; which she does with his 
 pious assistance, to her great satisfaction. 
 
 lONEUS who had listened attentively to the story just 
 related by the queen, perceiving that she had finished, and 
 that it only remained for him to tell his, did not wait for 
 their commands, but smiling, thus commenced ;— 
 
 Most gracious ladies, you may not have heard how the devil, 
 having broke loose, was again replaced in hell, and I will, with 
 very little deviation from the drift of all that has been spoken to¬ 
 day, tell you how it occurred, as the knowledge of it may, perad- 
 venture, enable you to save your souls. Although love dwells in 
 gorgeous palaces, and sumptuous apartments, more willingly than 
 in miserable and desolate cottages, it cannot be denied but that he 
 sometimes causes his power to be felt in the gloomy recesses of 
 forests, among the most bleak and rugged mountains, and in the 
 dreary caves of a desert; to comprehend which, we must believe 
 that all things are subject to his power. As a proof of the foregoing 
 observations, I proceed with the following history. 
 
 In the city of Capsa, in Barbary, there resided formerly a very 
 rich man, who had, among other children, a daughter named 
 
2o8 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 Alibech, who was young, handsome, and docile. This girl was not 
 a Christian, but hearing the Christian faith, and the serving of God 
 much praised by the Christians who were in that city demanded 
 of one of them in what manner, and how with the least interrup¬ 
 tion or trouble she could serve God. She was informed that they 
 served him best, who despised and fled from the vanities and things of 
 this world, as did those who retired to the solitudes in the deserts 
 in Thebais. The young girl, who was all simplicity, and not more 
 perhaps than fourteen years of age, nor governed by a reasonable 
 desire, but by the headstrong impulses of youth, without disclosing 
 her intention, started secretly the next morning for the desert of 
 Thebais. She arrived with great fatigue (her resolution having 
 continued firm) at one of the solitary places, where, having dis¬ 
 covered a little dwelling, she entered it, and found a holy man who 
 marvelled much to see the like of her, in such a place, and enquired 
 the object of her journey. She replied, that inspired by God, she 
 came to dedicate herself to his service, and also to seek some one 
 who could instruct her how she must serve him. The holy man 
 seeing her young and so beautiful, fearing that the devil might 
 tempt him, if he detained her, commended highly her great devo¬ 
 tion, and having given her some roots and herbs, some wild apples 
 and dates to eat, and some water to drink, said to her : “ My child, 
 not far from hence there lives a holy man who in such matters as 
 you seek, is a greater master than I am, go you then to him and 
 he put her in the way, by which she came to the cell of an hermit, 
 named BLusticus, who was young and sufiiciently pious and good. 
 She made the same request to this one that she had to the other; 
 and he, wishing to make a grand experiment of his firmness, instead 
 of following the example of the other by sending her away, retained 
 her in this habitation, and at night made a bed of palm branches 
 in one corner, that she might repose herself thereon. This done, 
 the temptations of the flesh waited not a moment to oppose them¬ 
 selves to the strength of the hermit; who finding that he had been 
 too long deceived by them, without receiving too great an assault, 
 gave himself up for conquered, and setting aside divine thoughts, 
 prayers, and discipline, began to ruminate on the youth and beauty 
 of the fair pilgrim, and to devise by what ways and means he should 
 accomplish his purpose, in order that she might not consider him 
 a dissolute man. Having in the first place, by certain interro¬ 
 gatories, ascertained that she was as simple as she appeared to be. 
 
THIRD DAY. 
 
 209 
 
 and never had knowledge of man, it occurred to him that, under 
 the pretext of serving God, he could bring her to his desires. He 
 therefore began to explain to her, that the devil was the greatest 
 enemy of our Lord, and that the service most pleasing to God, was 
 to send the Devil back again to hell, where our Lord had con¬ 
 demned him. She demanded of him how this was to be done, 
 which he immediately proceeded to explain.* 
 
 * The translators regret that the disuse into which magic has fallen, 
 makes it impossible to render the technicals of that mysterious art into 
 tolerable English; they have therefore found it necessary to insert several 
 p^sages in the original Italian. To those who are acquainted with the 
 French language the version of a few passages by Mirabeau will be suf¬ 
 ficient to throw some light on these difficulties. 
 
 Tu le sauras tout-a-l’heure : fais seulement tout ce que tu me verras 
 
 faire.Aussitot Termite quitte ces vetemens, et la docile Alibech en 
 
 fait autant. Les voila nus Tun et Tautre : Rustique promene ses regards 
 avides sur ce corps d’albatre, dont TAmour sembloit avoir arrondi les 
 
 formes.et le diable se dechaisne avec une indomptable fureur. Eh ! 
 
 mon Dieu, mon p6re, s’ecrie Alibech toute etonnee, qu’est-ce done que je 
 
 vois la? Je n’ai rien de pareil.(En disant ces mots elle touche le 
 
 diable, et vous jugez qu’il Rve avec plus d’audace sa cr§te alti^re.) Mon 
 amie, e’est precisement 14 le diable dont je t’ai parle, et qui me livre en 
 cet instant de cruels assauts. O que je suis heureuse de n’avoir pas un 
 diable comme celapour me tourmenter ! Ma fille, tu as beaucoup plus ; 
 tu portes Tenfer ou il faut le precipiter, (Et le ruse papelard presse 
 d’une maine ardente le sanctuaire de Tamour, qu’il appeloit Tenfer.) 
 Certes, Dieu me comble de bienfaits en t’envoyant vers moi: il a voulu 
 me donner des moyens de vaincre Tesprit malin: permets, 6 mon enfant! 
 que je le plonge dans le lieu de t&ebres qu’il doit habiter, et nous gagne- 
 rons tous deux le ciel. Vraiment, mon p4re, vous etes bien le maistre, 
 et je hais le diable autant que vous. 
 
 Rustique en proie a ses impatiens d^sirs, s’41ance sur la jeune Alibech, 
 
 comme un vautour insatiable saisit une timide colombe.et le diable 
 
 p4n4tre dans Tenfer, non sans obstacles, non sans douleur.Alibech 
 
 pleuroit et s’ecrioit: “0 mon pere ! qu’il est mechant ce demon, puisque 
 “dans Tenfer meme il fait encore du mal!” Rustique ne repondoit pas, 
 il n’avoit plus de voix pour repondre, et sans dout il etoit bien stir de 
 reconcilier bientot sa douce victime avec un diable qui ne fait jamais 
 deux fois les m§mes ravages. 
 
 Le solitaire zele ne se lassoit pas de lui faire la guerre. Sa docile 
 neophite le combattit bientbt avec autant de ferveur que lui. ‘ ‘ Ah ! 
 “ s’ecroit-elle, apr4s ces salutaires combats, qu’ils disoient bien laverite, 
 
 ** ces honn^tes gens de Caspe, quand ils m’assuroient que rien n’est si 
 ** delicieux que de servir le Createur ! Cette guerre centre Tennemi de 
 “Thomme me procure des plaisirs incomparables 4 tous ceux que j’avois 
 “ connus.” 
 
 Par une cause tr4s naturelle, mais assez triste, le z^le de Rustique 
 diminuoit 4 mesure que celui de la belle augmentoit. Celle-ci en mur- 
 muroit souvent, et disoit 4 son compagnon : “Mais votre piete devient 
 ** ti4de ; souvenez-vous done, mon pere, que je suis venue ici pour prier 
 
 lA 
 
210 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 
 Alla quale Rustico disse : Tu il saprai tosto, e per6 farai quello 
 clie a me far vedrai; e cominciossi a spogliare quegli pochi vesti- 
 menti, che aveva, e rimase tutto ignudo, e cosi ancora fece la fanci* 
 ulla, e posesi in ginocchione a guisa, che adorar volesse; e dirimpetto 
 a se fece star lei. E cosi stando, essendo Rustico, piu che mai, nel 
 suo disidero acceso, per lo vederla cosi bella, venue la resurrezion 
 della came ; la quale riguardando Alibech, e maravigliatastj^ disse: 
 Rustico, quella che cosa e, che io ti veggio, che cosi si pigne in 
 fuori, e non T ho io ? 0 figliuola mia, disse Rustico, questo e il 
 
 diavolo, di che io t’ ho parlato, e vedi tu ora: egli mi da grandissima 
 molestia, tanta, che io appena la posso sofferire. Allora disse la 
 giovane. O lodato sia Iddio, che io veggio, che io sto meglio, che 
 non stai tu, che io non ho cotesto diavolo io. Disse Rustico, tu di 
 vero; ma tu hai un’ altra cosa, che non V ho io, et haila in iscambio 
 di questo. Disse Alibech : O che ? A cui Rustico disse : Hai 
 r inferno ; e dicoti, che io mi credo, che Dio t’ abbia qui mandata 
 per la salute dell’ anima mia ; percioche, se questo diavolo pur mi 
 dara questa noia, ove tu vogli aver di me tanta pieta, 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 0 padre mio, poscia che io ho 1’ inferno, sia pure quando vi 
 piacera mettervi il diavolo. Disse allora Rustico : Figliuola mia 
 benedetta sia tu: andiamo dunque, e rimettiamlovi si, che egli 
 poscia mi lasci stare. E cosi detto, menate la giovane sopra uno 
 de’ loro letticelli, le ’nsegno, come star si dovesse a dover incarce- 
 rare quel maladetto da Dio. La giovane, che mai piu non aveva 
 in inferno messo diavolo alcuno, per la prima volta senti un poco 
 di noia ; perche ella disse a Rustico. 
 
 “ Dieu, et non pour Tester oisive; remettons Uonc le diable en enfer- 
 
 Ils I’y remettoient j mais le diable se retrouvoit tr6s-fatigue. Rustiqae 
 fut oblige d’avouer a Alibech que cet esprit de ten^bres perdoit ses forces 
 quand il etoit trop chatie. On ne devoit lui livrer de combats, ajoutoit-il, 
 que lorsqu’il el6ve orgueilleusement la t6te, et non pour I’agacer, sans 
 cesse comme tu fais; car il n’est pas chretien d’avoir, m@me centre ie 
 diable, une haine implacable. Mais, dit Alibech, s’il en est ainsi de votre 
 diable, il me semble que mon enfer ne devroit pas me tourmenter incessam- 
 ment, ou que Satan devroit toujours y §tre renvoye quand I’enfer le rap- 
 pelle. Mon p§re, j’ai calme ce malin esprit qui vous chagrinoit; appaisez 
 done les flammes qui me devorent. Rustique ne savoit que repondre; il 
 ne s’etoit pas defie de sa vertu, il avoit trop presume de ses forces. C’etoit 
 un double embarras ; il s’effor 9 oit en vain de satisfaire la jeune fille; e’en 
 etoit un autre; Alibech se desperoit. “ Helas!” disoit-elle, “il faut renon- 
 “cer a notre salut: Dieune peut jeter sur nous que des regards irrites.” 
 
THIRD DAY. 
 
 2II 
 
 Per certo, padre mio, mala cosa dee essere questo diavolo, e 
 veramente nimico di Iddio che ancora all’ inferno, non che altrui 
 duole qilando, egli V e dentro rimesso. Disse Rustico : Figliuola, 
 egli non averra sempre cosi: e per fare, che questo non avvenisse, 
 da sei volte anziche di su il letticel si movesero, ve ’1 rimisero; 
 tantoche per quella vcflta gli trasser si la superbia del capo, che egli 
 si stette volentieri in pace. Ma ritornatagli poi nel seguente tempo 
 piu volte, e la giovane ubbidente sempre a trargliela si disponesse, 
 avvenne, che il giuoco le comincio a piacere; e comincio a dire a 
 Rustico. Ben veggio, che il ver dicevano que valenti uomini in 
 Oapsa, che il servire a Dio era cosi dolce cosa, e per certo io non mi 
 ricordo, 'che mai alcuna altra ne facessi, che di tanto diletto, e 
 piacere mi fosse, quanto e il rimettere il diavolo in inferno ; e percio 
 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 perche il diavolo si fugga di ninferno, che s’ egli vi stesse 
 cosi volentieri, come 1’ inferno il riceve, e tiene; egli non sene 
 uscirebbe mai. Cosi adunque invitando spesso la giovane Rustico, 
 et al servigio di Dio confortandolo, si la bambagia del farsetto 
 tratta gli avea, che egli a talora sentiva freddo, che un’ altro sarebbe 
 sudato; e percio egli in comincio a dire alia giovane, che il diavolo 
 non era da gastigare, ne da rimettere in inferno, se non quando egli 
 per superbia levasse il capo ; enoi, per la grazia, di Dio, F abbiamo 
 si sgannato, che egla priega Iddio di starsi in pace: e cosi alquanto 
 impose di silenzio alia 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 e gastigato, e piu non ti da 
 noia me il mio ninferno non lascia stare : perche 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 
 Rustico, che di radici d’ erbe, e d’ acqua vivea, potea male rispondere 
 alle poste, e dissele, che troppi diavoli vorrebbono essere a potere 
 r inferno attutare: ma che egli ne farebbe cio, che per lui si 
 potesse; e cosi alcuna volta le sodisfaceva: ma si era di rado, che 
 altro non era che gittare una fava in bocca al leone. Da che la 
 giovane, non pare^idole tanto servire a Dio, quanto voleva, mor- 
 morava, ansi, che na Ma mentre che tra il diavolo di Rustico, e 
 
 14—2 
 
812 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 Pinferno d* Alibech era, per troppo disiderio, e per men potere, questa 
 questione. 
 
 Some time after a dreadful fire broke out in the city of Capsa 
 and destroyed the father of Alibech, in his own house, with the rest 
 of his children, by which circumstance she became sole heir to very 
 considerable property. There was in this city a young man named 
 Neherbal, who had spent in wanton extravagance all his wealth, 
 and knowing that Alibech was alive, immediately commenced a 
 search after her, in hopes of finding her before her property was 
 dissipated by others. His exertions were such that he found her 
 and brought her to Capsa against her own consent but to the great 
 relief of poor E-usticus. Neherbal took Alibech to wife, but being 
 in conversation with some ladies of the city before that she had 
 slept with her husband, they asked in what manner she served God 
 in the desert. She said she served God by replacing the Devil into 
 hell, and that Neherbal had been guilty of a great crime in having 
 taken her away from such service. The ladies wished to know in 
 what manner she replaced the Devil in hell. Alibech, as well by 
 words as by gestures, endeavoured to show them, which made them 
 burst into a fit of laughter, and say to her, be not melancholy, my 
 child, for they know well enough how to do that here. Neherbal 
 will serve God well with you. They related this among themselves 
 throughout the city, and it became in time a common proverb, 
 “that the most agreeable service we could render God, was to 
 replace the Devil in hell.’' The proverb has passed from thence 
 across the sea to us, and exists to the present day. 
 
 By this, you young ladies, to whom the grace of God is necessary, 
 may learn to put the Devil into hell, because it is very agreeable 
 to God; it affords exquisite pleasure to both parties embarked in 
 such devotions; and much good will grow out of it and follow it. 
 
 Dioneus having finished his story, and the queen knowing her 
 sovereignty to be now at an end, took the crown from her head, 
 and placed it upon Philostratus, saying, “We shall soon see whether 
 the wolves govern the sheep better than the sheep have hitherto 
 governed the wolves.” He returned, with a smile, “ You have no 
 more right to call us wolves, than you have to call yourselves sheep: 
 however, 1 take upon me the command.” Giving the proper orders 
 then to the steward, as to what he would have done, he turned 
 about to the ladies, and said;—“It has been my misfortune, eyer 
 since I was able to judge of anything, to be always in love with 
 
THIRD DA Y, 
 
 213 
 
 one or other of you ladies: nor has it availed me in the least that I 
 have been humble, obedient, and desirous of pleasing to the utmost 
 of my power; for I have constantly been discarded at last for some 
 other lover, going still from better to worse, and so I expect to con¬ 
 tinue till I go to my grave. Therefore I intend that our subject 
 for this day shall be something suitable to my own case; namely, 
 concerning those persons whose amours have had an unfortunate 
 conclusion.” Having said this, he gave them leave to depart. The 
 garden was so pleasant, that every one chose to walk thither, 
 especially as the sun was going down, where some diverted them¬ 
 selves with observing and running after the kids, rabbits, and other 
 creatures, that were skipping about them. Dioneus and Flammetta 
 sat together singing the song of Gulielmo and the Lady of Virtue. 
 Philomena and Pamphilus played at chess. And thus they were 
 all differently employed till the time of supper, which came upon 
 them a little unexpected: when, the table being spread by the side 
 of the fountain, they supped with a great deal of pleasure. As 
 soon as the cloth was taken away, Philostratus, not to go out of the 
 path which had been followed by the queens who had gone before 
 him, commanded Lauretta to begin a dance with a song, who 
 replied, “May it please your majesty, I know nothing of other 
 people’s songs, nor my own at present, which would please so agree¬ 
 able a set of company: but, if you will accept of such an one as I 
 can call to mind, I will do it with a great deal of pleasure:” when 
 the king made answer, “Nothing of yours can be disagreeable, sing 
 such as you have.” She then began with a musical voice, but in a 
 . desponding manner, thus; 
 
 SONG; 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Who can with so much cause complain. 
 
 As I, who love and sigh in vain ? 
 
 I. 
 
 He whose almighty word hath taught to 
 The heavens, and every star above ; 
 
 Hath made me as you see, 
 
 All brisk and debonair, that I might 
 A pattern of perfection priz’d i 
 Yet I’m despis’d* 
 
 Who can, &c. 
 
THE DECAMERON, 
 
 tl4 
 
 11 . 
 
 I heretofore 
 
 Was by a fond admirer made to prove 
 , The soft persuasive force of love ; 
 
 Swift past the hours of transport thus divine, 
 
 Whilst all his wishes, all his thoughts were mine, 
 
 But he’s no more. 
 
 Who can, &c. 
 
 III. 
 
 One more morose and vain 
 Next made his court; 
 
 But from report 
 He jealous soon became; 
 
 And falsely left me in distress, 
 
 Tho’ conscious then I was, 
 
 That charms like mine, for gen’ral view designed. 
 
 Were to that lover’s wishes still confin’d: 
 
 Who can, &c. 
 
 IV. 
 
 For ever be that day accurst, 
 
 When to commence a bride, 
 
 I laid my sable weeds aside. 
 
 Which dress so well became me first; 
 
 Thrice happy damsel, had I died 
 Before that fatal change I tried. 
 
 Who can, &o. 
 
 V. 
 
 And thou, my dearest lover, once, and friend. 
 
 Who, with the saints above, 
 
 Enjoy’st the fruits of virtue and of love. 
 
 My pray’r attend! 
 
 Amidst the sweet repose, which now you find. 
 
 Think on me, poor distressed maid; 
 
 And nature’s final debt when paid. 
 
 May we then meet, and be for^ever joined. 
 
 Who can with so much cause complain. 
 
 As I, who love and sigh in vain? 
 
 When this song was ended, lighted torches were brought, and set 
 upon the grass; and they continued, till the stars began to go down, 
 singing and making merry. Then the king thought it time for 
 them to depart, and, wishing one another good night, they retired 
 to their respective chambers. 
 

1 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 A* 
 
 
 J 
 
 ) 
 
 X 
 
 iie&^ 
 
 
 ( 
 
 # 
 
 \ 
 
 w,^,jitjgllk',‘,i6^ 
 
 
 
THE FOURTH DAY. 
 
 HE sun liad now driven aH the stars from the heavens, and 
 dispelled the vapours of the night from the earth, when 
 Philostratus arose, and ordered all the company to be 
 called. They walked then into the garden, and dined, when the 
 time came, where they had supped the preceding night. Taking a 
 nap afterwards, whilst the sun was at its height, they returned at 
 the usual time to the fountain side. Here Philostratus commanded 
 Flammetta to begin, who spoke in a soft agreeable manner, as 
 follows. 
 
 NOVEL I. 
 
 Tancred, Prince of Salerno, 'puts his daughters lover to death, and sends his 
 heart to her in a golden cup ; she pours 'water upon it, which she had 
 poisoned, and so dies. 
 
 I UR king has given us a most melancholy subject for this 
 day’s discourse ; considering, that as we came hither to be 
 merry, we must now recount other people’s misfortunes, 
 which cannot be related without moving compassion, as well in 
 those who tell as in those who hear them. Perhaps it is designed 
 as an alloy to the mirth of the preceding days. But whatever his 
 reason may be for it, I have no business to make any alteration 
 with regard to his pleasure. I shall, therefore, mention an un¬ 
 happy story to you, worthy of your most tender compassion. 
 
 Tancred, prince of Salerno, was a most humane and generous 
 lord, nad he not in his old age defiled his hands in a lover’s blood. 
 He, through the whole course of his life, had one only daughter . 
 and happy nad he been not to have possessed her. No child could 
 be more dear to a parent than she was, which made him loath to 
 part with her in marriage: at length, not till she was a little 
 advanced in years, he married her to the Duke of Capoa, when 
 she was soon left a widow, and came home again to her father. 
 
2 I6 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 She was a lady of great beauty and understanding, and continuing 
 thus in the court of ‘her father, who took no care to marry her 
 again ; and it seeming not so modest in her to ask it, she resolved 
 at last to have a lover privately. Accordingly she made choice of 
 a person of low parentage but noble qualities, whose name was 
 Guiscard, with whom she became violently in love : and by often 
 seeing him, and evermore commending his manner and behaviour, 
 he soon became sensible of it, and devoted himself entirely to the 
 love of her. Affecting each other thus in secret, and she desiring 
 nothing so much as to be with him, and not daring to trust any 
 person with the affair, contrived a new stratagem in order to 
 apprise him of the means. She wrote a letter, wherein she men- 
 . tioned what she would have him do the next day for her ; this she 
 put into a hollow cane, and giving it to him one day, she said, 
 pleasantly, “You may make a pair of bellows of this for your 
 servant to blow the fire with this evening.” He received it, sup¬ 
 posing very justly that it had some meaning: and, taking it home, 
 found the letter; which, when he had thoroughly considered, and 
 knew what he had to do, he was the most overjoyed man that 
 could be; and he applied himself accordingly to answer her 
 assignation, in the manner she had directed him. On one side of 
 the palace, and under a mountain, was a grotto, whicfi had been 
 made time out of mind, and into which no light could come but 
 through a little opening dug in the mountain, and which, as the 
 grotto had been long in disuse, was grown over with briars and 
 thorns. Into this grotto was a passage by a private staircase, out 
 of one of the rooms of the palace, which belonged to the lady’s 
 apartment, and was secured by a very strong door. This passage 
 was so far out of every one’s thoughts, having been disused for so 
 long a time, that nobody remembered anything about it: but love, 
 whose notice nothing can escape, brought it fresh into the mind 
 of the enamoured lady; who, to keep this thing entirely private, 
 laboured some days before she could get the door open; when, 
 having gone down into the cave and observed the opening, and 
 how high it might be from thence to the bottom, she acquainted 
 him with the fact. Guiscard then provided a ladder of cords; 
 and casing himself well with leather, to be defended from the 
 chorns, fixing one end of the ladder to the stump of a tree which 
 was near, he slid down by the help of it to the bottom, where he 
 stayed expecting the lady. The following day, therefore, having 
 
FOURTH DA K 
 
 217 
 
 sent her maids out of the way, under pretence that she was going 
 to lie down, and locking herself up alone in her chamber, she 
 opened the door and descended into the grotto, where they met to 
 their mutual satisfaction. From thence she shewed him the way 
 to her chamber, where they were together the greatest part of the 
 day, and, taking proper measures for the time to come, he went 
 away through the cave and she returned to her maids. The same 
 he did the next night, and he followed this course for a consider¬ 
 able time, when fortune, as if she envied them their happiness, 
 thought fit to change their mirth into mourning. Tancred used 
 sometimes to come into his daughter’s chamber, to pass a little 
 time away with her; and going thither one day after dinner, whilst 
 the lady, whose name was Ghismond, was with her maids in the 
 garden; and, being perceived by no one, nor yet willing to take 
 her from her diversion, finding also the window shut and the cur¬ 
 tains drawn to the feet of the bed, he threw himself down in a 
 great chair, which stood in a corner of the room, leaning his head 
 upon the bed, and drawing the curtain before him, as it he con¬ 
 cealed himself on purpose, when he chanced to fall asleep. In the 
 meantime, Ghismond, having made an appointment with her lover, 
 left the mai^s in the garden and came into her chamber, which 
 she secured, not thinking of any person being there, and went to 
 meet Guiscard, who was in the cave waiting for her, and brought 
 him into her chamber; when her father awoke, and was a witness 
 to aU that passed between them. This was the utmost affliction 
 to him, and he was about to cry out, but upon second thoughts he 
 resolved to keep it private if possible, that he might be able to do 
 more securely, and with less disgrace, what he had resolved upon. 
 The lovers stayed together their usual time, without perceiving 
 anything of Tancred, who, after they were departed, got out of 
 the window into the garden, old as he was, and went, without 
 being seen by any one, very sorrowful to his chamber. The next 
 night, according to his orders, Guiscard was seized by two men as 
 he was coming out of the cave, and carried by them in his leathern 
 doublet to Tancred, who, as soon as he saw him, said, with tears 
 in his eyes, “ Guiscard, you have ill requited my kindness towards 
 you by this outrage and shame which you have brought upon me, 
 and of which this very day I have been an eye-witness.” When 
 he made no other answer but this: “Sir, love hath greater power 
 than either you or L” Tancred then ordered a guard to be set 
 
2 I 8 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 over him. And the next day he went to his daughter’s apartment 
 as usual, she knowing nothing of what had happened, and, shutting 
 the door that they might be private together, he said to her, weep¬ 
 ing, “ Daughter, I had such an opinion of your modesty and virtue 
 that I could never have believed, had I not seen it with my own 
 eyes, that you would have violated either, even so much as in 
 thought. My reflecting on this will make the pittance of life that 
 is left very grievous to me. As you were determined to act in 
 that manner, would to Heaven you had made choice of a person 
 more suitable to your own quality; but for this Guiscard, he is 
 one of the very meanest persons about my court. This gives me 
 such concern that I scarcely know what to do. As for him, he 
 was secured by my order last night, and his fate is determined. 
 But, with regard to yourself, I am influenced by two different 
 motives; on one side the tenderest regard that a father can have 
 for a child, and on the other the justest vengeance for the great 
 folly you have committed. One pleads strongly in your behalf, 
 and the other would excite me to do an act contrary to my nature. 
 But, before I come to a resolution, I would hear what you have to 
 say for yourself.” And when he had said this, he hung down his 
 head and wept like a child. 
 
 She, hearing this from her father, and perceiving that their 
 amour was not only discovered, but her lover in prison, was under 
 the greatest concern imaginable, and was going to break out into 
 loud and grievous lamentations, as is the way of women in 
 distress ; but getting the better of this weakness, and putting on 
 a settled countenance, as, supposing Guiscard was dead, and 
 being resolved firmly in her own mind not to outlive him, she 
 spoke therefore with all the composure in the world to this 
 purpose: “ Sir, to deny what I have done, or to entreat any 
 favour of you, is no part of my design at present; for as the one 
 can avail me nothing, so I intend the other shall be of little 
 service. I will take no advantage ot your love and tenderness 
 towards me ; but shall first, by an open confession, endeavour to 
 vindicate myself, and then do what the greatness of my soul 
 prompts me to. ’Tis most true that I have loved, and do still 
 love, Guiscard: and whilst I live, which will not be long, shall 
 continue to love him ; and if such a thing as love be after death, 
 even that shall not dissolve it. To this I was induced by no 
 frailty, so much as his superior virtue, and the little care you took 
 
FOURTH DAY, 
 
 219 
 
 to marry me a^in. I preferred him before all the world: and as 
 to the meanness of his station, to which you so much object, that 
 is more the fault of fortune, who often raises the most unworthy 
 to a high estate, neglecting those of greater merit. We are all 
 formed of the same materials, and by the same hand. The first 
 difiference amongst mankind was made by virtue; they who were 
 virtuous were deemed noble, and the rest were all accounted 
 otherwise. Though this law therefore may have been obscured by 
 contrary custom, yet is it discarded neither by nature nor good 
 manners. If you then alone regard the worth and virtue of your 
 courtiers, and consider that of Guiscard, you will find him the 
 only noble person, and the others a set of poltroons. With regard 
 to his worth and valour, I appeal to yourself. Who ever com¬ 
 mended man more for every thing that was praiseworthy, than you 
 have commended him*? and deservedly in my judgment; but if I 
 was deceived, it was by following your opinion. If you say, then, 
 that I have had an affair with a person base and ignoble, I deny 
 it; if with a poor one, it is to your shame, to let such merit go 
 unrewarded. Now concerning your last doubt, namely, how you 
 are to deal with me ; use your pleasure. If you are disposed to 
 commit an act of cruelty, I shall say nothing to prevent such a 
 resolution. But this I must apprize you of, that unless you do the 
 same to me, which you either have done, or mean to do to 
 Guiscard, my own hands shall do it for you. Keserve your tears 
 then for women : and if you mean to act with severity, cut us off 
 both together, if it appear to you that we have deserved it.^' The 
 prince knew full well the greatness of her soul: but yet he could 
 by no means persuade himself that she would have resolution 
 enough to do what her words seemed to threaten. Leaving her 
 then, with a design of being favourable to her, and intending to 
 wean her affection from her lover by taking him off; he gave 
 orders to the two men, who guarded him, to strangle him privately 
 in the night, and to take his heart out of his body, and bring it 
 to him. Accordingly they executed his commands, and the next 
 day he called for a golden cup, and putting the heart into it, he 
 had it conveyed by a trusty servant to his daughter, with this 
 message : “ Your father sends this present to comfort you, with 
 what was most dear to you; even as he was comforted by you, in 
 what was most dear to him.^’ She had departed from her father, 
 not at all moved as to her resolution, and therefore had prepared 
 
220 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 the juices of some poisonous plants, which she had mixed with 
 water, to be at hand if what she feared should come to pass. 
 When the servant had delivered the present, and reported the 
 message according to his order, she took the cup without changing 
 countenance, and seeing the heart therein, and knowing by the 
 words that it must be Guiscard’s, she looked steadfastly at the 
 servant, and said, “My father has done very wisely; such a heart 
 as this requires no worse a sepulchre than that of gold.” And 
 upon this she lifted it to her mouth and kissed it, thus continuing : 
 “All my life long, even to this last period of it, have I found my 
 father’s love most abundant towards me, but now more than 
 ever; therefore return him in my name the last thanks that I 
 shall ever be able to give him for such a present.” Looking then 
 towards the cup, which she held fast in her hand, she said: 
 “ Alas ! the dearest end and centre of all my wishes! Cursed be 
 the cruelty of him, by whom these eyes now see you; although 
 my soul hath long viewed and known you. You have finished 
 your course ; such an one indeed as fortune has thought fit to allot 
 you; you are arrived at the goal to which we all tend; you have 
 left the miseries of this world far behind, and have obtained such 
 a sepulchre from your very enemy as your merit required. 
 Nothing remained to make your obsequies complete, but the tears 
 of her who was so dear to you whilst you were living: and which, 
 that you should not now want. Heaven put it into the mind of my 
 relentless father to send you to me. And you shall have them, 
 though I had proposed to die unmoved, and without shedding a 
 tear; and when 1 have done, I will instantly join my soul to 
 yours: for in what other company can I go better and safer to 
 those unknown regions as I make no doubt your soul is hovering 
 here, expecting mine.” When she had done speaking, she shed a 
 flood of tears, kissing the heart a thousand times; whilst the 
 damsels who were about her knew neither what heart it was, nor 
 what those her words imported : but being moved with pity, they 
 joined with her, begging to know the cause of her grief, and 
 endeavouring all they could to comfort her. After she had 
 lamented as much as she thought proper, she raised up her head, 
 and wiping her eyes, said, “Thou heart most dearly beloved, 
 all my duty is now performed towards thee; nothing more 
 remains but for my soul to accompany thine.” Upon this she 
 bade them reach the vessel of water, which she had prenared the 
 
FOURTH DA K 
 
 221 
 
 day before, and pouring it into the cup with the heart, which she 
 had sufficiently washed with her tears, she drank it all off without 
 the least dread or apprehension, and threw herself upon the bed 
 with the cup in her hand, composing her body as decently as she 
 could, and pressing her lover’s heart to hers, she lay without 
 uttering a word more, expecting death. The maids, when they 
 saw this, though they knew not what it was she had drunk, sent 
 to acquaint Tancred; who, fearing what had really happened, 
 came into the room soon after she had laid herself down, and 
 finding it was too late, began to lament most grievously : she then 
 said to him, “ Sir, save these tears against worse fortune that may 
 happen, for I want them not. Who but yourself would mourn 
 for a thing of your own doing % But if any part of that love now 
 remain in you, which you once had for me, the last request I shall 
 make is, that as you would not suffer us to be happy together 
 whilst living, that our two bodies (wherever you have disposed of 
 his) may be publicly interred together when dead.” Extreme 
 grief would suffer him to make no reply: when finding herself 
 drawing near her end, she strained the heart strongly to her 
 breast, saying, “ Keceive us. Heaven, I die! ” Then closing her 
 eyes, all sense forsook her, and she departed this miserable life. 
 Such an end had the amours of Guiscard and Ghismond, as you 
 have now heard ; whilst the prince, repenting of his cruelty when 
 it was too late, had them buried in one grave in the most public 
 manner, to the general grief of all the people of Salerno. 
 
 -0- 
 
 NOVEL II. 
 
 Friar Albert makes a woman believe that an angel is in love with hevy and 
 in that shape deceives her. Afterwards, for fear of her relations, he 
 throws himself out of the window, and takes shelter in a poor man’s 
 house; who exposes him the next day in the public market-place in thk 
 form of a wild man ; when he is discovered by two friars, and put into 
 prison. 
 
 story related by Flammetta drew tears several times 
 from the eyes of all the company; but it being now 
 finished, the king, looking gravely, said, “I would 
 have given my life willingly to have enjoyed but half the 
 pleasure which these lovers met with. Nor need you wonder 
 at that, because I undergo a thousand deaths daily, without the 
 least pleasure whatever in return. But letting my fortune alone 
 
222 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 for the present, it is my will that Pampinea proceed ; who, if she 
 goes on as Flammetta has begun, I shall expect to receive some 
 small degree of comfort more to my affliction.’^ 
 
 Pampinea, finding herself fixed upon for the next, and having 
 more regard to the inclination of the company, which she very well 
 knew, than the king’s command, and more desirous of diverting 
 them than of satisfying his melancholy temper, resolved upon a 
 novel which would make them laugh, keeping still to the subject 
 proposed :—It is a common saying, said she, that a wicked man, 
 who has the reputation of being virtuous and good, may do many 
 bad things, and nobody believe it. This affords ample matter for 
 discourse, and a fit handle for me to shew how great the hypocrisy 
 is of some of the religious, who have their garments long and 
 large; their faces made pale artificially, and on purpose ; their 
 language meek and humble, to get men’s goods from them; yet 
 sour and harsh enough in reproving them of those vices ot which 
 they themselves are guilty ; whilst they pretend that they them- 
 seves merit heaven as much by receiving as the others do by 
 giving. Who also, not as if they were to get thither by their own 
 endeavours, but as though they were the possessors and lords of it, 
 portion out to every person that dies a better or worse place 
 therein, according to the sum of money bequeathed to them ; de¬ 
 ceiving themselves in the first place, if they really mean what they 
 say, and those afterwards who put their trust in them. Of whom, 
 might I have the liberty of speaking all I know, I could quickly 
 disclose to many simple people what wickedness is too often con¬ 
 cealed under that holy habit. I could wish, however, that the 
 same success might attend the hypocrisy of them all, as befel a 
 certain friar, who was concerned in some of the best families in 
 Venice, the relation of which may prove some diversion to you, 
 after your grief for the death of Ghismond. 
 
 There lived at Imola a man of a very bad life, called Berto della 
 Massa, whose evil works had gained him such a character there, 
 that nobody could believe him even when he spoke the truth. 
 Finding, therefore, that all his quirks and cunning would stand him 
 in no further stead at Imola, he removed in a kind of despair to' 
 Venice, the common receptacle of all sorts of wickedness, when he 
 resolved to manage in a quite different manner from what he had 
 done : and, as if he felt some remorse of conscience for his past 
 life, pretending also to be seized with uncommon zeal and devotion, 
 
I 
 
 FOl/HTB’ DAY. 223 
 
 he turned friar, calling himself Father Albert of Imola. In this 
 habit he seemed to lead a mighty sanctified life, highly commend¬ 
 ing penance and abstinence, and eating no flesh and drinking no 
 wine ; but then it was when he could get neither to please him. 
 Besides this, when he was officiating at the altar at any time, if he 
 was taken notice of by many people, he would be sure to weep 
 over our Saviour’s passion, having tears enough at command 
 whenever he pleased. To be short, what with his preaching and 
 crying together, he had so far insinuated himself into the good 
 graces of the people of Venice, that there was scarcely a will made 
 but he was left executor; he had the care also and disposal of 
 many people’s money; and was the great adviser and confessor to 
 the greatest part both of men and women; so that of a wolf he 
 became the shepherd, and the fame of his sanctity was greater 
 than ever was that of St. Francis. Now it happened that a vain 
 simple lady, named Lisetta de Ca Quirino, wife to a merchant, 
 who was gone a voyage to Flanders, came one day, with some 
 other women, to confess to this holy friar; and being asked, as 
 she was confessing, if she had a lover; replied, putting on an angry 
 countenance, “ What! father, have you no eyes in your head ] 
 Where do you see a woman so handsome as myself 1 I could have 
 lovers enough; but my beauty is designed for none of them ; it is 
 fit only to appear in heaven itself.” Using many more expressions 
 of that sort, enough to give any one a surfeit to hear them. Father 
 Albert immediately saw her blind side and thought her fit game 
 for his purpose, but deferred using any flattering speeches till a 
 more convenient opportunity; to shew himself, however, holy for 
 that time, he began to reprove her, telling her it was vain-glory, and 
 so forth. Whereupon she called him brute, and told him he could 
 not distinguish beauty when he saw it. He then, not to provoke 
 her too far, took her confession, and dismissed her. A little time 
 after, taking a friend with him whom he could trust, to the house, 
 he went with her to one side of the hall, where nobody could see 
 them, and falling down upon his knees, said, “Madam, I must beg, 
 for Heaven’s sake, that you would forgive me for blaspheming 
 your beauty as I did last Sunday; since I was so chastised the 
 following night for it, that I could not rise out of my bed before 
 to-day.” “ And who,” quoth the foolish lady, “ chastised you in 
 that manner “ I will tell you,” replied Albert; “ as I was 
 saying my prayers that night, according to my usual manner, r 
 
*24 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 suddenly a great Kglit shone around me, and, as I turned about to 
 see what it was, a beautiful youth appeared, with a staff in his 
 hand, who took hold of my hood, and threw me down upon the 
 floor, and beat me in such a manner that I was almost killed. 
 Upon my asking what all that correction was for, he made answer, 
 ‘Because thou didst so saucily presume to reprove the celestial 
 beauty of Madam Lisetta, whom I love above all things in the 
 world.’ ‘ And who are you then I demanded. He replied, ‘ I 
 am an angel.’ ‘I humbly beg then,’ quoth I, ‘that you would 
 forgive me.’ He answered, ‘ I do forgive you, upon condition 
 that you go the very first opportunity to her, and obtain her 
 pardon: and unless she thinks fit to excuse you, I shall return, 
 and give you such discipline as you shall feel as long as you live.’ 
 What he said more I dare not speak, unless I have your forgive¬ 
 ness.” The simple woman, who was puffed up till she was fit to 
 burst with vanity, gave ear to this ridiculous story, and said, “ I 
 told you. Father Albert, that my beauties were of the celestial 
 kind ; I am sorry for what you have suffered, and heartily forgive 
 you; but tell me what the angel said besides.” “ That I will,” 
 said he ; “ but one thing I must enjoin you, namely, that you tell 
 it to no person living, unless you have a mind to ruin all \ for 
 you are certainly the happiest woman on the face of the earth. 
 He told me, then, that he had such a regard for you, that he 
 should frequently come to visit you, if he thought you would 
 not be too much terrified. He bid me tell you, therefore, that 
 he should come some evening in human shape, and would know 
 from you when you would choose to see him, and whose form 
 and person you would have him assume.” She replied that 
 she approved of it very well, that she should be alone this 
 evening, and that whatever form and manner he came in, she 
 should not be afraid. “ Madam,” he continued, “ you talk well, 
 it shall be done as you have agreed ; but 1 have a favour to beg, 
 which will cost you nothing, it is that he may put on my person : 
 my soul will be in a kind of trance in the mean time, as it will be 
 then disengaged from the body.” “ I consent with all my heart,” 
 answered she ; “it will be some amends for the blows you have 
 received.” “ But,” said he, “ the door must be open, otherwise, as 
 he comes in human shape, he would not be able to enter your 
 house.” She promised it should be done, and when night came 
 he went to a woman’s house, that he used to frequent when he had 
 
FOURTH DAY. 
 
 225 
 
 BTich affairs in hand, where, getting his sham wings and other 
 accoutrements ready, he came flying at last into the lady’s chamber. 
 He stayed with her all that night, and at break of day went out in 
 the same manner as he came in ; whilst the lady was so proud of 
 her gallant, that she could not help boasting of it to one of her 
 neighbours, who was so tickled with the story, that she told it 
 amongst a whole company of gossips, who again reporting it to 
 others, in less than two days it was known all over Venice. Her 
 relations heard of it, amongst the rest, who, for several nights 
 together, kept constant watch, to make a discovery, if possible, of 
 this angel. One night, accordingly, he was coming to reprimand 
 her for making it public, and had no sooner got into the room, 
 and stripped himself of his wings, and other habiliments, but they 
 were at the door ! which he perceiving, and seeing no other way 
 to escape, opened the casement that was over the great canal, and 
 threw himself directly into it. 
 
 As the river was deep and he able to swim, he received no 
 harm : espying then a cottage on the other side with the door open 
 he made towards it, and, entering, entreated the honest man, 
 telling him a thousand lies concerning the reason of his coming 
 there in that manner, and, at that time, to save his life; who, being 
 moved with pity, and having some affairs which called him away 
 for a time, desired him to go into his bed and lie there till he 
 should return; he locked him then in the house, and went about 
 his business. The lady’s relations, upon coming into her chamber, 
 foupd that the angel had left his wings, and flown away without 
 them. They gave her, therefore, a severe reprimand, calling her 
 all the vile simple women in the world; and they carried off the 
 angel’s implements along with them. In the meantime, as soon as 
 It was day, the man, being on the other side of the Kialto, heard 
 the whole story of a fellow’s personating an angel to be with 
 Lisetta, and how he was discovered by her relations and forced to 
 leap into the canal, and that nobody knew what was become of 
 him; whence he concluded that it must be the same man he had in 
 his house. Finding this upon his coming home to be the fact, after 
 some discourse together, he made him send home for five hundred 
 ducats, threatening otherwise to deliver him up to the woman’s 
 friends, when, after the money was brought and the friar desirous 
 of getting away, the honest man said farther to him, “ I see no 
 way for your escape but one : to-day we make a great rejoicing, 
 
 iS 
 
226 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 when one person is to bring a man clothed like a bear, another like 
 a wild man, and so on; and in that manner people are to come 
 under different disguises into St. Mark’s Place, as to a hunt; and 
 when the diversion is over, every man leads away the person that 
 he brings to what quarter he pleases. Now if, before any one 
 knows that you are here, you will consent to be led in one of those 
 disguises, I will carry you afterwards where you will; otherwise I 
 do not see how you can get away without being observed, for the 
 relations are everywhere out upon the scout for you.” This seemed 
 a hard sentence to the father; but his fear of being discovered was 
 so great that he consented at last: accordingly he was besmeared 
 all over with honey, and covered all over with down; abd putting 
 a chain about his neck and a vizard upon his face, with a great 
 stick in one hand and a couple of butcher’s mastiffs in the other, a 
 man was sent before to the Rialto, to make public proclamation 
 that all who had a mind to see the angel so much talked of might 
 repair to St. Mark’s Place: which was a Venetian trick at best.— 
 When that was done, he was led forth, and all the way as he was 
 carried along there was a great outcry of the people, wondering 
 what thing it was; and being brought into the great square, what 
 with the people that followed and those that flocked hither upon 
 hearing the proclamation, the crowd was immensely great. The 
 fellow then tied his wild man to a pillar, pretending to wait till 
 the sport began; in the meantime the flies and wasps, as he was 
 bedaubed with honey, began to grow exceedingly troublesome to 
 him. Perceiving at last the square sufficiently crowded, under 
 pretence of turning him loose, he took off the vizard, and said, 
 “Gentlemen, as I find we are to have no other sport to-day, I 
 intend to show you the angel which used to come at nights to visit 
 the Venetian ladies.” No sooner was the vizard removed than 
 they knew him to be Father Albert, and there was a mcst terrible 
 outcry against him, every one pelting him with whatever filthiness 
 came to their hands, till at length the news reached the convent, 
 when two of his brethren came and brought him one of their 
 habits and carried him away with the utmost difficulty, and he 
 was consequently thrown into prison, where he ended his days in 
 a miserable manner. It was thus this man’s consummate hypocrisy 
 and blasphemy met with their due reward; and maj" the like fate 
 •vttend all such villains as himself ! 
 
FOURTH DAY. 
 
 <27 
 
 NOVEL III. 
 
 Three young, men fall in love with three sisters, and fly with them into Crete. 
 The eldest destroys her lover out of jealousy; arid the second, hy con¬ 
 senting to the Duke of Crete!s request, is the means of saving her sister’s 
 life: afterwards her lover kills her, and goes away with *the eldest sister. 
 The third couple is charged with her death, which they confess, and after¬ 
 wards fee their keepers, and, making their escape, die at Rhodes at last 
 in great necessity. 
 
 HEN Philostratus heard the conclusion of Panipinea’s novel, 
 he stood some time in suspense, and at last, turning to¬ 
 wards her, he said, 
 
 “There was something good in the end of your story, but the 
 beginning was much too ludicrous/’ Then, pointing to Lauretta, 
 he added, “ Do you go on with a better if you can.” She smilingly 
 replied. You are too hard upon poor lovers to desire that their 
 afiairs should always end unfortunately. Nevertheless I shall, in 
 compliance to your orders, give an account of three persons who 
 were equally unhappy that way; and thus I proceed;—Every vice, 
 as you very well know, may turn not only to the disadvantage of 
 such as are subject to it, but of others also: and of all vices anger 
 is that which hurries us along most blindly to our ruin. Now this 
 passion seems to be a sudden and rash emotion, raised in us fey an 
 injury received; which, driving away all sense and reason, and 
 veiling the eyes of our understanding, kindles in our souls a most 
 violent fury. And as men are governed by it too often, though 
 some more than others, yet is it of worse consequence in women, 
 as it is more easily kindled in them, and burns also with a more 
 fierce and lasting fiame. Nor is this to be wondered at; for fire, 
 in its own nature, is apt to take hold the soonest of such things as 
 are of the lightest consistence; and our texture, we know, is much 
 more delicate than that of men. Seeing, therefore, how prone we 
 are to it naturally; considering, also, that nothing can recommend 
 us more to the good esteem of the men with whom we are to spend 
 our lives than mildness and good-nature; and, on the contrary, 
 that anger is attended with infinite danger and trouble; I shall, 
 for your greater defence and security in this respect, relate the 
 loves of three young men and as many ladies, who all became 
 miserable through the fury of one. 
 
 Marseilles, you know, is an ancient and famous city in Provence, 
 situated on the sea-coast, and was better stored formerly with rich 
 
 "'—2 
 
228 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 citizens and wealthy merchants than it is at present. Amongst 
 whom was a person called Narnald Cluada, one of a fair character, 
 and immensely rich, who, besides his other children, had three 
 daughters; the two eldest, who were twins, were about fifteen years 
 of age, and the other fourteen; and there was nothing wanting to 
 the disposing of all three in marriage but the return of their father, 
 who was gone on a trading voyage to Spain. The names of the 
 two former were Ninetta and Magdalena, and of the last Bertel! a. 
 Now there was a worthy young gentleman, but of small fortune, 
 named Bestagnone, in love with Ninetta, and she having the same 
 good liking for him, this affair was carried on for some time between 
 them, without any body’s knowing anything of the matter. In the 
 meantime, two other young gentlemen, who were both rich, their 
 fathers being just dead, fell in love with the other two sisters; the 
 one, whose name was Folco, having made choice of Magdalena, and 
 the other called Ughetto, of Bertella. Bestagnone being apprised 
 of this by Ninetta, contrived a way to make up his want of wealth 
 by their love, and getting into company sometimes with one, and 
 then with the other, and going with them, after they became a little 
 acquainted together, to see their mistresses and his own, he took 
 occasion one day to invite them to his house, when he spoke to 
 them in this manner: “ Gentlemen, our acquaintance for some time ' 
 past may have convinced you of the great esteem I have for you, so 
 as to have your interests at heart equally with my own: I shall now 
 acquaint you, therefore, with a thought which has just come into 
 my mind, and you may do afterwards as shall seem most proper. 
 It plainly appears that you have the utmost regard and value for 
 the two young ladies, and I have the same for the third sister. I 
 think, if you will consent to it, that I have found out an expedient 
 agreeable enough, which is as follows: you are both very rich, and 
 I am otherwise; make then one joint stock, and let me come in a 
 partner with you, and resolve on what part of the world we shall 
 go to, to live happily together, and I will undertake that the three 
 sisters shall bear us company, with a good part of their father’s 
 wealth; so that every one of us may have his mistress, and we live 
 like brethren together, with great comfort and satisfaction: Say 
 then what you mean to do.” 
 
 The young gentlemen were so much in love, that they gave them¬ 
 selves very little time to refiect upon what was proposed; but 
 declared that, happen what would, they were ready to comply. 
 
FOURTH DAY 
 
 229 
 
 Upon this, he took the first opportunity that offered, and which 
 was no easy matter to compass, of being with Ninetta, when he 
 made the same proposal to her, enforcing it by divers reasons, which 
 he had no great occasion to do, because it was entirely to her liking. 
 She told him, therefore, that she consented herself, and would 
 persuade her sisters; that, in the meantime, he should get every 
 thing in readiness for such an expedition. He returned then to 
 his two friends, who grew impatient to be gone, and told them that 
 every thing was in readiness on the part of the ladies. Their 
 resolution was to go to Crete; and, selling all their estates under 
 the pretence of turning merchants, they bought a light frigate, 
 which they armed and victualled with great secrecy against the 
 time appointed. During this, Ninetta, who was no stranger to her 
 sisters’ inclinations, had wrought so far upon them by her fine per¬ 
 suasions, that they longed for nothing so much as their departure. 
 The night being come, therefore, when they were to embark, the 
 three ladies opened their father’s cabinet, and took out a great 
 quantity of money and jewels, with which they stole away to meet 
 their lovers, who were expecting them at the place appointed; when 
 they immediately set sail, and made no stop any where till they 
 came to Genoa the next night, where they consummated their 
 several nuptials. From thence they went from port to port, till in 
 eight days they arrived at Crete, where they purchased estates and 
 fine houses, and lived like noblemen, keeping great numbers of 
 servants, horses, dogs, &c., for their diversion; so that none seemed 
 to enjoy more pleasure and satisfaction than themselves. Passing 
 their time away in this manner, it happened (as it happens every 
 day, that things, however coveted by us, nauseate by over great 
 plenty), that Restagnone, who had an ardent affection for Ninetta 
 before she was in his power, began now to be abundantly more cool 
 in that respect; for, being at a feast one day, he met with a lady, 
 with whom he became violently in love, and he began to give treats 
 and entertainments for her sake, till his v/ife grew so jealous that 
 he could never stir a step but she had notice of it, and expressed 
 the utmost uneasiness both in her words and behaviour to him on 
 that account. But as plenty always cloys, and as to have what we 
 want denied us whets the appetite, so did this vexation of hers 
 increase the flame of his love. For whether it was that he had 
 really accomplished his desires or not, Ninetta, whoever told her so, 
 believed it: and she consequently fell into such a fit of sorrow and 
 
230 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 fury afterwards, that her love for her husband was exchanged into 
 extreme hatred; and she resolved to revenge the wrong she had 
 sustained with his death. Meeting then with an old Grecian 
 woman, skDled in all sorts of poisons, she engaged her, by presents 
 and large promises, to prepare a deadly water, which she gave him, 
 without any farther consideration, one evening when he was very 
 thirsty, to drink ; and the power of it was such, that he died before 
 morning. Folco and XJghetto, with their wives, knowing nothing 
 of his dying of poison, lamented over him very much along with 
 Ninetta, and had him honourably buried. But not many days 
 afterwards the old woman was taken up for some other crime, when 
 she confessed this. Wliereupon the duke of Crete, without saying 
 a word to any person about it, had Folco’s palace beset one night, 
 and Ninetta brought quietly away prisoner from thence; who, 
 without any torture, confessed the whole of Restagnone’s death. 
 He therefore acquainted Folco and XJghetto with it, who used all 
 their interest with him to prevent her being burnt, which they 
 understood was likely to be her sentence, but all to no purpose; the 
 duke seemed resolved to have justice done. Hereupon Magdalena, 
 a very beautiful lady, and whom the duke had long taken a fancy 
 to, though hitherto to no purpose, supposing now that by obliging 
 him she might save her sister’s life, sent privately to let him know 
 that she would comply with his entreaties upon two conditions; 
 the one was, that her sister should be set free; and the other, that 
 the whole should be a secret. The duke liked the message, and 
 agreed to what was proposed. Wherefore, keeping Folco and 
 L) ghetto prisoners one night, by her consent, as if he wanted some 
 farther information, he went privately afterwards to Magdalena, 
 and pretending that he had caused Ninetta to be put into a sack, 
 and thrown into the sea, he took her along with him to her sister, 
 to whom he gave her up, according to their agreement, charging 
 Magdalena to send her out of the way, to prevent all blame and 
 censure, and lest he should be compelled to proceed with rigour 
 against her. The next morning Folco and XJghetto were told that 
 their sister was put to death, and being released, went home to 
 comfort their wives for the loss of her; and Magdalena endeavoured, 
 as much as possible, to keep her concealed; yet Folco had some 
 suspicion that she was in the house, and was at last convinced of 
 it; which occasioned some jealousy, as he knew the duke’s regard 
 for his wife: therefore he asked her how it happened that Ninetta 
 
FOURTH DAY, 
 
 23 * 
 
 was there! She began then a long story, to which he gave but 
 little credit, and forced her at last to confess the trutL Upon 
 which, being provoked to the last degree, he drew his sword, and 
 stabbed her to the heart, she begging in vain for mercy: fearing 
 afterwards the duke’s resentment he went into the room to Ninetta, 
 and said cheerfully to her; “Let us go away directly, according to 
 your sister’s appointment, for fear you should fall into the hands 
 of the duke.” She was desirous of getting away, and accordingly, 
 without taking any leave of her sister, went off in great haste along 
 with him, who took only what money was at hand, which was but 
 little; and going on shipboard together it was never known whither 
 they were carried. Magdalena being found dead the next day, some 
 persons out of ill will to Ughetto, carried the news instantly to the 
 duke, who came in all haste to the house, as he had an excessive 
 love for her, and seized upon Ughetto and his lady, and put them 
 to the rack, by which means he made them confess what they were 
 entire strangers to; namely, that they were equally concerned in 
 her death with their brother, who was fled, and finding that there 
 was no other prospect of saving their lives, they bribed their keepers 
 with a large sum of money, which they always had in readiness for 
 any extraordinary occasion, and went immediately on board a ship, 
 without being able to take any of their effects, and fled to Ehodes, 
 where they died some time after in great distress and poverty. To 
 such an end did the foolish love of Restagnone, and the ungoverned 
 fury of Ninetta, bring both themselves and others* 
 
 -o - 
 
 NOVEL IV. 
 
 Qerhino, contrary to a treaty made by Kiny William, his grandfather, 
 fought with a ship belonging to the King of Tunis, with a design to take 
 away his daughter; who being slain by the ship's crew, he slew them like¬ 
 wise, and was afterwards beheaded for it. 
 
 AUEETTA had now concluded her novel, when the com¬ 
 pany gave their different opinions concerning the fate of 
 these unhappy lovers ; this person saying one thing and 
 that another, till at length the king, raising up his head, as if from 
 a profound study, made the next signal to Eliza, who began as 
 follows:— 
 
 There are many people who are persuaded that love is only 
 kindled at the eyes, making a jest at those who maintain the possi- 
 
232 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 bility of people's being enamoured by report: but how far they are 
 mistaken will be seen in the following story; wherein will be shewn, 
 not only the power of fame in that respect, but that it has brought 
 divers persons also to a miserable death. 
 
 William, the second king of Sicily (as their histories relate), had 
 two children ; a son named Ruggieri, and a daughter called Con- 
 stantia, which Ruggieri died before his father, leaving a son called 
 Gerbino, whom his grandfather took care to bring up, and he be¬ 
 came a most accomplished prince. Nor did his fame confine itself to 
 the bounds of his own country; but was echoed in divers parts of 
 the world, especially in Barbary, which was then tributary to the 
 King of Sicily. Amongst others who had heard of his singular 
 worth and character, was a daughter of the King of Tunis, who, in 
 the opinion of all that ever saw her, was as beautiful a woman as 
 ever lived, with a soul equally noble and perfect: who, inquiring 
 always after people of worth, received from all hands a most extra¬ 
 ordinary account of Gerbino’s merit and noble exploits, which were 
 so pleasing to her, that, conceiving within her own mind the idea 
 of his person, she became violently in love, and was never more 
 pleased than when he was the subject of their discourse. On the 
 other hand, no less had her fame reached Siciiy, as well as other 
 countries, and was particularly agreeable to the prince, who had 
 conceived the same love for her; and being desirous above all 
 things of seeing her, had charged some of his friends, till he could 
 obtain leave from his grandfather to go himself to Tunis, to make 
 his love known, in the best manner they were able, privately to 
 her; and to bring him some tidings concerning her. This was 
 managed very dexterously by one of them, who went under the 
 character of a jeweller; and she received him with great cheerful¬ 
 ness and satisfaction, declaring a mutual regard for the prince, 
 and, as a proof of it, sent him a present of one of her richest jewels. 
 He received it with great joy, and wrote several letters, presenting 
 her with things of great value, and obliging himself to wait upon 
 her in person, as fortune aflforded him an opportunity. Things 
 being carried so far, and farther than they ought to have been, to 
 their mutual satisfactions, it happened that her father promised 
 her in marriage to the King of Granada, which gave her infinite 
 concern, and she would gladly, could she have found a time, have 
 fled away from her father to the prince. He. in like manner, hear¬ 
 ing of this contract, was afflicted beyond measure, and resolved, if 
 
FOURTH DAY. 
 
 233 
 
 It should happen that she was sent by sea, to take her away by 
 force. The king of Tunis hearing something of Gerbino’s love, and 
 what he designed, and well knowing his resolution and great 
 valour: when the time came that she was to depart, sent to the 
 King of Sicily to acquaint him with his design, and to desire a safe 
 passport; who, knowing nothing of his grandson’s affections to¬ 
 wards the lady, nor thinking that it was desired upon that account, 
 readily granted it. The King of Tunis then fitted out a stately 
 ship at Carthage, and providing it with ever^^- thing necessary to 
 transport his daughter to Granada, waited only for the time that 
 had been appointed. Whilst this was in agitation, the young lady 
 sent one of her servants to Palermo to acquaint the prince that she 
 was to sail in a few days, and that it would now appear whether 
 he was a person of such valour as had been always reported, or had 
 that love for her which he had often declared. The message was 
 faithfully delivered; and the prince knowing, at the same time, 
 that his grandfather had granted a passport, was at a loss how to 
 behave ; but reflecting upon the lady’s words, and that he might 
 acquit himself with honour, he hired two light ships at Messina, 
 which he took care to have well manned, and sailed with them to 
 the coast of Sardinia, expecting that the ship which had his mis¬ 
 tress on board must take that course. In a few days that expecta¬ 
 tion was answered, and he beheld her sailing with a light gale oi 
 wind near the place where he was stationed. Upon this he ad¬ 
 dressed himself to his companions in the following manner : “ My 
 friends, if you are men of the worth I suppose you to possess, I 
 imagine there is none of you but must have felt the extraordinary 
 power of love, without which, as I judge by myself, there can be 
 nothing virtuous and praiseworthy. If then you have ever been, 
 or are now in love, you will the more easily comprehend the 
 nature of my design. It is love that makes me call upon you; 
 and the object of it is in the ship before you. Besides that, there 
 is a store of riches, which, if you fight manfully, you may easily 
 obtain. For my part I desire nothing but the lady, for whose sake 
 I have taken up arms : everything else shall be yours. Let us go 
 then boldly to the attack; fortune seems to favour our under¬ 
 taking; they lie still, unable to get*along for want of wind.” The 
 prince had no occasion to make use of such an exhortation; his 
 people, eager for rapine, were ready enough to obey his orders. 
 They declared their approbation then with a great shout, whilst 
 
234 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 the trumpets sounded, and they all armed themselves, and rowed 
 towards the ship. In like manner the other ship’s crew, seeing 
 two galleys come towards them, and that there was no possibility 
 of escaping by flight, stood resolutely upon their defence. The 
 prince being come sufficiently near, ordered that the masters of ' 
 the ship should come on board, unless they meant to fight. 
 Whilst the Saracens, understanding who they were, and what 
 their demand was, told them that it was contrary to treaty, and 
 shewed them their passport: declaring farther that they would 
 neither surrender themselves, nor part with anything in the ship 
 till they were forced to it. The prince, now seeing the lady upon 
 deck, whose charms exceeded even fancy itself, replied, “ Your 
 passport has no weight with me; either deliver up the lady or 
 prepare for fight.” Whereupon they began slinging darts and 
 stones on both sides ; battering one another for a considerable 
 time, to the great damage of both. At length, when the prince 
 saw that little good was to be done that way, he took a small 
 pinnace which he had brought with him from Sardinia, and 
 setting it on fire, towed it with his two vessels sideways of the 
 ship ; which the Saracens observing, and being now assured that 
 they must either surrender or perish, had the lady brought from 
 below, where she was all in tears, when they called upon the 
 prince, and murdered her before his face, begging in vain for 
 mercy and his assistance, and threw her into the sea, saying, 
 
 “ Take her, such as we can now give thee ; and such as thy breach 
 of faith hath deserved.” He, seeing their cruelty, nor caring now 
 what became of his own life, in spite of all the darts %,nd stones 
 that were thrown at him, came up close with the ship, and boarded 
 her; and, as a famished lion, when he gets among a herd of cattle, 
 gives a loose to his fury before he satisfies his hunger, so did the 
 prince slay all that came in his way, whilst the fire getting ahead 
 in the ship, he ordered the sailors to save what booty they were 
 able for themselves, and he returned to his ship little pleased with 
 so dear a conquest. Afterwards, having recovered the lady’s body 
 out of the sea, and lamenting heartily over it, he returned to Sicily, 
 and had it buried in a little island over against Trapani, from 
 whence he came sorrowfully home. The King of Tunis, upon 
 hearing the news, sent ambassadors all in deep mourning to the 
 King of Sicily, complaining of the breach of faith, and relating in 
 V. Iiat manner it had been done. William was much concerned at 
 
FOURTH DAY. 
 
 235 
 
 this, and seeing no way by which he could deny them the justice 
 they demanded, had his grandson seized ; and, notwithstanding 
 the intercession of every one of his barons, ordered his head to be 
 struck off in his presence ; choosing rather to be without a grand¬ 
 son, than be thought a king without honour. So miserable was the 
 end of these two lovers within a few days of each other, without 
 tasting the least fruit of their loves. 
 
 —o- 
 
 NOVEL V. i 
 
 Jsdbellah brothers put her lover to death ; he appears to her in a drearru, 
 and shows her where he is buried. She privately brings away his had; 
 and^ putting it into a pot of basil and other sweet herbs, laments over it 
 a considerable time every day. At length they take it away from her^ 
 and she soon after dies for grief. 
 
 B I LIZA having concluded her novel, which was commended 
 [ by the king, Philomena was then ordered to begin ; who, 
 full of pity for the two unhappy lovers last mentioned, 
 fetched a deep sigh, and said:—My novel will not be concerning 
 people of such high rank as those about whom Eliza has now been 
 relating, but perhaps it may be equally moving; and I am led to 
 it from her mentioning Messina, where the thing happened.— 
 There lived, then, at Messina, three young merchants, who were 
 brothers, and left very rich by their father: they had an only 
 sister, a lady of worth and beauty, who was unmarried. Now they 
 kept a youth, by way of factor, to manage their affairs, called 
 Lorenzo, one of a very agreeable person, who, being often in 
 Isabella’s company, and finding himself no way disagreeable to 
 her, confined all his wishes to her only, which in some little time 
 had their full effect. This affair was carried on between them for 
 a considerable time, without the least suspicion ; till one night it 
 happened, as she was going to his chamber, that the eldest brother 
 saw her, without her knowing it. This afflicted him greatly; yet, 
 being a prudent man, he made no discovery, but lay considering 
 with himself till morning, what course was best for them to take. 
 He then related to his brothers what he had seen, with regard to 
 their sister and Lorenzo, and, after a long debate, it was resolved 
 to seem to take no notice of it for the present, but to make away 
 with him privately, the first opportunity, that they might remove 
 all cause of reproach both to their sister and themselves. Con¬ 
 tinuing in this resolution, they behaved with the same freedom 
 
 # 
 
THE DECAMEROH. 
 
 236 
 
 and civility to Lorenzo as ever, till at length, under a pretence ol 
 going out of the city, upon a party of pleasure, they earned him 
 along with them, and arriving at a lonesome place, fit for their 
 purpose, they slew him, unprepared to make any defence, and 
 buried him there; then, returning to Messina, they gave it out 
 that they had sent him on a journey of business, which was easily 
 believed, because they frequently did so. In some time, she, 
 thinking that he made a long stay, began to inquire earnestly of 
 her brothers concerning him, and this she did so often, that at last 
 one of them said to her, “ What have you to do with Lorenzo, 
 that you are continually teasing us about him ^ If you inquire 
 any more, you shall receive such an answer as you will by no 
 means approve of.” This grieved her exceedingly; and, fearing 
 she knew not why, she remained without asking any more ques¬ 
 tions; yet all the night would she lament and complain of liislong 
 stay ; and thus she spent her life in a tedious and anxious waiting 
 for his return; till one night it happened, that having wept herself 
 asleep, he appeared to her in a dream, all pale and ghastly, with 
 his clothes rent in pieces; and she thought he spoke to her thus: 
 “ My dear Isabel, thou grievest incessantly for my absence, and art 
 continually calling upon me: but know that I can return no more 
 to thee, for the last day that thou sawest me, thy brothers put me 
 to death.” And, describing the place where they had buried him, 
 he bid her call no more upon him, nor ever expect to see him again, 
 and disappeared. She, waking, and giving credit to the vision, 
 lamented exceedingly; and, not daring to say anything to her 
 brethren, resolved to go to the place mentioned in the dream, to be 
 convinced of the reality of it. Accordingly, having leave to go a 
 little way into the country, along with a companion of hers, who 
 was acquainted with all her affairs, she went thither, and clearing 
 the ground of the dried leaves with which it was covered, she 
 observed where the earth seemed to be lightest, and dug there. 
 She had not fiearched far before she came to her lover’s body, 
 which she found in no degree wasted; this confirmed her of the 
 truth of her vision, and she was in the utmost concern on that 
 account; but, as that was not a fit place for lamentation, she 
 would willingly have taken the corpse away with her, to have given 
 it a more decent interment; but, finding herself unable to do that, 
 she cut off his head, which she put into a handkerchief, and, 
 covering the trunk again with the mould, she gave it to her maid 
 

 FOURTH DAY. ^37 
 
 to carry, and returned home without being perceived. She then 
 shut herself up in her chamber, and lamented over it till it was 
 bathed in her, tears, which being done, she put it into a flower pot, 
 having folded it in a fine napkin, and covering it with earth, she 
 planted sweet herbs therein, which she watered with nothing but 
 rose or orange water, or else with her tears; accustoming herself 
 to sit always before it, and devoting her whole heart unto it, as 
 containing her dear Lorenzo. The sweet herbs, what with her 
 continual bathing, and the moisture arising from the putrified 
 head, flourished exceedingly, and sent forth a most agreeable 
 odour. Continuing this manner of life, she was observed by some 
 of the neighbours, and they related her conduct to her brothers, 
 who had before remarked with surprise the decay of her beauty. 
 Accordingly, they reprimanded her for it, and, finding that in¬ 
 effectual, stole the pot from her. She, perceiving that it was taken 
 away, begged earnestly of them to restore it, which they refusing, 
 she fell sick. The young men wondered much why she should 
 have so great a fancy for it, and were resolved to see what it con¬ 
 tained : turning out the earth, therefore, they saw the napkin, and 
 in it the head, not so much consumed, but that, by the curled 
 locks, they knew it to be Lorenzo’s, which threw them into the ut¬ 
 most astonishment, and fearing lest it should be known, they 
 buried it privately, and withdrew themselves from thence to 
 Naples. The young lady never ceased weeping, and calling for 
 her pot of flowers, till she died; and thus terminated her un¬ 
 fortunate love.—But, in some time afterwards, the thing became 
 public, which gave rise to this song: 
 
 ^ Most cruel and unkind was he, ? 
 
 t ^ of my flowers deprived me, ica ’k% 
 
 ' I I 
 
 # 
 
*38 
 
 THE DECAMEROH. 
 
 NOVEL VI. 
 
 A young lady, named Andrevuola, was in love with Gabriotto ; they rdate. 
 to each other their dreams, when he falls down dead in her arms ; as she 
 and her maid are carrying him out, they are apprehended by the officers 
 of justice, and she relates how the affair happened. Afterwards the 
 magistrate would force her, hut she resists ; at length her father hears of 
 it, and as her innocence is clear, has her set at liberty. From that period 
 she grows weary of the world, and becomes a nun. 
 
 1*^' HE ladies were all pleased with Philomena’s novel, because 
 they had often heard the song, but were unacquainted 
 with the reason of its being made; whilst the king gave 
 the next command to Pamphilus, who began thus:— 
 
 The dream in the preceding story puts me in mind of another, 
 in which mention is made of two different dreams, that shov'' what 
 was to happen, as the last did what had already come to pass; and 
 which were no sooner related, but the effect as suddenly followed. 
 You must know, then, that it is a general passion in all people to 
 see many things in their sleep, which appear real at that time, and 
 when we awake we judge some of them to be so; some to be 
 barely probable, and others to be utterly false; many of which 
 have come to pass. For which reason we see many persons pay 
 the same regard to a dream, as they would do to anything which 
 they saw whilst they were really awake; insomuch that they find 
 constant matter of joy or trouble from thence, according to their 
 different hopes or fears. On the contrary, there are others who 
 will believe nothing of that kind, until they fall into the very 
 danger of which they have been in that manner forewarned. Of 
 these, I commend neither the one nor the other ; for, as all are not 
 true, neither are they all false : that all are not true, we may each 
 of us have frequently observed; and yet that all are not false, 
 appears from Philomena’s novel, and will be further shown by 
 mine. Therefore, I am of opinion, that in a virtuous life and a 
 good cause you need regard no dream, which may disagree, so as 
 to forego any good intention. And, on the contrary, that in bad 
 actions, although your dreams seem to be favourable, and to 
 promise success, yet should you give no credit to these any more 
 than to the others. 
 
 But to proceed with my story. In the city of Brescia there 
 lived a gentleman, called Signor Negro de Ponte Carraro, who, 
 
FOURTH DAy. 
 
 239 
 
 besides his other children, had a daughter named Andrevuola, a 
 young and beautiful lady : now she had taken a fancy to a neigh¬ 
 bour, whose name was Gabriotto, a man of mean extraction, but 
 excellent qualities, as well as graceful person ; and, by her maid’s 
 assistance, she had managed so, that he was not only made 
 acquainted with it, but they had frequent interviews together in 
 her father’s garden, to the mutual satisfaction of both parties. 
 And, that nothing but death should part their affection, they were 
 privately married. Continuing their meetings in this manner, it 
 happened one night that she dreamed they were in the garden 
 together, and, as she had him in her arms, she thought she saw 
 something black and frightful arise out of his body, the form of 
 which she could not well comprehend ; which took him by force 
 from her, and went with him underground; and from that time she 
 could neither see one nor the other; this gave her infinite concern, 
 and glad she was, upon waking, to find it otherwise : yet she had 
 some dread still upon her on account of the dream. The next 
 night, therefore, on his desiring to meet her, she endeavoured all 
 she could to excuse herself ; but seeing him resolute, and fearing 
 to disoblige him, she received him as usual; and, after they had 
 diverted themselves with gathering flowers, and sat down by a 
 fountain-side, he inquired the reason why she would have pre¬ 
 vented his coming that night. She then related her dream, and 
 the apprehensions it had occasioned; which made him laugh, and 
 tell her that it was a folly to mind dreams, which proceeded, for 
 the most part, from the stomach being either too full or too empty, 
 and which we every day see to be of no significancy: “ But,” 
 added he, “ had I shewed any regard to dreams, I should not have 
 come here, and not so much for the sake of yours, as one of my own 
 the last night, which was this ; I thought I was hunting in a most 
 delightful forest, and that I had taken a young beautiful hind, a 
 white as snow, which in a little time became so tame that it never 
 left me ; when I, fearing to lose it, put a collar of gold about its 
 neck, which I held by a golden chain in my hand ; afterwards, 
 being couched down by me, with its head in my bosom, on a 
 sudden a greyhound, as black as jet, came rushing upon us, but 
 from whence I could not imagine, seeming half-starved, and 
 monstrously ugly ; at me he made his full career, and it seemed as 
 if he put his snout into my bosom, on my left side, and griped me 
 to my very heart, v/hich I thought he tore away from me, amt 
 
240 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 which gave me such pain that 1 instantly awoke ; when I laid 
 my hand on my side, to feel if anything was amiss, and could 
 not help laughing afterwards at my own weakness for doing so. 
 What can be said, then, in such sort of cases 1 I have often had 
 as bad or worse dreams, and nothing ever happened to me; then 
 let us think of something else.” The lady was still more dismayed 
 at hearing this, but concealed it as much as possible, for fear of 
 giving him uneasiness: yet every now and then would she cast 
 her eye down the garden, to see if anything monstrous appeared. 
 Till at length he, fetching a deep sigh, embraced her, and said, 
 “ Alas, my life, help me, I am just dying !” and, having said that, 
 fell down upon the ground ; which she perceiving, drew him into 
 her lap, and weeping said, “ My dearest love, what is it that you 
 feeir He made no answer, but, gasping vehemently, and per¬ 
 spiring inordinately, he soon expired. It is easy to conceive how 
 grievous this was to the lady, who loved him more than her own 
 life. She called upon him by name, over and over again, and 
 wept for a considerable time; but, seeing that he was certainly 
 dead, and not knowing what to do, she ran, all in tears, to call her 
 maid, who had been entrusted with the secret, and, after they had 
 lamented over him for some time together, she said to her: Since 
 Heaven has taken away my love from me, I mean to live no longer 
 myself; but, before I put my design into execution, I would take 
 the most effectual means to preserve my honour, by concealing 
 the affection that existed between us; I desire then to have this 
 body first interred, whose dear soul is now departed.” When the 
 maid replied : “ My good lady, do not talk of destroying yourself; 
 for, by doing an act of that kind, you will lose him also in the 
 other world: a soul like his must be happy, and you would send 
 yours to endless misery: you had better make yourself easy, and 
 think how you may be of service, by offering up some few prayers 
 in his behalf, if by chance he should stand in need of them, for 
 any sin he may have committed.—With regard to his interment, 
 that may easily be done in this garden, because it was never 
 known that he came hither ; or, if you will not agree to that, we 
 will carry him out, and leave him there ; he will be found in the 
 morning, and conveyed home, when his relations will take care to 
 bury him.” The lady, though she was overwhelmed with grief, 
 listened attentively to the maid’s advice; and not approving of 
 the former part of it, she said, with regard to the latter, “ Heaven 
 
FOURTH DAY. 
 
 .241 
 
 forbid that I should ever suffer a youth so dearly beloved by me, 
 as well as my husband, either to be buried like a dog, or left in 
 the street: he has had my prayers, and shall have those of his 
 friends and relations. I am now resolved what to do.” And 
 immediately she sent the maid for a piece of rich silk she had in 
 her cabinet, which being brought, she spread it upon the ground, 
 and they laid the body upon it, with the head on a pillow ; and 
 closing his eyes and mouth, with abundance of tears, putting a 
 garland of roses on his head, and strewing them over his body, 
 she said to her maid: “ It is not far from hence to his house, 
 whither we can easily carry him, as he now is, and we will lay 
 him before the door; it will soon be day, and then he will be 
 found; and though it will be a sad sight to his friends, to me, in 
 whose arms he died, it will be a satisfaction.” Having said this, 
 she hung down her head over him, and wept for a considerable 
 time; till, being reminded by her servant that daybreak was at 
 hand, she raised herself up, and taking the ring from her finger, 
 with which he had espoused her, she put it upon his, saying, “ My 
 dear lord, if thy soul has any knowledge of my tears, or if there 
 be any sense or understanding left after that is departed from the 
 body, receive this last gift from her who was once so dear to thee 
 and at these words she fell down in a swoon.—In some little time 
 she came to herself, when they took up the silk, on which the 
 body was laid, and went with it out of the garden, towards his 
 house. And, as they passed along, it happened that they were 
 met by some of the provost’s officers, who were out upon another 
 affair, and who seized them as they were carrying off the corpse. 
 Andrevuola, coveting death at that time more than life, said freely 
 to them, “ I know who you are, and that it would be in vain t(j 
 think of escaping ; I am ready then to go before the magistrates, 
 and to relate all I know concerning this matter: but let none of 
 you dare to touch me, because I offer no resistance; nor touch 
 anything belonging to this body, under pain of being accused him¬ 
 self.” Accordingly it was carried untouched to the provost’s hall, 
 and, when notice of it was given to him, he arose, and she being 
 brought before him, he began to question her how, and by what 
 means, this thing had happened. Physicians also were sent for to 
 give their opinions, whether it was done by poison, or any such 
 way ; who all declared the contrary, affirming that some vein near 
 the heart was broken, which had suffocated him. The provost 
 
 16 
 
242 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 hearing this, and perceiving her innocence, seemed to make a 
 matter of favour of it, and told her he would set her at liberty, 
 upon condition that she would yield herself to his pleasure; which 
 she refusing, he was base enough to try force. But she, fired 
 with a noble disdain, defended herself with great courage and 
 resolution. It being now broad day, and the news being carried 
 to Signor Negro, he went, full of grief, to the hall, attended by 
 many of his friends, when, being informed of his daughter’s 
 innocence, he demanded her from the provost; who, choosing 
 rather to mention himself what had happened, than to have her 
 accuse him, began, with great commendation of her constancy 
 and virtue, owning his design towards her ; and offering to marry 
 her, notwithstanding the meanness of her former marriage, if it 
 was agreeable to her father and herself. And whilst he was 
 speaking, she entered, and falling down on her knees before him, 
 said, “ My dear father, I suppose I need not tell you either of my 
 boldness or my misfortune, as you must certainly have heard, and 
 know both: therefore I most humbly beg your forgiveness for 
 having married without your knowledge, the person whom I most 
 loved; and this I do with no view to a pardon, but that I may 
 die as your daughter, and not as an enemy.” 
 
 Signor Negro was advanced in years, and, being one of a courteous 
 and gentle disposition, could not refrain from tears at these words, 
 and, raising her tenderly from the ground, he said, “ Daughter, I 
 should have been more glad if you had taken such a husband as I 
 had approved of; yet, if you married to please yourself, this ought 
 to please me. But to conceal it entirely, gives me concern for the 
 little confidence you repose in me; especially as he is dead before 
 I knew anything of the matter: but since it is so, the respect, for 
 your sake, that I would have showed him, as my son-in-law, whilst 
 he was living, I mean to express now he is dead.” Then, turning 
 to his children and friends, he ordered them to get every thing in 
 readiness for a solemn and magnificent funeral. By this time 
 Gabriotto’s friends and relations had assembled, as well as great 
 crowds from all parts of the city; and, the corpse being set in the 
 middle of the court, in the manner she had before adorned it, great 
 lamentation was made over it, by all the relations and others 
 present; and from thence it was carried to the grave, not like an 
 ordinary citizen, but as of a person of quality, upon the shoulders 
 some of the most eminent citizens, with the utmost honour and 
 
FOURTH DAY. 
 
 243 
 
 respect. A few days afterwards, the provost renewed his request, 
 and Signor Negro recommended it to his daughter, who would hear 
 nothing of it; and he, willing to make her easy, sent both her and 
 her maid into a monastery of great devotion; where, after a long 
 course of time, they ended their lives. 
 
 NOVEL VII. 
 
 Pasquino is in love with Simona; and^ being in a garden togethery he happens 
 to rub his teeth with a leaf of sage, and immediately dies. She is brought 
 before the judge, when, being desirous of shewing him the cause of Pas¬ 
 quino* s death, she rubs her teeth with the same herb, and meets with a 
 similar fate. 
 
 AMPHILXJS had gone through his novel, when the king, 
 seeming to be under no concern for Andrevuola, turned to 
 Emilia, and desired her to begin; which she did accordingly 
 in this manner:— 
 
 Pamphilus’s story puts me in mind of another, which is only 
 like it in this respect, that, as Andrevuola lost her lover in a garden, 
 so she of whom I am going to speak was taken up in the same 
 manner as Andrevuola was, and delivered from the hands of justice, 
 neither by force nor virtue, but by unexpected death. And though 
 we have said before, that love makes his habitation in the houses 
 of great people, yet does he not disown all influence over the poorer 
 sort. On the contrary, all-powerful as he is, he shews his power 
 over them; as well as over the rich; as will appear in a great 
 measure from my novel; which brings me back again to our city, 
 from which we had so far strayed to talk of other subjects, that 
 have happened in different parts of the world. There lived not 
 long since at Florence, a young woman, agreeable enough, according 
 to her rank, but descended of mean parents, whose name was 
 Simona; and though she earned her bread by spinning, yet she was 
 not beneath the passion of love, with which she was inspired by the 
 pleasing conversation and behaviour of a young man of the same 
 condition as herself, who used to bring her wool to spin for his 
 master, a clothier. From this youth, whose name was Pasquino, 
 she received the amorous flame, ever wishing, but not expecting 
 my thing farther; whilst still, as her wheel went round, she sent 
 forth a thousand sighs, calling him then to mind who had brought 
 her the wool. He, on the other part, liC'bg desirous that his 
 
 i6—2 
 
 4 
 
 
 % 
 
 cf 
 
244 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 master’s work should be well done, as if Simona^s spinning was to 
 make up the whole piece, used to call oftener upon her than upon 
 any one else; whence the one continually soliciting, and the other 
 desiring to be solicited, it happened, that the first began to assume 
 more courage than he used to have, and the second lost a good deal 
 of her fear and bashfulness, so that they seemed at last to have come 
 to a tolerable understanding. This good liking of theirs continuing 
 for some time, and every day increasing, he happened to say to her 
 one day, that he desired of all things to meet her in a certain garden, 
 where they might talk together with more freedom and less sus¬ 
 picion. She assured him that she was willing; and telling her 
 father, one Sunday after dinner, that she was going for an indulgence, 
 to St. Gallo, she went along with a companion of hers, called 
 Lagina, to the place appointed. There she found him with a 
 friend of his, named Puccino, though more usually called Stramba; 
 when Sdramba and Lagina soon became acquainted, and drew to 
 one end of the garden; whilst Pasquino and Simona were at the 
 other. In that part where this couple was, grew a large bush of 
 sage, where they seated themselves, and having talked about a feast, 
 which they intended to have some holiday in that garden, he 
 plucked a leaf of the sage, and began to rub his teeth and gums 
 with it, saying, that nothing cleansed the teeth better after eating 
 than sage: and when he had done he returned to his former subject 
 of the feast, when immediately he began to change countenance, 
 his sight and speech both failed him, and he suddenly expired. 
 When Simona saw this, she began to lament, and called for help 
 to the other two, who instantly came thither, and seeing him not 
 only swelled, but full of black spots, Stramba immediately cried 
 out, “Oh! thou vile woman, thou hast poisoned him.” And he 
 made such an uproar, that he was heard by many of the neigh¬ 
 bours, who fiocked thither, and finding the man dead and swelled, 
 and hearing Stramba lament and accuse Simona of his death, 
 whilst grief for the loss of her lover, and astonishment together, 
 had so confounded her, that she scarcely made any defence, they 
 supposed it was as he said. Upon which the poor creature was 
 carried before a magistrate; when Stramba, and two other friends 
 of Pasquino, being her accusers, the judge took immediate cogni¬ 
 zance of it, and not being able to see any malicious intent in Simona, 
 or that she was in the least guilty, he wished to view the dead 
 t'ody, as well as the place and manner of it, because there were 
 
FOURTH DAY. 
 
 245 
 
 Bome things which he could not well understand from her account. 
 Coming, then, without any great bustle to the garden, where Pas- 
 quino’s body lay puffed up like a tun, the judge was surprised, aTid 
 inquiring how it happened, Simona went to the bush of sage, and 
 having related the whole affair, that he might have a perfect account, 
 rubbed her teeth with a leaf, as Pasquino had done. Stramba and 
 the rest looked upon this as a frivolous and vain pretence, and 
 called out violently to the judge to have her burnt for her wicked¬ 
 ness; whilst she (miserable wretch!) grieved for the loss of her 
 lover, and terrified to death with their threats, having rubbed her 
 teeth with the same sage that he had used, dropped down dead in 
 a similar manner, to the wonder of them all. 
 
 Happy souls! to end both their loves and their lives on the same 
 day. More happy still, if they went together to the same place. 
 Happiest, if they love one another as much in the other world as 
 here. But happiest of all, at least in our judgment, is the soul of 
 Simona, whose innocence fortune would not leave at the mercy of 
 such witnesses, and therefore found a way, by her dying the same 
 death with her lover, for her to escape their slander, and to follow 
 the soul of her beloved Pasquino. 
 
 The judge was as one in amaze at this accident, as well as the 
 rest of the company; and upon recollecting himself at last, he 
 said, this sage is plainly venomous; therefore, that nobody else 
 may suffer by it, let it be cut up by the roots and burnt; which 
 was done by the gardener in his presence, when the cause of the 
 lovers’ deaths plainly appeared. Under it was a monstrous 
 overgrown toad, with whose breath it was judged to be infected. 
 And none being hardy enough to go near it, they made a circle of 
 stubble round it, and burnt it along with the sage. So ended the 
 process upon the death of poor Pasquino, whose body, as well as 
 that of Simona, was interred by Stramba and the rest of the people 
 present, in St Paul's church, to which parish they were said to 
 belong. 
 
 
246 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 NOVEL VIII. 
 
 Oirolamo is in love with Salvestra, and is obliged by his mother tp go to 
 Paris. On his return he finds her married ; and getting 'privately into 
 her house, he breathes his last by her side. Being carried from thence to 
 a church to be buried, she dies likewise upon his corpse. 
 
 MILIA’S novel was concluded, when by the king’s order 
 Neiphile began as follows :— 
 
 There are some people, most worthy ladies, who think 
 they know more than other folks, and yet know less; and upon 
 this presumption not only oppose their opinions to the general 
 sense of mankind, but even to the very nature of things; from 
 whence proceed frequently great inconveniences, and never any 
 good. Amongst natural causes, that which the least brooks any 
 advice or opposition is love, the nature of which is such, as more 
 easily to wear away of itself, than to be removed by any admo¬ 
 nition ; for which reason I intend to relate a story of a lady, who, 
 »/illing to appear wiser than she really was, or than the thing in 
 which she would have shewed her good understanding required, 
 by endeavouring to drive away that passion from a heart in which 
 it was firmly implanted, deprived her son both of life and love at 
 the same time.—In our city, as it is reported, there lived a great 
 and wealthy merchant, whose name was Lionardo Sighieri, who 
 by his wife had an only son called Girolamo. He died presently 
 after his son was born, and the infant’s guardians along with his 
 mother took all possible care both of him and his affairs. As he 
 grew up, amongst the other children of the neighbourhood, he 
 used to play with a tailor’s daughter much about the same age ; in 
 time that acquaintance changed into love, which became so 
 vehement, that he was never easy unless he was in her company, 
 and her respect and good liking were the same for him. His 
 mother observed it, and would frequently correct him for it; and 
 finding that ineffectual, complained to his guardians; and thinking, 
 on account of his riches, that she might work impossibilities, she 
 said to them, “ This boy of mine, who is but fourteen years old, 
 has taken such a fancy to a tailor’s daughter, that unless we 
 remove him he will marry her privately some time or another, 
 which will be death to me; or else he will pine and consume 
 himself away, if he sees her married to another person ; for which 
 reason I think it best to send him a distance off to some of oui 
 
FOURTH DAY. 
 
 247 
 
 factors, in order by his absence to put her out of his thoughts, ano 
 afterwards we may provide a more suitable wife for him.” They 
 a^eed with her that it would be right to do so, and promised her 
 all the service that lay in their power. Calling him into the 
 counting-house, one of them spoke kindly to him in this manner : 
 “Young gentleman, as you are now of considerable years, it is fit 
 that you should begin to look after your own affairs; for which 
 reason we hold it proper that you go and reside some time at 
 Paris, where you will see how a great part of your trade is carried 
 on : besides you will have greater opportunities there of improving 
 yourself than you can have here, and after you have conversed 
 with persons of quality and distinction, of which there are great 
 number at Paris, and learned their breeding and elegant accom¬ 
 plishments, it will then be time for you to return.” He listened 
 very attentively, and replied in a few words, that he would not 
 consent, because he thought it full as well to stay at Florence. 
 They reproved him a little for it; but finding they could get no 
 other answer, they acquainted his mother. She was in a violent 
 passion, and gave him hard words, not on account of his refusing 
 to go, but for his love affairs, which availing nothing she began to 
 use gentler means, entreating him in the mildest terms that he 
 would oblige his guardians; and she prevailed so far, that he 
 consented to go and stay one year there, and no more, and 
 accordingly he went. Being sent thus to Paris, over head and ears 
 in love, his return was put off from one day to another, till he was 
 kept there at last two years ; when coming home, more enamoured 
 than ever, he found that his mistress was married to a young man, 
 a tent-maker, which gave him infinite concern. But seeing that 
 the thing could not be remedied, he endeavoured to bear it 
 patiently ; and finding out the place where she lived, he began, as 
 is usual with young lovers, to walk frequently by the house 
 supposing that she could no more have forgotten him than he had 
 forgotten her ; but the case was otherwise : she remembered him 
 no more than if she had never seen him, at least it seemed so by 
 her behaviour, which gave him great trouble ; yet notwithstanding, 
 he tried all means to make her call him to mind; but finding it in 
 vain, he resolved to speak to her though it cost him his life. And 
 having informed himself, by a neighbour, concerning the state of 
 the house, he got into it privately one night, when they were gone 
 to spend the evening with some friends, and hid himself in their 
 
248 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 chamber behind some sail-cloths, where he waited till they 
 returned, and were in bed; and when he thought the husband 
 fast asleep, he went softly to her side, and laying his hand upon 
 her breast, said gently to her, “My dear life, are you asleep?” 
 She happening to be awake was going to cry out, when he 
 immediately added, “ For God’s sake make no noise; I am your 
 old lover Girolamo.” She, hearing this, replied, all in a tremble, 
 “ Dear sir, go about your business ; the time when we might love 
 one another is past; you see I am married, and therefore am only 
 to regard my husband; I entreat you then to depart, for if he 
 should know of it, supposing nothing worse to happen, I should be 
 miserable as long as I live, and our lives hitherto have been very 
 comfortable together.” The youth was extremely troubled at 
 these words, and though he put her in mind of past times, and 
 used many arguments and fair promises to persuade her, yet it was 
 all in vain. At last he desired that, as a recompence for all his 
 love, she would only let him lie by her side till he had warmed 
 himself a little, for that he was quite starved with waiting for her, 
 promising neither to speak nor touch her, and when he grew 
 warmer to go away. She, having some compassion left for him, 
 gave leave upon those conditions. He then lay down by her, and 
 calling to mind his long passion, and her inflexible cruelty, as one 
 destitute of ail hope, resolved to die; and holding strongly his 
 breath, he clenched his hands, and expired by her side. In some 
 little time, she being surprised at his lying so still, and fearing lest 
 her husband should wake, began to say. to him, “ Alas! sir, why 
 do not you go away?” And perceiving that he made no answer, 
 she supposed he was asleep, and putting her hand out to jog him, 
 found him quite cold; greatly amazed at this, and shaking him 
 more strongly, she perceived he was certainly dead. Affected 
 beyond measure, she lay a considerable time, not knowing what 
 course to take. At length, she resolved to sound her husband, by 
 making it another person’s case ; waking him, therefore, she 
 proposed it to him, as having happened to somebody else, and 
 then asked him what he would do in such an affair. The honest 
 man replied, that he would have him carried privately home, 
 without the least resentment to the woman, because she seemed to 
 be no way in fault. “Then,” said she, “we must do so now and 
 taking hold of his hand, laid it upon the dead body ; upon which 
 he arose in a great fright, and, lighting a candle, immediately took 
 
FOURTH DAY. 
 
 249 
 
 the corpse upon his shoulders, having first put all its clothes upon 
 it, and relying upon his innocence, carried it to the mother’s door, 
 and left it there. Being found in the morning, there was a great 
 uproar about it, and the body was examined all over, and no 
 wound or bruise appearing, the physicians declared that he died 
 for grief, and such was really the case. The corpse was then 
 carried to the church, attended by the sorrowful mother, and other 
 friends and relations to lament over it, according to the custom of 
 our city; and whilst this was doing, the honest man, in whose 
 house he died, said to his wife, “ Go, veil yourself, and haste to 
 the church, and hear among the women what they say about it, 
 and I will do the same amongst the men, by which means we shall 
 know’ whether they have any suspicion of us.” The woman, who 
 had some pity for him, when it was too late, grew desirous of 
 seeing him dead, to whom, whilst living, she would not vouchsafe 
 the favour of one kiss, and went directly thither. 
 
 Most wonderful it is to conceive, with what difficulty is traced 
 out the powerful working of love ! That heart which was proof 
 against the prosperous fortune of Girolamo, was now pierced by his 
 adversity; and the old flames of love, which were revived, had such 
 an effect upon her, that, veiled as she was, she still pressed for¬ 
 wards to the corpse; when she made a most terrible shriek, and 
 falling down with her face upon it, she shed but a few tears; for 
 the very instant almost that she touched it, grief deprived her of 
 life, as it did Girolamo. In some little time the women began to 
 comfort her, not knowing who she was, and to desire her to rise; 
 but perceiving that she did not stir, they lifted her up, when they 
 knew her to be Salvestra, and beheld that she was dead. Upon 
 which the women, overcome as it were by a double compassion, set 
 ap a greater lamentation than before. The news being carried 
 through the church, soon came to the ears of her husband, at which 
 he was deeply concerned, and having related to some that stood by 
 the whole affair of the preceding night, the cause of both their 
 deaths plainly appeared, and they were generally lamented. They 
 then took the dead lady, and laid her by his side upon tlie same 
 bier, and they were buried with the greatest lamentations in the 
 same grave; so this pair, which love could not join together in their 
 life-time, did death unite by an inseparable conjunction. 
 
250 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 NOVEL IX. 
 
 Gulielmo Rossiglione gives his wife to eat the heart of Guliehno Guardat tagnOy 
 her gallant, whom he had slain; as soon as she knew this, she threw 
 herself out of a window, and, dying, was buried along with him. 
 
 HERE being an end of Neiphile’s novel, not without the 
 greatest compassion expressed by the whole company, the 
 “ king, who meant not to infringe upon Dioneus’s privilege, 
 as there was nobody else left to speak, began thus:— 
 
 I now call to mind a story, which, as you are upon sorrowful 
 subjects, will move you no less than tne last, as the persons con¬ 
 cerned were of greater figure, and the event more cruel. You must 
 know, then, that in Provence were two noble knights, who had each 
 of them castles of their own, and vassals under their subjection; 
 one of whom was called Gulielmo Rossiglione, and the other Gulielmo 
 Guardastagno; and, being both persons of great prowess, they took 
 vast delight in military exploits, and used to go together to all tilts 
 and tournaments, and appeared always in the same colours. And 
 though they lived ten miles asunder, yet it happened, that Rossig 
 lione having a very beautiful wife, the other, notwithstanding the 
 friendship that existed between them, became violently in love, 
 and by one means or other he soon let her know it; which, he being 
 a valiant knight, was not at all displeasing to her; and she began 
 to entertain the same respect for him, so that she wished for nothing 
 so much as that he should speak to her upon that subject, which in 
 wme little time came to pass, and they were together more than 
 once. Being not so discreet as they ought to have been, the hus¬ 
 band soon perceived it, and he resented it to that degree, that the 
 extreme love which had been between them was turned into the 
 most inveterate hatred; but he was more private with it than they 
 had the prudence to be with their amour, and was fully bent upon 
 putting him to death. 
 
 Continuing in this resolution, it fell out that a public tilting 
 match was proclaimed in France, which Rossiglione immediately 
 signified to Guardastagno, and sent to desire his company at his 
 castle, when they would resolve together about going, and in what 
 manner: Guardastagno was extremely pleased with the message, 
 and sent word back that he would sup with him the next night 
 without fail. Rossiglione hearing this, thought it a fit opportunity 
 to effect his design, and armmg limself the xt day, with some o* 
 
FOURTH DAY, 
 
 25 * 
 
 hia servants, he went on horseback into a wood about a mile from 
 his castle, through which Guardastagno was to pass, where he lay 
 in wait for him: after a long stay, he beheld him unarmed, with 
 two servants unarmed likewise, as not apprehending any danger; 
 and, when he saw him in a fit place for his purpose, he ran with his 
 lance at him, with the utmost malice and fury, saying, “ Villain, 
 thou art a dead man! ” and the very instant he spoke the word, the 
 lance passed from behind through his breast, and he fell down dead, 
 without uttering a word. 
 
 The servants, not knowing who had done this, turned their horses, 
 and fled with all possible haste to their lord’s castle. Kossiglione 
 now dismounted from his horse, and with a knife cut Guardastagno’s 
 breast open, and took out his heart; and, wrapping it in the streamer 
 belonging to his lance, gave it to one of his servants to carry, and 
 commanding them not to dare to speak of it, he mounted his horse, 
 and, it being now night, returned to his castle. The lady, who had 
 heard of Guardastagno’s supping there that night, and longed much 
 to see him, perceiving him not to come, was a good deal surprised, 
 and said to her husband, “Pray, what is the reason that Guardas^ 
 tagno is not herel” He replied, “I have just received a message 
 from him that he cannot be with us till to-morrow;” at which she 
 seemed very uneasy. As soon as he alighted from his horse, he sent 
 for the cook, and said to him, “ Here, take this boar’s heart, and be 
 sure you make it as delicious as possible, and send it up to the table 
 in a silver dish. Accordingly, he took and minced it very small, 
 tossing it up with rich spices, and making it a sort of high-seasoned 
 forced meat. 
 
 When supper-time came, they sat down, and the dishes were 
 served up; but he could not eat much for thinking of what he had 
 done. At last the cook sent up the forced meat, which he set 
 before his lady, pretending himself to be out of order, but com¬ 
 mending it to her as a nice dish; she, who was not at all squeamish, 
 began to taste, and liked it so well that she eat it all up. When he 
 saw that she had made an end, he said, “ Madam, how do you like 
 itl” She replied, “ In good truth, sir, I like it much.” “ As God 
 shall help me,” quoth the knight, “I believe you; nor do I wonder 
 that it pleases you so much now it is dead, which, when living, 
 pleased you above all things.” She made a pause at this, and then 
 said, “ Why, what is it that you have given me!” He replied, “ It 
 is really the heart of Guardastagno, whom you, base woman, loved 
 
 r • 
 
 
2 $* 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 80 well: be assured it is the same, for these very hands took it out 
 of his breast, a little time before I returned home.” The lady, 
 hearing this of him whom she loved above all the world, you may 
 easily imagine what her anguish must be: and at last she replied, 
 “You have acted like a base villain as you are; for if I granted 
 him a favour of my own accord, and you was injured thereby, it 
 was I, and not he, that ought to have been punished. But let it 
 never be said that any other food ever came after such a noble 
 repast as was the heart of so valiant and worthy a knight.” Then 
 rising up, she instantly threw herself out of the window. It was 
 a great height from the ground, and she was in a manner dashed 
 to pieces. He seeing this, was a good deal confounded; and being 
 conscious of having done a base action, fearing also the country’s 
 resentment, he had his horses saddled, and fled directly away. 
 The next morning the whole story was known all round the 
 country, when the two bodies were taken and buried together in 
 one grave in the church which had belonged to the lady, with the 
 utmost lamentation; and verses were written over them, signifying 
 who they were, as well as the manner and cause of their deaths. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL X. 
 
 A doctor’s wife, puts her gallant into a chest, imagining him to be dead; 
 which chest is stolen by two usurers, and carnid home. He comes to 
 himself, and is taken for a thief; whilst the lady’s maid informs the 
 magistrates that she had put him into a chest, which the usurers had 
 carried away; upon which he escapes, and they are fined a sum of money. 
 
 ra 
 
 ml 
 
 lONEUS was the only person now left to speak, who 
 accordingly began, by the king’s order, as follows:— 
 
 The miseries of unfortunate lovers, which have been 
 related by you, have so affected both my eyes and heart, that I 
 have long wished for their coming to an end. We may now be 
 thankful that they are concluded, unless I should add one to their 
 number, which is no part of my design; I mean therefore to shift 
 the prospect, and to present you with a little mirth after all this 
 sorrow, and which may serve as a good argument for to-morrow’s 
 discourse. 
 
 You must understand, then, that not long since lived at Salerno 
 a famous doctor in surgery, called master Mazzeo della Montagna, 
 who in his old age had married a young and beautiful wife, of the 
 
FOURTH DAY. 
 
 253 
 
 same city. There being such a disproportion in their years, he 
 spared no cost of clothes and jewels, and gratified her in everything 
 of that kind she could wish for; so that she appeared far beyond 
 any other lady in the city. But she was not to be so satisfied; and 
 looking out amongst the young gentlemen abroad, she at last fixed 
 upon one, on whom she settled her entire hope and affection; and 
 he being made sensible of it, shewed the same regard for her. He 
 was named E,uggieri da Jeroli, and of a noble family, but had been 
 always of a rakish disposition, on which account he had disobliged 
 all his friends so far, that none of them would see him, and he wat 
 now branded all over Salerno for everything that was vile and 
 wicked. This had no weight with her, and by her maid’s assist¬ 
 ance they were brought together, when she reproved him for his 
 past conduct, and desired, that, for her sake, he would leave ofi 
 those wicked courses; and, to take away all temptation, supplied 
 him from time to time with money. The afiair being carried on 
 in this manner between them with a good deal of caution, it hap¬ 
 pened that the doctor had a patient in the meantime who had a 
 bad leg; this, he told the person’s friends, was owing to a decayed 
 bone, which he was obliged to take out to make a cure; otherwise 
 he must either lose his leg or his life; but yet he looked upon it as 
 a very doubtful case. They therefore bid him do as he thought 
 most proper. 
 
 Now the doctor, supposing that the patient would never be able 
 to endure the pain without an opiate, deferred the operation till 
 the evening; and, in the meantime, ordered a water to be distilled 
 from a certain composition, which, being drunk, would throw a 
 person asleep as long as he judged it necessary in this particular 
 case, and which being brought him home, he set it in his chamber 
 window, without saying what it was. Now when the evening came 
 on which he was to perform this operation, a messenger arrived 
 from some very considerable persons at Malfi, who were his friends, 
 charging him to come away instantly, for that there had been a 
 great fray among them, in which many people were wounded. The 
 doctor then put off the operation of the man’s leg till morning, and 
 went in a boat directly to Malfi: whilst the lady, knowing that he 
 would be out all night, had her gallant brought privately into her 
 chamber, where she locked him in, till certain persons of her family 
 weiv vone to bed. 
 
 Ruggieri, waiting thus in the chamber, expecting his mistress. 
 
254 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 and being extremely thirsty, whether from some fatigue, or salt 
 meat that he had eaten, or rather from a bad habit which he had of 
 drinking, happened to cast his eye upon the bottle of water, which 
 the doctor had ordered for his patient, and imagining it was some¬ 
 thing pleasant to drink, took it all off at a draught; when, in a little 
 time, he fell into a profound doze. The lady made what haste she 
 could to her chamber, and finding him fast asleep, began, with a 
 low voice, to try to wake him; but he making no reply, nor even 
 stirring, she was much disturbed, and shook hiin roughly, saying, 
 “Get up, sluggard! If thou art disposed to sleep, thou shouldst 
 have stayed at home, and not come to sleep here.” 
 
 He being pushed in that manner, fell down from a chest, on 
 which he was sitting, upon the ground, and shewed no more sense 
 or feeling than if he had been really dead. She was now under 
 greater concern, and began to pull him by the nose, as well as twinge 
 him by the beard, but it was all of no service, the enchantment was 
 too strong. On this she really suspected him to be dead, and 
 pinched and burnt his flesh with the candle, tiU, finding all to no 
 purpose, and being no doctress, although her husband was a doctor, 
 she took it for granted he was so. 
 
 You may easily suppose what her grief now must be, as she 
 loved him beyond all the world; and, not daring to make any noise, 
 she for some time continued silentlj’’ deploring her calamity: till 
 fearing at last lest dishonour should follow, she thought some means 
 must be contrived to convey him out of the house; not knowing 
 how to order it herself, she called her maid, and advised with her 
 about it. The girl was under great surprise, and, trying all means 
 to rouse him to no purpose, agreed with her mistress that he was 
 certainly dead, and that it was best to get him away. The lady 
 then said,—“ But where can we carry him, that it may never be 
 suspected to-morrow, when he shall be found, that he was brought 
 from hence]”—“Madam,” she replied, “I saw late this evening, 
 before a joiner’s shop in our neighbourhood, a good large chest, if 
 it be not taken into the house again; we may put him in there well 
 enough, giving him two or three slashes with a penknife; whoever 
 finds him will scarcely imagine that we should put him there rathei 
 than anywhere else; on the contrary, it will rather be supposed 
 that he has been upon some bad exploit, because he has a general 
 ill character, and that he was killed by his adversary, and so shut 
 up in the chest.” She approved of her maid’s advice in everything 
 
FOURTH DAY. 
 
 255 
 
 (Suve the wounding him, saying, that for all the world she would 
 never consent to that. Accordingly she sent the maid to see if the 
 chest was still there, who brought her word back that it was. And 
 being stout and lusty, she took him on her shoulders, whilst the 
 lady went first to see that nobody was in the way, and coming to 
 the chest, they threw him in, and shutting the lid, left him there. 
 The same day two young men, who let out money upon interest, 
 chanced to take a house a little farther on in the same street, who 
 willing to gain much and spend but little, and having need of 
 household goods, had taken notice of that chest the day before, and 
 were resolved, if it should be left there all night, to steal it away. 
 At midnight, then, they went and carried it off, without examining 
 at all into it, though it seemed to be very heavy, and set it in a 
 chamber where their wives lay, and then went to bed. Now 
 Kuggieri, by this time, had gotten the greater part of his sleep 
 over; and his draught being pretty well digested, and its virtue at 
 an end, ne awoke before morning; and though his senses were in 
 some measure returned to him, yet was there a kind of stupefaction 
 * remaining, which continued, not that night only, but for several 
 days; yet he opened his eyes, and seeing nothing, threw his hands 
 about him, when he perceived himself shut up; he was consequently 
 in the utmost amaze, and said to himself—“ What is the meaning 
 of this ] Where am 11 Am I asleep or awake 1 I remember last 
 night to have been in my mistress’s chamber, and now methinks I 
 am in a chest. What can it be 1 Sure the doctor is returned, or 
 some other accident has happened; and she, finding me asleep, put 
 me in here: it can be nothing else.” Upon that consideration he 
 lay still, and began to listen if he could hear anything stir; and 
 having lain for some time in an uneasy posture, as the chest was 
 strait, and that side being sore that he had pressed so long upon, 
 he was willing to turn upon the other; when, thrusting his back 
 against one side of the chest, which stood upon an unequal place, 
 he overset it, and down it came to the floor, with such a noise, that 
 the women were awakened, and frightened out of their wits. 
 Ruggieri upon this knew not what to think, but finding the chest 
 open with the fall, he thought it better to get out if he could, than 
 to stay within doors; therefore he went groping up and down in 
 the dark, to find some door or place to make his escape at. They 
 hearing this, cried out, “ Who is there 1” But he not knowing their 
 voices, made no answer. Upon this they began to call their hus- 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 
 aS6 
 
 bands, but they were so fast asleep, having been awake the greatest 
 part of the night, that they heard nothing of the matter. They 
 were then more terrified than before, and went to the window, 
 calling out, “ Thieves! thieves!” This brought many of the neigh¬ 
 bours together, who forced their way into the house: and the 
 husbands also were raised with this clamour, and seized upon poor 
 Ruggieri, who was out of his wits almost with surprise to find 
 himself there, where he saw no possibility of making his escape. 
 And by this time the city officers were drawn thither, by reason ol 
 the tumult, into whose hands he was delivered, and had by them 
 before the provost, when he was immediately put to the rack, as 
 he was one of bad character; and he confessed that he had gotten 
 into the house with intent to rob them; whereupon the provost 
 sentenced him to be hanged out of hand. That morning the news 
 was carried all over Salerno that Ruggieri was taken breaking into 
 the usurer’s house; which the lady and her maid hearing, were so 
 astonished, that they could scarcely believe what had happened 
 the preceding night was real; whilst the lady was in such concern 
 for her lover, that she was almost distracted. Some few hours 
 after the doctor returned from Malfi, when he inquired for his 
 narcotic water, because he v/as then going upon his operation; and 
 finding the bottle empty, he made a terrible mutiny, telling them 
 that nothing in his house could stand untouched for them. The 
 lady, who had something else lay nearer her heart, replied with 
 some warmth, “ What would you say in anything of consequence, 
 when you make such a stir about a little water?” The doctor then 
 said, “ Lady, you should consider this is no common water, it is 
 water distilled to cause sleep.” And he further told her upon what 
 account it was made. When she heard this, she concluded that 
 Ruggieri had drank it off, and that they supposed him therefore to 
 be dead; and she added, “ Sir, we knew nothing of your intention, 
 but if you please you can make more:” and he perceiving that 
 there was no other remedy, did so. Soon afterwards the maid 
 returned, whom she had sent to learn news of her lover: and she 
 said, “Madam, there is nobody that speaks well of Ruggieri, 
 whether relation or otherwise, or intends to give him any assist¬ 
 ance; but all people agree that he will be hanged to-morrow: one 
 thing, however, I have learnt, which is new; that is, how he came 
 into those usurers’ house, which I will tell you. You know the 
 joiner at whose door the chest stood, wherein we had put him; he 
 
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FOURTH DAY. 
 
 257 
 
 has just had a warm dispute w;th another person, who, it seems, 
 owned the chest, and who insisted that the joiner should pay for 
 it: however, he replied that he had not sold it, but that it was 
 stolen away from him. The other answered, ‘It is a story, you 
 sold it to two usurers, as they themselves told me this morning, 
 when I saw it in their house at the time Kuggieri was taken. 
 ‘They are liars,’ quoth the joiner, ‘I never sold it them; but they 
 stole it from me last night; let us go to them therefore.’ So away 
 they went together, whilst I returned hither; from hence it is easy 
 to see that Ruggieri was carried in that manner to the place where 
 he was taken; but how he came to himself afterwards is beyond 
 my comprehension.” 
 
 The lady now plainly saw how the case was, and told her maid 
 what she had learnt from the doctor, begging that she would lend 
 her assistance in promoting her lover’s escape : for it was in her 
 power at once to save his life and her honour. The maid answered, 
 “ Madam, tell me only which way, and I wiU do it with all my 
 heart.” The lady, as it was a thing that so nearly touched her, 
 had all her wits about her, and gave the maid full instructions 
 what she wished her to do : accordingly she went to the doctor, 
 and began to weep, saying, “ Sir, I am come to ask your pardon 
 for a great crime which I have committed towards you.” The 
 doctor asked what crime it was % She, continuing to weep, replied, 
 “ You know what sort of a person Ruggieri da Jeroli is, who has 
 been my sweetheart for this twelvemonth past, notwithstanding 
 all his imperfections ; and who, knowing last night that you were 
 abroad, wheedled me so far, that I brought him into your house, 
 and took him up into my chamber to be all night with me; when, 
 being thirsty, and I not knowing how to get him either any water 
 or wino without my mistress’s seeing it, who was then in the hMl, 
 1 suddenly recollected to have seen a bottle of watter in your 
 chamber, which I fetched and gave him to drink, and set the 
 bottle again where I found it; and I since understand that you 
 i ave been in a great passion about it: I confess I did very ill; 
 but who is there that some time or other doth not act amiss? lam 
 extremely concerned for it; not so much upon account of the 
 thing itself, as what has ensued ; for it hath brought him in danger 
 of his life. Therefore I earnestly beg your forgiveness, and that 
 jou. would give me leave to go and assist him to the utmost of my 
 lower ” 
 
 17 
 
258 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 The doctor, hearing this story, answered merrily, notwithstand¬ 
 ing his former passion: “You have reason enough to be sorry 
 upon your own account, for instead of having a young brisk fellow 
 you had nothing but a sluggard. You may go then and save the 
 man, if you can, but take care you do so no more; for if you do, 
 
 I shall then pay you for all together.’* Having this answer, she 
 fhought she had made a good beginning; therefore she hastened 
 to the prison and persuaded the gaoler to let her speak to 
 Euggieri; when, having informed him what answers he was to 
 make to the magistrate if he meant to escape, she went from 
 thence to the judge, to whom she got introduced, and said to him, 
 
 “ Sir, you have had Euggieri da Jeroli before you, who was taken 
 up for a thief; but the case is quite otherwiseand here she 
 related her whole story: how she had brought him into the doctor’s 
 house, how she had given him that narcotic water to drink with¬ 
 out knowing it, and how he was put into the chest for dead : she 
 afterwards told him what had passed between the joiner and the 
 owner of the chest, making it appear how he came into the usurer’s 
 house. 
 
 The judge saw that it would be an easy thing to come at the 
 truth of this matter; therefore, he first inquired of the doctor 
 whether the story was true concerning the water, and found it 
 exactly so : he then sent for the joiner and owner of the chest, as 
 also the usurers; and after much examination it appeared that 
 they had stolen the chest the foregoing night, and carried it home. 
 Last of all he had Euggieri brought before him, when he being 
 asked where he had lodged that night, he replied. That he could 
 not tell where he actually did lie ; but said his intention was to 
 have lain with the doctor’s maid in whose chamber he had drunk 
 some water to quench his most violent thirst; but what became of 
 him from that time to the time of his awaking and finding him¬ 
 self in the chest in the usurer’s house, that he could give no 
 account of. The judge was mightily pleased with their accounts, 
 and made them repeat their several stories over and over. At 
 length, perceiving Euggieri to be innocent, he set him at liberty, 
 and sentenced the usurers to pay a fine of ten crowns. It is easy 
 to imagine what Euggieri’s joy now was, as well as the lady’s, who 
 made themselves very merry together afterwards along with the 
 maid, for the slashes with her penknife, which she meant to have 
 given him; still going on in the same mirth and pleasure from 
 
FOURTH DAY. 
 
 259 
 
 good to better: which I wish may happen always to myself, but 
 never to be put into a chest. 
 
 If the former novels had occasioned great grief and sorrow to 
 the ladies, this last of Dioneus’s made ample amends. But the 
 king now perceiving that the sun was about to set, and that his 
 sovereignty was therefore at an end, began to excuse himself for 
 giving such a cruel subject to expatiate upon, as the unhappiness 
 of lovers : then rising up, he took the crown from his head, and 
 whilst they were waiting to see to whom he would resign it, he 
 put it upon Fiamnietta, saying, “ I make choice of you as one who 
 knows better than any other person to comfort us, for what we 
 have heard to-day with to-morrow’s mirth.” Fiammetta, whose 
 locks hung in long graceful ringlets over her white and delicate 
 shoulders, her face round and beautiful with white and red, like 
 lilies and roses blended together ; her eyes like those of a falcon’s, 
 with a little mouth whose lips were like rubies : she, I say, said 
 with a smile, “ Philostratus, I willingly accept it; and, to the end 
 that you may the better recollect yourself concerning what you 
 have done hitherto, I will and command that every one be prepared 
 to treat to-morrow upon what has happened happily to lovers, 
 after certain cruel and unlucky accidents;” which proposal was 
 agreeable to them all. Calling then the steward, and concerting 
 with him what was most needful to be done, she gave them leave 
 to depart till supper. Some therefore walked into the garden, the 
 beauty of which was such that they were never weary of it; others 
 went to see the mill; and some went to one place and some to 
 another, according to their different inclinations; till that time 
 being come, they all met together, as usual, by the fountain-side, 
 where they supped with great elegance and satisfaction to them¬ 
 selves. When that was over, they began to dance and sing : and 
 as Philomena was leading up the dance, the queen said, “ Philo¬ 
 stratus, I do not intend to deviate from my predecessors, but as 
 they have done hitherto, so intend I to order a song : and as I am 
 very sure that yours are like your novels, therefore, that no more 
 of our days be disturbed with your misfortunes, I desire you 
 would give us one of those which pleases you most. Philostratus 
 replied, “ W’+b all my heartand he immediately began th^ 
 following 
 
2C0 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Sure none can more your pity movtj 
 Than I. who am betray’d in love. 
 
 I. 
 
 When my poor wounded heart, 
 
 For her of whom I now complain. 
 
 First felt the am’rous smart, 
 
 The greatest pain 
 As nought I deem’d ; 
 
 For she, since most unkind, 
 
 Then all perfection seem’d : 
 
 But, ah ! too late my error now I fittA, 
 Sure, &c. 
 
 n. 
 
 For why ? I see myself deceiv’d 
 By her, my only hope and joy ; 
 
 And when too fondly I believ’d, 
 
 None so secure so blest as I; 
 
 All past engagements laid aside. 
 
 To soothe a happier rival’s pride. 
 
 Sure, &o. 
 
 III. 
 
 Since my disgrace, 
 
 I mourn and curse the day. 
 
 When her too beauteous face 
 First stole my ravish’d heart awa 3 r; 
 Whilst my too easy faith and love 
 An endless source of sorrow prove. 
 Sure, &c. 
 
 IV. 
 
 So great the grief, 
 
 Which has my mind possest! 
 
 That vain is all relief, 
 
 And only death can give me rest; 
 
 ’Tis that shall all my sorrows clo06j 
 With a secure and long repose. 
 Sure, &c. 
 
 V. 
 
 No other means remain 
 To ease my pain ; 
 
 But, oh ! when clos’d shall be these ey0i» 
 Within her breast 
 liet ne’er one anxious thought aris^ 
 she for ever blest! 
 
 Sure, &c. 
 
FOURJ'H DAY, 
 
 a&i 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet ere I go, 
 
 Kind Cupid, whisper in her ear, 
 
 That ’tis for her, 
 
 I all these torments know : 
 
 Perhaps she may repent her usage past, 
 
 And grant my love a kind return at last. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Sure none can more your pity move, 
 
 Than I, who am betray’d in love. 
 
 Philostratus’s sentiments, and the grounds of them, were plainly 
 set forth in this song, and perhaps the lady’s countenance who 
 was engaged in the dance had made a farther discovery, if th^ 
 darkness of the night had not concealed the blushes rising in her 
 face: but the song being ended, as well as many others afterwards, 
 and the hour of rest now drawing on, by the queen’s command 
 they all repaired to their several chambers. 
 
THE FIFTH DAY. 
 
 HE sun now darted forth his golden beams over the face of 
 our liemisphere, when Fiammetta, awaked by the sweet 
 music of the birds, who, from the first notice of day, had 
 been merrily chanting among the trees, arose, and had all the com¬ 
 pany’called up; »when they walked leisurely together upon the 
 dewy* grass, into a pleasant meadow, until the sun was a little 
 higher.; conferring by the way upon many agreeable subjects. At 
 last, when the heat grew a little intense, they retreated to their 
 former station, where they refreshed themselves with wine and 
 sweetmeats, and diverted themselves afterwards in the garden, till 
 dinner-time : everything being provided at that hour, in the 
 neatest manner, by their steward, they had a song or two, and 
 then sat down: and dinner being ended, they were entertained 
 again both with music and dancing. After that was over the 
 queen gave them their liberty; when, accordingly, some went to 
 lie down, and others amused themselves in the meantime in the 
 garden: but at the usual hour they all met by her order at the 
 fountain-side. When, being seated on her throne and casting her 
 eye upon Pamphilus, she smiled; and desiring him to begin, he 
 immediately complied in this manner. 
 
 NOVEL I. 
 
 Cymon becomes wise by being in love, and by force of arms wins Ephigema 
 his mistress upon the seas; and is imprisoned at Rhodes. Being delivered 
 from thence by Lysimachus, with him he recovers Ephigenia, and flies 
 with her to Crete, where he is married to her, and is afterwards recalled 
 home. 
 
 I GREAT many novels come now fresh into my mind, for 
 j the beginning of such an agreeable day’s discourse as this 
 is likely to be ; but one I am more particularly pleased 
 with, because it not only shews the happy conclusion which we 
 
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FJFTH DAY, 
 
 263 
 
 4 
 
 are to treat about, but how sacred, how powerful also, as well as 
 advantageous, the force of love is; which some people, without 
 knowing what ,they say, unjustly blame and vdify, and which I 
 judge will rather be had in esteem by you, as I suppose you all to 
 be subject to the tender passion. 
 
 According to the ancient histories of Cyprus, there lived some 
 time in that island, one of great rank and distinction, called Aris¬ 
 tippus, by far the wealthiest person in all the country; and if he 
 was unhappy in any one respect, it was in having, amongst his 
 other children, a son, who, though he exceeded most young people 
 of his time in stature and comeliness, yet he was a perfect natural: 
 his true name was Galeso, but as neither the labour nor skill of 
 his master, nor the correction of his father, was ever able to beat one 
 letter into his head, or the least instruction of any kind, and as his 
 voice and manner of speaking were strangely harsh and uncouth, he 
 was, by way of disdain, called only Cymon ; which, in their lan¬ 
 guage, signified heast. The father had long beheld him with infinite 
 concern, and as all hopes were vanished concerning him, to remove 
 out of his sight an object which afforded constant matter of grief, 
 he ordered him away to his country-house, to be there with his 
 slaves. This was extremely agreeable to Cymon, because people of 
 that sort had been always most to his mind. Residing there and 
 doing all sorts of drudgery pertaining to that kind of life, it 
 happened one day, as he was going, about noon-tide, with his staff 
 upon his shoulder, from one farm to another, that he passed 
 through a pleasant grove, which, as it was then the month of May, 
 was all in bloom; from whence, as his stars led him, he came into 
 a meadow surrounded with high trees, in one corner of which was 
 a crystal spring, and by the side of it upon the grass, lay a most 
 beautiful damsel asleep, clothed with a mantle so exceedingly fine 
 and delicate, as scarcely to conceal underneath the exquisite 
 whiteness of her skin; only from her waist downwards she wore a 
 white silken quilt, and at her feet were sleeping, likewise, two 
 women and a man-servant. 
 
 As soon as Cymon cast his eye upon her, as if he had never 
 seen the face of a woman before, he stood leaning upon his staff, 
 and began to gaze with the utmost astonishment without speaking 
 a word. When suddenly, in his rude uncivilized breast, which 
 had hitherto been incapable of receiving the least impression of 
 politeness whatsoever, a sudden thought arose, which seemed to 
 
264 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 intimate to his gross and shallow understanding, that this was th« 
 most agreeable sight that ever was seen. From thence he began 
 to examine each part by itself, commending every limb andfeaturej 
 and being now become a judge of beauty from a mere idiot, he 
 grew very desirous of seeing her eyes, on which account he was 
 going several times to awake her; but as she so far excelled all 
 other women that he ever saw, he was in doubt whether she was a 
 mortal creature. This’ made him wait to see if she would awake 
 of her own accord ; and though that expectation seemed tedious 
 to him, yet so pleasing was the object, that he had no power to 
 leave it. 
 
 After a long time she came to herself, and raising up her head, 
 saw Cymon stand propped upon his stick before her, at which she 
 was surprised, and said, “ Cymon, what are you looking for here 
 at this time of day V’ Now he was known all over the country, as 
 well for his own rusticity, as his father’s nobility and great wealth. 
 He made no answer but stood with his eyes fixed upon hers, which 
 seemed to dart a sweetness that filled him with a kind of joy to 
 which he had hitherto been a stranger ; whilst she, observing this, 
 and not knowing what his rudeness might prompt bim to, called 
 up her women, and then said, “ Cymon, go about your business.’ 
 He replied, “I will go along with you.” And though she was 
 afraid, and would have avoided his company, yet he would not 
 leave her till he had brought her to her own house ; from thence 
 he went home to his father, when he declared that he would 
 return no more into the country, which was very disagreeable to 
 all his friends, but yet they let him alone, waiting to see what this 
 change of temper could be owing to. Love thus having pierced 
 his heart, when no lesson of any kind could ever find admittance, 
 in a little time his way of thinking and behaviour were so far 
 changed, that his father and friends were strangely surprised at it 
 as well as every body that knew him. First of all then, he asked 
 his father to let him have clothes, and every thing else like his 
 brethren; to which the father very willingly consented. Con¬ 
 versing too with young gentlemen of character, and observing 
 their ways and manner of behaving, in a very short time he not 
 only got over the first rudiments of learning, but attained to some 
 knowledge in philosophy. Afterwards, his love for Ephigenia 
 being the sole cause of it, his rude and rustic speech was changed 
 into a tone more agreeable and civilized : he grew also a master of 
 
FIFTH DA Y. 
 
 265 
 
 music; and with regard to the military art, as well by sea as land, 
 he became as expert and gallant as the best. In short, not to mn 
 over all his excellences, before the expiration of the fourth year 
 from his being first in love, he turned out the most accomplished 
 >'oung gentleman in every respect that ever Cyprus could boast of. 
 What, then, most gracious ladies, shall we say of Cymon % Surely 
 nothing less than this; that all the noble qualities which had 
 been infused by Heaven into his generous soul were shut up as 
 it were by invidious fortune, and bound fast with the strongest 
 fetters in a small corner of his heart, till love broke the enchant¬ 
 ment, and drove with all its might these virtues out of that cruel 
 obscurity, to which they had been long doomed, to a clear and 
 open day; plainly shewing from whence it draws those spirits 
 tiiat are its votaries, and whither its mighty influence conducts 
 thenu Cymon, therefore, though he might have his flights like 
 other young people, with regard to his love for Ephigenia, yet 
 when Aristippus considered it was that had made a man of him, 
 he not only bore with it, but encouraged him in the pursuit of his 
 pleasures. Cymon, nevertheless, who refused to be called Galeso, 
 remembering that Ephigenia had styled him Cymon, being desirous 
 of bringing that affair to a happy conclusion, had often requested 
 her in marriage of her father, who replied that he had already 
 promised her to one Pasimunda, a young nobleman of Rhodes, and 
 that he intended not to break his word. The time then being 
 come that was appointed for their nuptials, and the husband 
 having sent in form to demand her, Cymon said to himself : “ O 
 Ephigenia, the time is now come when I shall give proof how I 
 love you, I am become a man on your account, and could I but 
 obtain you. I should be as glorious and happy as the gods them¬ 
 selves ; and have you I will, or else I will die.” 
 
 Immediately he prevailed upon some young noblemen who were 
 his friends, to assist him ; and, fitting out a ship of war privately, 
 they put to sea, in order to waylay the vessel that was to tran¬ 
 sport Ephigenia ; who, after great respect and honour shewed by 
 her father to her husband's friends, embarked with them for Rhodes. 
 Cymon, who had but little rest that night, overtook them on the 
 following day, when he called out, “ Stop, and strike your sails; or 
 expect to go to the bottom of the sea.” They, on the other hand, 
 had got all their arms above deck and were preparing for a vigorous 
 defence. He therefore threw a grappling iron upon the other ship, 
 
266 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 which was making the best of its way, and drew it close to his own; 
 when, like a lion, without waiting for any one to second him, he 
 jumped singly among his enemies, as if he cared not for them, and 
 love spurring him on with incredible force, he cut and drove them 
 all like so many sheep before him, till they soon threw down their 
 arms, acknowledging themselves his prisoners; when he addressed 
 himseK to them in the following manner:—“ Gentlemen, it is no 
 desire of plunder, nor enmity to any of your company, that made 
 me leave Cyprus to fail upon you here in this manner. What 
 occasioned it is a matter, the success of which is of the utmost con¬ 
 sequence to myself, and as easy for you quietly to grant me : it is 
 Ephigenia, whom I love above all the world ; and as I could not 
 have her from her father peaceably, and as a friend, my love con¬ 
 strains me to win her from you as an enemy, by force of arms. 
 Therefore I am resolved to be to her what your Pasimunda was to 
 have been. Eesign her then to me, and go away in God’s name.” 
 
 The people, more by force than any good will, gave her, all in 
 tears, up to Cymon ; who, seeing her lament in that manner, said, 
 “Fair lady, be not discouraged ; I am your Cymon, who have a 
 better claim to your affection, on account of my long and constant 
 love, than Pasimunda can have by virtue of a promise.” Taking 
 her then on board his ship, without meddling with any thing else 
 that belonged to them, he suffered them to depart. Cymon thus 
 being the most overjoyed man that could be, after comforting the 
 lady under her calamity, consulted with his friends what to do, 
 who were of opinion that they should by no means return to Cy¬ 
 prus yet; but that it were better to go directly to Crete, where they 
 had all relations and friends, but Cymon especially, on which 
 account they might be more secure there along with Ephigenia; 
 and accordingly they directed their course that way. But fortune, 
 who had given the lady to Cymon by an easy conquest, soon 
 changed his immoderate joy into most sad and bitter lamentation. 
 In about four hours from his parting with the Rhodians, night 
 came upon them, which was more welcome to Cymon than any of 
 the rest, and with it a most violent tempest, which overspread the 
 face of the heavens in such a manner, that they could neither see 
 what they did, nor whither they were carried ; nor were they able 
 at all to steer the ship. You may easily suppose what Cymon’s 
 grief must be on this occasion. He concluded that Heaven had 
 crowned his desires only to make death more grievous to bim. 
 
FIFTH DA Y, 
 
 267 
 
 which before would have been but little regarded. His friends also 
 were greatly affected, but especially Epliigenia, who trembled at 
 every shock, still .sharply upbraiding his ill-timed love, and declar¬ 
 ing that this tempest was sent by Providence for no other reason, 
 but that as he had resolved to have her contrary to the will and 
 disposal of Heaven, to disappoint that presumption; and that, 
 seeing her die first, he might die likewise in the same miserable 
 manner. 
 
 Amongst such complaints as these they were carried at last, the 
 wind growing continually more violent, near the island of Rhodes; 
 and not knowing where they were, they endeavoured, for the safety 
 of their lives, to get to land if possible. In this they succeeded, 
 and got into a little bay, where the Rhodian ship had arrived just 
 before them ; nor did they know they were at Rhodes till the next 
 morning, when they saw, about a bow-shot from them, the same 
 ship they had parted with the day before. Cymon was greatly 
 concerned at this, and fearing what afterwards came to pass, he bid 
 them put to sea if possible, and trust to fortune, for they could 
 never be in a worse place. They used all possible means then to 
 get out, but in vain; the wind was strongly against them, and drove 
 them to shore in spite of all they could do to prevent it. They were 
 soon known by the sailors of the other ship, who had now gained 
 the shore, and who ran to a neighbouring town, where the young 
 gentlemen that had been on board were just gone before, and in¬ 
 formed them how Cymon and Ephigenia were like themselves 
 driven thither by stress of weather. They hearing this, brought a 
 great many people from the town to the sea-side, and took Cymon 
 and his companions prisoners, who had got on shore, with a design 
 of fleeing to a neighbouring wood, as also Ephigenia, and brought 
 them aF together to the town. Pasimunda, upon hearing the news, 
 went and made his complaints to the senate, who accordingly sent 
 Lysimachus, who was chief magistrate that year, along with a 
 guard of soldiers to conduct them to prison. Thus the miserable 
 and enamoured Cymon lost his mistress soon after he had gained 
 her, and without having scarcely so much as a kiss for his pains. 
 In the meantime Ephigenia was handsomely received by many 
 ladies of quality, and comforted for the trouble she had sustained 
 in being made a captive, as well as in the storm at sea; and she re¬ 
 mained with them till the day appointed for their nuptials. How- 
 fn-pr Cymon and his friends had their lives granted them (though 
 
268 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 Pasimunda used all his endeavours to the contrary) for the favout 
 shewed to the Rhodians the day before ; but they were sentenced 
 to perpetual imprisonment, where they remained sorrowfully 
 enough, as they had no hopes of obtaining their liberty. 
 
 Now whilst Pasimunda was making preparation for his nuptials, 
 fortune, as if she had repented the injury done to Cymon, produced 
 a new circumstance for his deliverance. Pasimunda had a brother, 
 beneath him in years, but not in virtue, called Ormisda, who had 
 been long talked of as about to marry a beautiful lady of that city, 
 called Cassandra, whom Lysimachus was also in love with, and had 
 for some time been prevented marrying her, by divers unlucky 
 accidents. Now as Pasimunda was to celebrate his own nuptials 
 with great state and feasting, he supposed it would save a great 
 deal of expense and trouble if his brother were to marry at the 
 same time. He consequently proposed the thing again to Cas¬ 
 sandra’s friends, and soon brought it to a conclusion ; when it was 
 agreed by all parties, that the same day that Pasimunda brought 
 home Ephigenia, Ormisda should bring home Cassandra. This 
 was very grating to Lysimachus, who saw himself now deprived of 
 the hope which he had hitherto entertained of marrying her him¬ 
 self ; but he was wise enough to conceal it, contriving a way to 
 prevent its taking effect if possible ; none however appeared, but 
 that of taking her away by force. This seemed easy enougn on 
 account of his office ; still he thought it not so reputable as if he 
 had borne no office at all at that time ; but in short, after a long 
 debate with himself, honour gave way to love, and he resolved, 
 happen what would, to bear away Cassandra. 
 
 Thinking then what companions he should make choice of for this 
 enterprise, as well as the means that were to be taken, he soon 
 called Cymon to mind, whom he had in custody, as also his compan¬ 
 ions ; and thinking he could have nobody better to assist him, nor 
 one more trusty and faithful on that occasion than Cymon, the next 
 night he had him privately into his chamber, where he spoke to 
 him in this manner : “ Cymon, as the gods are the best and most 
 liberal givers of all things to mankind, so are thej'’ also the ablest 
 judges of our several virtues and merits : such then as they find to 
 be firm and constant in every respect, them do they make worthy of 
 the greatest things. Now concerning your worth and valour, they 
 are willing to have a more certain trial of both, than it was possible 
 for you to shew within the scanty limits of your father’s house, 
 
FIFTH DA Y. 
 
 269 
 
 whom I know to be a person of the greatest distinction; for first 
 then, by the pungent force of love, as 1 am informed, have they, 
 from a mere insensible creature, made a man of you; and after¬ 
 wards, by adverse fortune, and now, by a miserable imprisonment, 
 are they willing to see if your soul be changed from what it was, 
 when you appeared flushed so lately with the prize you had won. 
 If that continues the same, I can propose nothing so agreeable to 
 you, as what I am now going to ofifer; which, that you may resume 
 your former might and valour, I shall immediately disclose. Pasi- 
 munda, overjoyed with your disappointment, and a zealous pro¬ 
 moter, as far as in him lay, of your being put to death, is now about 
 to celebrate his marriage with your Ephigenia, that he may enjoy 
 that blessing which fortune, when she was favourable, first put 
 into your power, and afterwards snatched away from you, but how 
 this must afflict you I can easily suppose by myself, who am like 
 K) undergo the same injury, and at the same time, with regard to 
 my mistress Cassandra, who is to be married then to his brother 
 Ormisda. Now I see no remedy for either of us, but what consists 
 in our own resolution, and the strength of our arms: it will be 
 necessary, therefore, to make our way with our swords, for each of 
 us to gain his lady : if then you value (I will not say your liberty, 
 because that, without her, would be of little weight with you; but, 
 1 say, if you value) your mistress, you need only follow me, and 
 fortune has put her into your hands.” These words spoke comfort 
 to the drooping soul of Cymon, who immediately replied, “ Lysi- 
 machus, you could never have a more stout, nor a more trusty friend 
 for such an enterprise than myself, if it be as you seem to promise: 
 tell me then what you would have me do, and you shall see me 
 put it nobly into execution.” 
 
 Lysimachus ipade answer, “ Three days hence the ladies are to 
 be brought home to their espoused husbands, when you, with your 
 friends and myself, with some people whom I can confide in, will 
 go armed in the evening, and enter their house whilst they are in 
 the midst of their mirth, where we will seize on the two brides, 
 and carry them away to a ship which I have secretly provided, 
 killing all that shall presume to oppose us.” This scheme was 
 entirely to Cymon’s good liking, and he waited quietly till the 
 time appointed. The wedding-day being now come, and every 
 part of the house full of mirth and feasting, Lysimachus, after 
 
 ving the necessarv orders at the time fixed, divided Cymon anc 
 
THE EECAMEEOA. 
 
 Z70 
 
 his companions with hi? own friends into three parties, and putting 
 arms under their several cloaks, and animating them boldly to 
 pursue what they had undertaken, he sent one party to the haven 
 to secure their escape, and with the other two they went to 
 Pasimunda’s house; one they stationed at the gate, to prevent 
 any persons shutting them up in the house ; whilst he, along with 
 Cymon, went up stairs with the remaining part. Coming then 
 into the dining-room, where the two brides, with many other 
 ladies, were seated orderly at supper, they advanced up to them, 
 and throwing down all the tables, each seized his lady, and giving 
 them into the arms of their followers, ordered them to carry them 
 away to their ship. The brides, as well as the other ladies and 
 the servants, cried out so much, that immediately there was a great 
 tumult. In the meantime, Cymon and Lysimachus, with their 
 followers, all drew their swords, and came down stairs again, 
 without any opposition, till they met with Pasimunda, having in 
 his hand a great club, whom the noise had drawn thither, when 
 Cymon, at one stroke, laid him dead at his feet, and whilst 
 Ormisda was running to his assistance, he was likewise killed by 
 Cymon: many others also of their friends, who came to their 
 relief, were wounded and beaten back. Leaving the house then 
 all full of blood and confusion, they joined parties, and went 
 directly on to their ship with their booty, without the least 
 hindrance whatever; when putting the ladies on board, and they 
 v/ith aU their friends following them, the shore was soon filled 
 with crowds of people who came to rescue them, upon which they 
 plied their oars, and sailed joyfully away for Crete. There they 
 were cheerfully received by all their friends and relations, when 
 they espoused their ladies, and were well pleased with their several 
 prizes. This occasioned great quarrels afterwards between the 
 two islands of Cyprus and Phodes. At length, by the interposition 
 of friends, everything was amicably adjusted, and then Cymon 
 returned along with Bphigenia to Cyprus, and Lysimachus in like 
 nianner carried Cassandra back to Phodes, where they lived very 
 happily to the end of their days. 
 
FIFTH DA r. 
 
 271 
 
 NOVEL IL 
 
 Constantia is In love with Martuccio Gomito; and hearing that he was 
 dead^ out of despair^ goes alone into a boat, which is driven by the wind 
 to Susa: finding him alive at Tunis, she makes herself known ; whiUt he, 
 being a great favourite there of the king\Sf marries her, and returns 
 home with her to Lipari, very rich. 
 
 queen seeing that Pamphilus’s novel was at an end^ « 
 P M after praising it highly, she ordered Emilia to follow, who 
 began thus:—We are all of us justly pleased with such 
 things as we see attended with rewards, according to our wishes ; 
 and because love is more often deserving of happiness than 
 misery, I shall therefore obey the queen with a great deal more 
 pleasure, by treating on the present subject, than I did the king, 
 in discoursing of that of yesterday. You must know, then, ladies, 
 that near to Sicily is a little island called Lipari, in which, not 
 long since, lived a lady of a worthy family named Constantia, with 
 whom was in love a young gentleman of the same island, called 
 Martuccio Gomito, one of an excellent character, and very eminent 
 in his way. She also had the same regard for him, so that she was 
 never easy but when she saw him. He, therefore, desirous of 
 marrying her, asked her fathers consent, who replied, that as he 
 was in poor circumstances, he would never give it. Martuccio, 
 grieved to see himself rejected on account of his poverty, fitted out 
 a little vessel, with some of his friends and relations, and made a 
 resolution never to return to Lipari till he should be rich. 
 Parting from thence, he cruized on the coast of Barbary, taking 
 every thing of less force than himself that came in his way. And 
 fortune was favourable enough to him, could he have set bounds 
 to his desires: but not being satisfied, he and his friends, with 
 being very rich, and willing still to be more so, it happened that 
 they were taken by some Saracen ships, after making a most 
 obstinate defence, when, being plundered of all they had gotten, 
 and the greatest part of them slain, after sinking the ship, he was 
 carried prisoner to Tunis, where he suffered a long and miserable 
 confinement. In the meantime, news was brought to Lipari, 
 from divers hands, that they were all drowned; which was such 
 an affliction to the lady, that she resolved not to survive it; and 
 not having a heart to make away with herself by any violent 
 means she chose to lay herself under a necessity of meeting with 
 
2^2 
 
 fHE DECAMERON. 
 
 her death : accordingly she went privately one night to the havei\ 
 where she found by chance a small fisher’s boat, at liberty from the 
 other ships, and furnished with sails and oars. Getting into this; 
 and having rowed a little way into the sea, she threw away her 
 oars and rudder, and committed herself entirely to the mercy of 
 the winds, supposing of necessity, that as the boat was empty, and 
 nobody to steer it, either that it must overset, or else dash against 
 some rock : and so break to pieces; and that, in either case, she 
 could not escape if she would. Wrapping her head then in a 
 mantle, she laid herself down, weeping, at the bottom of the boat. 
 But it happened differently from what she imagined, for it being a 
 gentle north wind, and no sea, the boat rode it out all night, and 
 till the following evening, when it was brought within a hundred 
 miles of Tunis, to a strand near a town called Susa; whilst the 
 poor lady thought nothing either of her being near the land, or 
 upon the wide sea, having never looked up from the time of her 
 laying herself down, nor meaning ever to do so. 
 
 Now it happened, just as the boat struck against the shore, that 
 a poor woman was taking away some nets which had been drying 
 in the sun, who perceiving the boat coming full sail against the 
 shore, and supposing the people to be all asleep in it, stepped into 
 it, and finding only this lady, she called several times to her before 
 she could make her hear, she being fast asleep, and seeing by her 
 dress that she was a Christian, she enquired of her in Latin how it 
 happened that she had arrived there in the boat all alone. The 
 lady hearing her talk in Latin, was apprehensive that a different 
 wind had driven her back to Lipari; and getting up, and looking 
 all around her, without knowing anything of the country, she then 
 enquired of the good woman where she was; who replied, “Daughter, 
 you are near to Susa, in Barbary;’^ which the lady hearing, was in 
 great concern that she had not met with the death she had coveted, 
 fearing also, with regard to her modesty, and not knowing what to 
 do, she sat down, and began to weep. The good woman, seeing 
 this, had pity on her, and after much persuasion brought her to her 
 little hut, where she told her at length in what manner she had 
 come thither. The good woman then finding that she was fasting, 
 set her coarse bread, with some fish dressed, and water before her, 
 and prevailed upon her to eat a little. Constantia now enquired 
 of the good woman who she was, that she talked Latin so well 
 Who told her that she was of Trapani, that her name was Carapresa : 
 
FIFTH DA K 
 
 273 
 
 and that she was servant to some Christian fishermen. The lady 
 hearing that name, full of grief as she was, began to conceive some 
 hope from it, yet could she give no account why, only that she 
 thought she had heard the name before. Her desire to die was 
 now much abated; and without telling her who she was, or from 
 whence she came, she begged of her to have pity on her youth, and 
 give her such counsel as might enable her to avoid any injury that 
 should be offered to her. The good woman left her in her hut till 
 she had taken care of her nets, when she covered her with her 
 mantle, and conducted her to Susa, saying to her, “ Constantia, 1 
 will bring you to the house of an old Saracen lady whom I work 
 for sometimes; she is very charitable, and I dare say, on my recom¬ 
 mendation, will receive you as though you were her own child; you 
 must study then to oblige her as much as possible, till it shall please 
 Heaven to send you better fortune.” Accordingly she did as she 
 had promised. The old lady, upon hearing the poor woman’s 
 account of Constantia, looked earnestly at her, and began to weep; 
 she afterwards led her into the house, where she and some other 
 women lived together, without any man amongst them, employing 
 themselves in embroideries and other kinds of needle-work. In a 
 few days she had learned to work in the same way, and behaved 
 herself in such a manner that they were extremely delighted with 
 her company; and at length she made herself mistress of their 
 language. In this manner she continued at Susa, being given over 
 at home for lost. In the meantime it happened that one called 
 Mariabdela being in possession of the kingdom of Tunis, a young 
 lord, of great birth and power in the kingdom of Grenada, laid 
 claim also to it, and assembled a powerful army to drive him out 
 of the country. This coming to the ears of Martuccio Gomito, who 
 was still in prison, and well acquainted with the Barbarian lan¬ 
 guage; understanding also that the king made great preparations 
 for his defence, he said to one of his keepers, “ Could I but speak 
 to his majesty, my heart forebodes that I could give him such 
 counsel as should assure him of victory.” The person reported 
 this to his master, who immediately informed the king; he then 
 sent for him, and demanded what counsel it was that he had to 
 give him'? He replied, “My lord, if I am sufficiently acquainted, 
 since I have been in this country, with your manner of fighting, it 
 should seem to me as if you depended principally upon your 
 arcl)ers: now if I can contrive away whereby your enemies should 
 
 18 
 
274 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 want arrows, at the time that you had plenty of them, I supposfc 
 you will think then the battle would be yours.” “ Without doubt,” 
 replied the king, “ if you can do that, I shall make no question of 
 being conqueror.” Martuccio then added, “ My lord, it may easily 
 be done, if you please, and I will shew you which way. You must 
 ^ave much finer cords made for your archers’ bows than are com¬ 
 monly used; you must also have the notches of your arrows made 
 to suit these small strings; but this must be done so privately that 
 the enemy hear nothing of it, because they would then provide 
 accordingly. Now the reason is this: after your enemies shall have 
 discharged all their arrows, and likewise after your own bow-men 
 shall have made an end of theirs, you know that they then gather 
 up, and shoot back your own darts upon you, at the same time that 
 your archers are obliged to make use of theirs: but your arrows 
 will be useless to them, because those small notches will not suit 
 their great strings; on the contrary, the slender cords of your 
 archers will very well receive the large notches of their arrows: and 
 thus your people will have plenty of darts, when they shall ba 
 entirely unprovided.” The king, who was a most wise lord, was 
 pleased with the advice, and followed it, by which means he got 
 the victory. Martuccio was consequently in high favour, and soon 
 attained to great power and wealth. These things were soon noised 
 over the country; till at length Constantia heard that her lover, 
 whom she had thought to be dead, was yet alive. The flame of 
 her love, which had been so long extinct, now broke out afresh, and 
 with greater vigour, and with it revived her hopes; insomuch that 
 she related all that had happened to her to the good lady, acquaint¬ 
 ing her that she desired to go to Tunis, there to satisfy her eyes 
 with beholding what fame had long rung into her ears: the lady 
 commended her design, and, as she had been hitherto a sort of a 
 mother to her, embarked with her; when arriving there, they were 
 entertained together at one of her relation’s houses. Here they 
 sent Carapresa, whom they had carried with them, to learn what 
 she could about him, who reported that he was alive, and in great 
 repute. The lady then resolving that she would be the person to 
 acquaint him with his Constantia being there, went one day to his 
 house, and said to him, “ Sir, one of your servants from Lipari is 
 now a captive in my house, and has a desire to speak to you in 
 private; for which purpose that nobody might be entrusted with 
 f he secret, he desired that I would go myself to tek you.” Martuccio 
 
FIFTH DA Y. 
 
 275 
 
 gave her thanks, and followed her thither. As soon as the young 
 lady saw him, she was perfectly overcome with joy, and, being 
 unable to refrain^ threw her arms about his neck; whilst calling to 
 mind her long sufferings and present transports, she burst out into 
 a flood of tears. Martuccio stood some time in amaze, till at last 
 he said, with a sigh, “ 0, my Constantia, are you alive*? It is some 
 time since I heard you were lost; nor have there been any tidings 
 of you since.” And, having said this, he embraced her with a great 
 deal of tenderness and affection. She then related to him all that 
 had befallen her, as well as the respect with which she had been 
 honoured by the good lady; when, after much discourse together, 
 he went straight to the king, and made him acquainted with the 
 whole story, adding, that, with his consent, he intended to espouse 
 her according to the manner of our laws. The king was greatly 
 surprised at the narration, and, sending for her, received the same 
 account from her own mouth. He then said, “ Lady, you have well 
 earned your husband;” then ordering many rich presents to be 
 brought, he gave part to her and part to him, and desired them to 
 do what was most agreeable to themselves. Martuccio was very 
 thankful to the lady who had entertained Constantia, and made 
 her a suitable acknowledgment; and taking their leave of her not 
 without many tears, they embarked (having Carapresa along with 
 them) for Lipari, where they were received with inexpressible joy; 
 and the nuptials being celebrated with the greatest magnificence, 
 they lived long together in the utmost tranquillity and comfort, 
 enjoying the ^^uits of their mutual loves. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL III. 
 
 Pietro Boccamazza running away with his mistress^ is set upon by thieves, 
 whilst the lady makes her escape into a forest^ from whence she is con¬ 
 ducted to a castle. He is taken^ hut escapes by some accident, and arrives 
 at the same castle, where they are married, and return from thence to 
 Rome. 
 
 HERE was not one person among them all that did not 
 applaud Emilia's novel; when the queen, knowing it was 
 ended, turned to Eliza, and desired her to go on, who as 
 leadily obeyed in this manner:—I have a mind to relate a most 
 melancholy night, as it happened to two lovers ; but which, being 
 
 r8— 
 
276 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 succeeded by many happy days, is conformable enough to the sub- 
 lect proposed. There lived at Rome, which was once the head, 
 though now the tail, of the world, a young gentleman of a good 
 family, named Pietro Boccamazza, who was in love with a most 
 beautiful lady, called Angelina, daughter to one Gigliuozzi Saullo, 
 a plebeian, but one well esteemed among his fellow citizens ; and 
 she in some time began to have the same regard for him. When, 
 weary of languishing longer for her, he demanded her in marriage, 
 which, as soon as his parents knew, they blamed him very much, 
 and, at the same time, gave the father of the lady to understand, 
 that they would have him take no notice of what the young spark 
 might say upon that head ; since, should he marry her, they would 
 never own him more. Pietro, seeing himself disappointed in that 
 manner, was ready to die with grief, and, could he but have pre¬ 
 vailed upon her father, he would have married her in spite of 
 them all: at last he thought of a scheme, which, if she would 
 agree to it, would answer his purpose, and, finding by a messenger 
 that she was willing, it was resolved between them to fly together 
 from Rome. Having concerted measures for their departure, they 
 set out one morning on horseback, towards Alagna, where he had 
 some friends in whom he had the greatest confidence ; when, not 
 having time to marry, and making the best of their way, for fear 
 of being pursued, it happened after their riding about eight miles, 
 that they missed their road, turning to the left when they should 
 have kept to the right, and, in about two miles farther, came in 
 sight of a little castle, when being perceived from thence, twelve 
 men came rushing out upon them, whom she espying, but not till 
 they were almost upon them, cried out, “ Ride, my dear, for we 
 are attacked; and, accordingly, clapping spurs to her horse and 
 holding fast by the pommel of the saddle, she galloped full speed 
 through the forest. Pietro, whose eyes were more upon his mistress 
 than any thing else, followed her as well as he could, till unawares 
 he fell in amongst them, who seized and made him dismount: in¬ 
 quiring then who he was, and being told, they said one to another, 
 “ This man is a friend to our enemies j let us strip and hang him 
 up on one of these oaks, out of spite to the Orsini family.” Having 
 agreed upon this, they ordered him to undress himself, which he 
 complied with, expecting nothing but death; when, on a sudden, 
 an ambuscade of twenty-five others started up behind them, crying 
 eut aloud, '* Kill them every man.” Upon this they left Pietro, 
 
FIFTH DA y. 
 
 ^/7 
 
 to prepare for their own defence; but, finding themselves out¬ 
 numbered, they took to their heels, and the others followed hard 
 after them. 
 
 Pietro in the meantime took his clothes, and getting on horse¬ 
 back again, rode as fast as he could the same way that Angelina 
 had taken; but seeing no track or footsteps of any horse, and 
 finding himself out of the reach, as well of those who had first 
 taken him as of the others by whom those persons were attacked, 
 and not being able to make her out, he was almost distracted and 
 went up and down the forest, calling aloud to see if she could hear, 
 but in vain. Being in this disagreeable situation, he durst not 
 return back, and all before him he was ignorant of; besides, he 
 was under perpetual apprehensions for them both, on account of 
 the wild beasts which are in those places; and fancied every 
 moment that he saw some bear or wolf tear her to pieces. In this 
 manner did poor Pietro traverse the forest over and over, hallooing 
 and shouting, and frequently coming back again, when he thought 
 he was going forwards all the time ; until, what with his fatigue, 
 added to his fright and long fasting, he was quite spent. Per¬ 
 ceiving now the night coming upon him, and not knowing what 
 else to do, he tied his horse to an oak tree, and got up into it to 
 secure himself from the wild beasts; whilst the moon rising soon 
 after, and it being a fine clear night (he not daring to sleep for 
 fear of falling down ; or if he had been in a place more com¬ 
 modious, his great grief and care for his mistress would not have 
 suffered him to rest), he sat there sighing and lamenting his hard 
 fortune all the night long. The young lady in the meantime, as 
 we before observed, was carried so far into the wood that she could 
 not find the way out again : therefore she went up and down full 
 of grief for what had happened. At last, seeing nothing of Pietro 
 and getting into a little path, as it was now towards the evening, 
 she followed it so long that in about two miles it brought her in 
 sight of a little hut, to which she rode as fast as she could, and 
 found therein a very old man and his wife ; who, on seeing her, 
 said, “ Daughter, what do you in this country at this time of day 
 She wept, and replied that she had lost her company in the wood, 
 and inquired how near she was to Alagna. The honest man made 
 answer, “ Daughter, this is not the way; it is more than twelve 
 miles from us.” She then said, “ And how far is it to any inn, 
 where I may go to lodge He answered, “ There is none near 
 
5578 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 enough for you to go to by night.”—“ For Heaven’s sake,” quoth 
 the lady, “ as I can go nowhere else, will you please to give me a 
 lodging T —“ Daughter,” replied he, “ you shall be very welcome ; 
 but I must acquaint you that there are companies of people, both 
 friends and enemies, continually passing this way, who do us great 
 injury sometimes; and should any of them find you here, they 
 might offer rudeness, and we not have it in our power to help you. 
 I apprise you of this that you may lay no blame upon us if such a 
 thing should happen,” The lady, seeing it was late, though she 
 was terrified with the old man’s words, said, “ I trust to God for 
 my protection, as to what you mention ; but if that should 
 happen, I may expect more mercy from men than from beasts.” 
 She then alighted from her steed, and went to supper with them 
 upon such poor diet as they had, and afterwards lay down upon 
 their bed with her clothes on, lamenting her own misfortune and 
 her lover’s all the night, not knowing whether she had more cause 
 to hope or fear on his account. About break of day, she heard a 
 great noise of people on horseback, and immediately she arose, 
 and went into a great yard behind the house, in one corner of 
 which was a stack of hay, and there hid herself. This was no 
 sooner done but a knot of thieves was at the door, which was 
 instantly opened to them, and seeing there the lady’s horse and 
 saddle, they asked whom it belonged to 1 The honest man, seeing 
 nothing of her, made answer, “ Nobody is here, but this horse 
 came to us last night, having got away I suppose from his owner, 
 and we took him in that he should not be devoured by the wolves.” 
 —“ Then,’’ quoth the captain, “ as he has no master he shall be 
 ours.” Being dispersed up and down the house and yard, and 
 laying down their lances and targets, one of them by chance thrust 
 his spear into the hay where she had hid herself, and which was 
 so near killing her that she was on the point of making a discovery, 
 for it pierced her clothes ; but, recollecting herself, she resolved to 
 lie still. In the meantime they fell to boiling some kids and other 
 flesh meat that they had brought with them, and after they had 
 eat and drank, they went about their business, carrying off the 
 horse. When they were gotten some distance from the house, the 
 honest man began to inquire of his wife what was become of the 
 lady, as he had never seen her since he rose. She replied that she 
 could not tell, and went all about to seek for her. Now the lady, 
 finding that the men were departed, came forth from whence she 
 
FIFTH DA Y. 
 
 279 
 
 had been concealed, which he was much pleased at, finding that 
 she had not fallen into their hands; and he said to her, “ It is now 
 daylight, we will go with you therefore to a castle about five miles 
 from us, where you may be in safety ; but you will be obliged to 
 travel on foot, for these sorry fellows have taken your horse quite 
 away/’ She was under no great concern for that loss, but begged 
 for them to shew her the way, when they set forward, and arrived 
 there betimes in the morning. Now the castle belonged to one of 
 the family of the Orsini, whose name was Liello di Campo di 
 Fiore, and by great fortune his lady was then there, a worthy good 
 woman, who seeing her soon recollected her, and received her with 
 the utmost respect, inquiring by what means she had cOme hither. 
 She then related the whole story. On which the other, who knew 
 Pietro, he being a friend of her husband’s, was under great con¬ 
 cern, supposing him to be dead; and she said to her, “As it 
 happens that you know not where he is, I intend you shall abide 
 with me tiU I have an opportunity of conveying you safe to Eome.” 
 
 Now as for Pietro, he had but a dismal night of it, for he saw 
 his horse soon surrounded by a number of wolves, which made him 
 break his bridle ; and he endeavoured to make his escape, but was 
 so encompassed that he could not, and he defended himself with 
 kicking and biting for some time, till at last he was pulled down, 
 and torn all to pieces, and having devoured him to the very bones, 
 they went away. This was the utmost affliction to Pietro, who 
 expected much from his horse, after all the fatigue that he had 
 undergone; and he began now to despair of ever getting out of 
 the forest. It being at this time almost day, and he nearly dead 
 with cold, as he was looking about him, he chanced to spy a fire at 
 last, about a mile off; when it was quite light, therefore, he 
 descended from the tree, not without a great deal of fear, and 
 directed his course thither, where he found some shepherds making 
 merry together, who received him out of mere compassion : when, 
 after he had eat and warmed himself, he related his whole adven¬ 
 ture, inquiring whether there was no town or castle in those parts 
 that he could go to. The shepherds told him that three miles off 
 was a castle belonging to Liello di Campo di Fiore, whose lady 
 was then there. He presently entreated some of them to go with 
 him, and two readily offered their service. Being arrived, he was 
 known, and as he was going to send out to seek his mistress, he was 
 called by the lady of the castle, and on stepping up to her he beheld 
 
1 
 
 * 
 
 2iic THE DECAMEkOJH, 
 
 Angelina, which made him the happiest man in the world: and it 
 he was thus transported she was no less so. The lady giving them 
 a handsome reception, and hearing what had happened to both, 
 began to reprimand him for attempting to do what was so dis¬ 
 agreeable to his parents; but seeing him resolved, and finding 
 that he was agreeable to the lady, she said, “ What should I trouble 
 myself for^ They like each other and are both my husband s 
 friends ; besides, it seems as if Providence would have it so, seeing 
 that one escaped from being hanged, the other from being stabbed 
 by a lance, and both from being devoured by wild beasts. Then 
 let it be done.” Turning to them now, she said, “If you are 
 resolved to be man and wife together, I am content and will cele¬ 
 brate the wedding at my husband’s expense: afterwards I will 
 undertake to make peace between you and your friends.” Thus 
 they were married in the castle, to their great joy, and with all 
 the magnificence that the country would afi’ord ; and in a few 
 days the lady carried them both to Rome, when she took care to 
 reconcile Pietro and his parents, who were much enraged at what 
 he had done. He lived afterwards with Angelina, in all peace 
 and happiness, to a good old age. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL IV, 
 
 Ricciardo Manardi is found hy Lizio along with his daughter^ whom hs 
 marries, and they become reconciled together. 
 
 LIZA was listening to the commendations her novel excited, 
 1^^^ ; when the queen laid the next charge on Philostratus, who 
 ' smiled, and began in this manner :— 
 
 I have been so often lashed by you for giving a harsh and 
 melancholy subject, that, by way of recompence, I think myself 
 obliged to say something which will make you laugh: I shall 
 therefore relate a love affair, which, after being attended with 
 nothing worse than a few sighs and a short fright, mingled with 
 some shame, was brought to a happy ending; and this in a very 
 short novel. Not long since there lived in Romagna a worthy 
 and accomplished knight, named Lizio da Valbona, who had, in 
 his old age, by his lady. Madam Giacomina, a daughter, the most 
 beautiful young lady in all the country : being their only child, 
 they were extremely tender and careful of her, thinking through 
 
 I 
 
FIFTH DA Y, 
 
 281 
 
 her to make some grand alliance. Now there was a young gentle¬ 
 man, who used to come much to their house, of a very agreeable 
 person, whilst Lizio and his lady were under no more apprehen¬ 
 sions from him, than they would have been from their own son ; 
 but he seeing her often, and being charmed with her person and 
 behaviour, fell secretly in love, which she perceiving, soon returned 
 by a reciprocal affection, which delighted him exceedingly, and he 
 was often desirous of speaking to her, yet could never dare to do 
 it: till at length he had the opportunity and courage one day to 
 say, “Pray, Caterina, let me not die for love.'’ She replied, “Would 
 to Heaven you would shew me the like mercy!” This greatly 
 pleased him, and he added, “ I shall study your will and pleasure 
 in everything; do you find a way to make us happy together.’’ 
 She then returned, “ You see, sir, how I am watched, and there¬ 
 fore am unable to contrive the means for your coming to m6 : but if 
 you can think of any method to do it, without my being censured, 
 tell me, and I shall be very glad.” He, after mature consideration, 
 said, “ My dearest Caterina, I see no other way, but for you to get 
 leave to lie in the gallery, which looks towards the garden ; and if 
 I knew when that happened, I would endeavour to get to you, 
 however great the height from the ground.” She replied, “ If you 
 have the courage to come, I think I can manage so as to lie there.” 
 He promised to do so, and for the present they parted. The 
 following day, it being about the end of May, she complained 
 grievously to her mother, that the heat was so excessive the fore¬ 
 going night, that she could not get a wink of sleep. “ Daughter,” 
 answered she, “ you talk of heat, I do not think the weather so 
 sultry.”—“ Madam,” she replied, “ there is a good deal of difference 
 between old people and young.”—“ That may be so,” quoth the 
 mother, “ but can I change the seasons'? You must bear with the 
 time of year as it is : another night it may be more temperate, 
 and then you will sleep better.”—“ I wish it would,” answered 
 Caterina, “ but the nights are not used to grow cooler, the more 
 the summer advances.”—“ Then,” said the mother, “ what would 
 you have me do for you *?” She replied, “ If you and my father 
 please, I would gladly lie in the gallery adjoining to your room, 
 and which looks towards the garden ; where, by having plenty of 
 fresh air, and hearing the nightingale, it will be much more 
 pleasant than lying in your chamber.”—Daughter,” quoth she, “ be 
 easy, I will speak to your father about it, and we will do as he 
 
282 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 thinks best in that case.” Accordingly she moved the matter to 
 Lizio, who being old, was apt to be a little testy, and he said, 
 what nightingale is this she talks of 1 I will make her sleep at the 
 singing of a cricket.” Caterina hearing this, kept awake the next 
 night, more through vexation than heat, and was not only restless 
 herself, but kept her mother also from sleeping. The next morn¬ 
 ing the old lady complained to her husband, saying, “ You shew 
 very little regard for your daughter; what does her lying in the 
 gallery signify to you ? she did not rest all last night for the heat. 
 And as to her fancy of the nightingale, she is young, let her have 
 her way V* He replied, “ Then make her a bed there, if you will; 
 and let her hear the nightingale.” A bed, therefore, was ordered 
 to be set up for her, which she gave Ricciardo to understand, by 
 such a sign as had been agreed on between them, when he soon 
 knew what part he had to act. Lizio, upon her going to bed, 
 locked the door that opened out of his chamber into the gallery, 
 and then went to rest himself. As soon as everything was still, 
 Ricciardo got upon the wall, by help of a scaling ladder, from 
 whence laying hold of the joinings of another wall, he climbed at 
 last (not without great difficulty, as well as danger had he fallen) 
 to the gallery, where the lady had long been expecting him.—Now 
 the nights being short, and happening to fall asleep with her, the 
 next morning, as soon as Lizio arose, he began to think of his 
 daughter j when he opened the door, and said, “ Let us go see 
 now how the nightingale has made her sleep.” Going then into 
 the gallery, and drawing the curtains, he found Ricciardo and her 
 asleep together: upon this he stepped back, and called to his wife, 
 saying, “ Come hither directly; you will find your daughter has 
 heard the nightingale to some purpose.” Dressing herself as fast 
 as she could, she followed her husband, and seeing them together 
 in that manner, was going to give Ricciardo all the hard language 
 she could devise; but Lizio said, “ Take care, I charge you to 
 make no noise about it; as he has now got her, he shall keep her; 
 he is of a good family, as well as rich, so we cannot have a better 
 son-in-law. If he means to go off in a whole skin, he shall marry 
 her before I part with him.” The wife on this was a little com¬ 
 forted, and held her peace. Soon after this debate, Ricciardo 
 chanced to wake, and seeing it broad day-light, was frightened out 
 of his wits ; calling then upon Caterina, he said ; “ Alas ! my life, 
 what shall we do 'i the day-light has surprised me here with yoi»-’* 
 
FIFTH DA K. 
 
 283 
 
 At these words Lizio stepped from behind the curtain, and said, 
 “ Oh I will take care you shall do well enough.” Ricciardo was 
 quite confounded ,at seeing him, and rising up in bed, he said, 
 “ For Heaven’s sake, sir, I beg you will forgive me ; I confess I do 
 deserve to die; save but my life, therefore, and do what you 
 please.” Lizio replied, “ Ricciardo, my friendship for you did 
 not deserve such a return as I have met with : but since it is so, 
 you have only one way whereby you may save your life and my 
 honour, that is, to marry her; either do that, or else make your 
 peace with Heaven, for here you shall die.” There was no need of 
 many words : the fear of death, as well as his love for Caterina, 
 soon made him resolve, and he told him that he was ready to 
 comply. Lizio then took his wife’s ring, and made him instantly 
 espouse her, which being done, he desired them to take their own 
 time for rising. In the morning they had some farther discourse 
 together, and every thing being settled to all their satisfactions, 
 he married her in the most public manner, and having carried her 
 home with great demonstrations of joy, they lived together from 
 that time, with all the peace and comfort that a married state can 
 afford- 
 
 NOVEL V. 
 
 Guidotto da Cremona dying, left a daughter to the care of Giacomino 
 da Pavia. Giannole di Severino and Minghino di Mingole are both in 
 love with her, and fight on her account, when she is Jcnoivn to he Giannolds 
 sister, and is married to Minghino. 
 
 VERY one laughed at the story of the nightingale; when 
 the queen turned to Philostratus, and said, “ If you gave 
 us concern with your subject of yesterday, you have made 
 ample amends by your last story, therefore you shall hear no more 
 of it.” She then turned to Neiphile, who began in this manner:— 
 As Philostratus lays his scene in Romagna, I intend to have my 
 novel also from thence. In the city then of Fano dwelt two 
 Lombards, one named Ghiidotto da Cremona, and the other 
 Giacomino da Pavia, both advanced in years, and men who had 
 lived as soldiers all their days. When Guidotto being at the point 
 of death, and having no son, nor friend, in whom he put greater 
 confidence than in Giacomino, after settling all his affairs, he left 
 to his care a daughter of about ten years of age, with the manage¬ 
 ment of his whole substance. In the meantime the city of Faen za. 
 
284 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 which had been long embroiled in wars and confusion, being now 
 brought into a more flourishing state, and everyone that pleased 
 having leave to return, it chanced that Giacomino, who had for¬ 
 merly lived there, and liked the place, went back with all his effects, 
 carrjdng this young lady along with him, whom he loved and 
 treated as his own child, and who, as she grew up, became the most 
 celebrated beauty in the whole city, and as accomplished in all 
 respects as she was fair; on which account she began to be admired 
 by divers young gentlemen, but two especially of equal fortunes 
 were so much in love, that an utter hatred commenced between 
 them for her sake; one was called Giannole di Severino, and the 
 other Minghino di Mingole. Either of these gentlemen would 
 gladly have married her, she being now fifteen; but finding them¬ 
 selves rejected by her friends, they resolved to try other means of 
 obtaining her. Giacomino had in his house an old maid-servant, 
 and a man called Crivello, a facetious, as well as an honest person, 
 with whom Giannole was acquainted, to whom he made known his 
 love, offering at the same time a great reward, if, by his assistance^ 
 he should in any way obtain his desire. Said Crivello, “ Sir, I can 
 do nothing more for you than, when my master is gone out to sup 
 anywhere, to bring you where she is, for were I to put in a word 
 for you, she would never give me the hearing: if you like this, I 
 dare promise you so far, afterwards you may do what you think 
 most proper.’’ Giannole told him he desired no more. On the other 
 part Minghino made his court to the maid, who had delivered 
 several messages to the lady in his favour, and given her a good 
 opinion of him; she had also undertaken to introduce him the first 
 evening that Giacomino happened to be abroad. Soon after this 
 it happened that Giacomino was invited out by Crivello’s con¬ 
 trivance, who immediately gave notice to Giannole, and agreed 
 with him to come, upon giving a certain sign when he would find 
 the door open. In like manner the maid, being unacquainted with 
 this, informed Minghino of the same thing, adding, that, upon 
 observing such a token, he should then come into the house. In 
 the evening the two lovers, knowing nothing of one another, but 
 yet each jealous of his rival, came with some friends armed for 
 their greater security. Minghino waited at a friend’s in the neigh¬ 
 bourhood to watch for the sign, whilst Giannole, with his people, 
 stood a little distance from the house. Now Crivello and the maid 
 were contriving to send each other out of the way. He said then 
 
FIFTH DA Y. 
 
 285 
 
 to her, “ Why do you not go to bed 'I W^hat are you doing about 
 the house'?” The maid said again, “Why do not you go to your 
 master, you have had your supper*? What do you stay for, then*?” 
 But neither of them was able to send the other away. Crivello at 
 last knowing the time to be come that he had appointed, said to 
 himself, “What need I care for this woman*? If she will not hold 
 her tongue, I will find a way to make her.” Giving the signal then 
 he went to open the door, when Giannole, with two of his com¬ 
 panions, immediately rushed in, and finding the lady in the hall, 
 they seized, and were going to carry her off: the lady, however, 
 defended herself as well as she could, crying out very much, as did 
 also the maid. Minghino perceiving this, ran thither with his 
 party, and seeing them bear her away, they drew their swords, and 
 called out aloud, “Traitors, ye are all dead men; it shall never be 
 so. What violence is this*?” And with these words fell pell-mell 
 upon them. The neighbourhood also was soon up in arms, and 
 blaming those proceedings, joined with Minghino. Therefore, after 
 a long skirmish, Minghino took the lady from Giannole, and 
 brought her back to Giacomino’s house. Nor was the fray at an 
 end till the city officers came and seized many of the persons con¬ 
 cerned, and amongst the rest Minghino, Giannole, and Crivello, and 
 carried them to prison. As soon as things were a little quieted, 
 and Giacomino returned, he became very uneasy at what had hap¬ 
 pened, till hearing that she was not in fault, he was better satisfied, 
 but resolved, for fear of the like accidents hereafter, to marry her 
 as soon as possible. In the morning, the parents of them both, 
 having heard the truth of the story, and being sensible of the evil 
 which might ensue to both the young gentlemen, who were in cus¬ 
 tody, should Giacomino proceed rigorously against them, they came 
 therefore to him, and entreated him gently not to regard so much 
 the injury which he had received from the little discretion of the 
 young men, as the esteem and friendship which, they hoped, he 
 bore towards themselves, who now requested this favour at his 
 hands; submitting themselves, and the youths also, who had com¬ 
 mitted the ofi'ence, to make any satisfaction he should insist upon 
 Giacomino, who had seen much of the world, and was a person of 
 understanding, answered in few words, “ Gentlemen, were I in my 
 own country, as I am now in yours, I hold myself so much your 
 friend, that I should do this or anything else to oblige you; but in 
 this respect I am thr more ready to do it, as the offence is now 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 «S6 
 
 committed against yourselves. For this lady is not, as many may 
 think, either of Cremona or Pavia, but of Faenza; although neither 
 myself, nor she, nor yet the person who bequeathed her to me, 
 knew whose daughter she was; ever3dhing then shall be done 
 according to your desire.” The honest men hearing that she was 
 of Faenza, began to wonder; and after thanking him for his gracious 
 reply, they desired he would be so kind as to tell them in what 
 manner she came into his hands, and how he knew that she was of 
 Faenza. He replied, “Guidotto da Cremona was my very good 
 friend and companion, and as he lay upon his death-bed, he told 
 me, that when this city was taken by the Emperor Frederick, and 
 given to be pillaged by the soldiers, he and some others went into 
 a house full of rich booty, which was forsaken by the owners; only 
 this girl, who seemed then but two years old, was left behind; and 
 she seeing him go upstairs, called papa; for which reason he took 
 pity on her, and brought her away, with everything that was of 
 value in the house, to Fano; when dying there, he left her in charge 
 to me, desiring, when she should be of age, that I would marry her, 
 and give what was her own, by way of fortune: since, therefore, 
 she has been grown up, I have met with nobody that I thought a 
 fit match for her, otherwise I would willingly dispose of her, lest 
 the like accident should happen again that befel us last night.” At 
 this time there was present one Gulielmino da Medicina, who was 
 with Guidotto in that expedition, and knew very well whose house 
 it was that he had plundered, and seeing that person in the com¬ 
 pany, he accosted him, and said, “ Bernarbuccio, do you hear what 
 Giacomino has been talking ofl”—“Yes,” he replied, “and I am 
 now thinking about it; for in l^iat confusion I remember to have 
 lost a daughter about the same age that he speaks of.”—“ Then,” 
 said Gulielmino, “ It is certainly the saJme, for I was there at that 
 time, and heard Guidotto relate how he plundered such a house, 
 when I knew it must be yours: see therefore if you can call to 
 mind any mark that she had, whereby you may know her, for she 
 Is plainly your daughter.” He then remembered that she had a 
 scar like a cross under her left ear, and he desired Giacomino to 
 shew him to his house, that he might convince himself by seeing 
 her. Accordingly, he brought him thither very willingly, when the 
 very first sight of her put him in mind of her mother; but, not 
 regarding that, he told Giacomino that he should take it as a 
 favour if he might turn aside the hair from her left ear; which 
 
FIFTH DA Y. 
 
 2^7 
 
 being permitted, he found the same mark, and was convinced that 
 she was his daughter: he then said to Giacomino, “ Brother, this is 
 my daughter ; it -vt^as my house that Guidotto pillaged, when this 
 child was forgotten by her mother, in our great hurry, and we 
 supposed that she was burnt along with the house.” The lady 
 hearing this, and seeing him to be a person of gravity, moved also 
 perhaps by a secret instinct, easily gave credit to it, and both of 
 them burst into tears. Bernarbuccio then sent for her mother and 
 her other relations, as also her sisters and brethren, when, relating 
 what had happened, he carried her home, to the great joy of them 
 all, as well as satisfaction of Giacomino. Whilst the governor of 
 the city, who was a worthy man, knowing that Giannole, whom he 
 had in custody, was son to Bernarbuccio, and the lady’s own 
 brother, resolved to overlook the crime he had committed. Conver¬ 
 sing then with Bernarbuccio and Giacomino about it, he undertook 
 to make peace between Giannole and Minghino, to whom, by the 
 consent of all parties, he gave her to wife, and set all the other 
 people at liberty. Minghino then made a most sumptuous wed¬ 
 ding, and carried his bride home in great state, where they lived 
 happily together for a long course of years. 
 
 NOVEL VI. 
 
 xHanni di Procida is discovered with a young lady, formerly his mistress, 
 hut then given to King Frederick, for which he is condemned to he burnt 
 with her at a stake. When, being known by Ruggieri delV Oi'ia, he 
 escapes, and marries her. 
 
 EIPHILE'S agreeable novel being ended, Pampinea received 
 an order to proceed, and quickly raising her lovely coiai- 
 tenance, she thus began:— 
 
 Great, most gracious ladies, is the force of love, which often leads 
 people to rash and perilous attempts, as you have heard set forth 
 in divers instances, both now and heretofore, and which I shall 
 further evince in what I am going to relate concerning an enam¬ 
 oured youth, as follows. Ischia is an island near Naples, in which 
 lived a beautiful young lady named Restituta, daughter to a certain 
 gentleman called Marin Bolgaro, with whom was in love a young 
 gentleman of Procida, called Gianni, and she had the same affection 
 for him. Now not a day passed but he would go to Ischia to see 
 her, and frequently in the night; if he could not get boat, he 
 
288 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 would swim oTer, though it was only to please himself with the 
 sight of her house. Whilst his love continued then so extremely 
 fervent, it chanced that she was walking out one summer’s day on 
 the sea-shore, and passing from one rock to another picking up 
 shells, when she came near a grotto, where some young Sicilians, 
 just come from Naples, were assembled together, partly for the 
 sake of the shade, and partly for the fresh water, of which there 
 was a cool and pleasant spring: they seeing her by herself, and 
 she perceiving nothing of them, agreed together to seize and carry 
 her away. They consequently surprised and took her to their ship, 
 though she made a great outcry, and sailed off with her. Being 
 arrived at Calabria, a dispute arose amongst them, whom she 
 should belong to ; when coming to no agreement about her, it was 
 at last thought convenient, to remove all cause of dissension, by 
 making a present of her to Frederick, king of Naples, who was 
 young and addicted to his pleasures. Accordingly they found that 
 prince mightily pleased with her ; but, being a little indisposed at 
 that time, he had her sent to a pleasant seat built in one of his 
 gardens called La Cuba, to be kept there for his purpose. The 
 lady’s being stolen made a great noise all over Ischia, and so much 
 the more as the persons concerned were unknown. But Grianni, 
 who was more particularly interested in the affair, never expecting 
 to hear any tidings of her there, and understanding which way the 
 vessel had steered, got another ready, and went all along the sea- 
 coast, from Minerva to Scalea, in Calabria, to inquire after her; 
 and at this last place he was told, that she was carried by some 
 Sicilian sailors to Palermo. Thither then he went, with all possible 
 speed, when, after much inquiry, he found that she was presented 
 to the king, and kept for his purpose in La Cuba; which gave him 
 infinite concern, and he began to despair, not only of getting her 
 back, but even of ever seeing her more; but yet being detained by his 
 love, he sent his frigate home, and resolved to stay there, as nobody 
 knew him; when passing pretty often in sight of the house, they 
 chanced one day to spy one another through the window, to the 
 great satisfaction of both. And he, seeing the place was private, 
 got near enough to speak to her, and being instructed by her what 
 course to take if he des^Lred to have a nearer interview, he left her 
 for that time, taking particular notice, first, of the situation of the 
 place ; and waiting for night, when a good part of that was spent, 
 he returned, and clambering over the walls, which seemed inacces- 
 
FIFTH DA y. 
 
 289 
 
 tible, he made his way into the garden, where finding a long piece 
 of timber, he set it against the window, and by the help of it got 
 into the chamber. The lady, reflecting that she had lost her honour, 
 of which she had' before been very tenacious, supposing, also, that 
 she could bestow her favours on none who deserved them better, 
 was the less scrupulous in this affair, and had left the casement 
 open on purpose for him. She now begged earnestly of him that 
 he would contrive some method to get her from thence, and he 
 promised to order every thing so that the next time he came he 
 would take her away. This being agreed, he went and lay down 
 on the bed by her. In the meantime the king being much smitten 
 with her beauty, and finding himself recovered, had a mind, though 
 it was far in the night, to go and spend some time with her. Com¬ 
 ing, therefore, with a few servants, to the house, and going softly 
 to the chamber where he knew she was, to his great surprise he saw 
 Gianni and her asleep together. This provoked him to that degree, 
 that he was on the point of putting both to death : till reflecting 
 that it would be base in any person, and more so in a king, to kill 
 people unarmed and asleep, he held his hand, but resolved to make 
 a public example of them, and to burn them alive. Then turning 
 to one of his company, he said, “ What do you think of this base 
 woman, on whom I had fixed all my hopes T He afterwards in¬ 
 quired if they knew the man, who had the assurance to come there 
 to commit such an outrage. The person replied, that he did not 
 remember ever to have seen him before. The king upon this went 
 away greatly disturbed, commanding that as soon as it was light 
 they should be brought bound to Palermo, when they were to be 
 tied back to back, and kept there till three o’clock, for everybody 
 to see them, and then to be burned as they deserved. Accordingly 
 they were seized and bound without the least remorse or pity; and 
 being brought, as the king had ordered, to Palermo, they were tied 
 to a stake in the great square, and the fire and faggots were ready 
 to burn them at the time appointed : whilst all the people of the 
 city flocked to see the sight, the women greatly pitying and com¬ 
 mending the man ; the men also shewed the same regard for the 
 poor woman, every one highly admiring her most extraordinary 
 beauty. But the two lovers stood with their eyes fixed on the 
 ground, lamenting their hard fate, and waiting every moment for 
 their sentence to be put in execution. W^'liilst they were kept in 
 manner, till the time fixed upon, the news was carried to 
 
 IQ 
 
THE DECAMERON, 
 
 d 90 
 
 Ruggieri dell^ Oria, a peraon of great worth and valour, who was 
 the king^s high admiral; and he coming to the place, cast his eyes 
 firat upon the lady and praised her beauty very much. He then 
 turned to Gianni, when he soon called him to mind, and asked him 
 if he was not Gianni di Procida. Gianni lifted up his eyes, and re¬ 
 membering the admiral, he said, “ I was once that person; but 
 now I am to be so no more." The admiral then inquired what it 
 was had brought him to this. Gianni replied, “Love and the king’s 
 displeasure.” The admiral made him tell the whole story, and as 
 he was going away, Gianni called him back, and said, “ My lord, 
 if it be possible, pray obtain one favour of his majesty for me." 
 Ruggieri asked what that was. Gianni made answer, “ I find that 
 I am to die without delay; therefore I only beg that, as I am tied 
 with my back to this lady, whom I have loved dearer than my own 
 life, and am not able to see her, that we may be bound with our 
 faces to each other, and so I may expire with the pleasure of look¬ 
 ing upon her. Ruggieri laughed, and said, “ I will take care that 
 you shall see her to much better purpose." And he commanded 
 those who had the care of the execution to respite it till further 
 orders, and he went directly to the king. Finding him a good deal 
 out of temper, he spared not to speak his mind to this effect;— 
 “ My liege, what have these two young people done to offend you, 
 whom you have now ordered to be burnt?” The king told him. He 
 then added, “ Their crime may deserve it, but not from you : and 
 us misdeeds require punishment, so benefits are worthy of rewards, 
 as well as thanks and mercy. Do you know who they are whom 
 you have sentenced to be burnt?” The king answered, “No.”— 
 “ Then,” said he, “ I will tell you that you may see how wisely 
 you suffer yourself to be transported with passion. The young 
 man is son to Landolpho, brother to Gianni di Procida, by whose 
 means you are lord of that island. The lady is daughter to Marin 
 Bolgaro, whose influence it was that secured your dominion over 
 Ischia. Besides,' they have had a long regard and love for each 
 other; and it was this, and no disrespect to you that put them 
 upon committing the crime, if it may be called such, for which you 
 are going to make them suffer death, but for which you ought 
 rather give them some noble reward.” The king hearing this, and 
 being assured that the admiral spoke nothing but the truth, not 
 only put a stop to the proceedings, but was grieved for what he 
 ?iad done : he therefore ordered that they should be set at bberty. 
 
FIFTH DA K 
 
 291 
 
 and brongM before him Then hearing their whole case, he resolved 
 to make them amends for the injury they had received, and giving 
 them noble apparel and many royal presents, he had them married, 
 as it was their mutual desire, and afterwards sent them home, 
 thoroughly satisfied with their good fortune, which they long hap¬ 
 pily enjoyed together. 
 
 NOVEL VII. 
 
 Theodor0 is in love with Violante^ his master*s daughter ; she proves with 
 child, for which he is condemned to he hanged ; when being led out to 
 execution, he is known by his father, set at liberty, and afterwards 
 marries her. 
 
 HE ladies were some time in suspense, through fear lest 
 the two lovers should be burnt; but were mightily pleased 
 at last to hear of their deliverance : when the queen gave 
 the next command to Lauretta, who cheerfully took up the thread 
 as follows:— 
 
 When good King William ruled over Sicily, there lived in that 
 island a gentleman named Amerigo, abbot of Trapani, who, 
 amongst his other temporal goods, was well stored with children ; 
 and having occasion for servants, and meeting with some Genoese 
 pirates from the Levant, who had been coasting along Armenia, 
 and taken several children, supposing them to be Turks, he bought 
 some, in appearance chiefly peasants ; and, amongst the rest, one 
 of a more generous aspect, called Theodoro ; who, as he grew up, 
 though he was treated as a servant, was educated with Amerigo’s 
 own children; when his natural disposition was so good and 
 agreeable to his master, that he had him baptized and called him 
 Pietro, making him overseer of all his affairs. Amongst Amerigo’s 
 other children was a daughter, named Violante, a most beautiful 
 young lady, who, having been kept from marrjdng longer than 
 was agreeable to her, cast her eye at last upon Pietro, being 
 charmed with his behaviour, though she was ashamed to make 
 such a discovery. But love spared her this trouble; for he, by 
 often looking cautiously at her, was so far captivated, that he was 
 always uneasy unless he saw her : at the same time he was fearful 
 lest any one should perceive it, as thinking it a sort of crime. 
 This she soon took notice of; and, to give him a little more assur¬ 
 ance, lat him understand that it was not displeasing to her. Thus 
 
 19—^ 
 
THE DECAMERON, 
 
 292 
 
 they went on together, neither venturing to speak to the other, 
 though it was what they both desired. But whilst they thus 
 mutually languished, fortune, as if purposely, found means to 
 banish this bashfulness, which had hitherto been in the way. 
 Amerigo had a country house about a mile from Trapani, whither 
 his wife and daughter, together with other ladies, used to go some¬ 
 times, by way of pastime; and being there one day, having taken 
 Pietro along with them, it happened that the day was overcast all 
 at once with clouds, on which account the lady and her friends 
 made all possible haste home again, for fear they should be taken 
 in the storm. But Pietro and the young lady being more nimble 
 than the rest, had got considerably the start of them, as much 
 perhaps through love as fear of the weather, and being out of 
 sight, there came such claps of thunder, attended with a violent 
 storm of hail, that the mother and her company were glad to get 
 into a labourer’s house, whilst Pietro and the young lady, having 
 no other place of refuge, went into an old uninhabited cottage, 
 which had just cover enough remaining to keep them dry; and 
 here they were obliged to stand pretty close together. This en¬ 
 couraged him to open his heart, and he said, “Would to Heaven 
 the storm would never cease, that I might continue here always in 
 this manner!”—“I should like it,” she replied, “well enough.” 
 These words brought on some little acts of fondness, which were 
 followed by others so far that at last they grew very familiar 
 together. The shower being over, they went on towards the city, 
 waiting by the way for the mother, who having joined them, they 
 came with her home. They had frequent meetings from that 
 time, conducted always with the greatest secrecy; till at length 
 she proved with child, which terribly alarmed them both. On 
 this Pietro, being in fear of his own life, resolved to fly, and told 
 her so. She replied, “If you do that, 1 will certainly murder 
 myself.” Pietro, then, who loved her most affectionately, said, 
 “ Why would you have me stay ^ There must soon be a discovery, 
 when for your part you will be easily forgiven, and I forced to 
 bear the punishment of both.” She made answer, “Pietro, my 
 crime must be known; but as for yours, be assured unless you tell 
 it yourself, it never shall.”—“Then,” quoth he, “if you promise 
 me that, I will stay; but be sure you observe it.” The young lady 
 who had concealed as long as possible her being with child, finding 
 it could be kept a «ecret no longer, let her mother at last into 
 
FIFTH DA Y, 
 
 293 
 
 the truth, entreating her protection with abundance of tears. 
 The mother was very harsh with her, and insisting upon knowing 
 how it happened': when she, to keep her word with Pietro, feigned 
 a long story about it, to which the other easily gave credit, and, to 
 keep it private, sent her away to one of their farm-houses. When 
 the time of her labour was at hand, the mother, never suspecting 
 any thing of her husband’s coming, it chanced that Amerigo, 
 returning from hawking, thought, as he passed under the window, 
 that he heard something of a noise and bustle above stairs, when 
 he came in, and inquired what the matter was. The lady, seeing 
 her husband, told him, with a great deal of concern, what had 
 happened to their daughter. But he, not quite so credulous as 
 herself, said it was impossible that she should be with child and 
 not know by whom, and he insisted upon knowing it: by that 
 means she might regain his favour, otherwise he would put her W 
 death without the least mercy. The lady tried all she could to 
 make him satisfied with that story, but to no purpose. He ran to 
 his daughter with his drawn sword (who, whilst they had been in 
 discourse together, had brought forth a boy), and said, “Either 
 declare the father, or thou shalt die instantly.” She, terrified to 
 death, broke her promise to Pietro, and made a full discovery. 
 He was so enraged at this, that he could scarcely forbear murdering 
 her, till having vented something of his passion, he mounted his 
 horse again, and returned to Trapani ; when making his complaint 
 to one Signor Currado, who was governor there for the king, of 
 the injury Pietro had done him, he had him apprehended, and he 
 confessed the whole affair. Being condemned to be whipped and 
 afterwards hanged; that the same hour might put an end to the 
 lives of both the lovers and the child, Amerigo, whose anger was 
 not appeased with Pietro’s death, sent a cup of poison and a naked 
 sword by one of his servants to his daughter, saying, “ Go carry 
 these two things to Violante, and tell her from me that she must 
 take her choice, whether to die by poison or by the sword ; and 
 if she refuse, I will have her burnt publicly as she deserves : when 
 you have done this, take her child and dash its brains out, and 
 then throw theira to the dogs.” The fellow, more disposed to such 
 wickedness than any thing that was good, went readily enough 
 about his errand. Now Pietro was whipped, and as he was led 
 along to the gallows, he chanced to pass by an inn, where lodged 
 three noblemen of Armenia, who were sent as ambassadors by 
 
894 
 
 THE DRCAMEROiv, 
 
 their king to the pope, to treat of some weighty affairs with regard 
 to an expedition he was going to make. There they stayed to 
 repose themselves after their journey, and had great honour 
 showed them by the nobility of Trapani, and especially by 
 Amerigo. Observing the people pass by who were leading Pietro, 
 they went to the window to see what was the matter. Pietro 
 stood stripped to the waist, with his hands tied behind him; when 
 one of the ambassadors, named Phineo, an ancient person, and 
 one of great authority, looking at him, saw a red spot on his 
 breast, which children sometimes are born with, and immediately 
 was put in mind of a son that had been stolen from him by some 
 pirates fifteen years before, of whom he could never since learn 
 any tidings; and considering by Pietro’s looks that he must be 
 about the same age, he began to suspect by the mark, that he was 
 the very person, and if so he supposed he would remember his 
 own name and his father’s, as also something of the Armenian 
 language : therefore, being near him, he called out “ O Theodoro !’* 
 Hearing that, Pietro lifted up his head. Phineo then spoke to 
 him in the Armenian language, saying, “ Whence do you come, 
 and whose son are you ?” The officers now who led him stopped, 
 out of regard to the worthy person’s character, when Pietro replied, 
 “I am of Armenia, the son of one Phineo, and was brought 
 hither by I know not whom.” 
 
 Phineo was now convinced that he was his son, and he came 
 down with his friends full of tears, and ran to embrace him among 
 all the officers; when throwing a rich mantle over his shoulders, 
 he desired the person who led him to wait till orders should come 
 to take him back; which the other replied he should do very 
 willingly. Phineo had learned the cause of his sentence, as fame 
 had noised it everywhere, when, taking his friends with him and 
 their retinue, he went to Currado, and said, “Sir, the person 
 whom you have condemned is no slave, he is a freeman and my 
 son : he is ready also to marry the woman; then please to defer 
 the execution till it be known whether she be willing to have him, 
 that nothing be done contrary to law.” Currado was greatly sur¬ 
 prised, hearing that he was Phineo’s son, and being ashamed of 
 their mistake, confessed that what he required was reasonable. 
 He then sent for Amerigo, and acquainted him with these things. 
 Amerigo was under great concern lest his daughter and her child 
 should be put to death before that time, knowing if she was Alive. 
 
FIFTH DA Y. 
 
 *95 
 
 everything might be fairly accommodated: therefore he sent in 
 all haste to her, to prevent his orders being obeyed, if they were 
 not already performed. The messenger found the servant, who 
 had carried the sword and poison standing before her, and as she 
 was in no haste to make her choice, he was abusing her, and would 
 have forced her to have taken one. But hearing his master’s com¬ 
 mand, he returned and told him how it was, at which he was 
 thoroughly satisfied, and went to Phineo to beg his pardon for 
 what he had done, declaring that if Theodoro would marry his 
 daughter he should be perfectly contented. 
 
 Phineo accepted his apology, and assured him, that he should 
 either marry her, or else the law should take its course. This 
 being agreed, they went to Theodoro (who, though rejoiced to find 
 his father, was yet under apprehensions of d3dng), and asked him 
 if he consented. Theodoro, hearing that he had it in his choice 
 to marry his Violante was as much rejoiced as if he had gone 
 directly from hell to heaven, and replied that he should esteem it 
 as the greatest favour in the world. They sent to know her mind 
 in the case, who, hearing of what had happened to Theodoro, 
 began to receive a little comfort after all her affliction, and she 
 said nothing in the world could be more pleasing to her than to 
 be the wife of Theodoro; but yet she should always wait her 
 father’s commands. Every thing being thus settled, the wedding 
 was celebrated to the great joy of the whole city. In a little time 
 the bride began to recover her looks, and having taken care of the 
 infant, she went to pay her respects to Phineo, who, being returned 
 from his embassy, received her as his daughter, with the utmost joy 
 and respect. Soon after they embarked altogether for Laiazzo, 
 where the two lovers lived peaceably and happily together al! 
 their Uves. 
 
THE DECAMERON, 
 
 296 
 
 NOVEL VIII. 
 
 Anaftfasio being in love with a young lady, spent a good part of his fortune 
 without being able to gain her affections. At the request of his relation* 
 he retires to Chiassi, where he sees a lady pursued and slain by a gentle¬ 
 man, and then given to the dogs to be devoured. He invites his friends, 
 along with his mistress, to come and dine with him, when they see ,the 
 same thing, and she, fearing the like punishment, takes him for her 
 husband. 
 
 E HEN Lauretta had made an end, Philomena Vi^gan, by the 
 queen’s command thus :— 
 
 Most gracious ladies, as pity is a commendable quality 
 in us, in like manner do we find cruelty most severely punished 
 by Divine Justice ; which, that I may make plain to you all, and 
 afford means to drive it from your hearts, I mean to relate a novel 
 as full of compassion as it is agreeable. 
 
 In Kavenna, an ancient city of Komagna, dwelt formerly many 
 persons of quality; amongst the rest was a young gentleman, 
 named Anastasio de gli Honesti, who, by the deaths of his father 
 and uncle, was left immensely rich ; and, being a bachelor, fell in 
 love with one of the daughters of Signor Paolo Traversaro (of a 
 family much superior to his own), and was in hopes, by his 
 constant application, to gain her affection: but though his en¬ 
 deavours were generous, noble, and praiseworthy, so far were they 
 from succeeding, that, on the contrary, they rather turned out to 
 his disadvantage; and so cruel, and even savage was the beloved 
 fair one (either her singular beauty or noble descent having made 
 her thus haughty and scornful), that neither he nor anything that 
 he did could ever please her. This so affiicted Anastasio, that he 
 was going to lay violent hands upon himself: but, thinking better 
 of it, he frequently thought to leave her entirely; or else to hate 
 her, if he could, as much as she had hated him. But this proved 
 a vain design ; for he constantly found that the less his hope, the 
 greater always his love. Persevering then in his love and ex¬ 
 travagant way of life, his friends looked upon him as destroying 
 his constitution, as well as wasting his substance; they therefore 
 advised and entreated that he would leave the place, and go and 
 live somewhere else; for, by that means, he might lessen both his 
 love and expense. For some time he made light of this advice, 
 till being very much importuned, and not knowing how to refuse 
 them, he promised to do so ; when, making extraordinary prepar- 
 
FIFTH DAY, 
 
 297 
 
 ations as if he was going some long journey either into France or 
 Spain, he mounted his horse, and left Ravenna, attended by many 
 of his friends, and went to a place about three miles off, called 
 Chiassi, where he ordered tents and pavillions to be brought, 
 telling those who had accompanied him that he meant to stay 
 there, but that they might return to Ravenna. Here he lived in 
 the most splendid manner, inviting sometimes this company, and 
 sometimes that, both to dine and sup, as he had used to do before. 
 Now it happened in the beginning of May, the season being 
 extremely pleasant, that, thinking of his cruel mistress, he ordered 
 all his family to retire, and leave him to his own thoughts, when 
 he walked along, step by step, and lost in reflection, till he came 
 to a forest of pines. It being then the fifth hour of the day, and 
 he advanced more than half a mile into the grove, without think¬ 
 ing either of his dinner or anything else but his love; on a sudden 
 he seemed to hear a most grievous lamentation, with the loud 
 shrieks of a woman; this put an end to his meditation, when 
 looking round him, to know what the matter was, he saw come 
 out of a thicket full of briars and thorns, and run towards the 
 place where he was, a most beautiful lady, naked, with her flesh 
 all scratched and rent by the bushes, crying terribly, and begging 
 for mercy: in close pursuit of her were two fierce mastiffs, biting 
 and tearing wherever they could lay hold, and behind upon a 
 black steed, rode a gloomy knight, with a dagger in his hand, 
 loading her with the bitterest imprecations. The sight struck him 
 at once with wonder and consternation, as well as pity for the 
 lady, whom he was desirous to rescue from such trouble and 
 danger, if possible: but finding himself without arms, he seized 
 the branch of a tree, instead of a truncheon, and went forward 
 with it, to oppose both the dogs and the knight. The knight 
 observing this, called out, afar off, “Anastasio, do not concern 
 thyself; but leave the dogs and me to do by this wicked woman 
 as she has deserved.” At these words the dogs laid hold of her, 
 and he coming up to them, dismounted from his horse. Anastasio 
 then stepped up to him and said, “ I know not who you are, that 
 are acquainted thus with me; but I must tell you, that it is a most 
 villanous action for a man armed as you are to pursue a naked 
 woman, and to set dogs upon her also, as if she were a wild beast; 
 be assured that I shall defend her to the utmost of my power.” 
 The knight replied, “I was once your countrymajo. ■u'-bwn you 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 998 
 
 were but a child, and was called Guido de gli Anastagi, at which 
 time I was more enamoured with this woman than ever you were 
 with Traversaro’s daughter; but she treated me so cruelly, and 
 with so much insolence, that I killed myself with this dagger 
 which you now see in my hand, for which I am doomed to eternal 
 punishment. Soon afterwards she, who was over and above 
 rejoiced at my death, died likewise, and for that cruelty, as also 
 for the joy which she expressed at my misery, she is condemned 
 as well as myself. Our sentences are for her to flee before me; 
 and for me, who loved her so well, to pursue her as a mortal 
 enemy ; and when I overtake her, with this dagger, with which I 
 murdered myself, do I murder her; then I open her through the 
 back and take out that hard and cold heart, which neither love 
 nor pity could pierce, with all her entrails, and throw them to the 
 dogs; and in a little time (so wills the justice and power of 
 Heaven) she rises, as though she had never been dead, and renews 
 her miserable flight, whilst we pursue her over again. Every 
 Friday in the year, about this time, do I sacrifice her here, as you 
 see, and on other days in other places, where she has ever thought 
 or done anything against me: and thus being from a lover become 
 her mortal enemy, I am to follow her as many years as she was cruel 
 to me months. Then let the Divine justice take its course, nor 
 offer to oppose what you are no way able to withstand.’^ Anas- 
 tasio drew back at these words, terrified to death, and waited to 
 see what the other was going to do : who, having made an end of 
 speaking, ran at her with the utmost fury, as she was seized by 
 the dogs, and kneeled down begging for mercy, when with his 
 dagger he pierced through her breast, drawing forth her heart and 
 entrails, which the dogs immediately, as if half famished, devoured. 
 And in a little time she arose again, as if nothing had happened, 
 and fled towai’ds the sea, the dogs biting and tearing her all the 
 way; the knight also being remounted, and taking his dagger 
 pursued her as before, till they soon got out of sight. Upon 
 seeing these things, Anastasio stood divided betwixt fear and pity, 
 and at length it came into his mind that, as it happened always 
 on a Friday, it might be of particular use. Returning then to his 
 servants, he sent for some of his friends and relations, when he 
 said to them, “ You have often importuned me to leave off loving 
 this enemy, and to contract my expenses; I am ready to do so, 
 provided you grant me one favour, which is this, that next Friday, 
 
FIFTH DA Y. 
 
 299 
 
 you engage Paolo Traversaro, his wife and daughter, with all their 
 women friends and relations, to come and dine with me: the 
 reason of my requiring this you will see at that time.” This 
 seemed to them a small matter, and returning to Kavenna they 
 invited all those whom he had desired, and though they found it 
 difficult to prevail upon the young lady, yet the others carried her 
 at last along with them. 
 
 Anastasio had provided a magnificent entertainment in the grove 
 where that spectacle had lately been; and, having seated all his 
 company, he contrived that the lady should sit directly opposite to 
 the scene of action. The last course then was no sooner served up, 
 but the lady’s shrieks began to be heard. This surprised them all, 
 and they began to inquire what it was, and, as nobody could inform 
 them, they all arose; when immediately they saw the lady, dogs, 
 and knight, who were soon amongst them. Great was consequently 
 the clamour, both against the dogs and knight, and many of them 
 went to her assistance. But the knight made the same harangue 
 to them that he had done to Anastasio, which terrified and filled 
 them with wonder; whilst he acted the same part over again, the 
 ladies, of whom there were many present, related to both the 
 knight and lady, who remembered his love and unhappy death, all 
 lamenting as much as if it had happened to themselves. This 
 tragical afiair being ended, and the lady and knight both gone 
 away, they had various arguments together about it; but none 
 seemed so much affected as Anastasio’s mistress, who had heard 
 and seen everything distinctly, and was sensible that it concerned 
 her more than any other person, calling to mind her usage of and 
 cruelty towards him; so that she seemed to flee before him all 
 incensed, with the mastiffs at her heels; and her terror was such, 
 lest this should ever happen to her, that, turning her hatred into 
 love, she sent that very evening a trusty damsel privately to him, 
 who entreated him in her name to come to see her, for that she 
 was ready to fulfil his desires. Anastasio replied, that nothing 
 could be more agreeable to him, but that he desired no favour from 
 her but what was consistent with her honour. The lady, who was 
 sensible that it had been always her fault they were not married 
 answered, that she was willing; and going herseK to her father and 
 mother, she acquainted them with her intention. This gave them 
 the utmost satisfaction; and the next Sunday the marriage was 
 solemnized with all possible demonstrations of joy. And that 
 
300 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 spectacle was not attended with this good alone; but all the women 
 of Kavenna, for the time to come, were so terrified with it, that 
 they were more ready to listen to, and oblige the men, than ever 
 they had been before. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL IX 
 
 Federigo being in love^ without meeting with any return, spends all his sub¬ 
 stance, having nothing left but one poor hawk, which he gives to his lady 
 for her dinner when she comes to his house; she, knowing this, changes 
 her resolution, and marries him, by which means he becomes very rich. 
 
 HE queen now observing that only herself and Dioneus were 
 left to speak, said pleasantly to this effect:— ^ 
 
 As it is now come to my turn, I shall give you a novel % 
 something like the preceding one, that you may not only know 
 what influence the power of your charms has over a generous heart, 
 but that you may learn likewise to bestow your favours of your 
 own accord, and where you think most proper, without suffering 
 Fortune to be your directress, who disposes blindly, and without 
 the least judgment whatsoever. 
 
 You must understand, then, that Coppo di Borghese (who was a 
 person of great respect and authority among us, and whose amiable 
 qualities, joined to his noble birth, had rendered him worthy of 
 immortal fame) in the decline of life used to divert himself among 
 his neighbours and acquaintances, by relating things which had 
 happened in his days, and which he knew how to do with more 
 exactness and elegance of expression than any other person: he, I 
 say, amongst other pleasant stories, used to tell us that at Florence 
 dwelt a young gentleman named Federigo, son of Filippo Alberighi, 
 who, in feats of arms and gentility, surpassed all the youth in 
 Tuscany: this gentleman was in love with a lady called Madame 
 Giovanna, one of the most agreeable women in Florence, and to 
 gain her affection, used to be continually making tilts, balls, and 
 such diversions; lavishing away his money in rich presents, and 
 everything that was extravagant. But she, as just and reputable 
 as she was fair, made no account either of what he did for her sake, 
 or of himself. Living in this manner, his wealth soon began to 
 waste, till at last he had nothing left but a very small farm, the 
 income of which was a most slender maintenance, and a single 
 hawk, one of the best in the world. Yet loving still more than 
 
FIFTH DAY. 
 
 301 
 
 ever, and finding he could subsist no longer in the city in the 
 manner he would choose to live, he retired to his farm, where he 
 went out a fowling as often as the weather would permit, and bore 
 his distress patiently, and without ever making his necessity known 
 to anybody. Now, one day it happened, that, as he was reduced to 
 the last extremity, the husband to this lady chanced to fall sick, 
 who, being very rich, left all his substance to an only son, who was 
 almost grown up, and if he should die without issue, he then 
 ordered that it should revert to his lady, whom he was extremely 
 fond of; and when he had disposed thus of his fortune, he died. 
 She now, being left a widow, retired, as our ladies usually do 
 during the summer season, to a house of hers in the country, near 
 to that of Federigo: whence it happened that her son soon became 
 acquainted with him, and they used to divert themselves together 
 with dogs and hawks; when he, having often seen Federigo’s hawk 
 fly, and being strangely taken with it, was desirous of having it, 
 though the other valued it to that degree, that he knew not how to 
 ask for it. This being so, the young spark soon fell sick, which 
 gave his mother great concern, as he was her only child: and she 
 ceased not to attend on and comfort him, often requesting, if there 
 was any particular thing which he fancied, to let her know it, and 
 promising to procure it for him if it were possible. The young 
 gentleman, after many offers of this kind, at last said, “ Madam, if 
 you could contrive for me to have Federigo’s hawk, I should soon 
 be well.” She was in some suspense at this, and began to consider 
 how best to act. She knew that Federigo had long entertained a 
 liking for her, without the least encouragement on her part; there¬ 
 fore she said to herself, “ How can I send or go to ask for this 
 hawk, which I hear is the very best of the kind, and what alone 
 maintains him in the world? Or how can I offer to take away from 
 a gentleman all the pleasure that he has in life?” Being in this 
 perplexity, though she was very sure of having it for a word, she 
 stood without making any reply, till at last the love of her son so 
 far prevailed, that she resolved at all events to make him easy, and 
 not send, but go herself, to bring it. She then replied, “ Son, set 
 your heart at rest, and think only of your recovery, for I promise 
 you that I will go to-morrow for it the first thing I do.” This 
 afforded him such joy, that he immediately shewed signs of amend¬ 
 ment. The next morning she went, by way of a walk, with another 
 lady in company, to his little cottage to inquire for him. At that 
 
302 
 
 THE DECAMEROH. 
 
 time, as it was too early to go out upon his diversion, he was at 
 work in his garden. Hearing, therefore, that his mistress inquired 
 for him at the door, he ran thither, surprised and full of joy; whilst 
 she, with a great deal of complaisance, went to meet him; and after 
 the usual compliments, she said, “ Good morning to you, sir; I am 
 come to make you some amends for what you have formerly done 
 on my account; what I mean is, that I have brought a companion 
 to take a neighbourly dinner with you to-day.” He replied, with 
 a great deal of humility, “ Madam, I do not remember ever to have 
 received any harm by your means, but rather so much good, that 
 if I was worth anything at any time, it was due to your singular 
 merit, and the love I had for you: and most assuredly this courteous 
 visit is more welcome to me than if I had all that I have wasted 
 returned to me to spend over again; but you are come to a very 
 poor host.” With these words he shewed her into his house, 
 seeming much out of countenance, and from thence they went into 
 the garden, when, having no company for her, he said, “ Madam, as 
 I have nobody else, please to admit this honest woman, a labourer’s 
 wife, to be with you, whilst I set forth the table.” He, although 
 his poverty was extreme, was never so sensible of his having been 
 extravagant as now; but finding nothing to entertain the lady with, 
 for whose sake he had treated thousands, he was in the utmost 
 perplexity, cursing his evil fortune, and running up and down like 
 one out of his wits; at length, having neither money nor anything 
 he could pawn, and being willing to give her something, at the 
 same time that he would not make his case known, even so much 
 as to his own labourer, he espied his hawk upon the perch, which 
 he seized, and finding it very fat, judged it might make a dish not 
 unworthy of such a lady. Without farther thought, then, he pulled 
 his head off, and gave him to a girl to truss and roast carefully, 
 whilst he laid the cloth, having a small quantity of linen yet left; 
 and then he returned, with a smile on his countenance, into the 
 garden to her, telling her that what little dinner he was able to 
 provide was now ready. She and her friend, therefore, entered and 
 sat down with him, he serving them all the time with great respect, 
 when they eat the hawk. After dinner was over, and they had sat 
 chattering a little together, she thought it a fit time to tell her 
 errand, and she spoke to him courteously in this manner:— 
 
 “Sir, if you call to mind your past life, and my resolution, 
 which perhaps you may call cruelty, I doubt not but you will 
 
FIFTH DAY. 
 
 303 
 
 wonder at my presumption, when you know what I am come for: 
 but if you had children of your own, to know how strong our 
 natural affection is towards them, I am very sure you would excuse 
 me. Now, my having a son forces me, against my own inclinations, 
 and all reason whatsoever, to request a thing of you, which I 
 know you value extremely, as you have no other comfort or 
 diversion left in your small circumstances; I mean your hawk, 
 which he has taken such a fancy to, that unless I bring him back 
 with me, I very much fear that he will die of his disorder. 
 Therefore I entreat you, not for any regard you have for me 
 (for in that respect you are no way obliged to me), but for that 
 generosity with which you have always distinguished yourself, 
 that you would please to let me have him; by which means you 
 will save my child’s life, and lay him under perpetual obligations.’^ 
 Federigo, hearing the lady’s request, and knowing it was out of 
 his power to serve her, began to weep before he was able to make 
 a word of reply. This she first thought was his great concern to 
 part with his favourite bird, and that he was going to give her a 
 fiat denial ; but after she had waited a little for his answer, he 
 said, “ Madam, ever since I have fixed my affections upon you, 
 fortune has still been contrary to me in many things; but all the 
 rest is nothing to what has now come to pass. You are here to 
 visit me in this my poor mansion, and whither in my prosperity 
 you would never deign to come ; you also entreat a small present 
 from me, which it is no way in my power to give, as I am going 
 briefiy to tell you. As soon as I was acquainted with the great 
 favour you designed me, I thought it proper, considering your 
 superior merit and excellency, to treat you, according to my ability, 
 with something more nice and valuable than is usually given to 
 other persons, when, calling to mind my hawk, which you now 
 request, and his goodness, I judged him a fit repast for you, and 
 you have had him roasted. Nor could I have thought him better 
 bestowed, had you not now desired him in a different manner, 
 which is such a grief to me, that I shall never be at peace as long 
 as I live:” and upon saying this, he produced his feathers, feet, 
 and talons. She began now to blame him for killing such a bird 
 to entertain any woman with; secretly praising the greatness of 
 his soul, which poverty had no power to abase. Thus, having no 
 farther hopes of obtaining the hawk, she thanked him for the 
 respect and good-will he had shewed towards her, and returned 
 
304 
 
 THE DECAMEE0J\r. 
 
 full of concern to her son ; who, either out of grief for the disap¬ 
 pointment, or through the violence of his disorder, died in a few 
 days. She continued sorrowful for some time; but, being left 
 rich, and young, her brothers were very pressing with her to marry 
 again, which, though against her inclinations, yet finding them still 
 importunate, and remembering Federigo’s great worth, and the late 
 instance of his generosity, in killing such a bird for her entertain* 
 ment, she said, “ I should rather choose to continue as I am ; but 
 since it is your desire that I take a husband, I will have only 
 Federigo de gli Alberighi.” They smiled contemptuously at this, 
 and said, “You simple woman! what are you talking of? He is 
 not worth one farthing in the world.’’ She replied, “ I believe it, 
 brothers, to be as you say : but know, that I would sooner have a 
 man that stands in need of riches^ than riches without a man^ 
 They hearing her resolution, and well knowing his generous temper, 
 gave her to him with all her wealth; and he, seeing himself 
 possessed of a lady whom he had so dearly loved, and such a vast 
 fortune, lived in all true happiness with her, and was a better 
 manager of his affairs for the time to come. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL X. 
 
 Pietro di Vinciolo goes to sup at a friend's house ; his wife in the meantime 
 has her gallant: Pietro returns, when she hides him under a chicken coop. 
 Pietro relates, that a young fellow was found in Hercoland s house where 
 he supped, who had been concealed hy his wife. Pietro's wife blames very 
 much the wife of Hercolano ; whilst an ass happening to tread on the 
 young man's fingers, who lay hidden, he cries out. Pietro runs to see 
 what is the matter, and finds out the trick. At length they make it up. 
 
 HE queen had now made an end, and every one was pleased 
 with Federigo’s good fortune, v.7hen Dioneus thus began : — 
 I know not whether I should term it a vice accidental, 
 and owing to the depravity of our manners, or whether it be not 
 rather a natural infirmity, to laugh sooner at bad things than those 
 which are good, especially when they no way concern ourselves. 
 Therefore, as the pains which I have before taken, and am also 
 now to undergo, aim at no other end but to drive away melancholy, 
 and to afibrd matter for mirth and laughter, although some part 
 of the following novel be not altogether so modest, yet, as it may 
 make you merry, I shall venture to relate it; whilst you may dc 
 
FIFTH DA Y, 
 
 30s 
 
 in this case, as when you walk in a garden, that is, pick the 
 roses, and leave the briars behind you. So you may leave the 
 sorry fellow to his own reflections, and laugh at the amorous wiles 
 of his wife, having that regard for other people's misfortunes 
 which they deserve. 
 
 There dwelt not long since in Perugia, a very rich man^ 
 named Pietro di Vinciolo, who, perhaps more to lessen people’s 
 bad opinion of him than anything else, took unto him a wife. 
 And fortune was conformable to his inclinations in this manner; 
 namely, that he met with a woman of such a disposition, as 
 required two husbands rather than one. Consequently, they had 
 continual jars and animosities together, whilst she would often 
 argue with herself in this way : “ I made choice of this man, and 
 brought him a good fortune, expecting to live comfortably with 
 him, and I now find it impossible. Had I not been disposed to be 
 of the world, I would have shut myself up in a monastery at once. 
 I shall have old age overtake me before I know one good day, and 
 then it will be too late to expect it.” Full of such reflections as 
 these, she went at last, and made her case known to an old 
 sanctified virgin (who was perpetually saying over her Pater 
 Nosters, and would talk of nothing else but the lives of the holy 
 fathers, and the wounds of St. Francis), and she replied, “Daugh¬ 
 ter, you think very rightly, there is no grief equal to that of having 
 missed our opportunity, as I can very well bear you witness. It 
 is not long that our bloom lasts, and we have it in our power to 
 do for ourselves; afterwards, pray what are we reckoned good for ? 
 If you want any assistance, I will do my best to serve you ; but 
 you must consider that I am very poor: I would have you there 
 fore partake of all my pardons and Pater Nosters.” It was then 
 agreed, that if the old woman should meet with a certain gentle¬ 
 man in the street, whom the other described to her, she then knew 
 what she had to do ; and upon this she gave her some victuals, and 
 sent her away. The old wretch soon contrived to bring them 
 together, and they had several meetings : one evening, in particu 
 lar, the husband being engaged to sup with a friend of his, called 
 Hercolano, the lady and her gallant were no sooner seated at table, 
 but Pietro was heard knocking at the door. She was frightened 
 out of her wits, and being willing to hide him somewhere or other, 
 and not knowing where to put him better, she covered him wit1' 
 the hen-coop, which stood in the next room, and throwing 
 
 20 
 
3o6 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 empty sack over it, ran to open the door, saying, “ Husband, yon 
 have soon made an end of your supper.” Pietro replied, “ I have 
 not tasted one morsel.’^ “How could that be?” quoth she. “I 
 will tell you,” rejoined he, “ how it was. Hercolano, his wife, and 
 myself, were all set down, when we heard somebody sneeze ; this 
 we did not regard for once or twice, but it happening three or 
 tour, or five times, it naturally surprised us : and Hercolano (who 
 was disturbed that his wife made him wait some time at the door, 
 before she let him in) said, in a passion, “ What is the meaning of 
 this? Who is it that sneezes in this manner?” And getting up 
 from the table, he went towards the stairs, under which was a 
 cupboard, made to set things out of the way, and supposing that it 
 came from thence, he opened the door, when there immediately 
 issued out the greatest stench of sulphur that could be, though we 
 perceived something of it before, and they had words about it; 
 when she told him, that she had been whitening her veils with 
 brimstone, and had set the pan, over which she had laid them to 
 receive the steam, in that place, and she supposed it continued yet 
 to smoke. After he had opened the door, and the smoke was a 
 little dispersed, he began to look about to see who it was that 
 sneezed, the sulphur provoking to it; and though he continued 
 sneezing, yet his breast was so straitened with it, that, in a very 
 little time more, he would neither have done that, nor any thing 
 else. Hercolano, seeing the person at last, cried out, “ So, madam ! 
 I now see why you made us wait so long at the door, but let me 
 die if I do not pay you as you deserve.” The wife, finding that 
 she was discovered, rose from the table without making any excuse, 
 and went I know not whither. Hercolano, not perceiving that his 
 wife was fled, called upon the man that sneezed, and ordered him 
 to come out; but he, who was indeed not able, never offered to 
 stir, notwithstanding all he could say. Upon which he drew him 
 out by the foot, and was running for a knife to kill him, but I, 
 fearing to be drawn into some difficulty myself about it, would not 
 suffer him to put him to death ; but defended him, and called out 
 for the neighbours to assist, who came and carried him away : this 
 spoiled our supper, and I havenot had one bit, as I told you” 
 The lady hearing this account, saw that other women were of the 
 same disposition with herself, although some proved more unlucky 
 than others ; and she would gladly have vindicated Hercolaiu/s 
 wife, but that she thought by blaming the faults of other 
 
FIFTH DA Y. 307 
 
 people, to make the way more open for her own ; she then 
 began:— 
 
 “Here is a'fine affair truly! this is your virtuous and good 
 woman, who seemed so spiritually-minded always that I could 
 have confessed myself to her upon occasion. What is worse, she 
 is also old : she sets a fine example to young people ! Cursed be 
 the hour of her birth, and herself also ; vile woman as she is I to 
 be a disgrace to her whole sex; who, mindless of her own honour 
 and her plighted faith to her husband, was not ashamed to injure 
 so deserving a person, and who had been always so tender of her! 
 As I hope for mercy I would have none on such prostitutes, they 
 should every soul of them be burnt alive.” 
 
 Now calling to mind her own spark who was concealed, she 
 began to fondle her husband, and would have had him go to bed; 
 but he, who had more stomach to eat than sleep, asked whether 
 she had anything for supper. “Yes, truly,” quoth she, “we are 
 used to have suppers when you are from home. I should fare 
 better were I Hercolano’s wife ; my dear, now go to bed.” That 
 evening it happened that certain labourers of his were come with 
 some things out of the country, and had put their asses, without 
 giving them any water, into a stable adjoining to the little room, 
 when one of them slipped his halter, being very thirsty, and went 
 smelling everywhere to drink, till he came to the coop under which 
 the young man was hidden. Now he was forced to lie flat on his 
 belly, and one of his fingers, by strange ill-fortune, was uncovered, 
 so that the ass trod upon it, which made him cry out most terribly. 
 Pietro wondered to hear that clamour, supposing it was somewhere 
 in the house, and finding the person continue to make a noise, the 
 ass still squeezing close his finger, he called aloud, “ Who is there V* 
 And running to the coop, and turning it up, he saw the young 
 man, who, besides the great pain he had suffered, was frightened 
 to death lest Pietro should do him some mischief. He inquired 
 of hiin then what business he had there: to which he made no 
 reply, but begged he would do him no harm. Pietro then said, 
 
 Get up, I shall not hurt you, only tell me how you came hither, 
 and upon what account.” The young man confessed everything, 
 whilst Pietro, full as glad that he had found him as his wife was 
 sorry, brought him into the room, where she sat in all the terror 
 imaginable, expecting him. Seating himself now down before 
 her, he said, “ Herq, you that were so outrageous at Hercolano's 
 
 'va—2 
 
308 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 wife, saying that she should be burnt, and that she was a scnndal 
 to you all, what do you say now for yourself 1 Or how could you 
 have the assurance to utter such things with regard to her, when 
 you knew yourself to be equally guilty 1 You are all alike, and 
 think to cover your own transgressions by other people’s mistakes ; 
 1 wish a fire would come from heaven and consume you all 
 together, for a perverse generation as you are.” The lady, now 
 seeing that he went no farther than a few words, put a good face 
 on the matter, and replied, “Yes, I make no doubt but you would 
 have us all destroyed ; but I shall stick close to you yet. You do 
 well to compare me to Hercolano’s wife, who is a deformed hypo¬ 
 critical old woman and he one of the best of husbands; whereas, 
 you know it is the reverse with regard to us two: I would sooner 
 go in rags were you what you ought to be, than to have everything 
 in plenty and you continue the same person you have always been.” 
 Pietro found she had matter enough to serve her the whole night, 
 and having never been over fond of her, he said, “ I will take care 
 that you shall have more comfort for the time to come; do but see 
 and get us something for supper, for I suppose this young spark is 
 fasting as well as myself.”—“ ’Tis very true,” she replied, “ for we 
 were going to sit down when you unluckily came to the door.”— 
 “ Then go and get something,” he said, “ and we will have no more 
 disputes.” She, finding her husband was satisfied, went instantly 
 about it, and they all three supped cheerfully together. 
 
 Dioneus having finished his novel, which was the less laughed 
 at by the ladies, not for any want of mirth but on account of 
 their modesty; and the queen knowing that there was an end of 
 the novels of her day, arose, and taking the crown from her own 
 head, placed it upon Eliza, saying, “ Madam, now it is your busi¬ 
 ness to command.” Eliza, taking upon herself the honour, gave 
 the same orders to the master of the household as had been done 
 in the former reigns with regard to what was necessary during the 
 administration; she then said, “We have often heard that many 
 people by their ready wit and smart repartees, have not only 
 blunted the keen satire of other persons but have also warded off 
 some imminent danger. Then, as the subject is agreeable enough 
 and may be useful, I will that to-morrow’s discourse be to that 
 effect; namely, of such persons as have returned some stroke of 
 wit which was pointed at them, or else by some quick reply or 
 prudent foresight have avoided either danger or de'^sion.” This 
 
FIFTH DA Y. 
 
 309 
 
 was agreeable to the whole assembly, and the queen now gave 
 them leave to depart till the hour for supper: at that time they 
 were called together, and sat cheerfully down as usual. When 
 supper was over, Emilia was ordered to begin a dance and Dioneus 
 to sing. But he, attempting to sing what the queen disapproved, 
 she said, with a good deal of warmth, “ Dioneus, I will have none 
 A this ribaldry ; either sing us a song fit to be heard, or you shall 
 jee that I know how to resent it.” At these words he put on a 
 more serious countenance, and began the following: 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 Cupid, the charms that crown my fair 
 Have made me slave to you and her. 
 
 The lightning of her eyes, 
 
 That darting through my bosom flies, 
 
 Doth still your sov’reign power declare : 
 
 At your control 
 
 Each grace binds fast my vanquish’d sonL 
 
 II. 
 
 Devoted to your throne 
 From henceforth I myself confess, 
 
 Nor can I guess 
 
 If my desires to her be known ; 
 
 Who claims each wish, each thought so far. 
 
 That all my peace depends on her. 
 
 III. 
 
 Then haste, kind godhead, and inspire 
 A portion of your sacred fire; 
 
 To make her feel 
 That self-consuming zeal, 
 
 The cause of my decay. 
 
 That wastes my very heart away. 
 
 When Dioneus had made an end, the queen called for several 
 other songs: his, nevertheless, was highly commended; afterwards 
 great part of the evening being spent, and the heat of the day suffi¬ 
 ciently damped by the breezes of the night, she ordered them aU 
 to go and repose themselves till the following day. 
 
■ THE SIXTH DAY. 
 
 HE moon had now lost her brightness in the midst of the 
 heavens, and the world become illuminated by the appear¬ 
 ance of the new day, when the queen arose with all her 
 company, and they walked forth upon the dewy grass to some 
 distance from that little eminence, holding various arguments by 
 the way concerning their late novels, and making themselves 
 merry with reciting some of the most entertaining over again : till 
 at last, the heat growing excessive, as the sun was mounted to a 
 greater height, they turned back, and came to the palace; where, 
 the tables being set forth against their return, and every part of 
 the house bedecked with sweet-smelling flowers, they sat down to 
 dinner. When that was over, and after singing a few songs, some 
 went asleep and others played at chess; whilst Dioneus and 
 Lauretta sang the song of Troilus and Cressida. At the usual 
 hour they met by the fountain’s side, when the queen laid her first 
 commands upon Philomena, who readily began as follows: 
 
 NOVEL I. 
 
 A certain knigM ojfe7's a lady to carry her hehind and to tell her a 
 pleasant story by the way; but doing it with an ill grace, she chose rather 
 to walkjon foot. 
 
 ADIES, as stars are the ornaments of heaven, flowers of the 
 spring, and as the hills are most beautiful when planted 
 with trees, so a smart and elegant turn of expression is 
 embellishment of discourse; and the shorter the better, 
 
 the 
 
 especially in women. But true it is, whether it be owing to our 
 unhappy dispositions or some particular enmity which the stars 
 bear to our sex, there is hardly any among us that knows when it 
 is proper to speak, or to understand what is said as we ought, 
 which is a great disgrace to us all. But as Pampinea has before 
 spoken to this point more largely, I shall say nothing farther; but 
 only show, by the genteel manner of a lady’s silencing a knight, 
 the great beauty of a word or two spoken in due time and place. 
 
F 
 
 /' • // ; '// 
 
 /r/V//'. ■ 
 
 
 
SIXTH DA K. 
 
 3 ii 
 
 You may all of you have heard that there lived in our city, not 
 a great while ago, a lady of much worth and wit, whose good 
 qualities deserve not that her name should be concealed ; she was 
 called then Madam Oretta, and was the wife of Signor Geri Spina; 
 who being by chance in the country, as we are now, and going to 
 take a walk along with some ladies and knights, who had dined 
 at her house the day before, from one place to another; and their 
 journey seeming a little tedious, as they were on foot, one of the 
 knights, who happened to be on horseback, said that if she pleased 
 he would carry her part of the way, and entertain her with one of 
 the best stories in the world. “ Sir,’' she replied, “ I should be 
 extremely obliged to you for it." The knight, who told a story 
 with as ill a grace as he wore a sword, began his tale, which was 
 really a good one; but by frequent repetitions, and beginning over 
 again to say it better, by mistaking also one name for another and 
 relating everything in the worst manner, he mangled it to that 
 degree that he made the lady quite sick : and being able to bear it 
 no longer, seeing him set fast, nor likely soon to extricate himself, 
 she said pleasantly to him, “ Sir, your horse has a very uneasy 
 trot, I beg you would set me down." The knight who took a hint 
 more readily than he told a story, made a laugh of it, and turned 
 his discourse to something else; leaving what he had sorrily begun 
 and worse cond ucted without offering to end it. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL II. 
 
 {Tviil the bakeVy by a smart reply^ makes Signor Geri Spina sensible of an 
 
 unreasonable request. 
 
 HE whole company was pleased with what Oretta, had said; 
 when the queen pointed next to Pampinea, who spoke 
 thus:— 
 
 It is beyond my capacity to determine whether nature be more 
 m fault, when she joins a generous soul to a homely person : or 
 fortune in dooming a body, graced with a noble spirit, to a mean 
 condition of life ; as was the case of a citizen of ours, named Cisti, 
 as well as of many others. For this man, though he had truly a 
 gre?,t spirit, yet fortune made him no better than a baker. For my 
 part, I should quarrel both with nature and fortune did I not know 
 nature to be absolutely wise, and that fortune hath a thousand eyes, 
 although fools have described her as blind. I suppose, tiierefore. 
 
31* 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 that both, being truly wise and judicious, act as we ourselves often 
 do; who, uncertain of what may happen, for our convenience often 
 bury our most valuable treasure in the meanest places of our 
 houses, as the least liable to suspicion ; from whence we can fetch 
 them in time of need, and where they have continued more secure 
 than they would have been in the best chamber of the house. So 
 these two ministers of the world do many times hide their most 
 precious blessings under the cover of some mean employ, to the end 
 that, drawing them from thence when need requires, they may 
 appear with greater lustre; which was plainly shewed, although in 
 a small matter, by our baker Cisti, to the apprehension of Signor 
 Geri Spina, whom the story of Madam Oretta, who was his wife, 
 brings fresh into my mind; as I shall relate in a very short novel. 
 You must know then that Pope Boniface, with whom this same 
 Signor Geri was in great esteem, having an occasion to send am¬ 
 bassadors to Florence about some particular business, who being 
 entertained at this Geri Spina’s house, and employed with him in 
 the said pope’s negotiation, it happened, whatever was the reason, 
 that they passed on foot every morning by the church of St. Maria 
 Ughi where Cisti the baker dwelt, and followed his trade: who, 
 though fortune had given him but a mean employ, yet in this 
 respect she had been kind to him—that he had grown very rich in 
 it; and, without having any desire to leave it for a better, lived 
 very generously among his neighbours, having everj’thing in plenty, 
 the best wine especially, both red and white, that the country could 
 afford. Now, he seeing them walk daily, by his door, and sup¬ 
 posing, as the season was sultry, that it would be esteemed a kind¬ 
 ness to let them drink some of his fine white wine, but regarding 
 at the same time the disparity of their different stations, he would 
 not presume to invite them; but thought of a way whereby Signor 
 Geri might be induced of his own accord to taste it: having a 
 white frock on, therefore, with an apron before him, which bespoke 
 him rather a miller than a baker, every morning about the time 
 that he supposed they should come that way, would he order a 
 bucket full of fair water to be brought, and a decanter of wine, 
 with a couple of beakers as bright as crystal, to be set before him; 
 when, seating himself down at his door, and clearing first his mcuth 
 and throat, he would take a draught or two just as they were going 
 past, with a gust sufficient to cause an appetite almost in a man 
 that was dead. 
 
SIXTH DA Y. 
 
 3x3 
 
 Signor Geri observing this once or twice, said, the third time, 
 ^ What say you ? Is your wine good, Master Cisti T He starting 
 up, replied, “Yes, sir; but how can 1 convince you unless you 
 taste T Signor Geri, whom either the heat of the weather or his 
 extraordinary fatigue, or perhaps the relish with which he saw the 
 other drink, had rendered thirsty, turned with a smile upon the 
 embassadors, and said, “ Gentlemen, we may as well drink of this 
 honest man’s wine, perhaps it is such that we shall not need to 
 repent.” Accordingly they went together to Cisti, who, ordering 
 seats to be brought out of his bakehouse, prayed them to sit down, 
 saying to their servants, who offered to wash the glasses, “ Friends, 
 go get you gone ; leave this to me. I am no worse a skinker than 
 a baker, and stay you ever so long you shall not taste a drop.” 
 Washing then four neat glasses, and ordering a fresh decanter to 
 be brought, he filled round to Signor Geri and the ambassadors, 
 who thought it the best wine they had tasted a long time; and 
 having highly commended it, they called to drink with him most 
 mornings during their stay. At length having dispatched their 
 business, and being about to depart. Signor Geri made an enter¬ 
 tainment for them, to which he invited a great part of the most 
 eminent citizens, and Cisti amongst the rest, who could by no means 
 be persuaded to go. Signor Geri then ordered one of his servants to 
 fetch a fiask of Cisti’s wine, and to fill half a glass round to all the 
 company at the first table. The servant (offended, as we may sup¬ 
 pose, that he had never been able to get a taste of it) took a very 
 large bottle; which as soon as Cisti saw, he said, “ Friend, Signor 
 Geri never sent thee to me.” Which the servant affirming over and 
 over, and yet meeting with no other reply, he returned to his master, 
 and told him. Signor Geri then said, “ Go back, and tell him that 
 I did send thee, and if he makes the like answer again, ask him 
 whither he thinks I should send thee.” The servant went again, and 
 said, “ Most assuredly Signor Geri, my master, has sent me to you.” 
 Cisti made answer, “ I tell thee, friend, it is impossible.”—“ Then,” 
 quoth the servant, “ whither do you think he sent mel” He repUed, 
 “To the river Arno;” which when the fellow reported to Signor Geri, 
 his eyes were immediately opened, and he said. “ Let me see what 
 bottle it was which you carried to him.” On seeing it, he added, 
 ‘Now, trust me, Cisti spoke truth.” Reprimanding him then 
 severely, he ordered him to take a more sizable vessel; which as 
 soon ns Cisti saw, he said, “ Why now I am certain that he sent 
 
3*4 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 thee to me and filled it very readily for him. That day also he 
 had a cask filled with the same wine, which he sent to Signor 
 Geri^s house, and going himself after it, he thus addressed him :— 
 “ Sir, I would not have you think that I was any way startled 
 at the sight of the great bottle this morning ; but as I imagined 
 you had forgotten what I had endeavoured to intimate to you for 
 several days past with my little decanters, namely, that mine is no 
 wine for servants, so I only did it to remind you again of the same 
 thing. But meaning to be steward no longer, I have now brought 
 my whole store; dispose of it as you please.” Signor Geri was 
 extremely thankful for his most valuable present, and ever after¬ 
 wards esteemed him as his most intimate friend. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL III. 
 
 Madam Nonna de' Pulci silencest he Bishop of Florence^ hy a smart reply 
 
 to an unseemly piece of raillery. 
 
 I 
 
 AMPINEA had now made an end, Cisti’s answer and gene¬ 
 rosity being highiy commended, when the queen gave 
 her orders to Lauretta, who began as follows :— 
 
 Most gracious ladies, Pampinea, the other day, and Philomena 
 now, have both justly touched upon our little merit, as well as the 
 beauty of repartees: therefore, as it is needless to say any thing 
 farther upon that head, I shall only remind you that your words 
 should be such as only to nip or touch the hearer, like the sheep’s 
 nibbling on the grass, and not as the dog bites; for in that case it 
 IS no longer wit, but foul scurrility. This was excellently well set 
 forth, both in what was said by Oretta, and in the reply of Cisti. 
 It is true, however, that if it be spoken by way of answer, and bites 
 a little too keenly; yet, if the person who answers in that manner 
 were stung first, he is the less to blame. Therefore, you should be 
 cautious both how, when, and with whom you jest; which not 
 being enough attended to by a certain prelate of ours, he met with 
 a sharper bite than he had given, as I shall shew you in a very short 
 novel. 
 
 When Signor Antonio d’Orso, a most wise and worthy person, 
 was bishop of Florence, a certain gentleman of Catalonia, marshal to 
 King Robert, happened to come thither; who, having a good person, 
 and being a great admirer of the fair sex, took a particular liking 
 to a lady of that, city, who was niece to the bishop’s brother; and. 
 
SIXTH DA y. 
 
 i^S 
 
 understanding that her husband, though of a good family, was most 
 abominably sordid and covetous, he agreed to give him five hun¬ 
 dred florins of geld to let him pass one night with her. Accordingly, 
 he got so many pieces of silver gilt, which he gave to him, and then 
 obtained his desire contrary to her will and knowledge. This being 
 discovered soon afterwards, the wretch became the common jest 
 and scorn of mankind ; but the bishop, like a wise man, seemed to 
 know nothing of the matter. And, being often in company with 
 the marshal, it happened on St. John’s day, that, as they were 
 riding side by side through the city, viewing the ladies all the way, 
 that the bishop cast his eye upon one, named Nonna de’ Pulci, 
 then newly married, and who is since dead of the plague, cousin 
 also to Alesso Einucci, whom you all knew: this lady, besides her 
 great beauty, was endowed with a generous spirit, and spoke per¬ 
 tinently and well. Shewing her, therefore, to the marshal, as soon 
 as they came nearer to her, he laid his hand upon the marshal’s 
 shoulder, and said, “ Madam, what do you think of this gentleman] 
 Could he make a conquest over you or not ]” This seemed to touch 
 her honour, or at least she thought it might give some persons pre¬ 
 sent a worse opinion of her. Without ever thinking, then, how to 
 clear herself of such a charge, but resolving to return like for like, 
 she replied, “ Perhaps he might, my lord; but then I should like 
 to be paid with good money .This touched them both to the quick; 
 the one as doing a very dishonourable thing to the bishop’s rela¬ 
 tion ; the other as receiving in his own person the shame belonging 
 to his brother. And they rode away, without so much as looking 
 at one another, or exchanging a word together all the day after. 
 Very justly, therefore, did this lady bite the biter. 
 
 NOVEL IV. 
 
 ChichibiOf cook to Currado Gianjiliazzi, hy a sudden replyy which he made to 
 his master, turns his wrath into laughter, and so escapes the punishment 
 with which he had threatened him. 
 
 AUEETTA being silent, Neiphile was ordered to follow, 
 which she did in this manner:— 
 
 Though ready wit and invention furnish people with 
 words proper to their different occasions, yet sometimes does 
 fortune, an assistant to the timorous, tip the tongue with a sudden, 
 and yet a more pertinent reply than the most mature deliberation 
 
3i6 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 could ever have suggested, as I shall now briefly relate to you. 
 Currado Gianfiliazzi, as most of you have both known and seen, 
 was always esteemed a gallant and worthy citizen, delighting much 
 m hounds and hawks, to omit his other excellences, as no way 
 relating to our present purpose. Now, he having taken a crane 
 one day with his hawk, and finding it to be young and fat, sent it 
 home to his cook, who was a Venetian, and called Chichibio, with 
 orders to prepare it for supper. The cook, a poor simple fellow, 
 trussed and spitted it, and when it was nearly roasted, and began 
 to smell pretty well, it chanced that a woman in the neighbourhood 
 called Brunetta, with whom he was much enamoured, came into 
 the kitchen, and being taken with the high savour, earnestly begged 
 of him to give her a leg. He replied very merrily, singing all the 
 time, “ Madam Brunetta, you shall have no leg from me.” Upon 
 this she was a good deal nettled, and said, “ As I hope to live, if 
 you do not give it me, you need never expect any favour more from 
 me.” The dispute, at length, was carried to a great height between 
 them; when, to make her easy, he was forced to give her one of the 
 legs. Accordingly the crane was served up at supper with only 
 one leg; Currado having a friend along with him. Currado 
 wondered at this, and sending for the fellow, he demanded what 
 was become of the other leg. He very foolishly replied, and 
 without the least thought, “ Sir, cranes have only one leg.” Cur¬ 
 rado, in great wrath, said, “What the devil does the man talk 
 oil Only one leg! Thou rascal, dost thou think I never saw a 
 crane before*?” Chichibio still persisted in his denial, saying, 
 “ Believe me, sir, it is as I say, and I will convince you of it when¬ 
 ever you please, by such fowls as are living.” Currado was willing 
 to have no more words, out of regard to his friend; only he added, 
 “As thou undertakest to shew me a thing which I never saw or 
 heard of before, I am content to make proof thereof to-morrow 
 morning; but I vow and protest, if I find it otherwise, I will make 
 thee remember it the longest day thou hast to live.” Thus there 
 was an end for that night, and the next morning Currado, whose 
 passion would scarcely suffer him to get any rest, arose betimes, 
 and ordered his horses to be brought out, taking Chichibio along 
 with him towards a river where he used early in the morning to 
 flee plenty of cranes; and he said, “We shall soon see whether you 
 spoke truth or not last night.” Chichibio, finding his master's 
 wrath not at all abated, and that he was now to make good what 
 
SIXTH DA V. 
 
 317 
 
 he had asserted, nor yet knowing how to do it, rode on first with 
 all the fear imaginable; gladly would he have made his escape, 
 but he saw no possible means; whilst he was continually looking 
 about him, expecting everything that appeared to be a crane with 
 two feet. But being come near to the river, he chanced to see, 
 before anybody else, a number of cranes, each standing upon one 
 leg, as they use to do when they are sleeping; whereupon, shewing 
 them quickly to his master, he said, “ Now, sir, 3 mu yourself may 
 see that I spoke nothing but truth, when I said that cranes have 
 only one leg: look at those there if you please.’^ Currado, beholding 
 the cranes, replied, “ Yes, sirrah! but stay a while, and I will shew 
 thee that they have two.” Then riding something nearer to them, 
 he cried out, “ Shough! shough!” which made them set down the 
 other foot, and after taking a step or two, they all flew away. 
 When Currado, turning to him, said, “Well, thou lying knave, art 
 thou now convinced that they have two legs'?” Chichibio, quite at 
 his wits’ end, and knowing scarcely what he said himself, suddenly 
 made answer, “Yes, sir; but you did not shout out to that crane 
 last night as you have done to these; had you called to it in the 
 same manner, it would have put down the other leg, as these have 
 now done.” This pleased Currado so much that, turning all wrath 
 into mirth and laughter, he said, “ Chichibio, thou sayest right, I 
 should have done so indeed.” By this sudden and comical answer 
 Chichibio escaped a sound drubbing, and made peace with his 
 master. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL V. 
 
 Forese da Rdbatta and Giotto the painter, coming from Mugello, laugh at 
 the meanness of each other’s appearance. 
 
 HE ladies were much diverted with Chichibio’s reply, when 
 Pamphilus, by the queen’s order, delivered himself to this 
 effect:— 
 
 As it often happens that fortune hides, under the meanest trades 
 in life, the greatest virtues, which has been proved by Pampinea, 
 so are the greatest geniuses found frequently lodged by nature in 
 the most deformed and misshapen bodies, which was verified in 
 two of our own citizens, as I am now going to relate. For the one, 
 who was called Forese da Eabatta, being a little deformed mortal, 
 with a fiat Dutch face, worse than any of the family of the Baronci, 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 318 
 
 yet was he esteemed by most men a repository of the civil law; 
 and the other, whose name was Giotto, had such a prodigious fancy, 
 that there was nothing in nature, the parent of all things, but he 
 could imitate it with his pencil so well, and draw it so like, as to 
 deceive our very senses, imagining that to be the very thing itself 
 which was only his painting: therefore, having brought that art 
 again to light, which had lain buried for many ages, under the 
 errors of such as aimed more to captivate the eyes of the ignorant, 
 than to please the understandings of those who were really judges, 
 he may be deservedly called one of the lights and glories of our 
 city, and the rather as being master of his art, notwithstanding his 
 modesty would never suffer himself to be so esteemed: which honour, 
 though rejected by him, displayed itself in him with the greater 
 lustre, as it was so eagerly usurped by others less knowing than 
 himself, and by many also who had all their knowledge from him. 
 But though his excellence in his profession was so wonderful, yet 
 as to his person and aspect he had no way the advantage of Signor 
 Forese. To come then to my story: These two worthies had each 
 his country seat at Mugello, and Forese being gone thither in the 
 vacation time, and riding upon an unsightly steed, chanced to meet 
 there with Giotto, who was no better equipped than himself, when 
 they returned together to Florence. Travelling slowly along, as they 
 were able to go no faster, they were overtaken by a great shower of 
 rain, and forced to take shelter in a poor man’s house, who was well 
 known to them both; and, as there was no appearance of the 
 weather clearing up, and each being desirous of getting home that 
 night, they borrowed two old rusty cloaks and two rusty hats, and 
 they proceeded on their journey. After they had gotten a good 
 part of their way, thoroughly wet, and covered with dirt and mire, 
 which their two shuffling steeds had thrown upon them, and which 
 bj’’ no means improved their looks, it began to clear up at last, and 
 they, who had hitherto said but little to each other, now turned to 
 discourse together; whilst Forese, riding along and listening to 
 Giotto, who was excellent at telling a story, began at last to view 
 him attentively from head to foot, and seeing him in that wretched 
 dirty pickle, without having any regard to himself, he fell a laugh¬ 
 ing, and said, “ Do you suppose, Giotto, if a stranger were to meet 
 with you now, who had never seen you before, that he would 
 imagine you to be the best painter in the world, as you really are V 
 Giotto readily replied, “Yes, sir, I believe he might think so. if, 
 
SIXTH DA Y, 
 
 319 
 
 
 looking at you at the same time, he would ever conclude tliat you 
 had learned your A, B, C.” At this Forese was sensible of his 
 mistake, finding himself well paid in his own coin 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL VI. 
 
 Michael Scalza proves to certain young gentlemen^ that the family of tJiK 
 Baronci is the most honouroMe of any in the worlds and wins a supper 
 by it. 
 
 HE ladies continued laughing at Giotto’s smart reply, when 
 the queen commanded Flammetta to follow, which she 
 did to this purpose :— 
 
 The Baronci being mentioned by Pamphilus, though perhaps 
 you may not know them so well as himself, puts me in mind of a 
 story, in which their great nobility is plainly exhibited, without 
 deviating from our present subject, and therefore I choose to 
 relate it. There lived not long since in our city, a young gentle¬ 
 man called Michael Scalza, who was one of the most agreeable and 
 pleasant companions in the world ; for which reason his company 
 was much courted by all the young people of Florence, whenevei 
 they could be favoured with it. Now he was one day with some 
 friends at Mount Ughi, when the question happened to be started, 
 which was the noblest and most ancient family in Florence! 
 xiccordingly one named the Uberti, another the Lamberti, some 
 preferring one, and some another, according to their different 
 humours and interests; upon which Scalza smiled and said, 
 “ You are all mistaken; the most noble, as well as the most 
 ancient family, I do not say in Florence only, but in the whole 
 world, is that of the Baronci ; in this all philosophers are agreed, 
 and every one that knows them as well as myself. And, lest you 
 should think that I speak it of some other family of that name, J 
 tell you that I mean the Baronci, our neighbours, that live by 
 great St. Maria.’’ When the young gentlemen, who expected he 
 would have mentioned some other, heard this family named, they 
 made the greatest jest of it that could be, and said, “You impose 
 any thing in the world upon us, as if nobody knew the Baronci 
 but yourself.” “ Indeed,” quoth he, “ I do not, I speak nothing 
 but what is truth, and if there is any one among you that dares lay 
 a wager of a supper for six of his friends, upon that head, I will 
 stand to it; nay, more than that, I will be set down by the judg- 
 
 m 
 
320 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 ment of aRy person whom you shall nominate/’ Hereupon & 
 young spark called Neri Vannini, said, “I am your man.” It 
 w'as also agreed that one Piero, a Florentine, in whose house they 
 were, should be judge. Accordingly the case was stated to him, 
 whilst the whole company bore hard upon Scalza, making them¬ 
 selves very merry with his expected treat. Piero, then, who was a 
 good sensible man, having heard Neri’s story, turned to Scalza and 
 said, “Well, how do you make good your assertion*?” Scalza 
 replied, “ I prove it by such arguments, that not yourself only, 
 but even my antagonist shall confess to be just. You know that 
 the more ancient any family is, the more noble it is deemed ; this 
 was agreed among us at the beginning. I have then only to shew, 
 in order to gain my question, that the Baronci family is the most 
 ancient of all others. You must understand, therefore, that they 
 were formed when nature was in her infancy, and before she was 
 perfect at her work, and that the rest of mankind were all created 
 afterwards. To convince you of this, do but examine the figures 
 of one and the other, you will find art and proportion in the last, 
 whereas the first are rough drawn and imperfect: among them 
 you will see one with a long narrow face, another with a pro¬ 
 digious broad one; one that is flat-nosed, another with a nose 
 half an ell long ; this has a long hooked chin, that one eye bigger 
 and set lower down than the other. In a word, their faces 
 resemble, for all the world, what children make when they first 
 learn to draw. Nature then, you will allow, was in its first and 
 earliest state when they were created, consequently they are the 
 most ancient of all others, and therefore the most noble.” Both 
 Piero, who was to determine, and Neri, who had wagered the 
 treat, and the whole company likewise, on hearing this pleasant 
 argument, agreed that Scalza was in the right, and that the 
 Baronci were the noblest and most ancient people in the whole 
 world. Well therefore was it observed by Pamphilus, in describ¬ 
 ing the ugliness and deformity of Signor Forese, that, if possible,, 
 he had a worse person than any of the Baronci. 
 
SIXTH DA Y. 
 
 32k 
 
 NOVEL VII. 
 
 Madam Philippa being surprised with her gallant hy her husband, is 
 accused and tried for it; hut saves herself hy her quick reply; and has 
 the laws moderated for the future. 
 
 CALZA’S argument to prove the nobility of the Baronci 
 made them all very merry, when the queen turned to 
 Philostratus, who began in this manner ;— 
 
 It is a good thing, most worthy ladies, to be able to speak well, 
 and to the purpose; but I hold it best of all to know how to do it 
 when need requires: as was the case of a lady of whom I am 
 going to treat, who escaped an ignominious death by this means, 
 as you shall hear. In the territories of the town of Prato, there 
 was formerly a most severe law, which, without any distinction, 
 condemned all such women as were detected by their husbands 
 of adultery to be burnt. Whilst this law was in force, it chanced 
 that a beautiful young lady, named Philippa, was surprised by her 
 husband with her gallant, a young gentleman of the same city, in 
 her own chamber. Binaldo de’ Pugliesi, for that was the husband’s 
 name, was so provoked at this, that he could scarcely refrain from 
 putting them both to death, and forbore it only out of regard to 
 his own life ; but yet he resolved that the law should effect what 
 did not so properly belong to himself—the death of his wife. 
 Therefore, having procured sufficient testimony to prove the fact, 
 he went and had her summoned before the court. The lady, who 
 was of an undaunted spirit, resolved to make her appearance, 
 contrary to the judgment of her friends, choosing to die by a 
 resolute confession of the truth, rather than to live basely in exile 
 by making her escape ; or, by denying it, to shew herself unworthy 
 of that lover with whom she had this intrigue. Being brought 
 then before the lord-provost, attended by a great number of friends, 
 and encouraged all the way to deny it, she demanded of him, with 
 A steady countenance, what he had to say to her. The provost, 
 seeing her genteel deportment and greatness of spirit, began to 
 pity her, fearing lest she should confess something or other which 
 would force him for the sake of his honour to condemn her, 
 whilst she ceased not aU the time to inquire the reason of her 
 being brought thither. When he said to her, “Madam, here is 
 Binaldo, your husband, who affirms that he has taken you in 
 adultery, and insists that I pronounce sentence of death upon you 
 
 21 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 322 
 
 according to the law in that case ; but this I cannot do unless yon 
 yourself confess it, therefore take care what answers you make, 
 and tell me if this accusation of his be true.” The lady, without 
 shewing the least concern, replied, “ My lord, it is true; I will 
 never deny it; but you must know, at the same time, that laws 
 ought to be universal, and made with the consent of those persons 
 whom they concern. Now in this law of yours it was quite other¬ 
 wise ; for only we poor women are bound by it, and yet not one 
 of us ever consented to, or were even consulted about, the making 
 of it. I call it then a most iniquitous law; and if you are dis¬ 
 posed to take away my life for the breach of it, I have no way to 
 do myself justice, but by protesting in the face of this court, and 
 before the whole world, against the partiality of your proceed¬ 
 ings.” All the principal people of the city were present to hear 
 this process, who, hearing her plead her own cause in that manner, 
 cried out, “ That there was some reason in what she saidand 
 before they broke up, the law, by the interposition of the lord- 
 provost, was moderated so far as to include only such women who 
 wronged their husbands for the sake of money. On this Rinaldo 
 departed from the court, confused at his disappointment, whilst 
 she, saved as it were out of the fire, returned victorious to her own 
 house. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL VIII. 
 
 Fresco advises his niece that if she could not endure to look at any disagree- 
 able people, she should never behold herself. 
 
 HILOSTRATUS’S novel had put the ladies into some 
 confusion, as appeared by their blushes, when the queen 
 
 turned immediately to Emilia, and desired her to begin ; 
 who, starting up as if she had been raised out of her sleep, spoke 
 to this effect:— 
 
 I have been so long lost in thought that I shall now obey the 
 queen by relating a much shorter novel than I should have done, 
 probably, had I more time to recollect myself. This will be con¬ 
 cerning the foolish affectation of a certain young lady, which was 
 very wittily reproved by her uncle, if she had but sense enough 
 to have taken it. An honest man, named Frescc da Celatico, had 
 1 niece called out of fondness Gesca, i.e. for Frant esca, who, though 
 her person was not amiss (she was no angel either !) yet she 
 
SIXTH DA Y, 
 
 323 
 
 thought so highly of herself that she was perpetually finding fault 
 both with men, women, and, in short, everything that she saw, 
 without having,the least regard to herself all the time: for by that 
 means she became such a disagreeable, fretful, and tiresome 
 creature, that nothing was ever like her, and so proud withal that 
 had she been of the blood royal of France she could not have been 
 more so. And if she walked along the street at any time, she did 
 nothing but toss up her nose all the way, as if everyone that she 
 either saw or met was offensive to her. To omit the rest of her 
 troublesome ill-conditioned ways, it chanced one day that she came 
 home pouting extremely with pride and affectation, and sitting 
 down by him, he said to her, “ Cesca, as this is a holiday, what 
 is the reason you come home so soon T When she, fit to die away 
 with her airs, replied, “ I am returned so early because I could 
 not have believed there had been such a number of frightful 
 people, both men and women, in the country, as I have met with 
 to-day; there was not one that I could like, nor can any woman 
 have the aversion to disagreeable people that I have; it is to avoid 
 seeing them, therefore, that I am come so soon. Fresco, then, 
 who could no longer brook her inordinate affectation, replied 
 roughly to her, “ Niece, if disagreeable persons displease you so 
 much, and you are willing to be at ease, be sure you never look at 
 yourself.” She, however, as empty as a pithless cane, though she 
 thought herself as wise as Solomon, understood her uncle’s mean¬ 
 ing no more than a goose, but said she would look at herself as 
 well as other people. Thus she remained in her ignorance, and, 
 for what I know, still continues in the same state. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL IX. 
 
 Ouido Cavalcanti genteelly repriTnands the folly of some Florentine gtntlsr 
 
 meUf who came unawares upon him. 
 
 HE queen, perceiving that Emilia had done her novel, and 
 that only herself remained, excepting him whose privilege 
 it was to speak last, began as follows :— 
 
 Though you have robbed me of two of my novels, one of which 
 I designed should have served me to-day, yet have I one left 
 behind still, which contains something in the conclusion as 
 pertinent perhaps, as anything that hath yet been spoken.— 
 
 21—2 
 
324 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 Know, then, that formerly many good customs prevailed in oui 
 city, none of which are now remaining, thanks be to avarice, the 
 attendant of our growing wealth, which has long discarded them. 
 This, amongst others, was one—that, in divers parts of the town, 
 the best families in the neighbourhood would meet together and 
 compose a society, consisting of a certain number of persons, taking 
 care always to admit only such as were able to bear the expense of 
 it Every one entertained in his turn, at which time they would 
 shew honour to divers gentlemen and strangers upon their arrival 
 in our city, and to many of the most worthy citizens, by inviting 
 them to those assemblies: once a year also, at least, they would be 
 dressed all alike, and they often rode in procession through the 
 city, when they performed their tilts and other martial exercises, 
 especially on the great festival days or when the news of some 
 great victory had reached the city. Amongst these societies of 
 gentlemen there was one of which Signor Betto Brunelleschi was 
 the principal, who was desirous always of procuring Guido Caval¬ 
 canti to be one of their body, and not without reason; for, besides 
 his being one of the best logicians in the world, as well as natural 
 philosopher, for which they had no great regard, he was a most 
 polite good-natured man, as well as an excellent companion, and 
 ' nobody knew what belonged to a gentleman better than himself : 
 besides this, he was very rich, and ready always to reward merit 
 wherever he found it. But Signor Betto was never able to draw 
 him into their assembly, which they all attributed to his speculative 
 way of life; and because he was said to hold some of the Epicurean 
 doctrines the vulgar used to report that all this study of his was 
 only to learn whether there was a God or not. One day he was 
 passing from St. Michael’s church along by the Ademari to St. 
 John’s, which was his usual walk, and the large marble tombs, 
 such as are now at St. Beparata’s, were then about the church; 
 and he chanced to be amongst them, the church door being shut, 
 when Betto and his company came riding through the square; 
 who, getting sight of him, spurred their horses and came up to 
 him before he perceived them; whilst one of them said, “Guido, 
 thou refusest to be of our society : but when thou hast found out 
 that there is no God, what good will it have done thee f He, 
 seeing himself surrounded, immediately replied, “Gentlemen, 
 you may use me as you please in your own territories;” and, laying 
 his hand upon one of the arches, he leaped nimbly over it and so 
 
SIXTH DA K 
 
 32s 
 
 made his escape. They looked like people confounded at each 
 other, saying that what he had spoken was without any meaning; 
 for that they had no more to do there than any other persons, nor 
 Guido less than themselves. Signor Betto then turned to them 
 and said, “ It is yourselves, gentlemen, that are void of under¬ 
 standing ; for he has very worthily, and in few words, said the 
 severest thing in the world to us, whether you understood it or 
 not: consider, then, these arches are the abodes of the* dead, and 
 which he calls our territories, to shew us that we, and all other 
 people as ignorant and unlearned as ourselves, are, compared to 
 him and other men of letters, worse than dead men; and, there¬ 
 fore, so long as we are here we may be said to be upon our own 
 dunghills.”—They now all understood what Guido meant to say, 
 and were a good deal ashamed, and from that time said nothing 
 more ever to provoke him; esteeming Signor Betto always as » 
 very subtle and sensible man. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL X. 
 
 Friar Onion promises some country people to shew them a feather from the 
 wing of the angel Gabriel; instead of which he finds only some coals, 
 which he tells them are the same that roasted St. Laurence. 
 
 FTER they had told all their different stories, and Dioneus 
 perceived that only himself was left to speak, without 
 waiting for any regular command, he enjoined silence to 
 such as were commending Guido’s deep reply, and thus began :— 
 Though I boast it, ladies, as my privilege to relate what pleases 
 me most, yet I intend not to-day to depart from the subject which 
 you have all spoken so well upon; but, following your footsteps, I 
 shall show with what a sudden shift a certain friar, of the order of 
 St. Anthony, most artfully avoided the disgrace and confusion 
 which two arch young fellows had prepared for him: and if, to 
 make my story more complete, I spin it out a little in length, I 
 hope it will not be disagreeable, as the sun is yet in the midst of 
 
 heaven. 
 
 Certaldo, as you have all heard, is a village in the vale of Elsa, 
 dependent on the state of Florence; which, though small, was 
 inhabited by many gentlemen and people of substance. Thither a 
 certain friar, of the order of St. Anthony, used to go once a year, 
 &6 he found pretty good pickings, to receive the contributions of 
 
326 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 many simple people, and met with great encouragement alwaya, 
 perhaps not through any devotion so much as his name; for that 
 country was famous for the best onions in all Tuscany. Now this 
 friar had a little low person, was red-haired, and of a merry coun¬ 
 tenance, as artful a knave too as any in the world: add to this, 
 that, though he was no scholar, yet was he so prompt and voluble 
 of tongue, that such as knew him not would not only have con¬ 
 sidered him as some great orator, but have compared him even to 
 Tully or Quinctilian. He was also a common gossip-acquaintance 
 to the whole neighbourhood. Coming thither, therefore, in the 
 month of August, according to custom, one Sunday morning, when 
 all the honest people were met together in the church to hear mass, 
 as soon as he saw a fit opportunity, he stepped forward and said: 
 
 “ Gentlemen and ladies, you know it has been a commendable 
 custom with you to send every year to the poor brethren of our 
 Lord Baron St. Anthony, both of your corn and other provisions, 
 some more, and some less, according to your several abilities and 
 devotions, to the end that our blessed St. Anthony should be more 
 careful of your oxen, sheep, asses, swine, and other cattle. More¬ 
 over, you are accustomed to pay, such especially as have their names 
 registered in our fraternity, a small acknowledgment which we 
 annually receive, and for which purpose I am now sent by my 
 superior, namely, our lord abbot, to collect it. Therefore, with the 
 blessing of God, after nine o’clock, as soon as you shall hear the 
 bells ring, you may all come to the church-door, when I shall 
 preach a sermon as usual, and you shall all kiss the cross : and, 
 besides this, as I know you all to be devoted to our Lord St. 
 Anthony, I intend, as a special favour, to shew you one of the 
 feathers of the angel Gabriel, which he dropped, at the annunci¬ 
 ation, in the Virgin’s chamberand, having made this speech, he 
 -eturned to mass. Whilst he was haranguing upon this subject, 
 there were two arch fellows in the church, one named Giovanni del 
 Bragoniera, and the other Biagio Pizzini, who, after they had 
 laughed together at the father’s relics, although they were his 
 friends and acquaintance, resolved to play him a trick with regard 
 to this feather: and, understanding that he was to dine that day 
 with a friend, as soon as they thought he might be set down at 
 table, they went to the inn where he lodged; when Biagio was to 
 keep his man in talk, whilst Giovanni ransacked his wallet to steal 
 this feather, that they might see what he would then say to the 
 
SIXTH DA Y. 
 
 327 
 
 people. Now the friar had a lad with so many different nick-names 
 and qualities, that the most fertile imagination was hardly able to 
 describe them. ' Whilst Father Onion used frequently to jest and 
 say, “ My rascal has in him nine qualities, if any one of which 
 belonged either to Solomon, Aristotle, or Seneca, it would baffle 
 and confound all their philosophy, and all their virtue. You may 
 suppose then what sort of creature he must be, that has nine such, 
 without either philosophy or virtue to counterbalance.’’ Being 
 asked what those nine qualities were, and having put them into a 
 kind of rhyme, he answered, 
 
 “Forgetfulness, lying, and lewdness; 
 
 Filching, facing, and nastiness ; 
 
 Sloth, gracelessness, and extravagance. 
 
 “ Besides these, he has also many others, and one in particular I 
 cannot help laughing at, which is, that he is for taking a wife 
 wherever he goes: and having a great black greasy beard, he is 
 persuaded that all women must fall in love with him; or, should 
 they take no notice of him, he will be sure to run after them. But 
 yet he is a notable fellow to me in one respect, that if anybody has 
 a secret to communicate, he will come in for his share of it; and 
 should anyone ask me a question, he is so fearful that I should not 
 know how to make an answer, that he will be sure to say. Yes, or 
 No, before me, just as he thinks most proper.” But to return to our 
 story. This feUow, Friar Onion left at the inn, with a particular 
 charge to see that nobody meddled with anything belonging to him, 
 especially his wallet, because the holy relics were contained therein, 
 But the man, whose inclinations stood more for the kitchen, as soon 
 as his master was gone, went down thither, where he found a fat, 
 dirty, ill-favoured kitchen wench; when falling into discourse 
 together, he sat down by the fire-side, though it was in August, 
 whilst she was busy in cooking, and began to teU her he was a 
 gentleman, and worth an incredible sum of money; that he could 
 do and say wonders, and (without considering that his own hat 
 was all over grease and dirt; that his jacket was nothing but a 
 thousand different patches; that his breeches were torn throughout 
 and his shoes all to pieces) he talked as great as if he had been 
 some lord, saying, that he would buy her new clothes, and take her 
 out of service, and that she should partake of his present posses¬ 
 sions, as well as future fortunes, with a great deal more of that kind 
 of stuff, mere troth and wind. The two young fellows, finding him 
 
328 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 thus engaged, were very well satisfied, supposing half their work 
 to be done; and leaving them together, they went upstairs into the 
 friar’s chamber, which was unlocked, when the first thing they saw 
 was the wallet: this they opened, and found a cabinet wrapped up 
 in some foldings of fine taffeta, in which was a parroquet’s feather, 
 which they supposed to be the same that he had promised to shew 
 the people; and surely at that time it was easy enough to impose 
 upon them in that manner. The eastern luxury had not then 
 reached Tuscany, which has since flowed in upon us, to the ruin of 
 our country; the ancient simplicity still prevailed; nor was there 
 a person, so far from seeing, that had ever heard of such a thing as 
 a parrot. Not a little pleased at meeting with this feather, they 
 took it away, and, that the box should not be empty, put some 
 coals therein, which they saw lying in a comer of the chamber; 
 and wrapping it up again as before, and making all safe, they 
 walked off, waiting to see how he would behave when he found the 
 coals instead of the feather. The people that were at church being 
 told that they were to see the angel’s feather, went home and 
 acquainted all their neighbours, and the news ran from one to 
 another, so that the moment dinner was over, they all crowded to 
 the town, in such manner, that every part was full, waiting for the 
 sight. 
 
 Accordingly Friar Onion, having eat a good dinner, and taken 
 his nap after it, understanding now that there were great multi¬ 
 tudes expecting him, sent to the servant to come away with his 
 wallet, and ring to church. The fellow, though loath to leave his 
 mistress and the fire-side, did as he ordered him, and fell to chim*ing 
 the bells. As soon then as the people were all assembled, the friar, 
 not perceiving that anything had been meddled with, entered upon 
 his discourse, ranning over a thousand things proper to his purpose; 
 and being come to the shewing of the feather, he began, with a 
 solemn confession, and lighting up two torches, and gently unwrap¬ 
 ping the silken cover, having first pulled off his cap, he took out 
 the box, and making some short ejaculations to the praise and 
 honour of the angel Gabriel, and of that relic, he opened it. When 
 seeing it full of coals, he could not help secretly blaming himself 
 for leaving such a fellow in trust, who, he imagined, had been 
 imposed upon by somebody or other; but yet, without so much as 
 changing colour, or shewing the least concern, he lifted up his eyes 
 and hands to heaven, and said, “ O God, blessed for ever be thy 
 
SIXTH DAY. 
 
 329 
 
 power and might!” And shutting the box, he turned again to the 
 people, and added, “ Gentlemen and ladies, you must all under¬ 
 stand, that being very young, I was sent by my superior to those 
 parts where the sun first appears, with an express command to 
 inquire into the nature of porcelain, which, though it cost but little 
 in making, affords more profit to others than it does to us. For 
 this purpose I embarked at Venice, and went through Greece; I 
 proceeded thence, on horseback, through the kingdom of Garbo, 
 and through Baldacca; afterwards I came to Parione, and so to 
 Sardinia. But what need I mention to you all these places ? I 
 coasted on still, till I passed the straits of St. George, into Trufiia, 
 and then into Buffia, which are countries much inhabited, and with 
 great people. From thence into the land of Lying, where I found 
 many of our order, as well as of other religious, who avoid all 
 labour and trouble, for Heaven’s sake; taking no care for other 
 people’s sufferings, when their own interest is promoted thereby, 
 and where they spend only uncoined money. 
 
 “ Thence I went to the land of Abruzzi, where the men and 
 women go upon socks over the mountains, and make themselves 
 garments of swines’ guts, and where they carried bread in their 
 staves and wine in satchels. Parting from thence I came to the 
 mountains of Bacchus, where the waters all run down hilL Last 
 of all I arrived in India Pastinaca, where, I swear to you by the 
 habit I wear, that I saw serpents fly, a thing incredible to such as 
 have never seen it: but I should be loath to lie, and therefore, as 
 soon as I departed thence, I met Maso del Saggio, a great 
 merchant, whom I found cracking nuts and selling the shells by 
 retail. Nevertheless, not being able to find what I went to look 
 for, and being to pass from thence by water, I returned to the 
 Holy Land; where in summer a loaf of cold bread is worth four- 
 pence and the hot is given away for nothing. There I found the 
 venerable father (blame me not I beseech you) the patriarch of 
 Jerusalem, who, out of reverence to my habit and love to our Lord 
 Baron St. Anthony, would have me see all the holy reKcs which he 
 had in keeping, and which were so many that were I to recount 
 them I should never come to an end: but yet, not to leave you 
 altogether disconsolate, I shall mention a few. First, then, he 
 shewed me a finger of the Holy Ghost, as whole and perfect as 
 ever; next a lock of hair of that seraph which appeared to St. 
 Francis; with the paring of a nail of a cherub; and a rib of the 
 
330 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 Verbum Caro, fastened to one of the windows; some vestments ol 
 the holy catholic faith; and a few rays of that star which appeared 
 to the wise men : a viol also of St. Michael’s sweat when he fought 
 with the devil; the jaw-bone of St. Lazarus, and many others. 
 And because I gave him two of the plains of Mount Morello, in 
 the vulgar edition, and some chapters del Caprezio, which he had 
 been long searching after, he let me partake of his relics. And, 
 first, he gave me a tooth of the Sancta Crux; and a little bottle 
 filled with some of the sound of those bells which hung in the 
 temple of Solomon; a feather also of the angel Gabriel, as I have 
 told you; with a wooden patten, which the good St. Gherrardo 
 da Villa Magna used to wear in his travels, and which I have lately 
 given to Gherrardo di Bonsi, at Florence, who holds it in great 
 veneration. He farther gave me some of the coals on which our 
 blessed martyr, St. Laurence, was broiled, all which I devoutly 
 received, and do now possess. It is true my superior would not 
 suffer me to make them public till he was assured that they were 
 genuine; but being now convinced of it by sundry miracles, as 
 well as by letters received from the patriarch, he has given me 
 leave to shew them; and which, for fear of trusting anyone with 
 them, I always carry with me. Indeed, I have the angel’s feather, 
 for its better preservation, in a wooden box, and I have St. 
 Laurence’s coals in another, and which are so like each other that 
 I have often mistaken them; and so it has happened now, for 
 instead of that with the feather I have brought the box which 
 contains the coals. This I would not have you call an error; no, I 
 am well assured it was Heaven’s particular will, now I call to 
 mind that two days hence is the feast of St. Laurence. Therefore 
 it was ordered that I should show you the most holy coals on 
 which he was broiled, to kindle in your hearts that true devotion 
 which you ought to have towards him, and not the feather; 
 approach then, my blessed children, with reverence, and uncover 
 your heads with all due devotion whilst you behold them. But 
 first I must acquaint you that whoever is marked with these coals 
 with the sign of the cross may live secure for one whole year, that 
 no fire shall have any power over him.” So, singing a hymn to 
 the praise of St. Laurence, he opened the box and shewed the 
 coals, which the simple multitude beheld with the utmost zeal and 
 astonishment, and crowded about him with larger offerings than 
 usual, entreating to be signed by them. Then taking the coals in 
 
SIXTH DA Y, 
 
 331 
 
 his hand, he began to mark all their white mantles, fine jackets, 
 and veils, with the largest crosses that could be made upon them, 
 affirming that what was consumed of the coals in this manner 
 grew again in the box, as he had frequently experienced. Thus 
 having crossed all the people of Certaldo to his own great benefit; 
 by this dexterous device he laughed in his sleeve at those who had 
 designed to have made a jest of him. And they being present at 
 his discourse, and hearing this sudden shift of his and how he had 
 set it off to the multitude, were ready to die with laughter. After 
 the people were all departed, they went and told him, with all the 
 pleasure in the world, what they had done, and returned him his 
 feather, which served him the following year to as good purpose as 
 the coals had done that day. 
 
 This novel afforded great mirth to the whole company, and they 
 laughed heartily at the father, his pilgrimage, and holy relics. 
 Whilst the queen, knowing her reign to be at an end, took the 
 crown from her own head, and placed it with a smile upon 
 Dioneus, saying : “ It is now time for you to prove what a task it 
 is to govern women. Be king, therefore, and rule in such a manner 
 that in the end we may have reason to praise you.” Dioneus, 
 accepting the crown, replied merrily, “ I doubt not but you may 
 have often seen a better king among the chess-men than I shall 
 make; but yet, if you will obey me, I will take care you shall have 
 plenty of that, without which no entertainment is ever thoroughly 
 agreeable; I mean that I will direct according to my own taste 
 and fancy.” Calling then the master of the household, he ordered 
 what should be done during his own royalty, when he added, 
 “Ladies, we have had so many subjects already, showing the 
 several devices and means of human industry, that I am at a loss 
 what to give you, unless you will accept of the following, namely, 
 concerning such tricks and stratagems as women, either out of love 
 or for their own security, have put upon their husbands, whether 
 they have been detected or not.” This seemed not so decent to 
 some of the ladies, and they desired him to change it. But he 
 replied, “ Ladies, I know as well as you do what the subject is, 
 and all that you can allege will have no weight with me to make 
 me alter it; considering that the season now is such that, provided 
 Ave have regard to our actions, any discourse for a little amuse¬ 
 ment is allowable. Know you not that through the malignity of 
 the times the judges have now left +heir tribunals, the laws both 
 
33* 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 Divine and human are silent, and every one has leave to do what 
 he thinks necessary for his own preservation % Therefore, if we 
 take a little more liberty than ordinary in our discourse, with no 
 bad intention, but only to pass away our time in an innocent in¬ 
 offensive manner, I see no room for reflection. Besides, from the 
 very first day of our meeting we have kept always within the 
 bounds of decency, and so I hope we shall continue to do. Who 
 is there also that is unacquainted with your modesty and virtue 1 
 Which, so far from being shaken by any light discourse, would be 
 proof even against the terrors of death. And, to tell you the 
 truth, whoever should see you averse to such little diversions, 
 might suspect that your characters were not so clear as they should 
 be, and that you refused to join in them for that reason. Not to 
 mention the little honour you do me in first choosing me your 
 king, and then refusing to obey my commands. Away then with 
 this suspicion, more befitting base and wicked dispositions than 
 such as yours; and, without farther hesitation, let everyone think 
 of some pleasant story. 
 
 Upon this they agreed that it should be as the king desired; and 
 he then gave them leave to depart till supper-time. The sun was 
 yet a good height, as the novels had been but short; therefore, 
 whilst Dioneus, with the other gentlemen, were sat down to play 
 at tables, Eliza called the other ladies apart, and said, “ Ever since 
 we have been here have I desired to show you to a place not far 
 off, where I believe none of you ever was, and which is called the 
 Ladies’ Valle}"; nor have I had an opportunity before to-day of 
 doing it. As it is yet some hours till night, if you would choose 
 then to go thither, I daresay you will be pleased with your walk.” 
 The ladies answered that they were all willing, and, without saying 
 a word to the gentlemen, they called one of their women to attend 
 them, and after a walk of near a mile they came to the Ladies’ 
 Valley, which they entered by a straight path; from whence there 
 issued forth a fine crystal current, and they found it so extremely 
 beautiful and pleasant, especially at that sultry season, that nothing 
 could exceed it; and, as some of them told me afterwards, the 
 plain in the valley was as exact a circle as if it had been described 
 by a pair of compasses, though it seemed rather the work of nature 
 than art, and was about half a mile in circumference, surrounded 
 with six mountains of a moderate height, on each of which was a 
 palace built in form of a little castle. The descents from these 
 
SIXTH DAy. 
 
 333 
 
 mountains were as regular as we see in a theatre, when the circle 
 of each landing grows gradually less and less till it comes to the 
 bottom. Whilst that part that looks towards the south was 
 planted as thick as they could stand together with vines, olives, 
 almonds, cherries, figs, and most other kinds of fruit trees; and 
 on the northern side were fine plantations of oaks, ashes, &c., so 
 tall and regular that nothing could be more beautiful. The vale, 
 which had only that one entrance, was full of firs, cypress trees, 
 laurels, and pines, all placed in such order as if it had been done 
 by the direction of some exquisite artist, and through which little 
 or no sun could penetrate to the ground, which was covered with 
 a thousand different flowers. But what gave no less delight than 
 any of the rest was a rivulet that came through a valley which 
 divided two of the mountains, and running through the vein of a 
 rock made a most agreeable murmur with its fall, appearing, as it 
 was dashed and sprinkled into drops, like so much quicksilver; 
 which arriving in the plain beneath was there received in a fine 
 canal, and, running swiftly to the middle of the plain, formed a 
 basin not deeper than the breast of a man, which shewed its clear 
 gravelly bottom, with pebbles intermixed, so that anyone might see 
 and count them; the fishes also appeared swimming up and down 
 in great plenty, w^hich made it wonderfully pleasant; whilst the 
 water that overflowed was received in another little canal, which 
 conveyed it out of the valley. Hither the ladies all came together, 
 and, after much praising the place and seeing the basin before 
 them and that it was very private, they agreed to bathe. Order¬ 
 ing, therefore, their maid to keep watch, and to let them know if 
 anybody was comirrg, they stripped and went into it; and it covered 
 their delicate bodies in like manner as a rose is concealed in a 
 crystal glass. After they had diverted themselves there for some 
 time with bathing, they clothed themselves again and returned at 
 a gentle pace, commending all the way the wonderful beauty of 
 the spot; and coming to the palace they found the gentlemen at 
 play where they left them.—When Pampinea said merrily to them, 
 “ We have put a trick upon you to-day.”—“ What,” says Dioneus, 
 “do you begin to act before you speak 1”—“No, sir,” quoth 
 Pampinea. And she told them where they had been, what sort of 
 a place it was, how far it was off*, and what they had been doing. 
 The king, upon her report, being very desirous of seeing it, ordered 
 supper to be served immediately, which was no sooner ended than 
 
334 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 the gentlemen and their servants all went to this valley, and having 
 viewed every part, as they were never there before, they agreed 
 that nothing in the world ever equalled it. They bathed, there¬ 
 fore, and made what haste they could back, as it grew late, when 
 they found the ladies dancing to a song of Flammetta’s, which 
 being ended they were all loud in their praises of this valley. The 
 king then called to the master of the household, and gave orders 
 that dinner should be served there on the morrow, and beds carried 
 for such as would choose to rest during the heat of the day. When 
 this was over he ordered in candles, wine, and sweetmeats, and, 
 having refreshed themselves, he bid them now prepare for a dance: 
 and Pamphilus, by his appointment, having made a beginning, his 
 majesty turned to Eliza, and said pleasantly to her, “Fair lady, 
 you did me the honour of conferring upon me a crown yesterday ; 
 in return, I fix now upon you for a. song: let it be such an one as 
 is most agreeable to yourself.” She smiled, and saying, with all 
 her heart, began with a sweet voice the following 
 
 SONG. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 O love, could I escape from thee, 
 
 I always would be free. 
 
 I. 
 
 From early youth I chose 
 
 Thy service as a sweet repose. 
 
 And all my power to thee consign'd j 
 But see, at last, 
 
 Thou, cruel tyrant, and unkind, 
 
 Hast bound me in thy fetters fast. 
 
 O love, &c. 
 
 II. 
 
 *Tis for a faithless swain 
 
 I languish and complain; 
 
 Nor sighs, nor tears can move 
 
 His heart to love. 
 
 0 love, &c. 
 
 III. 
 
 The winds, with inauspicious breeze^ 
 
 Waft my unheeded pray’rs away. 
 
 Whilst hourly I decay; 
 
 Yet neither life nor death can please. 
 
 Then yield, in pity to my woe. 
 
 That he thy bondage too may know. 
 
 O love, &c. 
 
SIXTH UAY, 
 
 m 
 
 IV. 
 
 C?«pid, I humbly ask of thee, 
 
 Or grant me this, or set me free; 
 
 This favour if thou wilt bestow. 
 
 My youthful bloom 
 I shall resume, 
 
 And on my face again the rose and lily blow. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 O love, could I escape from thee, 
 
 I always would be free. 
 
 Eliza concluded her song with a most piteous sigh; and all of 
 them wondered what the words could mean ; but the king, being 
 in a good temper, called for Tindarus, and bid him bring out his 
 bagpipe, to which they danced several dances ; tiU a good part of 
 the night being spent in that manner, they gave over and went to 
 bed. 
 
THE SEVENTH DAY. 
 
 HEKE was not a star to be seen in the east, but that alon® 
 which we call bright Lucifer, which yet shone gloriously 
 in the dawning day; when the master of the household 
 arose, and went with the necessary provisions to the Ladies’Valley, 
 to have every thing ready there, according to the king’s command; 
 and he, being roused by the noise of the carriages, arose soon after¬ 
 wards, and had all the company called, when they began their 
 march just as the sun was appearing above the earth; nor did the 
 nightingales and other birds ever seem to sing with such exquisite 
 harmony as on that morning. Being ushered on the way by this 
 music, they came to the Ladies’ Valley, where, being saluted by 
 choirs of many others, it appeared to them as if all the birds in the 
 valley joined in concert to rejoice at their arrival. Now, viewing 
 it all over again, it seemed much more delightful than the day 
 before, as the gaiety of the morning was more conformable to 
 the beauty of its appearance. After a repast of wine and sweet¬ 
 meats, not to be behindhand with the birds, they began to sing, 
 whilst the valley all around echoed back their songs: and the birds, 
 unwilling to be outdone, replied in new and ravishing notes. At 
 the usual hour the table was spread under the shade of the trees, 
 by the side of that beautiful lake, whilst the whole time of dining 
 were they amusing themselves with observing the fishes swimming 
 before them, which afforded various matter for discourse. When 
 the tables were removed, they turned again to sing as merrily as 
 before. Whilst beds being prepared in different parts of the valley, 
 made close like pavilions, the king gave leave for such as desired 
 it to go to sleep, and the rest had liberty to amuse themselves in 
 the meantime as usual. At the appointed time they met by the 
 basin side near where they had dined, and sitting down upon car¬ 
 pets, which were spread there for them, the king desired Emilia, to 
 begin, and she. with a smile, complied. 
 
i 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 m 
 
 
SEVENTH DAY. 
 
 337 
 
 NOVEL I. 
 
 Gianni Lotieringhi hears a hnocldng at his door, and wakes his wtje, wha 
 makes him believe it is a spirit, and they both go to conjure it away with 
 a certain prayerf after which the noise ceases. 
 
 IK, I had much rather anyone else had begun such a fine 
 subject, as this is, than myself; but, since it is your plea¬ 
 sure that I should be first, I am ready to comply. I pur¬ 
 pose, therefore, to relate what may be of use to you for the time to 
 come; for, if other ladies are as timorous with regard to spirits as I 
 am (although I know nothing certain about them, nor have I met 
 with anybody yet that does), they will here learn a good and effec¬ 
 tual prayer to drive them away. 
 
 There dwelt formerly at Florence, in the street of St. Brancazio, 
 a certain wool-comber, called Gianni Lotteringhi, one more for¬ 
 tunate in his trade than wise in other respects ; for, being an easy 
 sort of a man, he was frequently chosen a director of the singers 
 in new St. Maria’s church, when they had their meetings at his 
 house, and other little favours they shewed him, upon which he 
 greatly valued himself. This was because he gave considerable 
 alms to the brethren there, and, in return for shoes, hoods, an i 
 cloaks, which they were daily getting from him, they presented him 
 with the Pater Noster in the vulgar tongue, the song of St. Alexis, 
 the lamentation of St. Bernard, the hymn of Lady Matilda, with 
 more such sort of ware, which he set great store by, and kept care¬ 
 fully for his soul’s health and welfare. Now he had a gay, hand¬ 
 some wife, called Tessa, the daughter of Mannuccio dalla Cuculia, 
 an artful, sensible woman, who, knowing the simplicity of her hus¬ 
 band, and being in love with Federigo di Neri, an agreeable young 
 nian, she contrived with her maid that he should come to see her at 
 a, country-house, which Gianni had, at a place called Camerata, 
 where she used to pass the summer, when her good man would 
 come sometimes thither to sup, and stay all night, and return in 
 the morning to his prayers and his shop. 
 
 Accordingly, Federigo came and spent that night with her, when 
 it was agreed between them not to have always the trouble of 
 sending for him, that, as often as he went backwards and forwards, 
 he should look to a vineyard, which was by the side of the house, 
 where he would see an ass’s skull fixed upon one of the poles there, 
 and. when the snout of that was turned towards Florence, he might 
 
 22 
 
338 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 safely come, and if the door was shut, upon knocking three times, 
 she would let him in : but if it was turned towards Fiesole, he 
 should then depart, for he might be assured her husband was with 
 her at that time. By this contrivance they had frequent meetings. 
 But one night it happened, that, expecting Federigo to sup with 
 her, she had provided a couple of fowls, when her husband chanced 
 to come in late, at which she was greatly concerned, and they sat 
 down together to a little bacon which she had boiled by itself, 
 whilst she ordered the maid to carry, in a clean napkin, the fowls, 
 with some eggs for sauce, and a bottle of wine, into the garden (to 
 which there was a way without going through the house, and where 
 she and her lover used frequently to meet), and to lay them under 
 a certain peach-tree adjoining to the fields. And her hurry was so 
 great, that she forgot to desire the maid to wait till Federigo came, 
 to tell him that her master was then at home, and that he should 
 take those things away with him. Therefore Gianni and she being 
 gone to bed together, and the maid likewise, it was not long before 
 Federigo came, and tapped gently at the door, which was so near 
 to their chamber that Gianni immediately heard it, as did his wife, 
 who, to prevent any suspicion, pretended to be asleep. Presently 
 he knocked a second time, at which Gianni was surprised, and 
 began to jog her, saying, “ Do not you hear ^ Somebody knocks 
 at our door.” She, who heard it better than himself, pretended to 
 wake out of her sleep, and said, “ What is the matter T “ I tell 
 you,” quoth he, “ that I thought somebody was at our door.” “ At 
 our door!” she replied, “Alas ! do not you know what that is? It 
 is a spirit, which has terrified me so for several nights past, that 1 
 have covered myself in bed, and not dared to look about me again 
 till it was broad daylight.” “ Go,” quoth Gianni, “ why should 
 you be afraid, if it is so 1 For, before I went to bed, I said the Te 
 lucis, and the Intemerata, with divers other good prayers, and I 
 signed all the bed-posts with the cross, so that it can have no power 
 over us.” The lady now, to prevent Federigo’s taking any offence 
 at her, thought it best to arise, and let him understand, by some 
 means or other, that Gianni was there : therefore she said to her 
 husband, “ What you have done may have secured yourself; but, 
 for my part, I shall not think myself so, unless we conjure it down 
 now you are here.” “ Conjure it down !” quoth Gianni; “ how is 
 that to be done 1” “ Oh,” said she, “ I know how to do it; for the 
 other day, when 1 went to Fiesole for a pardon, one of those rfs- 
 
SEVENTH DAY. 
 
 339 
 
 cluses, a most religious lady, seeing me afraid, taught me u certain 
 prayer, which, she assured me, she had often tried to good purpose 
 before she was a nun. Alas ! I could never have the boldness to 
 make use of it alone; but, as you are now with me, we will go to¬ 
 gether, and repeat it.” Gianni declared that he was willing; and 
 so they went softly to the door, whilst Federigo began to be uneasy 
 at waiting there so long. “ Now,” she said to Gianni, “ you must 
 take care to spit when I desire you. “ I will,” he replied. She 
 then began her charm, and said, “ Spirit, spirit, as you came, the 
 same way you may go; but look in the garden, and you will find 
 two fowls, some eggs, and a bottle of wine, drink of the wine, and 
 go away, and hurt not me nor my Gianni.” Having done this, she 
 said to her husband, “ Spit, Gianni” Accordingly, Gianni spit. 
 Whilst Federigo, who was without, and heard this, was roused from 
 his jealousy; and, with all his disappointment, had much ado to 
 keep from laughing out, saying to himself, “ I wish you had spit 
 out your teeth.” She repeated it three times, and then they went 
 to bed. Federigo, who had depended upon supping with her, and 
 was fasting, hearing this charm, went to the peach-tree, and found 
 the capons, wine, and eggs, and carried them home, when he made 
 a good supper; and being with her some time after, they were very 
 merry concerning this enchantment. Now some people tell the 
 story otherwise, and aflirm that the ass’s head was turned towards 
 Fiesole, but a labourer in the vineyard gave it a turn by chance 
 with his stick, and so set it the wrong way, which occasioned 
 Federigo’s coming at that time; whilst she made use of the follow¬ 
 ing words, “ Spirit, spirit, go away in God’s name; it was not I, 
 but somebody else, that turned the ass’s head. Plague on him, 
 whoever it was ; but I am here with my husband ;” and that he 
 went away without his supper. But a certain old lady, a neighbour 
 of mine, told me that both stories were true, as she had heard 
 when she was a chiid, and that the latter did not happen to Gianni 
 Lotteringhi, but to one called Gianni di Nello, just such another 
 simpleton as Gianni Lotteringhi. Then pray, ladies, take which 
 charm you like best: both have been of service to others in this 
 sort of cases, as you have heard. Try them, and they may be as 
 useful to yourselves. 
 
340 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 NOVEL II. 
 
 Peronella puts her gallant into a tub on her husband’s coming Iwins; 
 which tub, the husband had sold ; she consequently tells him that she had 
 also sold it to a person who was then in it to see ^ it were sound. Upon 
 this the man jumps out, makes the husband clean it for him, and carries 
 it home. 
 
 MILIA’S novel was heard with a great deal of mirth, and 
 the charm esteemed a very good one, when the king 
 ordered Philostratus to follow, which he did in the 
 following manner;— 
 
 My dear ladies, the tricks which are put upon you by us men, 
 and especially by your husbands, are so many, that if ever it 
 happens that a woman does the like, you should not only be 
 pleased to hear of it, but you yourselves should spread it every 
 where, to let the men understand, that if they are wise, you are so 
 too. This must have a good effect, for when it is known that 
 people are forewarned, nobody would go about so soon to deceive 
 them. Who sees not then that this day’s discourse being noised 
 among the men, may not be a restraint upon them in that respect 
 when they come to find that you know how to serve them in the 
 same way 1 I will tell you, therefore, what a woman, though but 
 of mean rank, did to her husband in a moment, as it were for her 
 own safety. 
 
 It was not long since that a poor man at Naples married a young 
 handsome wife, named Peronella; and he being a mason, and she 
 spinning every day, they managed to gain a tolerable livelihood. 
 Now it happened that a young man in the neighbourhood took a 
 liking to her, and making a discovery of his inclinations, it was at 
 length agreed between them, that as the husband went out every 
 morning to his work, he should watch that opportunity to come to 
 her, which accordingly he did more than once. But one morning 
 amongst the rest the honest man being gone abroad, and Gianello 
 Strignario, for that was the gallant’s name, visiting her as usual, 
 in a little time the husband returned, though he was not used to 
 come home till night, and finding the door bolted on the inside, 
 he knocked, and then said to himself, “ Thank Heaven, though I 
 am poor, I have an honest and careful wife ; for no sooner am 1 
 gone out but she makes all fast, that nobody should come, in my 
 absence, to do us any injury.” Peronella, who knew it was hei 
 husband by his manner of knocking, said. “ Alas, Gianello, I am a 
 
SEVENTH DAY, 
 
 34^ 
 
 dead woman; my husband is returned; I cannot imagine for 
 what reason, unless it was that he saw you come in ; but, for God’s 
 sake, be it as it will, go you into that tub, whilst I open the door, and 
 we shall then see what this sudden return of his means.” Accord¬ 
 ingly he stepped into it, whilst she let her husband into the house; 
 and putting on an angry look, she said, “ Pray what new fancy is 
 this, your coming home so early to-day 1 As far as I can find, 
 you are disposed to do no more work, that you have now got your 
 tools with you. And what are we to live upon in the meantime 1 
 Do you think I will suffer you to pawn my gown, and what few 
 clothes I have ? I do nothing but spin night and day, till I have 
 worn my fingers to the very stumps, and all will scarcely find us 
 oil to our lamp. Husband, husband, there is not a neighbour we 
 have but wonders and makes a jest of me for all the labour I 
 undergo, and yet you return here, with your hands in your pockets, 
 when you ought to be at work. Wretch that I am, in an ill hour 
 was I born, and worse that I happened to meet with you ! I 
 could have had a young man that would have maintained me 
 well, and I refused him for this creature here, who knows not how 
 to value a good wife. Other women have a good time with their 
 gallants; nay, some have two or three, and make their husbands 
 believe the moon is made of green cheese; and because I am 
 virtuous, and have no regard for such practices, for that reason I 
 am used the worse; I see no cause why I should not have my 
 gallants as well as they. I would have you know, that I have had 
 offers of money and other things from a number of young gentle¬ 
 men, but nothing of that kind could seduce me : no, I was never 
 the daughter of such a mother, and yet you will come home when 
 you ought to be at work.” The husband then replied, “ My dear, 
 do not make yourself uneasy; I am no stranger to your merit, and 
 have had farther proof of it this morning : I did go out to work 
 indeed ; but neither of us then knew that it was the feast of St. 
 Galeone, which is to be kept holy, and for that reason am 1 
 returned; nevertheless, I have found means that we shall have 
 bread for a month, for I have sold the tub, which you know haa 
 been long in our way, to this man whom I have brought with me, 
 for five shillings.’’ “ This is so much the worse,” answered she ; 
 “ you that go up and down, and should know things better, to sell 
 a thing for five shillings which I, a poor ignorant woman, that keep 
 always within doors, considering the room it took up in our house. 
 
342 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 have now sold to an honest man for six, and who had just got 
 into it as you came to the door, to see whether it was sound.” 
 When the husband heard this he was over and above rejoiced, and 
 said to the man he had brought, “ Friend, you may go about your 
 business; you hear it is sold for six, whereas you were to have 
 given no more than five.” “ With all my heart,” said the honest 
 man, and away he went. “ But,” quoth Peronella to her husband, 
 “ as you are now here, even make the agreement with the man 
 yourself.” Giannello who was listening to what passed between 
 them, hearing these words, came out of the tub; and, as if he 
 knew nothing of the husband all the time, said, “ Where is the 
 good woman T The husband, stepping forward, replied, “ Here I 
 am ; what do you want T “ Who are you answered Giannello, 
 “ I want the woman who sold me the tub.” “ Y'ou may make the 
 bargain with me,” quoth the honest man, “ for I am her husband.” 
 “ Then,” said Giannello, “ the tub appears to be sound; but it 
 seems as if you had kept something of dregs in it, for it is so 
 crusted all over in the inside, that I cannot scratch off one bit 
 with my finger-nail; therefore I will not have it till it is made 
 clean.” Peronella replied, “ This shall never break the bargain ; 
 my husband will soon clean it for you.” The husband said, with 
 all his heart; and laying down his iron tools, and stripping to his 
 shirt, he got a scraper, and going into it with a candle, he fell to 
 work : and whilst he was thus busied, she often calling out to him to 
 scrape it well, they took care to employ their time in a different 
 manner. At length, when the husband came out of the tub, she 
 said to Giannello, “ Here, honest man, take the candle and see 
 whether it is to your liking.” He peeped into it, and said it was; 
 gave them the six shillings, and had it carried to his own house. 
 
 o 
 
 NOVEL III. 
 
 Eriar Rinaldo has an affair with a lady in the neighhourhoody when he 
 makes the husband believe that he is upon a charm to cure their child of 
 the worms. 
 
 HILOSTRATUS did not speak so covertly at last, but the 
 ladies took his meaning, though they seemed to laugh at 
 something else, when Eliza was now ordered to speak, 
 which she did as follows :—Emilia’s conjuring down the spirit 
 brings to mind another conjuring story, which, though it may not 
 
SEVEN'Tff DA Y. 
 
 343 
 
 be equal to hers, yet as I can think of no other I shall relate it 
 There lived at Siena a genteel young man, and of a good family, 
 called Rinaldo', who had long paid his court to a beautiful lady in 
 the neighbourhood, wife to a certain rich man, but hitherto with¬ 
 out effect. At length, whatever was the reason, he turned friar, 
 and whether that kind of life was to his liking or not, he 
 persevered in it. Though for a time therefore he had laid aside his 
 regard for the lady, and other little vanities, yet ere long he was 
 the same person again, affecting an extraordinary neatness in his 
 dress, and making ballads and love songs, whilst he was constantly 
 at balls and other diversions of that sort. But why am I so par¬ 
 ticular with this friar ] Are not they all of the same stamp 1 Alas ! 
 to the scandal of a dissolute world, they are not ashamed to appear 
 plump and ruddy, with their garments fine and delicate, whilst 
 they walk along the streets, not like doves so much as high-crested 
 cocks; and what is worse (not to mention their chambers being 
 filled with pots of rich conserves, perfumes, and other costly com¬ 
 positions, with bottles of fine distilled waters and oils, with 'v essels 
 also of malmsey, and the best Greek wines, so that you would take 
 them for a perfumer’s or a druggist’s shop), they are not ashamed 
 I say, to have it known they are gouty; supposing us to be 
 ignorant that abstinence and a coarse diet make people less corpu¬ 
 lent and more healthful; or that constant fasting and prayer 
 should not cause them to be pale and out of order: and as if we had 
 never heard that St. Dominic and St. Francis thought themselves 
 well clothed when they had one suit of coarse russet cloth to keep 
 out the cold, without ever thinking of so many changes of fine 
 apparel for mere show only, and which the simple credulous 
 multitude is obliged to pay for. Our friar then falling into his 
 former way of living, began to renew his application to this lady; 
 who, thinking him perhaps more agreeable than before, did not 
 much withstand it, only she said, “ What! do the friars give their 
 minds to such things He replied, “ Madam, take but my habit 
 off, and I am like other men.” Thus the affair was soon agreed, 
 and they had frequent meetings afterwards. One day, among the 
 rest, he went to visit her, and finding nobody with her besides a 
 servant-maid, he sent his companion with her into a pigeon-loft 
 to teach her some prayers there, whilst he and the lady, with a 
 little infant of hers, went into the chamber, when she made the 
 door ^ast; but the moment almost this was done the husband came. 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 «ncl called to her to open it. At this she was frightened to death 
 and said, “ What shall I do 1 my husband is here, and will now 
 find out the cause of our acquaintance.” The friar having his cloak 
 and hood off, replied, “ Had I but my clothes on we could find an 
 excuse ; but if you open the door, and he finds me in this manner, 
 we shall both be ruined.” Then said she, “ put on your clothes 
 instantly, and when you have done take our child in your arms, 
 and attend to what I shall say, to make your words agree with 
 mine ; and leave the rest to me.” Now calling to her husband, 
 who continued knocking at the door, she said, “ I am coming.” 
 Accordingly she went to let him in, and putting on a cheerful 
 countenance, she said, “ Husband, it was the greatest blessing in 
 the world that Friar Rinaldo happened to be here to-day, for 
 otherwise we had certainly lost our child.” The husband was 
 ready to faint away, and inquired how it happened^ “O 
 husband,” quoth she, “ it had a fit, and I knew not what to do, 
 when the friar lucidly came in, and taking the child in his arms, 
 he said, ‘ Madam, it is owing to worms which lie at his heart, and 
 would soon kill him ; but be not afraid, I will charm and destroy 
 them all, so that before I leave him, he shall be as well as ever.^ 
 Now as we wanted you to say some prayers, and the maid did not 
 know where to find you, he sent his friend to the top of the house 
 to say them in your stead ; whilst we shut ourselves up in this 
 chamber, as nobody could be present at such a mystery besides 
 the mother, and he has the child now in his arms, and only waits 
 till his friend has made an end to conclude the whole process, for 
 the child has come to himself already.” The honest man, who, out 
 of his great love for his child, was far from suspecting such a trick, 
 fetched a deep sigh, and said, “ I will go and see him.”—“ By no 
 means,” she replied, “ for that will spoil the whole thing; but 
 stay, I will see first if you may be admitted, and then call you.” 
 The friar, who heard the contrivance, was now dressed, and having 
 the child in his arms, and every thing in readiness, he called out, 
 “Madam, is not that your husband 1”—“Yes,” answered he, “I 
 am here.”—“Then come hither,” quoth he, “and behold your son. 
 whom I thought you would never more have seen alive, Tak^ 
 him, and in return make a statue of wax of the same bigness tc 
 the honour of St. Ambrose, through whose merits you have re 
 ceived this extraordinary favour.” The child at seeing his father 
 shewed several litle acts of fondness, whilst received him witli 
 
SE VEXTH DA Y, 
 
 34S 
 
 iis much joy and wonder as if he had been raised from the dead, 
 returning great thanks to the friar for what he had done. The 
 companion also, hearing all that had passed, came down into the 
 chamber, and said, “ I have gone through all the prayers which 
 you had enjoined me to repeat.” Friar Einaldo replied, “Brother, 
 you have done well, and you see by our joint endeavours the child 
 is recovered.” The honest man on this treated them both with 
 wine and sweatmeats, when they took their leave with great 
 respect. And immediately he set about making the waxen image, 
 and sent it to be set up with several others before the image of 
 St Ambrose; but not St. Ambrose of Milan. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL IV. 
 
 Tofano shuts his wife one night out of doors; who^ not being able to 
 persuade him to let her come in, pretends to throw herself into a well, by 
 throwing a stone in: he runs thither to see, during which she enters, and, 
 locking him out, abuses him well. 
 
 LIZA had no sooner made an end, than the king turned to 
 Lauretta, who immediately began to this effect:—O Love, 
 how great is thy prevailing influence ! how various and 
 subtle are thy devices ! What artist, what philosopher, could ever 
 think or contrive such shifts and evasions, as thou teachest in an 
 instant to those that follow thy paths'? All other instructions 
 whatever are slow, compared to thine, as appears by what has 
 already been said on the subject: to which I mean to add the 
 stratagem of a certain lady, conducted in such a manner as nothing 
 but love could ever have dictated. 
 
 There lived at Arezzo a certain rich man named Tofano, who 
 had a very handsome woman for his wife, whose name was Madam 
 Ghita, of whom all at once, and without knowing why, he became 
 extremely jealous. This greatly vexed the lady, who would 
 frequently demand of him his reasons for such a suspicion; and 
 he being able to assign none, but such as were general, or nothing 
 to the purpose, she resolved to plague him with the real evil, which 
 hitherto had only been imaginary. And having observed that a 
 certain young gentleman had taken particular notice of her, she 
 encouraged him so far, that they only waited for a favourable 
 opportunity to put their design into execution. Amongst the 
 rest of her husband’s bad qualities, he had taken a great delight. 
 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 S4^ 
 
 she saw, in drinking, which she not only seemed pleased with, but 
 would persuade him to drink more. In this manner she used to 
 make him drunk as often as she could, which afforded the first 
 opportunity of being with her lover, and from that time they met 
 continually by the same means. She depended indeed so much 
 upon this drunken disposition of his, that she would not only bring 
 her lover into her house, but even go and spend the greatest part 
 of the night along with him, his residence not being very far off. 
 Continuing this way of life, the husband began to perceive that, 
 whilst she encouraged him to drink in that manner, she scarcely 
 tasted it herself, and from thence to suspect, as was reaUy the case, 
 that she made him drunk with a view only to her own private 
 purposes, during the time of his being asleep. And being willing 
 to have proof of this, he pretended once (without having drunk a 
 drop aU that day), both in his words and actions, to be the most 
 disordered creature that could be. Which she perceiving, and 
 thinking that he had then had a dose sufficient, and that he would 
 sleep without any more liquor, straightway put him to bed. This 
 was no sooner done, but she went as usual to her lover’s house, 
 where she stayed the best part of the night. Tofano finding his 
 wife did not come to bed, got up, and bolted the door, and then 
 went and sat in the window to wait for her coming home, that she 
 might see he was acquainted with her way of going on; and 
 continued there till her return. She finding the door bolted, was 
 exceedingly uneasy, and tried several times to force it open. 
 Which after Tofano nad suffered for some time, he said, “ Madam, 
 you give yourself trouble to no purpose, for here you shall not 
 come : go back, if you please, for you shall enter no more within 
 these doors, till I have shewed you that respect, which these ways 
 of yours require, before all your relations and neighbours.” She 
 then begged, for Heaven’s sake, that he would open the door, 
 saying, that she had not been where he imagined; but (as the 
 evenings were long, and she able neither to sleep all the time, nor 
 to sit up by herself) that she went to see a gentlewoman in the 
 neighbourhood. But all was to no purpose, he seemed resolved 
 that the whole town should be witnesses of their shame, when 
 otherwise they would have known nothing of the matter. 
 
 The lady, finding her entreaties of no effect, had recourse to 
 threats, and said “ Either open the door, or I will make you tha 
 most miserable man that ever wsw born.” Tofano replied, “ And 
 
SEVENTH DAY, 
 
 347 
 
 which -way you do it'?” She, whose wits were sharpened by 
 love, continued, “ Before I will suffer such a disgrace, as you mean 
 wrongfully to' fasten upon me, I will throw myself directly into 
 this well, and being found there afterwards, everybody will conclude 
 that you did it in one of your drunken fits; whence it must 
 unavoidably happen, that you be either obliged to fly your country, 
 and lose all your effects ; or else that you be put to death, as having 
 murdered your wife.” This, however, had no effect upon him; 
 when she said, “ I can no longer bear all your scorn, God forgive 
 you for being the cause of my death ! ” and the night being so dark 
 that they could scarcely see one another, she ran towards the well, 
 and taking up a great stone that lay by the well-side, and crying 
 aloud, “ God forgive this act of mine !” she let it fall into the well. 
 The stone made a great noise when it came to the water, which 
 Tofano hearing, firmly believed that she had thrown herself in, 
 and taking the rope and bucket, he ran out to help her. But she, 
 who stood concealed by the side of the door, seeing him go towards 
 the well, got into the house, and made all fast, whilst she went to 
 the window, and began to say to him, “ Why, husband, you should 
 use water whilst you are drinking, and not after you have made 
 yourself drunk.” Tofano, seeing her laugh at him, returned, and 
 finding the door bolted, begged of her to open it. But she now 
 changed her note, and began to cry out, “ You drunken, sorry, 
 troublesome wretch ! you shall not come in here to-night; I can 
 no longer bear with your evil practices; I will let all the world 
 know what sort of a person you are, and what hours you keep.” 
 Tofano, on the other part, being grievously provoked, used all the 
 bad language he could think of, and made a most terrible mutiny. 
 Upon which the neighbours were all raised out of their beds ; and 
 coming to their windows, inquired what w'as the matter. When 
 she began to lament and say, “ It is this wicked man, who is 
 coming home drunk at all hours of the night, which, having 
 endured a long time, and said a great deal to no purpose, I was 
 now willing to try if I could not shame him out of it by locking 
 him out.” Tofano, on the contrary, told them how the matter 
 was; and threatened her very much. She then said to the neigh¬ 
 bours, “ Now you see what sort of a man he is : what would you 
 say if I were in the street, and he within doors, as I am 1 Then 
 you might think he was in the right. Take notice, I beseech you, 
 liow artful he is; he says I have done that which he seems to have 
 
348 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 done himself, and talks something about the well; but I wish he 
 was in it, that he might have some water as well as wine/’ The 
 neighbours all joined in blaming Tofano, deeming him the person 
 in fault, and giving him many hard words for his usage of hia 
 wife; and the thing was noised about the city, till her relations 
 heard of it, who came thither in a body; and inquiring of one 
 neighbour and another neighbour how it was, they took Tofano 
 and beat him very severely. Afterwards they went into the house, 
 and carried the lady away with them, with all that was hers, 
 threatening Tofano with farther punishment. Whilst he, finding 
 the ill effects of his jealousy; and still having a regard for his wife, 
 got some friends to intercede with her to come home again, 
 promising never more to be jealous, and giving her leave for the 
 future to do as she would. Thus, like a simple knave, he was glad 
 to purchase peace, after having been to the last degree injured. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL V. 
 
 A jealous man confesses his wife under a priesfs habit, who tells him that 
 she is visited every night by a friar: and, whilst he is watching the door, 
 she lets her lover in at the house-toy. 
 
 AURETTA having made an end, the king, without loss of 
 time, pointed to Flammetta, who began in this manner: 
 
 The preceding novel brings to my mind the story of 
 another jealous person; being of opinion myself that those hus* 
 bands are justly served in that manner, who are jealous without 
 reason. And if legislators, when they make their laws, could be 
 supposed to think of everything, I imagine they would decree no 
 other punishment than what is ordered in cafees of self-defence, for 
 those jealous people are the death frequently of their wives. All 
 the week long are they kept mewed up in their houses, and when 
 holidays come that they should have some ease and diversion, as 
 all other people, according to the laws both of God and man, have 
 then rest, yet on those are they more confined than any other time; 
 so that none are so wretchedly enslaved as themselves. Therefore 
 I conclude that a trick put upon a husband, who was jealous 
 without any reason, will by you be rather commended than blamed. 
 
 There lived in Ariminio a certain rich merchant, who had an 
 agreeable woman for his wife, of whom he was immoderately 
 
seventh DAY. 
 
 34 *'* 
 
 jealous, and for no other reason in the world, but that as he was 
 very fond of her himself, and knew that it was her whole study to 
 please him, so' he imagined everyone else would like her as well, 
 and that she would be as desirous to oblige them, which showed 
 him to be one of a wicked disposition, as well as of little under¬ 
 standing. He consequently kept so strict an eye over her always, 
 that no felon under sentence of death could be more narrowly 
 ■watched. Whilst she, so far from going out to feasts at any time, 
 or to church, or out of door, under any pretence whatever, was not 
 suffered to look out of the window; so that she led a most wretched 
 life, and so much the worse, as she knew herself to be innocent. 
 Thus, finding herself so wrongfully treated, she resolved, for the 
 time to come, to give him some reason for such usage. And as she 
 had no opportunity of seeing people in the street, and knowing that 
 there was an agreeable young man lived in the next house, she 
 looked about to see if there was any chink in the wall, whereby she 
 might have an opportunity of speaking to him, to make him an 
 offer of her love, and to have him come to her sometimes, if such a 
 thing could be contrived, in order to spend her life with a little 
 more comfort, till her husband should be cured of his jealousy. At 
 last, in a corner of the room, she espied a crack which looked into 
 a chamber of the next house, and she said to herself, “ Now if this 
 should prove Philippo’s chamber,” for that was the young gentle¬ 
 man’s name, “my scheme would be half accomplished;” of this she 
 ordered her maid to inform herself, who soon found out that he 
 lay there all alone. Visiting then that place pretty often, and 
 putting little sticks and straws through into the chamber, he soon 
 perceived it, and came thither to see what it meant. She then 
 called to him, and he answered, knowing her voice, when she soon 
 made her mind known to him, which was entirely to his good 
 liking; and he endeavoured to enlarge the opening on his side, 
 taking care all the time that nobody should perceive it. From that 
 time they frequently conferred together, and could shake hands, 
 but no more, because of the husband’s extraordinary care and 
 jealousy. Now Christmas-day drawing near, she said to her hus¬ 
 band, that, with his leave, she would go to church that day, to 
 confess and receive the sacrament, like other good Christians. He 
 replied, “ And pray what sins can you have committed, that you 
 want to confess?”—“What!” quoth she, “do you take me for a 
 saint ? Though you keep me shut up in this manner, yet I must 
 
350 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 sin as well as other people; but I hare no occasion to tell yon, as 
 you are no priest.” These words occasioned such a strong suspicion 
 in him, that he was resolved to know what those sins were; and 
 having determined what means to use, he told her he was willing, 
 but that she should, go only to their chapel, and that betimes in 
 the morning, and confess to their chaplain, or some person that he 
 should appoint, and to no other, and return from thence directly 
 home. The lady seemed partly to know his design, and, without 
 making any other reply, said she would do so. 
 
 On Christmas-day, then, in the morning, she arose betimes, and 
 went to the chapel, as her husband directed her. He also went to 
 the same place, getting there first, and having agreed with the 
 priest what to do, he put on a gown, with a great hood almost to 
 cover his face, as we see priests wear sometimes, and drawing it 
 forwards over his eyes, he placed himself down in the choir. The 
 lady, upon her coming into the chapel, inquired for the priest; who, 
 hearing from her that she wanted to confess, told her that he could 
 not stop to hear her himself, but would send one of his brethren. 
 Accordingly he sent the jealous husband, in an ill hour for him as 
 it happened, who had not so well disguised himself but she imme¬ 
 diately knew him, and said to herself, “ Thank Heaven, from a 
 jealous fool he is become a priest; but I will take care to give him 
 what he seeks for.” Seeming then not to know him, she sat down 
 at his feet. Now he had put some little stones into his mouth, to 
 alter his voice, thinldng himself well enough disguised as to every¬ 
 thing else. Coming then to the confession, amongst other things, 
 she told him, that, being married, she was yet in love with a priest, 
 who came and lay with her every night. This struck him to the 
 very heart, and were it not that he was desirous of learning some¬ 
 thing farther, he had gone away, and left her that moment. So he 
 said to her, “ Well, but how is it? And does not your husband lie 
 with you?” “Yes, sir,” she replied. “Then,” continued he, “how 
 can the priest lie with you at the same time?” “I know not how 
 he does it,” quoth she, “ but there is not a door in the house but 
 opens upon his touching it; he tells me also, that, upon coming to 
 our chamber, before he opens the door, he says some certain words, 
 which throw my husband asleep, and then he comes in, and lies 
 with me, and the other never knows it.” “ 0, Madam,” quoth he, 
 “ that is a very bad thing; you must leave off such practices 
 entirely.” “ Ah, father,” answered she, “ I know not how to do ih 
 
SEVENTH DAY. 
 
 35 i 
 
 I love him so well." “ Then,” continued he, “ I can give you no 
 absolution.” “I am sorry for that,” she replied, “but I came here 
 to speak the truth; if I could leave them off, I would tell you so.’' 
 “ I am sorry for you,” quoth he, “ as I see your soul is in a state of 
 damnation; but I will offer up my particular prayers for you, 
 which may be of service, and I will send a person to you at certain 
 times, when you may inform him if you think you have received 
 any benefit, and in that case we will proceed farther.” The lady 
 replied, “ Sir, never think of sending anybody to our house, for my 
 husband is so unreasonably jealous, that all the world could never 
 beat it out of his head but that he came with a bad intent, and I 
 should not have one good day for this twelvemonth.” “ Madam,” 
 quoth he, “ have you no care for that, for I shall manage in such a 
 manner that you will hear no more from him upon that score.” 
 “ If you can do that,” she replied, “ I am content.” And having 
 made an end of her confession, and received penance, she got up, 
 and went to mass. The husband, fit to burst with fury, put off the 
 priest’s habit, and went home, waiting to find the priest and his 
 wife together, in order to wreak his vengeance upon both ; whilst 
 she went out of the church, seeing plainly by his looks that she had 
 given him but a bad Christmas-box, though he endeavoured to 
 conceal both what he had done and meant farther to do. 
 
 Resolving then to wait the next night at the door for the priest, 
 he said, “ I shall go out to sup, and stay all night; be sure, there¬ 
 fore, you lock the door to the street, and that upon the stairs, as 
 also your chamber-door, and when you are disposed you may go to 
 bed.” She wished him a good night, and went immediately to the 
 chink in the chamber, and made the usual sign, when Philippo 
 came to her, and she told him what she had done that morning, 
 and what her husband had said afterwards, adding, “ I am confi¬ 
 dent he will never stir from the door all night long; do you contrive' 
 a way, then, to come in at the top of the house.” He replied, full of 
 joy, “ Depend upon it, madam, I will.” When night came, therefore, 
 the jealous husband armed himself privately, and lay concealed in 
 a ground-room, whilst she made the doors fast, especially that upon 
 the stairs: and the young man, when he thought it a proper time, 
 came by a secret way into her chamber. 
 
 The husband, in the meantime, continued supperless all night 
 lo->g, uneasy to the last degree, and almost starved to death with 
 cold, waiting by the door for the priest. Day appearing at last. 
 
352 
 
 THE DECAMEKOJSi. 
 
 and nobody coming, he composed himself there to sleep. Rising 
 at the third hour, and the door of the house being now opened, he 
 came in, pretending to come from another place, and called for his 
 breakfast. Soon afterwards he sent a messenger to her, as from 
 the priest who confessed her, to know if that person had come to 
 her since. She, who understood full well the nature of the 
 message, replied, No, he did not come that night, and that if he 
 left off visiting her she might forget him, although she had no 
 desire to do so. 
 
 What more need I say to you*? The husband continued to 
 watch every night, and they were together all the time. At last, 
 being out of all manner of patience, he demanded of her, with 
 the utmost wrath in his looks, what it was that she had confessed 
 to the priest % But she refused to tell him, saying, “ that it was 
 neither just nor reasonable.” He added, “ Thou vile woman, I 
 know, in spite of thee, what it was, and I will make thee confess 
 who this priest is that lies with thee every night, by virtue of his 
 enchantments, or else I will cut thy throat.” She replied, “ It is 
 false; I never lay with any priest.” “ What,” said he, “ did you 
 not say so and so to the priest who confessed you^” “Not,” she 
 replied, “ for him to tell you again; but if you were present, it is 
 a different thing: then, to be plain with you, I did say so.” “ Now 
 tell me,” quoth he, “who this priest is, and quickly.” She smiled, 
 and said, “ I am always glad to see a wise man led (by the horns 
 as it were) by a simple woman; though you deserve not that cha¬ 
 racter, since you have suffered yourself to be transported by that 
 unreasonable fit of jealousy, without knowing why; therefore the 
 more weak you are the less is my glory. Do you think my eyes 
 are as bad as your understanding^ No; I knew very weU who 
 the priest that confessed me was, and that it was you. But I was 
 resolved to give you what you wanted, and 1 think I have done so. 
 But if you were as wise as you would be thought, you would nevei 
 nave desired to come at your wife’s secrets in that manner, and 
 would have known, without any vain suspicion, that every word 
 was true which I said, and wdthout the least crime or offence. I 
 told you I loved a priest: were not you, my unworthy husband, 
 then a priest % I said, no door could be kept shut when he had a 
 mind to come to me: and is not that literally true ? I added that 
 the priest lay with me every night. And pray when did you lie 
 from me ] And when you sent to know if he was with me that 
 
SEV^.NTH DA K 
 
 353 
 
 ,/ 
 
 night I answered he was not. Who but a person blinded with 
 jealousy like yourself, but must have understood these things? 
 And yet you kept watch all night at the door, and would have 
 made me believe that you were gone elsewhere to sup and spend 
 the night. Consider a little better and behave like a man, nor 
 expose yourself any longer to me, who am acquainted with all 
 your ways; but leave off this extraordinary care upon my account; 
 for, I assure you, were I disposed to be what you suspect, had 
 you a hundred eyes, whereas you have only two, I could do it over 
 and over, and you be never the wiser. 
 
 The poor jealous creature, who had thought himself cunning 
 before, now saw how he was despised, and, without more words, 
 divested himself of that foolish and troublesome disposition; 
 esteeming his wife for the time to come as a virtuous and prudent 
 woman. And she had no faither occasion to make her lover come 
 in at the top of the house, as cats do; for the door was open after¬ 
 wards w’henever they had a mind to be together. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL VI. 
 
 Isabella^ being in company with her gallant, called Leonctto, and being 
 visited at the same time by one Lambertuccio, her husband returns, ivhen 
 she sends Lambertuccio away with a drawn sword in his hand, whilst the 
 husband guards Leonetto safe to his own iiouse. 
 
 HEY were all pleased with Flammetta’s story, declaring 
 that the woman had served the brute exactly right. And 
 it being concluded, the king ordered Pampinea to go on, 
 who then said :— 
 
 There are many people so foolish as to affirm that love deprives 
 persons of their understanding, and that they who are in love are 
 out of their wits. But how ridiculous this assertion is will appear 
 by what has been said before, and also by what I am going now to 
 tell you. 
 
 In our city, abounding with everything that is good, there was 
 formerly a beautiful lady, wife to a certain worthy knight, who 
 desiring, as it will sometimes happen, a little variety, began to 
 grow indifferent towards her husband, casting her eye upon a 
 certain young spark called Leonetto, one of no great family, but 
 xgreeable enough; he likewise began to show the same good liking 
 towards her, and it was not long before their wishes were accom- 
 
 23 
 
354 
 
 THE DECAMEROH, 
 
 plished. Now it happened that another gentleman was in love 
 with her also, called Lambertuocio, one by no means agreeable to 
 her; but he ceased not to solicit her by all manner of ways, 
 threatening at the same time, as he was a man of note and power, 
 to lessen and expose her, unless she would comply with his desires. 
 This terrified her so much that she thought herself obliged to listen 
 to him. And being now, as it was summer-time, at one of their 
 country houses, and her husband being gone from home to make 
 some stay, she sent for Leonetto to come and be with her in the 
 meantime. He obeyed her summons with great pleasure. Lam- 
 bertuccio, knowing also that her husband was abroad, came all 
 alone on horseback, and knocked at the gate. Her maid, seeing 
 him there, ran up stairs to her mistress, who was in her chamber 
 with Leonetto, and said, “ Madam, Signor Lambertuccio is heue 
 below.” The lady was under the greatest concern imaginable, and 
 desired Leonetto not to mind stepping behind the curtain of the 
 bed till the other was gone. Leonetto, who feared him as much as 
 she did, went and hid himself there, whilst she ordered her maid 
 to go and let Lambertuccio in, who being dismounted, and hanging 
 his horse at the door, was immediately shewed up stairs; when she, 
 meeting him at the top, asked, with a smile in her countenance, 
 how she came to be favoured with the visit. “ My life !" quoth 
 he, “ I understood your husband was abroad, and it was for that 
 reason I came to see you.” He had not been long with her before 
 her husband, contrary to her expectation, returned. As soon as 
 the maid saw him, she came suddenly into the chamber, and said 
 to her mistress, “ Madam, my master is returned, and now in the 
 court.” The lady was quite confounded at hearing this, and, con¬ 
 sidering that she had two men in the house, and that the knight 
 could not be concealed on account of his horse, gave herself up 
 for lost; yet, resolving at length what to do, she said to Lamber¬ 
 tuccio, “ Sir, if you have any regard for me, and are willing to 
 save me from destruction, pray do as I shall direct you. Go down 
 stairs with an angry countenance, and your sword in your hand, 
 saying, ‘ I vow to Heaven if ever I meet with him anywhere else.’ 
 And if my husband should offer to stop you, or ask any questions, 
 say nothing more than that; but mount your horse directly and 
 ride away, nor offer to stay with him upon any account whatever.” 
 Accordingly he obeyed her directions, whilst the husband was 
 wondering to see the horse there, and coming up stairs he was 
 
SEVENTH DA Y. 
 
 355 
 
 further surprised at Lambertuccio's fierce countenance, and hearing 
 him talk in that manner; and he said to him, “ Pray, what is the 
 matter, sir The other put his foot in the stirrup, and muttered 
 
 only these words, “ If ever I meet the villain again-and so 
 
 rode away. The knight, going up-stairs, found his wife at the 
 stair-head, terrified out of her wits, and he said to her, “ What is 
 the reason of Lambertuccio’s going away in so much heat and 
 fury When she, drawing nearer to her chamber that Leonetto 
 might hear, replied, “ My dear, I never was so frightened in my 
 whole life. A gentleman whom I never saw before, ran in here, 
 and Lambertuccio after him with a drawn sword, and finding the 
 chamber-door open, he came trembling into it, saying, ‘I beg, 
 madam, you will protect me, otherwise I shall be murdered in 
 your very presence.^ I arose, and was going to ask him who he 
 was, and what was the reason, when Lambertuccio was at the top 
 of the stairs roaring out, ‘Where is the villain V Upon this I ran 
 to the chamber door, and stopped him as he was just coming in, 
 when he was so civil to me, indeed, after he saw I was unwilling he 
 should come into the chamber, that, after a few words, he went 
 back again just as you met him.” The husband then said, “ My 
 dear, you did well; it would have been a great discredit to us to 
 have had anybody murdered in our house ; and Lambertuccio was 
 highly to blame to pursue a person hither. But,” quoth he, “ where 
 is the gentleman She replied, “ He is hid somewhere or other; 
 I know not where.”—“ Where are you *1” quoth the knight, “ you 
 may come out without any danger.” Leonetto, who heard aU that 
 passed, came from where he was concealed much terrified, as indeed 
 he had no reason; when the knight said to him. “ Pray what affair 
 is this that you have had with Lambertuccio V* —“ Nothing,” he 
 replied, “ in the world that I know of; so that I am convinced he 
 has either lost his senses, or else mistakes me for some other 
 person; for, upon seeing me in the street, at a distance from your 
 house, he drew his sword, and said, ‘ Villain, thou art a dead man!’ 
 I stayed to ask no questions, but made the best of my way, and 
 came hither, where, thanks be to Heaven and this lady, I have 
 found protection.” “ Then,” said the knight, “ be under no fear; 
 I will see you safe home, when you may make inquiry what the 
 ground of his quarrel with you is.” After supper, then, he mounted 
 him upon one of his horses, and conducted him to Florence to his 
 own house. And that night, by the lady^s direction, he had a 
 
 23—2 
 
THE DECAMEROH. 
 
 356 
 
 private conference with Lambertuccio, when they so planned if^ 
 that though there was much talk afterwards about it, the husband 
 never knew the truth of his wife’s stratagem. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL VII. 
 
 Lodovlco helng in love vnth Beatrice, she sends her husband into the gardk%^ 
 disguised like herself, so that her lover may he with her in the meantime; 
 and he afterwards goes into the garden, and heats him. 
 
 K ^' SABELLA’S quick and lucky thought was admired by the 
 ^ whole company, when Philomena began, by the king’s 
 command, to this effect:—You must understand, that at 
 Paris dwelt a certain gentleman, a Florentine, who, being a little 
 reduced, was forced to go into trade, by which means he acquired 
 a great deal of wealth. He had only one son, named Lodovico, 
 who having regard to the nobility of his father, more than to any¬ 
 thing of business, was, instead of being brought up in a warehouse, 
 sent, with some other young noblemen, into the service of the King 
 of France, where he acquired all the accomplishments that belong 
 to a fine gentleman. And being one day in company with certain 
 knights, who were just returned from the Holy Land, and talking 
 of beauties in England, France, and other countries, one of them 
 declared, that, in all parts of the world, of all the women that ever 
 he saw, he never met with any to come up to Beatrice, the wife of 
 Egano de’ Galluzzi, of Bologna; to which his companions, who had 
 been with him there, agreed. Lodovico, at hearing this, was pos¬ 
 sessed with such a desire of seeing her, that he could think of 
 nothing else; and designing to go and make some stay there, if she 
 proved to his liking, he pretended to his father that he had an 
 inclination to go to the Holy Land, who gave his consent with 
 great reluctance. Changing his name then to Anichino, he came 
 to Bologna; and, as fortune would have it, saw her at her window 
 the very next day, when he found her beauty to exceed even his 
 warmest imagination; and, being quite enamoured, he resolved 
 not to depart from Bologna till he had obtained his desire. 
 Thinking, therefore, which was the most likely way to succeed, he 
 supposed, that if he could but get to be a servant to the husband« 
 he might probably carry his point. Accordingly he sold his horses, 
 and, disposing of his servants, with orders never to take notice of 
 him, he told his landlord that he should be glad to get into the 
 
SEVENTH DAY. 
 
 35 ? 
 
 service of some person of distinction, if such a place could be met 
 with. The landlord replied, “ You are just such a person as would 
 suit a gentleman here, called Egano, who has a great number of 
 servants, and will always have well-looking, genteel people about 
 him, like yourself: I will speak to him for you.” This he did, and 
 Anichino was immediately taken into the family, greatly to hi| 
 satisfaction. Continuing then with Egano, where he had dail^ 
 opportunities of seeing the lady, he gained so far upon him, by his 
 good behaviour, that he could do nothing without him; and he 
 made him sole director of all his affairs. When one day it hap¬ 
 pened, as Egano was gone out a fowling, and left him behind, that 
 Beatrice (who as yet knew nothing of his love, but had always 
 commended his most engaging behaviour) made him sit down with 
 her at chess, and Anichino, as it was his whole desire to please her, 
 contrived to let her win, with which she was vast] y delighted. 
 
 At length, all the women being gone out of the room, and they 
 left by themselves, he fetched a deep sigh. She looked, and said? 
 
 What is the matter with you, Anichino % Are you uneasy because 
 I win 1”—“ Madam,” he replied, “ it is a thing of more consequence 
 which occasioned that sigh.”—“ Then by the regard you have for 
 me,” quoth she, “ I conjure you to tell me.” When Anichino saw 
 himself entreated by his love for her, whom he valued beyond all 
 the world, he gave a greater sigh than before. She desired again 
 to know the reason. Whilst he replied, “ Madam, I am extremely 
 afraid lest I should disoblige you by so doing ; I doubt also if you 
 would not speak of it to some other person.” She made answer, 
 “ Be assured I shall not be disobliged ; nor shall I ever speak of it 
 again, unless you give me leave.”—“ Then,” quoth he, “ as I have 
 your promise, I will reveal it.” And he told her, with tears in his 
 eyes, who he was ; what he had heard of her, and where ; and how 
 he came to be servant to her husband, and entreated her, in the 
 most humble manner, to have pity on him, and accept of the secret 
 offer of his love; or, if that was too great a favour for him to expect, 
 that he might continue in the same condition as before ; and that 
 she would be pleased only to let him admire her. O ! how singu¬ 
 larly sweet are these Bolognian dispositions! In cases of this sort 
 how worthy of praise! They delight not in people's tears and 
 sighs ; but to soft and amorous entreaties, are ever easy of access. 
 Were I able to give them their due praise, my voice should never 
 faint on so agreeable a subject. The lady had her eyes fixed upon 
 
358 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 him all the time he was speaking, and giving entire credit to his 
 Irords, she began to conceive the same passion in her heart for him; 
 whilst she replied, “Anichino, have a good heart; you have effected 
 that in a moment (the small time only that you have been speaking), 
 which all the lords and gentlemen, who have been daily soliciting 
 me, could never bring to pass ; so that now I am more yours than 
 my own. You have deserved my love, and you shall have it; 
 come, therefore, to my chamber about midnight.” Upon this they 
 parted, and he waited with great impatience for night. Egano was 
 now returned from fowling, and, being weary, went, as soon as he 
 had supped, to bed, and the lady with him, leaving the door open, 
 as she had promised. At the time appointed, Anichino went into 
 the bed-chamber, and shutting the door again, he stepped gently 
 to the lady’s side of the bed, when, laying his hand upon her breast, 
 he found she was awake. Accordingly she seized it with both hers, 
 and held him strongly, turning herself in bed at the same time, till 
 she made her husband awake, when she said to him, “ My dear, I 
 would say nothing to you last night, because you seemed to be 
 weary: but tell me, which of your servants do you believe to be 
 the most faithful, and whom you respect the most Egano re¬ 
 plied, “What a strange question this is ! Do not you know that I 
 never loved, and put such confidence in any servant, as I now do 
 in Anichino 1 But why want you to be informed Anichino, 
 perceiving Egano to be awake, and hearing them talk together, 
 endeavoured several times to have drawn his hand away, with a 
 design of leaving the room, imagining that she had put a trick upon 
 him ; but she held him so fast that he could not. She then replied 
 to Egano, saying, “ I will tell you: I once thought as you do, and 
 that he was the most trusty person about you, but I was mistaken ; 
 for he had the assurance, after you were gone out yesterday, to 
 make an offer of his love to me; whilst I, to give you manifest 
 proof of it, seemed to consent, and appointed to meet him this 
 night under the pine-tree, in the garden. Now my intention was 
 never to go thither; but if you have a mind to be convinced of his 
 villany, you need only slip on one of my petticoats, and put a veil 
 over your head, and I am sure you will find him.”—“Then,” quoth 
 he, “ most certainly will I go.” Arising, therefore, and disguising 
 himself in that manner, as well as he could in the dark, he went 
 into the garden to wait for Anichino. As soon as he was gone out 
 she arose also, and made fast the door. Whilst Anichino, who had 
 
SEVENTH DAY, 
 
 359 
 
 been under the greatest fears imaginable, and had endeavoured all 
 he could to get from her, cursing both her and her love a thousand 
 times over;‘and himself likewise, for giving credit to her; finding 
 out what was her design at last, was the happiest man imaginable. 
 At length, when she thought he had been as long with her as it was 
 safe for him to stay, she said, “ I beg of you to take a cudgel, and 
 go into the garden; and, pretending as if this was done only to 
 make trial of my virtue, do you give him some hard language, as 
 though it was myself, and cane him soundly.” Accordingly he 
 arose, and took a good stick with him thither; whilst Egano, 
 seeing him come towards the pine-tree, went with a great deal of 
 seeming pleasure to meet him. When Anichino said, “ What! you 
 wicked woman, are you come ? And could you think I could do 
 such a thing by my master % I will make you repent your base¬ 
 ness.” And lifting up his cudgel, he laid on to some purpose.— 
 Egano, at these words, and feeling the blows, took to his heels, 
 without speaking a word, whilst Anichino was close after him, 
 crying out, “ Away, you vile creature! and depend upon it that 
 my master shall know to-morrow.” Egano having sustained all 
 this drubbing, returned at last to his chamber, when the lady said 
 to him, “Well! did Anichino come into the garden^” Egano 
 replied, “Would to God he had stayed away ! for, besides all the 
 foul language that could be used to any woman, he has broken 
 almost all the bones in my skin. I wondered indeed that he should 
 use those rude expressions, if he had such an intention as I sup¬ 
 posed him to have, towards you. But, as he saw you of such a free, 
 cheerful temper, he had a mind to make trial of you, I suppose.”— 
 “ Then thank Heaven,” quoth she, “ he proved me with words, and 
 you with deeds. But, I believe, he may say that I bore the words 
 better than you did the deeds : as he has shewed himself so faithful, 
 therefore, to you, you will regard him accordingly.”—“ Most cer¬ 
 tainly,” said Egano : and from that time he concluded that he had 
 the most virtuous wife and honestest servant of any man in the 
 v/orld On which account (though Anichino and she often laughed 
 together at the thing) they had an opportunity of gratifying their 
 desires with the less suspicion (which could not have been done so 
 well without such a stratagem) all the time Anichino thought fit 
 to stay with Egano at Bologna. 
 
36o 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 NOVEL VIII. 
 
 A woman who had a very jealous husband, tied a thread to her great toe, 
 by which she informed her lover whether he should come or not. Thk 
 husband found it out, and whilst he was 'pursuing the lover, she put her 
 maid in her place. He takes her to be his wife, beats her, cuts off her 
 hair, and then fetches his wife's relations, who find nothing of what he 
 had told them, and so load him with reproaches. 
 
 EATRICE seemed to them all to have been strangely spiteful 
 towards her husband ; and everyone agreed that Anichino’s 
 fright and confusion must be very great to be held in that 
 manner, whilst she told her husband of his design upon her. The 
 king now seeing that Philomena had done, turned to Neiphile, and 
 said, “ Do you speak.” Neiphile smiled and replied:— 
 
 A great charge at present rests upon me, to relate something 
 equal to what has been said already; but I shall endeavour to 
 acquit myself as well as I can. 
 
 Know, then, that in our city lived a certain rich merchant, 
 named Arriguccio Berlinghieri, who, like many of our trades 
 people now-a-days, foolishly thought to ennoble himself by mar¬ 
 riage ; and he took a wife, not at all suitable to himself, whose 
 name was Sismonda. She (her husband, like other persons of 
 business, being often abroad) fell in love with a young gentleman 
 called Ruberto, who had long paid his addresses to her, and being 
 not so discreet in that affair as she ought to have been, it happened, 
 whether her husband had any notion of it, or for what other reason 
 I cannot tell, thit he became the most jealous creature in the 
 world, and laying' aside all his other concerns, he applied his mind 
 wholly to the ca re of her : nor would he ever go to sleep without 
 seeing her first in bed. This was the greatest afldiction to her, as 
 it deprived her of all opportunity of being with her gallant: 
 therefore, after much thinking about it, and being greatly 
 importuned by him all the time, it came into her head at last to 
 take the following method : namely, as her chamber was towards 
 the street, and she knowing that, though her husband was long 
 sometimes before he went to rest, yet that when he was once fast 
 he was not easily stirred ; she meant to have her lover come to the 
 door in the middle of the night, and to go and let him in whilst 
 the husband was asleep. And that she might know when he was 
 there, and nobody else perceive it, she resob^ed to put a thread out 
 
SEVENTH DAY. 
 
 361 
 
 of the window, one end of which should go near to the ground, 
 and the other end was to be brought low along the floor, and so 
 under the clothes into the bed ; which when she went to bed she 
 would tie to her great toe. Having acquainted Kuberto with 
 this, she told him, that, as often as he came, he should pull the 
 thread, when, if her husband was asleep, she would let it go ; but, 
 if he was not asleep, she would hold it fast, and then he was not 
 to expect her. Ruberto liked this scheme mighty well, and he was 
 frequently coming thither, when sometimes he could have her 
 company, and sometimes not. Till at last, carrying on this device 
 in the same manner, it happened, whilst she was asleep, as the 
 husband was stretching out his feet in the bed, that he met with 
 this thread; when putting down his hand and flnding it tied to 
 her toe, he thought within himself there must be some trick here : 
 perceiving afterwards that the other end went out of the window 
 he held it for granted ; accordingly he took it off her toe and put 
 it upon his own, waiting to see what the event would be. He had 
 not been long expecting, before Ruberto came, and pulled the 
 thread as usual: Arriguccio perceived it, and not having tied the 
 thread fast enough, and the other drawing pretty strong, it came 
 into his hand, which he supposed was for him to stay, and so he 
 did. Arriguccio upon this arose with all haste, and taking arms 
 with him, he went to the door, to see who it was, and to take 
 vengeance on him. Now, though he was a merchant, he was a 
 stout, warlike man ; and being come to the door, and not opening 
 it in the manner the lady used to do, Ruberto began to have a 
 suspicion how it was, and immediately took to his heels, and the 
 other after him. At last Ruberto having run a great way, and the 
 other still pursuing li^m, he faced about (as he was armed likewise) 
 and drew his sword, whilst the one continued pushing, as the other 
 stood upon his defence. The lady awoke the moment her husband 
 opened the chamber-door, and finding the thread gone from her toe, 
 concluded she was discovered. And perceiving that he had run 
 after her lover, she arose, resolving what to do; and calling her 
 maid (who was in the secret) she prevailed upon her to go into her 
 bed; begging of her to receive all the blows patiently which her 
 master should give, without making any discovery ; and she would 
 make her such a recompence, that she should have no cause to 
 repent. Putting out the light then which was in the chamber, she 
 went and hid herself in a corner of the house, waiting for the event. 
 
3^2 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 The fray between Arriguccio and Ruberto had alarmed all the 
 neighbours, who arose and began to reprove them very severely: 
 on which Arriguccio, without knowing who his antagonist was, or 
 being able to do him any harm, left him (for fear of being known 
 himself), and returned full of wrath to his own house. And 
 coming into the chamber, he said, “Where is this vile woman? 
 What! she has put out the candle that I should not find her; but 
 she shall be mistaken. So he went to the bed-side, and began to 
 beat and kick the maid (thinking it was his wife), till he was quite 
 weary, and what with his hands and feet together, had bruised her 
 face to a mummy. When he had done that, he cut off her hair, 
 saying all the reproachful things that could be spoken to a woman. 
 The girl roared out very much (as indeed she had reason); and 
 though she would frequently say, “For God^s sake have mercy!” 
 and nothing more, yet her words were so broken with lamentations, 
 and he so blinded too with fury, that he never discovered her not 
 to be his wife. Having beat her then to some purpose, and cut off 
 her hair (as we observed), he said, “ Thou vile prostitute, I shall 
 meddle with thee no farther, but will go for thy brothers, to let 
 them know of thy exploits, when they may do as they shall think 
 most for their own credit, and take thee away with them ; for here 
 thou shalt no longer abide so he locked her in, and went away 
 by himself. 
 
 As soon as Sismonda (who had heard the whole transaction) 
 perceived he was gone, she came into the chamber, and struck a 
 light, when she found the girl all bruised, and in tears. And 
 having comforted her in the best manner she was able, she removed 
 her to her own apartment, where she was well taken care of: and 
 rewarding her, at Arriguccio’s expense, to her own content, she 
 went immediately and set her room to rights ; making the bed over 
 again, as if nobody had lain in it that night; and she lighted up 
 the lamp, and dressed herself as if she had never been in bed. 
 Then taking up her work, she sat herself down at the top of the 
 stairs, and began to sew. Arriguccio in the meantime went with 
 all possible haste to her brother’s house, and knocked there till he 
 made them hear and open the door. When the brothers (who were 
 three) and the mother all arose, hearing it was he ; and seeing him 
 come alone, at that time of night, they inquired the reason. 
 Whereupon he related the whole affair, beginning with the thread, 
 and going on to what he had done afterwards, and at length, by 
 
SEVENTH DAY. 
 
 3^3 
 
 v/ay of conviction, shewed them the hair which he had cut off; 
 adding, that, in regard to their own honour, they might take her 
 away, and dispose of her as they pleased, for that he would be no 
 longer troubled with her. The brothers were greatly offended at 
 hearing this story, and in their fury ordered torches to be got 
 ready, preparing to go back with him, that she might not want her 
 due treatment; whilst the mother went heavily after, sometimes 
 entreating one, and sometimes another of them, not to be too hasty 
 in condemning their sister; alleging, that he might have quarrelled 
 with her upon some other account, and now brought this by way 
 of excuse; adding, that she wondered how it could be; seeing that 
 she well knew her daughter, having brought her up herself; with 
 more words to that effect. Being now at the house, and going up 
 stairs, Sismonda called out to them, and said, “Who is there]” 
 When one of her brothers replied, “ You shall soon know, you vile 
 creature as you are!” “Lord have mercy on me!” said she, “what 
 is all this for ?” And rising up, she went, saying, “ Brothers, you 
 are welcome ; but what is the meaning of your coming all three at 
 this time of the night ]” They, observing that she had been sitting 
 at work, and without any such bruises or blows as the husband 
 had talked of, began to wonder; and, abating a little of their 
 former wrath, they inquired the meaning of this difference with her 
 husband, threatening her severely if she spoke anything but the 
 truth. The lady replied, “ I know not what you would have me 
 say, nor of any quarrel that I have had with him.” Arriguccio, at 
 beholding her, was like one confounded, remembering that he had 
 scratched and beat her in a most outrageous manner, of which no 
 sign now appeared ; and her brothers then told her what they had 
 heard from him. She now turned to him, and said, “ Alas ! my 
 dear, what is this I hear! and why would you have me thought to 
 be a wicked person, to your great disgrace, when I am not so ; and 
 yourself an ill-tempered sorry man, when it is quite otherwise] 
 When were you here to-night before now ] Or when did you beat 
 me ] For my part, I know nothing of the matter.” Arriguccio 
 replied, “You abominable wretch! what, did we not go to bed 
 together] Did I not return hither again, after pursuing your 
 gallant ] Did I not give you a thousand blows at the same time 
 that I cut off your hair]” 
 
 She made answer, “You never went to bed in this house to¬ 
 night : but, letting this aloue, for which you can have only my 
 
THE DECAMERON, 
 
 364 
 
 word, and to come to what you talk of, namely, of your beating 
 and cutting off my hair, let any one see if I have such bruises upon 
 me ; nor should I advise you to attempt ever to serve me so ; for, 
 as I hope to be saved, I would return the like, if you did. And, 
 as to cutting off my hair, I never knew anything of it if it was so; 
 but let us see whether it be as you say, or not.” She then pulled 
 her veil off, and shewed her hair all entire, and in order. The 
 brothers and the mother, seeing this, said to him, “ How now, sir! 
 Surely this can never be the thing that you came to acquaint us 
 with; which way will you prove the rest T Arriguccio was like 
 one out of his wits. Gladly would he have said something, but 
 seeing the thing appear differently from what he had undertaken 
 to shew them, he could not get out one word. She now said to her 
 brothers, “ I see he has a mind I should relate to you his vile pro¬ 
 ceedings, and my own unhappiness, and I will do it. I believe 
 firmly that what he says may be true, and I’ll tell you which way. 
 This sorry fellow, to whom you gave me in an ill hour, who calls 
 himself a merchant truly, and would be thought such, and who 
 therefore should be as temperate as a hermit, and as modest as a 
 maid; this man, I say, is drunk most nights in one tavern or other; 
 one while with one prostitute, and then again with another, whilst 
 I am forced to sit up for him, in the manner you now found me, 
 till midnight for the most part, and often till morning. And being 
 very drunk, he might find a thread tied to the toe of one of those 
 strumpets, and run after some person or other, and fight him, as he 
 says; and returning back, he might beat her in that manner, and 
 cut off her hair: and not being thoroughly sober again, he imagines 
 it was done to me ; if you observe, he appears now to be half fud¬ 
 dled : therefore I would have you consider him as a person in 
 liquor, and forgive him even as I mean to do.” 
 
 The mother, at these words, made a great clamour, and said, 
 “ My dear child, it shall never be; he deserves hanging, for an ill- 
 conditioned brute as he is. He is unworthy of such a woman as 
 you are. What could he have done more, had he catched you in 
 the open street % Things are come to a fine pass truly, if you must 
 be set down by the words of a little paltry merchant. This sort of 
 fellows, you must know, if they have but a little money in their 
 pockets, are all for a gentleman’s daughter ; when they pretend to 
 ‘=!ome coat of arms, and say, ‘ I am of such a family, and my an- 
 "^stors did so and so.’ Would to heaven my sons had followed my 
 
SEVENTH DAY, 
 
 365 
 
 advice! Count Guido would gladly have taken you v/ithout a 
 penny of fortune; yet they chose to marry you to this jewel here : 
 and though there is not a better gentlewoman nor one more vir¬ 
 tuous in Florence, yet he was not ashamed to call you strumpet, as 
 if we were strangers to your character. But, as I hope to Kve, were 
 they ruled by me, they would beat him to a mummy.” Turning 
 now to her sons, she said, “ I told you, as we came along, that it 
 could never be true. You hear how this fine brother of yours uses 
 your sister: a poor sorry fellow as he is! were I in your place, 
 hearing what he has both said and done towards her, I would never 
 leave him with life. —Confound him ! for a drunken, quarrelsome 
 villain, to have no shame in him !” Here the brothers said all the 
 severe things they could think of ; concluding at last with saying, 
 “We forgive you this once, as you were drunk, but take care we 
 hear no more such stories ; if we do, we will pay off all your old 
 scores,” and so they left him. Arriguccio stood like one who had 
 lost his senses, scarcely knowing whether all this was real, or only 
 a dream, and from that time quarrelled no more with his wife; 
 whilst she not only escaped from the most imminent danger, but 
 opened a way to obtain her desires, without the least fear of her 
 husband for the time to come. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL IX. 
 
 Lydia, the wife of Nicostratus, being in love with Pyrrhus, did three things 
 which he had enjoined her, to convince him of her affection. She aftei'- 
 wards used some familiarities with him before her husband’s face, making 
 him believe that what he had seen was not real. 
 
 EIPHILE’S novel had pleased them all to that degree, that 
 they could not keep from laughing and talking about it, 
 although the king had several times called out silence, in 
 order that Pamphilus should speak; who at length began in 
 this manner:—There is nothing, I am persuaded, so dangerous 
 and difficult, that a person who is thoroughly in love will not at¬ 
 tempt ; which, though it has been shewed by various instances 
 already given, yet I think will be still more apparent from a story 
 which I am going to tell you, of a lady much more fortunate than 
 wise. Therefore I would advise no one to run the risk of following 
 her paths ; because neither is fortune always disposed, nor are all 
 men to be blinded in the same manner. 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 In Argos, aii ancient city of Achaia, more famous formally foE 
 its kings than great, lived a certain nobleman called Nicostratus, 
 to whom fortune, in the decline of his life, had given a young lady 
 for his wife, of as great a spirit as she was beautiful, named Lydia. 
 Now he, being a lord of a large estate, kept a great number of ser¬ 
 vants, dogs, and hawks, and was very fond of country diversions. 
 Amongst his other servants was a genteel young man named Pyrr¬ 
 hus, whom he valued and trusted above all the rest. With this 
 person she was so much in love, that she could never be happy but 
 in his company; whilst he (whether he did not, or would not per¬ 
 ceive her regard for him), seemed not at all affected by it. This 
 she laid much to heart, and resolving to make him understand 
 her, she called one of her favourite maids, whose name was Lusca, 
 and said to her, “ Lusca, the favours you have received from me, 
 should make you both obedient and faithful; take care, therefore, 
 that you reveal what I am going to speak to no one, save to the person 
 concerned. You see what a great disproportion there is between 
 my husband’s age and mine, and may suppose I can have but little 
 comfort with such an one; for that reason I have made choice of 
 our Pyrrhus. If you have any regard for me, then, let him know 
 my love for him in the best manner you are able ; and entreat 
 him, on my part, that he would please to come hither to me.*' The 
 girl promised to do so; and, on the very first opportunity, she took 
 Pyrrhus aside, and delivered her message. This surprised him very 
 much, as not having the least notion of such a thing; and being 
 apprehensive that it might be done to try him, he answered 
 roughly, “ Lusca, I can never think this comes from my lady; then 
 take care what you say: or, if she did say so, you could never have 
 her orders to disclose it; or, even admitting that, still I have that 
 regard for my lord, that I could never offer to do him such an 
 injury: I charge you, then, let me hear no more about it.” Lusca, 
 not at all abashed at his stern way of speaking, replied, “ Pyrrhus, 
 I shall speak at all times what I am ordered by my lady to say, 
 whether it offends you or not; but, for your part, you are no better 
 than a brute.” And she returned full of wrath to her mistress, who 
 Was fit to die on hearing it; and in a few days she said again, 
 “ You know, Lusca, that one stroke never fells an oak; then go 
 once more, and tell him that his fidelity is at my expense; repre¬ 
 sent the passion I have for him in such a manner that he may be 
 affected with it; for. if he continues so indifferent, it will go near 
 
SEVENTH DAY. 
 
 367 
 
 to C 0 &* me my life.” The girl desired her to take courage; and going 
 again to Pyrrhus, and finding him in good humour, she said, “ I 
 told you, a few days ago, of the great regard my lady had for you; 
 and I now assure you, that, if you continue in the same resolution, 
 she will never survive it: then be persuaded, or I shall think you 
 the greatest fool in the world. What an honour will it be to have 
 the love of such a lady! Consider how greatly you are obliged to 
 fortune : she offers you a most beautiful woman, and a refuge from 
 your necessities. Who will be happier than yourself, if you be 
 wise 1 Do but represent to yourself whatever an ambitious heart 
 can desire; all will be yours. Open then your understanding to 
 my words, and remember that fortune is wont to come once in our 
 lives to us with cheerful looks, and her lap full of favours ; if we 
 turn our backs on her at that time, we may thank ourselves should 
 we be poor and miserable all the rest of our days. You talk of 
 honour and fidelity; there is something indeed in that plea among 
 friends : but, with regard to servants, in such a case, they may do 
 just as their masters would behave to them. Can you imagine, 
 had you a wife, daughter, or sister, that our master fancied, that 
 he would stand on such nice terms of duty, and all that, as you 
 now do to his wife ? You can never be so foolish, but you must 
 believe, that, if persuasion was ineffectual, he would make use of 
 force. Let us serve them, therefore, as they would serve us ; make 
 use of fortune’s kind offer in your favour: for, depend upon it, 
 setting aside the consideration of what may happen through your 
 refusal to the lady, if you do not, you will repent the longest day 
 you have to live.” Pyrrhus, who had made several reflections on 
 what she had said before to him, and had resolved to make a dif¬ 
 ferent reply if ever she came again, being now not averse to the 
 thing, provided he could be assured she was in earnest, made 
 answer, “ Lusca, this is all true, I confess; but yet as my lord is a 
 very wise and provident person, and, as I am entrusted with the 
 management of all his affairs, I am afraid that my lady only does 
 this to try me: three things then there are that I require of her 
 for my own conviction, after which I will obey all her commands. 
 The first is, that she kill my lord’s favourite hawk before his face; 
 the second, that she send me a lock of his beard ; and the third, 
 one of his soundest and best teeth.” These seemed very hard con- 
 ditions to the maid, and more so to the mistress ; but love, who is 
 »* good comforter as well as counsellor, soon made her resolve. 
 
368 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 Accordingly, slie sent him word, by the same person, that all three 
 should be done. And farther, that, as he had such an opinion of his 
 lord’s wisdom, she would also undertake to make him not believe his 
 own eyes. Pyrrhus then waited to see what course she meant to take. 
 In a few days, therefore, Nicostratus having prepared a great enter¬ 
 tainment, as he used frequently to do, just as the cloth was taken 
 away, she came into the hall richly dressed, and there, in the 
 presence of Pyrrhus and the whole company, went to the perch 
 where the hawk was, and unloosed him, as if she had a mind to 
 take him upon her hand, when taking him by the jesses, she dashed 
 his brains out against the wall. And while Nicostratus was crying 
 out “ Alas! my dear, what have you done f’ she took no notice, 
 but turned to the people, and said, “ I should scarcely revenge 
 myself of a king that was to do me an injury, if I wanted courage 
 to wreak myself on a paltry hawk. You must know, that this bird 
 has deprived me of all the pleasure I should have from my hus¬ 
 band : for, by break of day he is up, and on horseback, after his 
 favourite diversion, whilst I am left all alone, and neglected : for 
 which reason I have long taken a resolution to do this thing, and 
 only waited for an opportunity to have so many equitable judges 
 present, as I take you to be.” 
 
 The gentlemen, supposing her affection to Nicostratus to be as 
 fervent as her words seem to declare, laughed heartily; and, 
 turning to Nicostratus, who seemed a good deal disturbed, they 
 said, “ She has done very well in taking her revenge upon this 
 hawk;” and, after a little raillery, changed his resentment into a 
 fit of laughter. Pyrrhus upon seeing this said to himself, “ She 
 has made a noble beginning, Heaven grant that she may persevere!” 
 —^The hawk being thus despatched, it was not long before she 
 happened to be toying with her husband in the chamber, whilst 
 he, pulling her gently by the hair, gave occasion for her to put 
 Pyrrhus’s second command in execution : when taking hold of a 
 little lock of his beard, and laughing heartily at the same time, 
 she pulled so hard that it brought the skin and all away together. 
 He grew very peevish at this, and was going to quarrel with her; 
 when she said, “ You make an angry face, truly, because I plucked 
 a hair or two off your beard; you were not sensible what I suffered 
 when you pulled me by the hair just now.” So, continuing their 
 play from one word to another, she took care of the tuft of his 
 beard, and sent it that very day to her lover. She was more per- 
 
SEVENTH DAY. 
 
 369 
 
 plexed about the last thing; but, having an enterprising genius, 
 which was rendered more so by love, she soon resolved on what 
 means to use to bring that about. And, as Nicostratus had two 
 youths in his house, given him by their fathers, who were gentle¬ 
 men, in order to learn good breeding, one of whom carved his 
 victuals whilst the other filled out the wine, she made them both 
 believe one day that their breath was very offensive; and she 
 taught them, when they waited upon Nicostratus, to turn their 
 heads on one side always, but never to speak of it to any person. 
 This they believed, and did as they were directed. One day she 
 said to him, “ Did you ever take notice of your pages’ behaviour 
 when they wait upon you —“ Yes,” said he, “ I have, and have 
 been often going to ask them the reason.”—“ Then,” she replied, 
 you may spare yourself that trouble, for I can tell you. I have 
 kept it some time from you, for fear of disobliging you; but, now 
 I see other people take notice of it, I can conceal it no longer. It 
 is then because you have a stinking breath; I know not what the 
 cause may be, for it did not use to be so; but it is a most grievous 
 thing, as you keep a great deal of company: therefore I would 
 have you take some method or other to get rid of it.”—“What,” 
 said Nicostratus, “can it be owing to? Have I a foul tooth in 
 my head ?” She replied, “ Perhaps you have;” and, taking him 
 to the window, she made him open his mouth, and after looking 
 carefully in every part, she said, “ 0, my dear ! How could you 
 bear with it so long ? Here is a tooth which seems not only rotten, 
 but entirely consumed; and if you keep it any longer in your 
 mouth, will certainly decay all on the same side: I advise you 
 then to have it out before it goes any farther.”—“ As you think 
 so,” quoth he, “ and I approve of it too, send instantly for an 
 operator to draw it out.”—“ Tell me of no operator,” said she ; “ I 
 will never agree to that; it seems to stand in such a manner that 
 I think I could do it myself: besides, those fellows are so barbarous 
 upon tnose occasions, that my heart could never bear to have you 
 under their hands. Therefore I will try to do it myself; and, if it 
 gives you too much pain, 1 will let you go again, which those 
 people will never do.” Getting now an instrument for that 
 purpose, and sending everyone out of the room, excepting her 
 favourite maid, she seated him upon a stool, and laying hold of a 
 tooth whilst the other kept him fast down, she put him to most 
 intolerable pain, and at length drew it out by main force: then 
 
 34 
 
370 
 
 THE L>ECAMER0N, 
 
 keeping the tooth, and producing a rotten one which she had ready 
 in her hand, she said to the poor man, who was almost dead, “ See 
 here what it was you had in your mouth !” and he, believing it to 
 be so, though he had felt the most exquisite torture, and complained 
 much of her harsh way of doing it, as it was out, thought himself 
 cured; and having taken some good comfortable things the pain 
 abated, and he went out of the chamber. The toothj she imme¬ 
 diately sent to her lover, who, being now convinced of her love, 
 held himself in readiness to obey her commands. But she, willing 
 to give him some farther assurance, and thinking every hour an 
 age till she could be with him, feigned herself to be very ill; and 
 her husband coming one day after dinner to see her and nobody 
 with him but Pyrrhus, she desired that, by way of ease to her 
 malady, they would take her into the garden. Accordingly Nico- 
 stratus took hold of one arm and Pyrrhus the other, and leading 
 her thither, laid her on a grass plat under a pear-tree: and sitting 
 down by her, she, who had before instructed him what to do, said 
 to Pyrrhus, “ I have a great desire to have some of those pears; 
 do you climb up into the tree and get me a few.” Pyrrhus 
 immediately went up, and, as he was throwing down some of the 
 pears, he began to call out, “ So ! what are you doing there below % 
 Do you think I am blind ] I find, madam, you are soon recovered 
 after your fit of sickness. You had better take those liberties 
 elsewhere.” The lady turned to her husband, and said, “ What is 
 Pyrrhus talking of % He is in a dream, surely.”—“ No, madam,” 
 quoth he, “ I am in no dream. What 1 did you think I could not 
 see you 1” Nicostratus wondered, and said, “ Surely, Pyrrhus, you 
 are raving.”—“No, sir,” he replied, “I am very confident I saw 
 you so and so together.” Quoth the lady, “What can be the 
 meaning of this? Were I well enough, I would actually go into 
 the tree myself to behold the strange things that he talks of seeing 
 from thence.” Pyrrhus still continued in the same story, when 
 Nicostratus desired him to come down, and asked him what it 
 was he really saw 1 Pyrrhus replied, “ I thought I saw you billing 
 and cooing, which, though innocent enough between husband and 
 wife, should never be practised in public.”—“ The man is out ol 
 his wits,” quoth Nicostratus; “ we neither of us so much as stirred 
 from the place where we were sitting.”—“ Then,” said Pyrrhus, 
 “ I tell you I saw it.” Nicostratus was now more and more sur¬ 
 prised. and said, “ I will see whether this tree be encnanted ox 
 
SEVENTH DA Y. 
 
 371 
 
 not:’’ and as he was mounting up into the tree, Pyrrhus and the 
 lady became very loving. Nicostratus, seeing t&is, began to call 
 out, “ Oh ! thou vile woman ! what art thou doing there 1 and 
 that rascal, Pyrrhus, in whom I put all my confidence V* And 
 with these words, he made all possible haste down, when the lady 
 and Pyrrhus both said, “We were sitting here all the time just as 
 you left us.”—However, he seemed to be in a violent passion, 
 whilst Pyrrhus said to him, “ JSTow, sir, I am convinced that I saw 
 falsely myself, as yours is the same case; for I can be positive that 
 3 'Ou were mistaken. Do but reason with yourself: can it be 
 supposed that your lady, who is the most virtuous and prudent of 
 all others, should ever attempt to do such a thing before your very 
 face 1 And, for my own part, I would be cut limb from limb 
 before I would ever entertain such a thought, much less do so in 
 your presence.”—“The fault, then, in this mistaken appearance 
 must proceed from the tree; for all the world could never have 
 convinced me but that I saw you and my lady together in the 
 same manner, if I had not heard from yourself that we appeared 
 so to you.” On this she said, with a good deal of warmth, “ Do 
 you think, were I so loosely given, that I should be such a fool as 
 to do these things before your eyes 1 No, there are opportunities 
 enough, without your being ever the wiser.” Nicostratus, believing 
 at last what they both said, came into a little better temper, and 
 began to talk of the novelty, and wonder at the thing; whilst the 
 lady, who seemed concerned for the ill opinion he had received 
 concerning her, added, “ Most certainly, this tree shall never 
 occasion any more scandal either to me or any other woman, if I 
 can help it: run, therefore, Pyrrhus, for an axe, and cut it down, 
 in regard to us both ; though the axe might be as well employed 
 upon my husband’s weak noddle for believing his own eyes in a 
 case so repugnant both to common sense and reason.” The axe 
 was then brought and the tree cut down, upon which she said to 
 Nicostratus, “ My wrath is over now I see my honour’s adversary 
 thus demolished.” And he having begged her pardon, she freely 
 forgave him, charging him for the future never to presume such a 
 
 thing of her, who loved him dearer than her own life.-Thus 
 
 the poor deluded husband returned with his wife and Pyrrhus into 
 the house, where nothing now prevented the latter from accom¬ 
 plishing aU their wishes. 
 
 24—2 
 
372 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 NOVEL X. 
 
 Two mhoMtants of Siena love the same woman, one of whom was godfather 
 to her son. This man dies, and returns, according to his promise, to 
 his friend, and gives him an account of what is done in the other world. 
 
 HERE was only the king now left to speak; who, after 
 quieting the ladies, who were under some concern for the 
 cutting down of the pear tree, began as follows :—It is a 
 plain case, that every just prince ought himself to be tied down 
 by the laws of his own making; and that, if he acts otherwise, he 
 should be punished as a private person : now I am forced to fall 
 under this very censure, for yesterday I gave you a subject for this 
 da 5 r’s discourse, with no design of making use of my privilege, 
 but to conform with the rest, and speak to it myself. Whereas, 
 besides taking the very story from me which I meant to have 
 given, there has been such a variety of incidents related to the 
 same effect, and well told, that I can think of nothing myself 
 worth troubling you with, after them. Therefore, as I am under 
 the necessity of transgressing against my own law, I submit to 
 any punishment you shall please to inflict upon me. So, having 
 recourse to my privilege at last, I shall relate a short novel; which, 
 though it contains some things which we are not to credit, may 
 not be disagreeable for you to hear. 
 
 There were, some time since, two young men of Siena, the one 
 named Tingoccio Mini, and the other Meuccio di Tura, who dwelt 
 in the Porta Solaia, and were very intimate. They used, there¬ 
 fore, to go to church together, when hearing much of the pleasures 
 and pains of a future state, and being desirous of knowing some¬ 
 thing more certain on that head, they promised each other, that 
 whichever died first should return, if it was possible, to inform his 
 friend. In the meantime, they happened both to faU in love 
 with the lady of Ambruogio Anselmini. This, how great soever 
 their friendship was, they kept from each other, though for different 
 reasons. Tingoccio had been godfather to one of her children; 
 and being in a measure ashamed of such gallantry, he concealed it 
 from his friend. On the other part, Meuccio kept his love a secret, 
 because he knew the other liked her as well as himself. At length 
 Tingoccio, as he had more opportunities than his friend, happened 
 to succeed. This was a great mortification to Meuccio, who still 
 lived in hopes of gaining his poim some time or other: and seemed, 
 
SEVENTH DAY. 
 
 373 
 
 therefore, to know nothing of the matter, lest Tingoccio should 
 thwart his designs. Some time after this, Tingoccio was taken ill, 
 and died : and the third night afterwards, he came into Meuccio’s 
 chamber, who was fast asleep, and called aloud to him.—Meuccio 
 awoke, and said, “What art thou?” He replied, “I am thy friend 
 Tingoccio, who am come, according to our agreement, to bring 
 thee tidings of the other world.” Meuccio was considerably 
 terrified at this, but taking courage at last, he said, “Thou art 
 welcome.” And then he asked him whether he was a lost person ] 
 Tingoccio made answer, “ Those things only are lost which cannot 
 be found ; and if that was my case, how should I be here T —“ I 
 mean not so,” quoth Meuccio ; “ but what I ask is, whether you 
 be one of the damned?”—“Not so,” said he; “but yet I suffer 
 great pains for some sins which I committed.” He then inquired 
 what punishment was inflicted for every single sin ; and Tingoccio 
 resolved him fully in each particular. And asking farther, if he 
 could do him any service here, Tingoccio answered, “ Yes ; namely, 
 by saying prayers and masses, and giving alms: for those things 
 are of great benefit to the deceased.” This Meuccio promised to 
 do ; and as the ghost was ofiTering to depart, he raised himself up, 
 and said, “ I remember, my friend, that you had an affair with 
 such a lady : pray what is done to you on that account ?”—“ O, 
 brother,” he replied, “ when I first arrived in the other world, 1 
 met with a ghost who seemed to have all my sins by heart, and 
 who ordered me to go into a certain place, where I was to do 
 penance for them, and where I found a great many people who 
 were sent thither upon the same score. And being among them, 
 and calling to mind that particular crime you now mention, for 
 which I expected some verj^ great punishment, I was all over in a 
 tremble, although in the midst of a great fire. When one that 
 stood by me said, ‘ Pray, what hast thou done more than any one 
 else, that thou quakest to this degree in so hot a place ?'—‘ Alas !’ I 
 replied, ‘ I had to do with my godson’s mother.’—‘ Go, thou fool, 
 said he, ‘ is there any relationship in that, to make the crime 
 worse ?’ This gave me some comfort.” Afterwards, it being near 
 daybreak, he said to his friend, “ Farewell, for I can stay no 
 longer with youso vanished out of the room. Thus Meuccio 
 was convinced that that sort of kindred was of no consequence, 
 and was less scrupidous than he used to be in such caRa.s for the 
 time to come 
 
274 
 
 THE DR CAMERO.^ 
 
 The west wind began now to breathe, as the snn grew near bis 
 setting; when the king, having concluded his novel, arose, and 
 taking the crown from his own head, placed it upon Lauretta’s, say¬ 
 ing, “ Madam, I crown you with your own crown, as queen of this 
 company ; do you, as such, command what you think will be most 
 agreeable to us all.” Lauretta, being now queen, sent to the 
 master of the household, and ordered him to have the cloth laid in 
 the pleasant valley sooner than usual, that they might return 
 afterwards with more ease to the palace. Then directing what she 
 would farther have done, she turned to the company, and said, “ It 
 was Dioneus’s will, yesterday, that our novels should be concern¬ 
 ing the devices and tricks which women put upon their husbands; 
 and was it not that you would think I had malice in my heart, my 
 subject for to-morrow should be the manner of men’s imposing 
 upon their wives. But setting this aside, let every one think of 
 the stratagems which are in daily practice of the women to the 
 men, or of the men to the women; or, lastly, of one man to 
 another ; and this, I think, will afford as agreeable matter for dis¬ 
 course as what we have had to-day.” Here she gave them their 
 liberty till supper-time. The company then arose, and whilst 
 some went to wash their feet in the cool stream, others took a walk 
 upon the green turf, under the cover of the spreading trees, and 
 Dioneus and Flammetta sat singing together the song of Palamon 
 and Arcite. Thus all were agreeably employed till supper; when 
 the tables being set forth by the side of the basin, they sat down 
 to the music of a thousand birds, and their faces fanned all the time 
 with cool, refreshing breezes, coming from the little hills around 
 them, they supped with the utmost mirth and satisfaction. Taking 
 a walk afterwards round the valley, before the sun was quite set, 
 they began their march back to the palace, talking all the way of 
 a thousand different things, which had either occurred in this day’s 
 discourse, or the preceding, and arrived there as it grew dark. 
 Refreshing themselves after their walk, with wine and sweetmeats, 
 they indulged in a dance by the side of the fountain ; sometimes, 
 for variety, to the sound of Tindarus’s bagpipe, and sometimes to 
 other more musical instruments. At length the queen called upon 
 Philomena for a song, who thus obeyea : 
 
SEVENTH DAY, 
 
 375 
 
 SONG. 
 
 r5iich my desire to meet my love, 
 
 That I with eager transport fly; 
 
 But why your long unkind delay ? 
 
 Tall me, my swain, O tell me why. 
 
 II. 
 
 The joys I from your converse feel 
 No pow’r of language can express; 
 
 Whilst your commanding smiles and voice 
 Conspire with mutual aid to bless. 
 
 III. 
 
 Say then, my life ! when shall we meet, 
 
 And former vows of love renew ? 
 
 Soon come the time, be long your stay ; 
 
 For all my wishes point to you. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I’ll hold you fast, when fortune thus 
 Auspicious crowns my fond desires ; 
 
 Then haste, fly quick to my embrace j 
 That pleasing hope my song inspires. 
 
 This song made them all conclude that Philomena was subject 
 to the little god; and, by her manner of expressing herself, her 
 passion seemed to be in a fair and prosperous way : but when it 
 was snded, the queen, remembering that the next day was a fast, 
 said, “ Gentlemen and ladies, I must let you know, that to-morrow, 
 being Friday, it is to be observed as holy; for you may remember, 
 that when Neiphile was queen, we waived our diversions on that 
 day, and so we did on Saturday. Therefore I think it proper to 
 follow so laudable an example, and to dedicate those two days to 
 our devotions.” This was agreeable to the whole company; and a 
 good part of the night being now spent, she dismissed them, and 
 they retired to their respective chambers. 
 
THE EIGHTH DAY. 
 
 HE rays of the rising sun began now to gild the tops of the 
 highest mountains, and the shade of the night was with¬ 
 drawn from the earth, when the queen and all her com¬ 
 pany arose on Sunday morning, and, after taking a pleasant walk 
 along the meadows, they went, about the third hour, to a neigh¬ 
 bouring chapel, where they heard Divine service. Returning to 
 the house, and dining cheerfully, they afterwards began to sing and 
 dance as usual: when leave was given to such as wished to repose 
 themselves. After the sun had passed the meridian, they all met 
 again by the fountain-side, and being seated, Neiphile, by the 
 queen’s command, thus commenced : 
 
 NOVEL I. 
 
 Gulfardo borrows a sum of money of GuasparruolOy In order to give U 
 his wife for granting him a favour: he afterwards tells GuasparruolOy 
 whilst she was presenty that he had paid it to her, which she acknowledges 
 to be true. 
 
 EEINGr it is my fortune to begin to-day with a novel, I am 
 content to obey: and, as we have heard much of the 
 women overreaching the men, I have a niind to tell you 
 of a man’s being too cunning for a woman : not that I mean to 
 blame him for it, or to say that she was not rightly served. No, I 
 rather commend him, and think she met with no more than her 
 due. I do it also to shew that the men know how to deceive us 
 upon occasion, as well as we do to impose upon them: though, to 
 speak more properly, this cannot be called deceiving, so much as 
 making a deserved return ; for a woman ought to be virtuous and 
 chaste, and to hold her honour as dear as her life : and though our 
 frailty is such that we cannot always be upon our guard, yet I think 
 that woman ought to be burned who makes a trade of love. But 
 where the little god takes the field, whose force you know is very 
 great, some grains of allowance should be made, as was shewed a 
 few days since by Philostratus, in the story of Madam Philippa di 
 Prato. 
 

! 
 
EIGHTH DAY. 
 
 377 
 
 There lived at Milan a soldier, who was a German, and his name 
 was Gulfardo; one of a good person, and very trusty to such as 
 retained him iii their service, as the Germans generally are; and, 
 because he was always very punctual in his payments, he found a 
 great many merchants ready at any time to lend him any sum, for 
 a very small profit. Now he had placed his affections on a lady 
 called Ambruogia, wife to a certain rich merchant, named Guaspar- 
 ruolo, who was his old friend and acquaintance. Conducting this 
 affair with such caution that neither the husband nor any one 
 else had the least suspicion about it, he took an opportunity one 
 day of declaring his mind to her, when she promised to comply 
 upon two conditions; first, that it should be kept secret; and, 
 secondly, as she had occasion for two hundred florins of gold, that 
 he should supply her with that sum. Gulfardo was so provoked 
 at this sordidness, that his love was changed into rage and con¬ 
 tempt ; and he resolved, therefore, to put a trick upon her. 
 Accordingly he let her know that he was ready at all times to do 
 that or anything else which she desired, and that she should send 
 him word when she would have him wait upon her with the money, 
 promising to bring only one friend, in whom he put entire confi¬ 
 dence, and who was his companion upon all occasions. She was 
 content, giving him to understand that her husband was to set out 
 in a few days for Genoa, and that, as soon as he was gone, she 
 would take care to send for him. In the meantime, Gulfardo went 
 to Guasparruolo, and said, “ Sir, I have an affair of consequence 
 upon my hands, which requires me to raise two hundred florins of 
 gold; if you will advance that sum, I will allow you the most 
 gratuity.” Guasparruolo readily agreed to it, and told him out the 
 money. In a few days after he set out for Genoa, as the lady had 
 said, who immediately sent word to Gulfardo to come, and bring 
 the two hundred florins. Obedient to the command, he took his 
 friend along with him, and went to her house, when the first thing 
 lie did was to give her the money before this person, saying, 
 
 “ Madam, you will keep this, and give it to your husband when he 
 returns.” She received it, never thinking why he spoke to her in 
 that manner, but supposing it was because he would have his friend 
 to know nothing of the matter, and replied, “ I will; but first let 
 me see what money there is.” So she turned it out upon the table, 
 and found there were just two hundred florins ; when, locking it up 
 with a secret s^^tisfaction, she came and shewed him into the 
 
378 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 chamber. And he continued his visits to her during her husband’s 
 absence at Genoa. On his return, he went again to the house, and 
 finding him with her, he said in her hearing, “ Sir, the money you 
 were so kind as to lend me was of no service, because I could not 
 compass the thing on the account of which I borrowed it: there¬ 
 fore I brought it back immediately to your wife. Please then to 
 cancel my account.” Guasparruolo turned to her, and inquired 
 whether she had received the money*? She, seeing the witness 
 present, and not knowing how to deiiy it, said, “Yes, I received it, 
 and forgot to tell you.”—“ Then,” he replied, “ I am satisfied; fare¬ 
 well—your account is clear.” Gulfardo withdrew, well pleased, 
 leaving the lady full of indignation, defeated and despised. 
 
 NOVEL II. 
 
 The parson of Varlungo receives favours from a woman of his parish, and 
 leaves his cloak in pawn for them. He afterwards borrows a mortar oj 
 her, which he returns, and demands his cloak, which he says he left only 
 as a token. She mutinies, hut is forced by her husband to send it. 
 
 te^lHEY all thought that Gulfardo had served the sordid 
 H.S Milanese lady very justly, when the queen turned with a 
 smile towards Pamphilus, and desired him to follow :— 
 
 I mean, said he, to relate a short story, touching those people 
 who are continually doing us injuries, without our being able to 
 come at them, in the same manner at least as we are affected; I 
 mean the priests, who set up their standard, and publishing a 
 general croisade against our wives, thinking, when once they bring 
 any of them under their subjection, that they have done as meri¬ 
 torious an action as if they led the sultan captive from Alexandria 
 to Avignon. Now we of the laity cannot return the like to them, 
 though we should do well to revenge what is done to our wives, 
 with as good a will, upon their mothers, sisters, and other relations. 
 I will tell you, therefore, of a country amour, more diverting, in the 
 conclusion especially, than long; by which you may reap the benefit 
 of learning that those people are not always to be regarded. 
 
 At Varlungo, a village not far from this place, lived a young 
 healthful priest, who, though not very expert at reading, yet was he 
 used to hold forth under an elm tree every Sunday, regaling the 
 people there with many good and holy discourses. And as to the 
 
EIGHTH DA Y. 
 
 379 
 
 women, no priest ever gave them better attendance, for he was 
 daily carrying them presents of cake, holy-water, and candle ends, 
 when he would also give them his blessing. Among all his parish¬ 
 ioners, none pleased him so well as a good woman, called Belcolore, 
 wife to a certain labourer, whose name was Bentivegna del Mazzo : 
 she, in truth, was a tight, handsome, brown woman, and could sing, 
 and play^upon the virginals, or lead up a dance as well as any lass 
 in the country ; so that our priest was almost out of his wits about 
 her. All day long would he go sauntering about to get a sight of 
 her, and on Sunday, when she was at prayers, he would quaver out 
 his Kyries and his Sanctuses, like an ass that was braying, to let 
 her see that he was a master of music ; but if she happened not to 
 be there, he made no such stir; and yet he managed so, that neither 
 the husband nor any of the neighbours perceived it. The better to 
 gain her favour, he was every now and then sending her presents : 
 one day a bunch of leeks, the finest in the country, out of his own 
 garden, tilled with his own hands ; another time a basket of pease, 
 and onions or scallions, as the season served. And, when he saw 
 an opportunity, he would give her a glance or two from the corner 
 of his eye, whilst she seemed all the time not to take his meaning; 
 so that, hitherto, it was all labour lost. Now one day it happened, 
 as he was idling about, that he met the husband, who was driving 
 an ass laden before him, when he accosted him, and asked whither 
 he was going ? “ Why truly, father,” he replied, “ I am going about 
 some ’'‘usiness to the city, and I carry these things as a present to 
 Signor Bonaccori da Ginestreto, for him to enter an appearance for 
 me, and to stand my friend in a cause that I have before the judge.” 
 The priest seemed pleased, and said, “ Son, you are in the right: 
 go, you have my blessing, and make haste home ; and if you should 
 see Lapuccio or Naldino, do not forget to tell them to bring home 
 my leathern straps.” The honest man promises to take care of his 
 errand, and so went on towards Florence, whilst the priest thought 
 this a fit opportunity to go to the wife, to try what he could do with 
 her. Accordingly, he made no stop till he came hither, and enter¬ 
 ing into the house, he called out, “God bless you all here ; who is 
 within Belcolore was gone upstairs, and when she heard him, 
 she said, “You are welcome, sir; but what are you doing abroad 
 in the very heat of the day T The priest replied, “ I am come to 
 spend a little time with you, finding that your husband is gone to 
 the city ” 
 
 
 * 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 380 
 
 She then came and sat down, and began to pick some cole-seed, 
 which her husband had just been threshing, when he sai l, “ Ah, 
 Belcolore! must I always die for you in this manner V She 
 laughed, and replied, “ Pray what harm have I done you —“ You 
 have done nothing to me,” answered he, “ but you will not suffer 
 me to press you.”—“ Go, go,” quoth she, “ what! do priests then 
 mind such thingsT—“Why not,” quoth he, “as well as other 
 people?’—“Well, but what will you give me?’ said she* “for I 
 know you are all as covetous as the devil.”—“ Why, ask what you 
 will,” he replied, “ a pair of shoes, or a top-knot, or a girdle, or 
 anything else that you like.”—“ Father,” answered she, “ I want 
 none of those things, but if you love me as you say, do one thing 
 for me, and I will consent.”—“ Say what it is,” quoth the priest, 
 “and be assured I will do it most willingly.”—“On Saturday^ 
 then,” she said, “ I must go to Florence to carry some yarn home, 
 which I have spun, and to get my wheel mended, and if you wiU 
 lend me five pounds, which I know you have, I can redeem from 
 the broker my best gown and petticoat which I have been forced 
 to pawn, and for want of which I am not able to appear upon any 
 saint’s day, and you will then find me always ready to oblige you.” 
 —“ As I hope for a good harvest,” quoth the priest, “ I have not 
 so much about me, but I will take care you shall have it before 
 that time.”—“ I know you all,” she replied, “ to be good promisers, 
 and that you never think of performing what you say. No, I will 
 make no such bargains. If you have not the money in your 
 pocket, go and fetch it.”—“ Alas !” quoth the priest, “ never send 
 me home at this time; you see there is nobody here now, perhaps 
 when I return there may; so that we can never have a better 
 opportunity.”—“Very well,” said she, “you know my resolution, 
 either bring the money or else go about your business.” The 
 priest, perceiving that her intention was not to comply without a 
 salvum we/ac, whereas he was for having it sine custodia, said, 
 “Seeing you will not take my word, behold I leave you this cloak 
 as a pledge.”—“ The cloak !” quoth she; “ pray what is it worth ?’ 
 —“ Worth!” answered the priest; “ I would have you to know 
 that it is made of a fine serge; nay, there are some of our people 
 that call it a broad cloth; I bought it fifteen days ago only, of 
 Otto, the fripperer, and it cost me seven pounds; and Bugglietto 
 tells me, whom you will allow to be a judge, that I got five shillings 
 at least by the bargain.”—“Ay ! did it stand you in so much ?’ 
 
EIGHTH DA K 
 
 381 
 
 said she; “ I could never have thought it; but give it me first.” 
 He obeyed, and was afterwards forced to slink home in his cassock, 
 when he began to repent of what he had done; and, considering 
 with himself that all his vails and offerings for the whole year 
 would not amount to five pounds, he was contriving how to get it 
 back for nothing, when he thought of the following stratagem. 
 The next day, being holiday, he sent a boy to her house, desiring 
 her to lend him a stone mortar, adding that he had two neighbours 
 to dine with him, and he intended to make them some green sauce. 
 This she sent; and about dinner time, when he expected that she 
 and her husband would be set down together, he called his clerk 
 and said, “ Do you go and take this mortar to Belcolore, telling 
 her that your master gives her many thanks, and desires she would 
 send the cloak which he left by way of token.” The clerk carried 
 the mortar and found them at table, having just dined, when he 
 delivered his message. She, hearing him demand the cloak, was 
 going to make a reply; but the husband put on an angry look and 
 said, “ How came you to take any token from our priest 1 I have 
 a good mind to box your ears for so doing. Return it, I say, 
 directly, and let him want what he will of ours I charge you never 
 to say him nay.” Upon this she went grumbling to the press for 
 it, and giving it to the clerk she said: “Tell your master, the 
 priest, that I say he must expect no more favours from me.” The 
 clerk delivered it with those very words, upon which the priest 
 laughed, and said, “ When you see her you may tell her that I 
 desire none at any such rate.” Now the husband imagined that 
 she had spoken in that manner because he had just been quarrelling 
 with her, for which reason he was under no concern about it. But 
 she continued so provoked that she would never speak to the priest 
 from that time till the time of the vintage, when, after she had 
 long threatened to send him to the devil, he found means to pacify 
 her at last with some new wine and chestnuts; and, instead of the 
 five pounds, he tuned her virginals for her and made her a song, 
 which so contented her that they became as go«d friends as ever. 
 
38r 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 NOVEL in. 
 
 Calandrino, and Bnffahnacco go to Mugnone to loolc for the Helkf 
 
 trope; and Calandrino returns laden with stones, supposing that he had 
 found it. Upon this his wife scolds him and he heats her for it; and 
 then tells his companions what they knew better than himself. 
 
 HE ladies laughed immoderately at Pamphilus’s novel, 
 when the queen turned to Eliza, who began in this 
 manner:— 
 
 I do not know whether I shall be able to divert you as much 
 with my short novel, though it be true as well as comical: but yet 
 I will try. 
 
 In our city, abounding always with people of different tempers 
 and nations, there dwelt not long since a painter called Calandrino, 
 a simple sort of man and one that dealt much in novelties; he was 
 often in company with two of the same profession, the one named 
 Bruno and the other BuflPalmacco, both facetious merry persons, 
 though otherwise subtle enough; and they liked to be with this 
 man on account of his oddities. There lived also in the same 
 city the most agreeable and artful young man in everything he 
 undertook that could be, called Maso del Saggio, who, hearing 
 much of Calandrino’s simplicity, wanted to divert himself at his 
 expense by imposing some monstrous story upon him, as a thing 
 very strange and uncommon. And finding him by chance one day 
 in St. John’s church, and observing him very attentive in looking 
 on the carved work and painting of the Tabernacle, which was 
 just put over the high altar, he thought he had now such an 
 opportunity as he wanted: and acquainting one of his friends 
 with it, they came near to the place where he was sitting by him¬ 
 self, and pretending not to see him, began to reason together upon 
 the virtues of different stones, whilst Maso seemed to talk as well 
 upon the subject as though he had been a professional lapidary. 
 Calandrino soon began to listen to this, and finding they had no 
 particular business he got up and joined them. This was what 
 the other wanted; and as he was going on with his discourse, 
 Calandrino asked him where these stones were to be found 1 
 Maso replied, “ The greatest part are to be met within Berlinzone, 
 near the city of Baschi, in a country called Bengodi, where they 
 tie the vines with sausages, and you may buy a goose for a penny 
 and have the goslings into the bargain; where there is also a 
 
EIGHTH DA K. 
 
 383 
 
 fountain of grated Parmesan cheese, and the people that are upon 
 it do nothing else but make cheese-cakes and mackaroons, which 
 they boil in capon-broth, and keep constantly throwing down from 
 thence, when those that can catch most have most: and there is a 
 river too of the best Malmsey wine that ever was tasted, without 
 one drop of water.” “ Surely,” says Calandrino, “ that must be a 
 fine country indeed! what becomes of the capons after they are 
 boiledr “O,” quoth the other, “the people there eat them.’^ 
 “ Then,” said Calandrino, “ was you ever there T Maso replied, 
 “ Was I ever there, do you say 1 If I have been there once I have 
 been a thousand times.” Quoth Calandrino, “And how many 
 miles is it off?” He replied, “Many thousands.” “Then,” said 
 Calandrino, “ is it farther off than the Abruzzi T “ But a trifie,’ 
 said the other. Whilst Calandrino, observing that he had told all 
 this whole tale without changing countenance or so much as a 
 smile, held it all for truth; and he added, “ Believe me, sir, the 
 journey is too great, or else I should like to go and scramble for 
 those mackaroons. But are none of the precious stones you are 
 speaking of in that country]” Maso replied, “Two there are 
 w'hich are found to be of great virtue: one of these, which comes 
 from Montisci, they make into mill-stones, which wiU produce 
 flour of themselves. Whence they have a saying. That grace comes 
 from God and millstones from Montisci; such plenty there is of 
 them, and yet they are as lightly esteemed among us as emeralds 
 are there, of which they have whole mountains, that shine glo¬ 
 riously all night long. Now these mill-stones they set in rings and 
 send to the Sultan; who gives them in return whatever they ask 
 for them. The other stone is what we call the Heliotrope, which 
 renders those that have it invisible.” “That,” said Calandrino, 
 “ is a rare virtue indeed! But where is this stone to be found ]” 
 Maso replied, “ It is usually met with upon our plains of Mugnone.” 
 Quoth the other, “Of what size and colour then is it?” Said 
 Maso, “They are of different sizes, but all of a blackish hue.” 
 Calandrino took care to remember all he had heard, and pretending 
 to have other business, he went away with a design of going to 
 seek for this stone; but first he had a mind to consult his two 
 friends, and he spent all that morning in seeking after them. But 
 hearing at last that they were at work in the monastery at Faenza, 
 he ran thither, and calling them aside he said to them : “If you 
 will believe me, we have it now in our power to be the richest 
 
384 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 people in all Florence; for I am informed, by a very credible 
 person, that there is a stone in Mugnone which makes those that 
 carry it about them invisible : therefore I wish that we should go 
 and look for it before anyone else finds it. We shall certainly 
 meet with it, for I know it very well; and when we have it, what 
 have we else to do but to put it in our pockets, and so go to the 
 bankers’ shops, and carry away what money we please Nobody 
 will see us, and we shall grow rich all at once, without spending 
 our whole lives in daubing walls.” 
 
 Bruno and Bulfalmacco were fit to burst with laughter, yet they 
 looked at each other with a kind of surprise, and highly commended 
 their friend’s wisdom. When Buflalmacco asked, what the name 
 of it was, Calandrino, having no great memory, had forgot that; 
 therefore he said, “ What have we to do with names, so long as we 
 know the virtues ? I think we should go look for it imjiiediately.” 
 “Then,” quoth Bruno, “what sort of stone is itT’ “They are of 
 all sizes,” he replied, “ but generally black; therefore I am of 
 opinion that we should pick up all the black stones we ^ see, till we 
 meet with the true one : so let us lose no time.” 
 
 “ Very right,” quoth Bruno, “you talk mighty well; but yet I do 
 not think this is a fit time, for the sun is now very hot, and shines 
 forth with such lustre, that those stones may appear whitish at 
 present, which are black in a morning : besides, many people are 
 now abroad, who seeing us employed in that manner, may guess at 
 omi’ business, and perhaps get the stone before us, and we lose all 
 our labour. So that we had better go'about it in the morning, 
 when we can more clearly distinguish colours ; and on a holiday, 
 because there will be nobody to see us.” They agreed to go out 
 then on Sunday morning; and in the meantime he desired they 
 would speak of it to no one, because it had been told him as a 
 secret. He afterwards let them know what he had heard of the 
 country of Bengodi, swearing that every word was truth. 
 
 As soon as he was gone, they agreed, between themselves, what 
 to do; whilst he was very impatient till Sunday came, when ne 
 arose by daybreak, and called upon them ; and going through St. 
 Gallo’s gate, they went into the plains of Mugnone, and began to 
 look for this stone. Now Calandrino stole along before the othe'” 
 two, skipping from one place to another, where he saw anything of 
 a black stone, and put them all into his pockets. And whilst his 
 companions were picking up here and there one, he had filled his 
 
EIGHTH DA Y, 
 
 38s 
 
 pockets, bosom, and coat-skirts, which he had tucked up for that 
 purpose with his belt. On this, they seeing him laden, and it being 
 now dinner-time, one said to the other, “Where is Calandrino?’' 
 “ I do not know,” quoth the other, “ but he was here just now.” 
 “ Then,” said the first, “ I suppose he is gone home to his dinner, 
 and has left us here upon a fool’s errand.” “We are rightly 
 served,” replied the other, “ for being so weak as to believe him. 
 Who but ourselves could ever have thought of finding such sort of 
 stones here]’^ Calandrino, hearing what passed between them, 
 took it for granted that he had the true stone, and so was invisible : 
 and being over and above rejoiced, he resolved to go home without 
 speaking a word, leaving them to follow if they would. Buffal- 
 macco perceiving his intent, said to Bruno, “ What must we do % 
 Why do not we go likewise'?” Bruno replied, “What should we 
 stay any longer for 'i But I vow and protest he shall put no more 
 trick upon me ; and was he as near to me now as he has been all 
 this morning, I would give him such a knock on the heel with this 
 pebble, that he should have cause to remember it f and as he was 
 speaking the words, he hit him a stroke which made him jump 
 again ; yet Calandrino held his peace, and got along as fast as he 
 could. Buffalmacco then taking another .stone, said, “ And I would 
 give him a blow over the back with this f and so they kept 
 pelting him all the way, even to the gate of St. Gallo, when, 
 throwing the rest of their stones down, they let the guards into the 
 secret, who humoured the thing, and let him pass, as if they had 
 not seen him. So he went on, without stopping, to his own house, 
 which was near to the mills ; and fortune was so favourable to this 
 jest of theirs, that nobody said a word to him all through the city; 
 and indeed he saw but few persons, because they were mostly at 
 dinner. Coming thus loaden home, he met his wife at the top of 
 the stairs, who, being provoked at his long stay, fell upon him in a 
 violent manner, saying, “ The Devil sure has possessed the man, 
 that he will never come home till everybody has dined.” Which 
 when he heard, and being sensible that he was now seen, he began, 
 full of wrath and vexation, to say, “ O ! thou wicked woman, art 
 thou there 1 Thou hast undone me; but I will be revenged on 
 thee for it.” And throwing down all his stones, he ran violently 
 at her, and beat her moso unmercifully. In the meantime his 
 two friends after they had laughed a little with the guards at the 
 gate, followed him at a distance to his house; and being at thr 
 
 25 
 
386 
 
 THE DECAMEROH, 
 
 door, heard him beating his wife : and seeming as if they were just 
 come there, they called aloud to him, whilst he, all in a heat, and 
 weary, looked out of the window, and desired them to come up : 
 this they did, seemingly much out of temper, and seeing the 
 stairs covered with stones, and she beaten and bruised in one 
 corner of the room, and he in another, all unbuttoned, and like a 
 man quite spent, they said, “ Why, how now, Calandrino ! What 
 are you going to build, that you make all this preparation % And 
 you. Madam, how comes it to pass that you are so misused 1” But 
 he, quite fatigued, and vexed also for his supposed loss, was able 
 to make them no answer. On which Buffalmacco said again, 
 “ Calandrino, if you were angry with any other person, you ought 
 not to have made a jest of us, as you have done, in leaving us 
 yonder like a couple of fools; where you carried us to seek for a 
 precious stone, and then went away without saying a word : but 
 assure yourself, you shall serve us so no more.” He replied, after 
 much ado, “My friends, do not be in a passion; the case is 
 different from what you imagine. Indeed I found the stone; and, 
 observe, I pray, whether it was not so. When you inquired after 
 me the first time, I was then close to you; and as you were 
 coming away without seeing me, I then walked before youand 
 relating everything that they had said and done upon it, he added, 
 “And as I was coming through the gate, loaden with these 
 stones, the guards, though they examine everyone, let me pass 
 unmolested : besides, I met with divers of my friends in the street, 
 \yho are continually teazing me to go in and drink with them, but 
 not one of them said a word, because they never saw me. At last, 
 when I came home, I met with this devil of a woman here, who 
 straightway saw me, because women, you know, make everything 
 lose its virtue, and so I, who was on the point of being the 
 happiest man in Florence, am now the most unfortunate ; and it 
 was upon that account that I beat her, and I could tear her to 
 pieces for itand he was going to beat her over again: whilst 
 they, seeing all this, seemed to wonder very much, and began to 
 iiffirm the same thing, though they were fit to die with laughing. 
 But when he was going to beat her a second time, they interposed, 
 telling him, that she was not to blame in the case, for that he 
 should have given her notice to keep out ol the way all that day; 
 and that this was owing either to his ill fortune, or else it was a 
 judgment upon him for deceiving his friends; for after he knew 
 
EIGHTH DAY. 
 
 387 
 
 that he had found the stone, he ought to have told them of it. At 
 last, with great difficulty, they reconciled them, and leaving him 
 yet much out of sorts, and with his house full of stones, departed. 
 
 NOVEL IV. 
 
 Tlie provost of the church of Fiesole is in love with a lady who has no lildng 
 to him ; and Ae, thinking that he is with her, is all the time with her maid, 
 when her brothers bring the bishop thither to witness it. 
 
 
 LIZA’S novel was ended, when the queen, without delay, 
 turned to Emilia, who began in this manner :— 
 
 It will appear from our preceding novels, that the 
 priests, friars, and the rest of the clergy, have contributed their full 
 share to our diversion: but as so much can hardly be said, but 
 something may be added, I shall, therefore, tell you a story of a 
 certain provost, who had a mind to make a lady love him, whether 
 she would or not, and who accordingly treated him as he deserved. 
 
 Fiesole, the summit whereof you may descry from this place, was 
 once a great and ancient city, and, though now in ruins, had always 
 its bishop, and so it has still. Adjoining to the cathedral, in a 
 little house of her own, lived a certain widow lady for the greatest 
 part of the year, and along with her two of her brothers, both very 
 worthy gentlemen. Now, as she went constantly to church, it 
 happened that the provost fell so mueh in love with her, that he 
 was never easy but in her company ; and in length of time he had 
 the assurance to speak to her, entreating the same kind and tender 
 regard for him. This provost, it is true, was something ancient, 
 but yet of a juvenile disposition : he was so proud also and haughty, 
 and did everything with so ill a grace, that he was disagreeable to 
 all the world. This lady in particular had an utter aversion to 
 him; wherefore, she very prudently replied, “ Sir, I am much 
 obliged to you for your gracieus offer, but we should have regard to 
 both our characters in this case. You are my spiritual father, a 
 priest also, and in years ; all which considerations should inspire 
 you with different sentiments: on the other part, I am past a 
 child, being, as you see, in my widowhood, and, therefore, more 
 discretion will be expected from me ; for which reason I must beg 
 your pardon, resolving to have nothing to do with you in the 
 affair you mention.*’ 
 
 35—a 
 
388 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 The provost, no way dismayed with one denial, ceased not hip 
 solicitations, as well by letters as word of mouth, every time he 
 saw her at church, till she, growing weary of his impertinence, 
 resolved to rid herself of him in such a manner as he deserv^ed, 
 since she saw there was no other way; but yet she would do 
 nothing without first consulting her brothers ; when letting them 
 know his design upon her, and what she meant to do, and having 
 free leave from them, she went in a few days to church as usual. 
 When he saw her come, he went familiarly to meet her, and she 
 received him with an open countenance, retired purposely apart 
 with him, and fetching a deep sigh, said, • have often heard, sir, 
 that there is no fort so strong but what it may be taken, which I 
 now find to be my own case, for you have so beset me with com¬ 
 plaisance and love, that I have been forced to break my resolu¬ 
 tion, and am now disposed to be at your service.’’ He replied, 
 with a great deal of joy, “ Madam, I hold myself much obliged 
 to you, and, to tell you the truth I have often wondered how you 
 could hold out so long, especially as I never met with anything 
 like it before. Hay, I have said, that if women were made of 
 silver, they would not be worth one farthing, because there is none 
 of them would be able to stand the test. But tell me, when can 
 we be together f ’ She replied, “ Sweet sir, it may be whenever 
 you please, as I have no husband to inquire after me at nights ; 
 but I cannot think of a place.”—“ How so I” he replied ; “ why 
 not in your own house T She made answer, “ Sir, you know I 
 have two brothers, who have company most evenings, and our 
 house is very small, so that it is impossible for you to come there, 
 unless you could submit to be like a dumb person, and in the dark 
 also ; if you will consent to that, it may be done, because they never 
 come into my chamber; but yet theirs is so near to mine, that 
 the least whisper is heard.”—“ Madam,” quoth he, “never mind it 
 for one or two nights, till I can think of some more convenient 
 place.” She replied, “Sir, that is just as you please; but I beg of 
 you that it may be a secret.”—“Madam,” said he, “ make no doubt 
 of that; but, if possible, let it be this evening.”—“ With all my 
 heart,” said she ; and directing him how and when he was to come, 
 ehe left him and went home. How she had a maid not over young, 
 and the most ugly creature that ever was born ; for she had a flat 
 nose, wry mouth, great thick lips, black rotten teeth, sore eyes, 
 with a complexion green and yellow, like a Mulatto ; besides all 
 
EIGHTH DA K 
 
 389 
 
 this, she was both lame and crooked, and her name was Giuta, 
 but, having such a miserable countenance of her own, she was 
 called, by way of derision, Ciutazza Trull); nor was her 
 temper one jot more amiable than her person. She called this maid 
 to her, therefore, and said, “Ciutazza, if thou wilt do a little job 
 for me, I will give thee a new gown.”—“ Madam,'' quoth she, “ give 
 it me, and I will go through fire and water to serve you."—“ I 
 mean,” said the lady, “to have thee sleep with a man this very night 
 in my bed; but be sure you do not speak a word, for fear my 
 brothers should hear thee in the next room ; and in the morning 
 thou shalt have it."—“ To oblige you. Madam," she replied, “ I 
 would sleep with half a dozen." So in the evening the provost 
 came, according to their agreement, whilst the lady’s brothers 
 were in their own room, as she had directed, where they took care 
 that he should hear them ; and the provost went silently into her 
 chamber in the dark, as did also Ciutazza, and to bed they went. 
 As soon as this was done she told her brothers, and left them to 
 do the rest, as they had before resolved. Accordingly they went 
 secretly to the piazza, when fortune was more favourable to their 
 design than they could have expected, for they met the bishop 
 coming to their house to pay them a visit. And he having told 
 them his intention, they turned back with him, and shewed him 
 into a court, as it was in the summer; and after they had lighted 
 up the candles, and were seated together to a glass of wine, one of 
 the young gentlemen said, “ My lord, since you are so kind to do 
 us this favour of your own accord, as we were going to invite you, 
 we desire you would please to see a curiosity which we have ready 
 to shew you.” The bishop consented, and one of them, taking a 
 candle, led the way into the chamber where the provost and 
 Ciutazza were in bed, when they found them asleep in each other’s 
 arms. The provost awoke upon this, ashamed and frightened to 
 death, and hid his head under the bed-clothes, whilst the bishop 
 rallied him severely, and made him put his head out, that he 
 might see whom he had got in bed with him. When he, finding 
 how the lady had served him, and being sensible of the utter shame 
 he had incurred, was the most miserable man alive. And having 
 put on his clothes again, by the bishop’s order, he was sent under 
 a guard to his own house, to undergo a penance equal to his crime. 
 The bishop then desired to know how it happened, and they 
 related every particular, on which he highly commended both the 
 
390 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 lady and her brothers, who, rather than imbrue their hands in a 
 clergyman’s blood, had dealt with him according to his merits, in 
 a different manner. He ordered him, therefore, a penance for forty 
 days, but love and disdain made him mourn nine days more; and, 
 for a long time after, he could never go along the street, but the 
 boys would point at him, and say, “ Yonder is the priest that lay 
 with Ciutazzawhich was such a mortification, that he was 
 almost distracted. Thus the good and prudent lady freed herself 
 from the provost’s importunities, and the girl obtained her reward. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL V. 
 
 Three young sparTcs play a trick with a judge^ whilst he is sitting upon the 
 
 bench hearing causes. 
 
 HE lady in Emilia’s novel was highly commended for what 
 she had done, when the queen looked towards Philostratus^ 
 and said, “It is now your turn to speak.” He conse¬ 
 quently thus began:— 
 
 A young gentleman, mentioned some time since by Eliza, viz., 
 Maso del Saggio, makes me pass over a story which I meant to 
 have told you, in order to relate one of him, and certain of his 
 friends; which, though a little unseemly, may make you laugh 
 nevertheless, and so I shall venture to report it. 
 
 You must all have heard that we have often had magistrates 
 come hither from the marquisate of Ancona, the most paltry people 
 imaginable, and so extremely miserable and covetous, that they 
 have brought fellows along with them by way of judges and 
 notaries, who seem to have been rather taken from the plough- 
 tail, or out of a cobbler’s shop, than the schools of the law. Now’ 
 there was a certain person came once as Podesta, and amongst the 
 judges that attended him was one Nicola da san Lepidio, whose 
 aspect bespoke him rather a tinker than anything else, and who 
 was deputed with the rest of the judges to hear criminal causes. 
 And as it happens that people frequently go to those courts who 
 have no business, so it chanced that Maso del Saggio was there in 
 quest of one of his friends ; and being where this Nicola was 
 sitting, he thought him some strange bird that he had never seen 
 before, and began to take a more perfect view of him. He had a 
 greasy fur cap on, with an ink-horn hanging at his girdle, and a 
 gown shorter than his under coat; but what appeared the most 
 
EIGHTH DAY, 
 
 391 
 
 comical of all was, that his breeches came down to his ankles, and 
 yet they were so scantily made, that he could not keep them 
 buttoned, but they were constantly open all before. Such a figure 
 as this soon made Maso forget what he had come about; and 
 meeting with two of his companions, the one named Kibi, and the 
 other Matteuzzo, people of as much humour as himself, he said to 
 them, “You will oblige me very much if you will go into the court 
 along with me, for I can shew you the oddest figure perhaps that 
 ever you sawso he carried them to see the judge and his 
 breeches. As soon as they came into the court, they fell a 
 laughing, and observing upon a nearer approach, that the boards 
 on which he set his feet were so broken that a man might easily 
 put his hand and arm up, he added, “ I wish you would let us pull 
 his breeches down entirely, for it may be easily done.” They saw 
 at once which way he meant, and having agreed about it, they 
 camo thither again the next morning. And the court being 
 crowded with people, Matteuzzo crept privately under the bench 
 where the judge was sitting. Whilst Maso went on one side, and 
 took hold of his gown, as Kibi did on the other, and began to cry 
 out, “ For Heaven’s sake, my lord, before this fellow goes away, 
 will you order him to restore me a pair of shoes which he has 
 stolen from me, and now denies it, though I saw him in the fact, 
 and it is not a month since he had them new soled Kibi on the 
 other part bawled aloud, “ My lord, pray do not believe him, for 
 he is a most intolerable villain ; and because I came to demand a 
 wallet that he had stolen from me, he has trumped up this story 
 of his shoes. If you will not believe me, I can bring Trecca, my 
 neighbour, and Grassa, the woman that sells tripes, and the person 
 that sweeps St. Mary^s church, who saw him as he came out of the 
 country.” But Maso made such a clamour on the other side, that 
 he would not let Kibi be heard, and Kibi cried out likewise. 
 
 The judge standing up to hear what each had to say, Matteuzzo 
 took that opportunity to put his hand up between the boards, and 
 laid hold of his breeches, which came down immediately, as he 
 happened to be lean and thin about the crupper; whilst he, per¬ 
 ceiving what had happened, and not knowing the reason, would 
 have pulled his gown before him to have concealed it, and he 
 endeavoured to sit down again, but Maso held him up on one side, 
 and Kibi on the other, crying out, “ My lord, you do me great 
 injustice not to attend to what I say, and to turn your back upon 
 
392 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 me, without giving me the hearing (for there were no indictments 
 in writing for such trivial cases). And they kept him in that 
 manner, till all the people in the court saw that he had his breeches 
 about his heels. In the meantime Matteuzzo had stolen away 
 undiscovered; and Kibi, thinking that he had now done enough, 
 said, “I will appear elsewhere for justice, I vow to heaven and 
 Maso let go on the other part also, saying, “ Some time or other I 
 shall find you more at leisure than you have been this morning.” 
 Thus they parted different ways, and got out of the court as fast as 
 they could. Whilst the judge, drawing up his breeches before all 
 the people, and being now sensible of the trick that had been put 
 upon him, began to inquire where those two men were gone that 
 had been complaining to him about their shoes and their wallet; 
 and hearing nothing of them, he swore that he would know whether 
 it was a custom at Florence to pull a judge’s breeches down as he 
 was administering justice. The Podesta also was in great rage 
 about it, till being told by some of his friends that this was done 
 only to let him see the people all took notice, that, instead of 
 bringing judges, he had brought some paltry scoundrels among 
 them, to make a better trade of it, he thought it best to hold his 
 tongue. Consequently nothing farther was said about it at that 
 time. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL VI. 
 
 Bruno and Buffalmacco steal a pig from Calandrino, and make a charm 
 to find, out the thief with pills made of ginger and some sack ; giving him^ 
 at the same time, pills made of aloes: whence it appeared that he had it 
 himself, and they make him pay handsomely, for fear they should tell his 
 wife. 
 
 l^f’HILOSTRATUS’S novel was no sooner ended, which had 
 made them all very merry, but the queen turned to Philo- 
 mena, who accordingly began thus:— 
 
 As Philostratus was led to the last story by the mentioning the 
 name of Maso, in like manner has the novel concerning Calandrino 
 and his two companions brought to my mind another relating to 
 the same persons, which will, I think, afford you pleasure.—Who 
 those people were it would be needless to say, because you had 
 enough of that before. Therefore I shall begin with telling you 
 chat Calandrino had a little farm not far from Florence, which 
 came to him in right of his wife; and, amongst his ether goods 
 
EIGHTH DA Y. 
 
 393 
 
 there, he used to have a pig fatted every year, and some time in 
 December he and his wife went always to kill and salt it for the 
 use of the family'. Now it happened once, she being unwell at the 
 time, that he went thither by himself to kill this pig, which Bruno 
 and Buffalmacco hearing, and knowing she w?is not to be there, 
 they went to see a priest in the neighbourhood, a great friend of 
 his, and to be with him for a few days. Now he had killed the pig 
 that very day they came thither, and seeing them along with the 
 priest, he called them, and said, “ You are kindly welcome, gentle¬ 
 men ; I would gladly have you see what a manager I am.” And, 
 taking them into the house, he shewed them this pig. They saw 
 that it was fat, and were told by him that it was to salt for his 
 family. When Bnmo said, “ Go, you fool you ! you had better sell 
 it, for us to spend the money, and then tell your wife that it is 
 stolen.”—“ No,” said Calandrino, “ she will never believe it; and 
 besides, she would go near to turn me out of doors. Trouble me 
 then no farther about any such thing, for I will never do it.” They 
 said a great deal more to him, but all to no purpose; at length he 
 invited them to supper, but did it in such a manner that they 
 refused to go; and, after he was gone away, said one to the other, 
 “ Suppose we steal this pig from him to-night.”—“ How is it pos¬ 
 sible replied the other. “ Oh,” quoth the first, “ I know well 
 enough how to do it, if he does not remove it in the meantime 
 from the place where we just now saw it.”—“Then let us do it,” 
 said the second, “ and afterwards we and the parson will make 
 merry over it.” 
 
 The priest assured them that he should like it of all things. 
 “We must use a little art,” quoth the first: “you know how 
 covetous he is, and how freely he drinks alw^ays when it is at 
 others’ cost. Let us get him then to the tavern, where the parson 
 snail make a pretence of treating us all, out of compliment to him ; 
 he will soon get drunk, and then the thing will be easy enough, as 
 there is nobody in the house but himself.” This they did, whilst 
 ne, finding that the parson was to pay, took his glasses off pretty 
 freely, and getting his dose, walked home betimes, and left the 
 door open, thinking that it was shut, and so went to bed. Buf- 
 ralmacco and Bruno went from thence to sup with the priest, and 
 as soon as supper was over, they took proper materials with them 
 to get into the house ; but finding the door open, they carried off 
 the pig, and went to bed iikew’ise. Calandrino, as soon as he had 
 
394 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 slept his wine off, arose in the morning, and coming down stairs, 
 and finding the door open, and his pig gone, he began to inquire of 
 people if they knew anything of the matter, and receiving no tidings 
 of it, he made a terrible outcry, saying, “ What must I do ? some¬ 
 body has stolen my pig.” Bruno and Buffalmacco were no sooner 
 out of bed, but they went to his house to hear what he would say; 
 and the moment he saw them, he roared out, “Oh, my friends, my 
 pig is stolen !” Upon this Bruno whispered him, and said, “ Well, 
 I am glad to see you wise once in your life.”—“Alas !” quoth he, 
 “ it is too true.” Bruno said, “ Keep still in the same story, and 
 make a noise whilst everyone believes you.” He now began to 
 bawl louder, and said, “ Indeed! I vow and swear to you that it is 
 stolen.”—“Bight,” quoth the other, “be sure you let everybody 
 hear you, that it may appear so.”—“ Do you think,” said he, “ that 
 I would forswear myself about it ? May I be hanged this moment 
 if it is not so.”—“ How is it possible ?” quoth Bruno; “ I saw it but 
 last night; never imagine that I can believe it.”—“ It is so, how¬ 
 ever,” answered he, “ and I am undone: I know not how to go 
 home again, for my wife will never believe me, and I shall have no 
 peace this twelvemonth.”—“It is a most unhappy thing,” said 
 Bruno, “ if it be true ; but you know I taught you to say so last 
 night, and you should not make sport both with your wife and us 
 at the same time.” At this he began to roar out afresh, saying, 
 “ Good God! you make me mad to hear you talk ; I tell you once 
 for all that it was stolen this very night.”—“ Nay if it be,” quoth 
 Buffalmacco, “ we must think of some way to get it back again.” 
 “ And what way must we take,” said he, “ to find it V’ —“ Depend 
 upon it,” replied the other, “ that nobody came from the Indies to 
 steal it; it must be somewhere in your neighbourhood, and if you 
 could get the people together, I could make a charm with some 
 bread and cheese, that would soon discover the person.”—“True,” 
 said Bruno, “ but they would know in that case what you are about: 
 and the person that has it would never come near you.”—“ How 
 must we manage then quoth the other. “ Oh,” replied Bruno, 
 “ you shall see me do it with some pills of ginger, and a little wine, 
 which I will ask them to come and drink. They will have no sus¬ 
 picion what our design is, and we can make a charm of these, as 
 well as of the bread and cheese.”—“Very right,” quoth the other. 
 “Well, what do you say, Calandrino] Have you a mind we shall 
 try it —“ For Heaven’s sake do,” he said; “ were I only to know 
 
EIGHTH DAY, 
 
 395 
 
 who the thief is, I should be half comforted.”—“ Well, then,” quoth 
 Bruno, “ I am ready to go to Florence for the things, if you will 
 but give me money.” He happened to have a few shillings in his 
 pocket, which he gave him. 
 
 Accordingly Bruno went to a friend’s house at Florence, and 
 bought a pound of ginger made into pills, and he got two pills of 
 aloes, which had a private mark that he should not mistake them, 
 being all candied over with sugar; and buying a flask of good sack 
 also, he returned to Calandrino, and said, “ To-morrow you must 
 take care to invite every one that you have the least suspicion of : 
 it is a holiday, and they will be glad to come, and we will complete 
 the charm to-night, and bring the things to your house in the 
 morning, whilst, upon your account, I will take care then to do 
 and say what is necessary upon such an occasion.” Calandrino did 
 so, and in the morning he had all the people in the parish almost 
 together under an elm-tree in the churchyard, when his two friends, 
 brought the pills and wine, and making them stand round in a 
 circle, Bruno said to them, “ Gentlemen, it is fit that I should tell 
 you the reason of your being summoned here in this manner, to 
 the end, if any thing should happen which you do not like, that I 
 be not blamed for it. You must know, then, that Calandrino had a 
 pig stolen last night; and, as some of the company here must have 
 taken it, he, that he may find out the person, would have every 
 man take and eat one of these pills, and drink a glass of wine after 
 it; and whoever the guilty person is, you will find he will not be 
 able to get a bit of it down, but it will taste so bitter that he will 
 be forced to spit it out: so that, to prevent such open shame, he had 
 better, whoever he is, make a secret confession to the priest, and I 
 will proceed no farther.” 
 
 All the people present shewed a readiness to taste ; so placing 
 them all in order, he gave every man his pill, and coming to Calan¬ 
 drino, he gave one of the aloe pills to him, which he straightway 
 put into his mouth, and no sooner did he begin to chew it, but he 
 was forced to spit it out. Every one was now attentive to see who 
 spit his pill out, and whilst Bruno kept going round, taking no 
 notice, he heard somebody say behind him, “ Hey-day! what is 
 the meaning of its disagreeing so with Calandrino V* When, turn¬ 
 ing suddenly about, and seeing that Calandrino had spit it out, he 
 said, “{Stay a little, honest friends, and be not too hasty in judging; 
 it may be something else that has made him spit, and therefore he 
 
396 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 sliall try another.” So he gave him the other aloe pill, and then 
 went on to the rest that were unserved. But if the first was bitter 
 to him, this he thought much more so : however, he endeavoured 
 to get it down as well as he could, but it was impossible ; it made 
 the tears run down his cheeks, and he was forced to spit it out at 
 last, as he had done the other. In the meantime Buffalmacco was 
 going about with the wine; but when he and they all saw what 
 Calandrino had done, they began to call out, and say that he had 
 robbed himself; and some of the people were greatly incensed at 
 him for it. And after they v/ere all departed, Buffalmacco said, 
 “ I always thought that you yourself were the thief, and that you 
 were willing to make us believe it was stolen, in order to keep your 
 money in your pocket, as we should expect a treat upon the occa¬ 
 sion.” Whilst he, who had yet the taste of the aloes in his mouth, 
 fell a swearing that he knew nothing of the matter. “ Tell me truly, 
 then,” said Buffalmacco, “ did you not sell it T This made him 
 quite desperate. When Bruno said, “ I was just now told by one 
 of the company that you have a mistress in this neighbourhood, to 
 whom you are very kind, and that he is confident you have given 
 it to her. You know you once took us to the plains of Mugnone, 
 to look for some black stones, when you left us in the lurch, and 
 pretended you had found them ; and now you think to swear, and 
 make us believe, that your pig is stolen, when you have either 
 given it away, or sold it. You have put so many tricks upon us, 
 that we intend to be fooled no more by you. Therefore, as we have 
 had a deal of trouble in the affair, you shall make us amends, by 
 giving us two couple of fowls, unless you mean that we should tell 
 your wife.” Calandrino now perceiving that he was not to be 
 believed, and being unwilling to have them add to his troubles by 
 bringing his wife upon his back, was forced to give them the fowls, 
 which they took to Florence along with the pork, leaving him there 
 to complain of the loss he had sustained, and the injuries that were 
 done him. 
 
EIGHTH DA Y, 
 
 397 
 
 NOVEL VII. 
 
 A certain scholar is in love with a vndow lady named Helena; whOy being 
 enamoured of another person, makes the former wait a whole night for 
 her during the midst of winter in the snow. In return, he afterwards 
 contrives that she shall stand naked on the top of a tower in ^e middle 
 of July, exposed to the sun and all manner of insects. 
 
 HE company could not help laughing at Calandrino’s sim¬ 
 plicity, though they thought it too hard for him to lose 
 both the fowls and the pig; and, the story being ended, 
 the queen ordered Pampinea to begin, which she did in this 
 manner:— 
 
 It often happens that the mockery which a man intends to 
 another falls upon his own head, and therefore it is no mark of a 
 person’s good sense to take delight in such practices. In our 
 former novels we have made ourselves very merry with divers tricks 
 that have been put upon people, where no revenge has been taken; 
 but I design to move your compassion for a just return which a 
 certain lady of our city met with, whose jest recoiled upon herself 
 and to the hazard of her life, being mocked in the same manner; 
 the hearing of which may be of great service to you, as it will be 
 a caution not to do the like; and you will be wise if you attend 
 to it. 
 
 There lived not long since at Florence, a young handsome lady 
 of a good family as well as plentiful fortune, named Helena; who,, 
 being left a widow, had for some time continued so, though she 
 was courted by a young gentleman who was entirely to her good 
 liking; and, by the assistance of her favourite majd, they had 
 frequent interviews together. In the meantime, a young gentle¬ 
 man of our city who had long studied at Paris, not for the sake of 
 retailing his learning out by the inch as we say, as many do, but 
 only to know the reasons of things and the causes of the same, as 
 becomes a gentleman—he, whose name was Pinieri, returning to 
 Florence, was much respected there, both on account of his rank 
 and learning, and lived as became a worthy citizen. But as it 
 often happens that persons of the most sense and scholarship are 
 the soonest caught in the snares of love, so it fell out with our 
 Ptinieri. For, being at a feast one day, he met with this lady, 
 clothed in her weeds, when she seemed to him so full of beauty 
 and swe/'tness that he never saw anyone to compare to her; and 
 
398 
 
 THE DECAMEROH, 
 
 happy he thought the man whom fortune should bless with her as 
 his wife. And casting his eye towards her once and again, and 
 being sensible that great and valuable things are not to be attained 
 without trouble, he resolved to make it his whole care to please 
 her and gain her affection if it were possible. The lady, who did 
 not always look upon the ground, but thought full as well of her¬ 
 self as she deserved, throwing her eyes artfully about her was soon 
 sensible if anyone beheld her with pleasure, when she immediately 
 took notice of Rinieri; and she said, smiling to herself, “I think 
 I am not come out to-day in vain, for I seem to have caught a 
 gudgeon.” And she would give him now and then a glance from 
 the corner of her eye to let him see she was pleased with him, 
 thinking that the more admirers she had of the greater value 
 would her charms be to that person for whom she had designed 
 them. Our scholar now began to lay all his philosophy aside, and 
 turned his thoughts entirely to her; and learning where she lived, 
 he was continually passing that way, under one pretence or another, 
 thinking thereby to please her; and the lady, for the reason before 
 given, seemed to value herself the more upon it. Thereupon he 
 found means of talking to the maid, desiring her interest and 
 intercession with her mistress, so that he might obtain her favour; 
 who promised him very fully, and accordingly she let her lady 
 know it, when she made the greatest jest in the world of him, and 
 said, “ Observe now, this man is come here to lose the little sense 
 that he went to fetch from Paris, and he shall have what he looks 
 for. Go, then, and tell him that my love is equally great for him, 
 but that I must have regard to my honour, which, if he is as wise 
 as he would be thought, he will like me the better for.” Alas ! 
 poor woman, she knew not what it was to try her wit against a 
 scholar ! The maid delivered her message, upon which the scholar, 
 being overjoyed, began to press the thing more closely, and to 
 write letters and send her presents, which were all received, though 
 he had no answer in return but what was general; and in thi 
 manner he was long kept in suspense. At last, having related the 
 whole affair to her lover, and he a little uneasy and jealous about 
 it, to convince him that his suspicion was ill-grounded, and being 
 much solicited by the scholar, she sent her maid to tell him that 
 she had yet no opportunity to oblige him since she had made a 
 discovery to him of her love, but that the next day, being Christ- 
 mas-day, she hoped to be with him, directing him to come that 
 
EIGHTH DAY. 
 
 399 
 
 evening into her court, and she would meet him there as soon as 
 it was convenient. The scholar, overjoyed at this, failed not of 
 coming at the time appointed, when he was put into the court-yard 
 by the maid, and locked up there to wait for the lady, who had 
 invited her lover to be with her that night; and after supping 
 agreeably together, she let him know what she meant to do, adding, 
 “ And you may now see how great my regard is for you, as well as 
 for him of whom you have been so foolishly jealous.’* The lover 
 listened eagerly to this discourse, being desirous of seeing some 
 proof of that, for which he had only her word. Now a great snow 
 had fallen the day before, and everything was covered with it, 
 which made it seem colder to our scholar than otherwise it would 
 have been; however, he bore it with great patience, expecting soon 
 to have amends made him. —In a little time she said to her lover, 
 “ Let us go into the chamber, and see out of the window what this 
 man is doing, of whom you are jealous, and what answers he will 
 make to the maid, whom I have sent to talk with him.” So they 
 went upstairs, and looking out, without being seen, they heard the 
 girl saying to him, “ Sir, my lady is exceeding uneasy, for one of 
 her brethren is happened to come to see her this evening, and they 
 have had a great deal of talk together, and he would needs sup 
 with her, nor is he yet gone away; but I believe he will not stay 
 long: and for that reason she has not been able to come to you, 
 but will make what haste she can, and she hopes you will not take 
 it ill that you are forced to wait thus.” The scholar, supposing it 
 to be really so, replied, “ Pray tell your mistress to have no care 
 for me, till she can conveniently be with me, but that I desire she 
 would be as speedy as possible.” The girl then left him, and went 
 to bed. “Well!” said the lady to her lover, “what think you 
 now 1 Can you imagine, if I had that love for him which you 
 seemed to apprehend, that I would let him stay there to be frozen 
 to death]” Thus they talked and laughed together about the 
 poor scholar, whilst he was forced to walk backwards and forwards 
 in the court, to keep himself warm, without having anything to 
 sit down upon, or the least shelter from the weather, cursing the 
 brother’s long stay, and expecting that everything he heard was 
 the door opening for him—but expecting in vain. About midnight 
 she said again to her lover, “ WeU, my dear, what is your opinion 
 now of our scholar] Whether do you think his sense or my love 
 the greater at this time ] Sure you will let me hear no more of 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 400 
 
 that jealousy which you seemed to express yesterday; be convinced 
 that I value you as much as you can love me. But,” continued she, 
 
 “ we will take another look out, and see whether that fire be extinct 
 or not, which he used to write me word had well nigh consumed 
 him.” When, going again to the window, they saw him dancing a 
 jig in the snow, to the chattering of his teeth, which was occasioned 
 by the excessive cold: and she said, “You see now that I can 
 make people dance without the music either of fiddles or bagpipes; 
 but let us go to the door, and do you stand still and listen whilst I 
 speak to him; perhaps we may have as much diversion in that 
 manner as by seeing him.” So she went softly, and called to him 
 through the keyhole, which made the scholar rejoice exceedingly, 
 supposing that he was now to be admitted; and he stepped to the 
 door, and said, “ I am here, madam ; for Heaven’s sake open it, 
 for I am ready to die with cold.” She replied, “ Surely you can 
 never be so starved with this little snow; it is much colder at 
 Paris: but I can by no means let you in yet; for this unlucky 
 brother of mine, who came to sup with me last night, is yet with 
 me; but he will go soon, and then I will come directly and open 
 the door : it was with great difficulty that I could get away from 
 him now to come to you, to desire you would not be uneasy at 
 waiting so long.”—“ Let me beg of you, then,” said he, “ to open 
 the door, that I may stand only under cover, for it snows fast, and 
 afterwards I will wait as long as you please.”—“ Alas! my dear 
 love,” quoth the lady, “the door makes such a noise always in 
 opening, that my brother will hear it; but I will go and bid him 
 depart first, and then open it”—“ Make what haste you can,” said 
 the scholar, “ and praj have a good fire ready against I come in, 
 for I am so benumbed that I have almost lost all sense of feeling.” 
 —“That is impossible,” replied she, “if it be true what you have 
 so often written to me, that you were all on fire with love; but I 
 see now that you were jesting all the time. Have a good heart, 
 however, for I am going.” The scholar now perceiving that it was 
 all an insult and mockery upon him, made several attempts to 
 open the door, looking round also to see if there was any other 
 way to get out; but not finding any, he began to curse the in¬ 
 clemency of the v/eather, the lady’s cruelty, and the long nights- 
 together with his great simplicity; and being outrageously exaspe¬ 
 rated against her, his most violent love was changed into as rank a 
 hatred, whilst he was contriving various methods of revenge, 
 
EIGHTH DA Y, 
 
 40 » 
 
 which he now longed as much for, as he had before desired to be 
 with her. Thus he was kept all night long; and when daylight 
 began to appear, the maid, as she had before been instructed, came 
 down into the court, and said, with a show of pity, “ It was very 
 unlucky, sir, that person’s coming to our house last night, for he 
 has given us a world of trouble, and you are, in consequence, 
 almost frozen to death. But you know the reason. Have a little 
 patience; for what could not be done then may be brought to pass 
 another time. I know very well that nothing could have given 
 my lady so much uneasiness.” The scholar, as wise as he was full 
 of wrath, knowing that threats serve only as weapons to the 
 persons so threatened, kept all his resentment within his own 
 breast, and, without shewing himself the least disturbed, said very 
 submissively, “ In truth, I never had a worse night in my life; 
 but I know very well that your lady is not at all to blame, because 
 she came to me several times, with a great deal of humanity, to 
 excuse herself, and comfort me. And, therefore, as you say, what 
 could not be now, may be another time. Farewell, and pray give 
 my service to her.” So he made what shift he could to get home, 
 being almost dead, and threw himself upon the bed to rest, when 
 upon his awakening, he found he had lost the use of both his 
 Hands and feet. He therefore sent for physicians, and let them 
 into the cause of his illness, and in length of time they found 
 means to supple the nerves, so that he could stir his limbs; but 
 nad it not been for his youth, and the warm weather coming on 
 soon after, he would have had a hard task to have recovered. 
 Getting them sound and well again, and keeping his enmity to 
 himself, he yet appeared to love her as much as ever; and fortune 
 at last furnished him with an opportunity of satisfying his revenge: 
 for her lover had taken a fancy to another lady, and turned her 
 adrift, which gave her such concern, that she seemed to pine away 
 upon it. But the maid, who was much grieved, finding no way to 
 comfort her for the loss of her spark, and seeing the scholar pass 
 that way sometimes, had a foolish notion come into her head, that 
 he might be able to bring him back by some magical operation, of 
 which he was said to be a great ma.ster; and she acquainted her 
 with it. The foolish lady, little thinking that had he really been a 
 proficient he would scarcely have applied his knowledge to do her 
 such a service, listened to the girl, and then bid her learn from 
 him whether he was willing to oblige her, promising anything in 
 
 a6 
 
 
402 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 return he should desire. She delivered the message, when the 
 scholar said, with great joy to himself, “ Thank Heaven, the time 
 is now come for me to be revenged of this woman for the injury 
 she did me in return for my great love.” And he replied, “ Tell 
 your mistress that she need give herself no trouble, for were her 
 lover in the Indies I could bring him back to ask her pardon: but 
 concerning the manner of doing it, that I will impart to her as 
 soon as she pleases; and so pray acquaint her from me with my 
 service.” 
 
 The girl reported what he said, and they agreed to meet in St. 
 Lucia’s meadow. Accordingly they came thither, and had much 
 conversation by themselves ; whilst she, forgetting how he had 
 been served by her, acquainted him with the whole affair, and 
 desired his assistance. The scholar then said, “ Madam, amongst 
 other things that I studied at Paris was the black art, in which I 
 made a great progress ; but, as it is a sinful practice, I have made 
 a resolution never to follow it, either for myself or any other 
 person ; though indeed I love you so much, that I am unable to 
 refuse either that or anything else which you shall require from 
 me : but I must put you in mind, that it is a more troublesome 
 operation than you may imagine, either to bring a man back to 
 love a woman, or a woman to love a man; for it is to be 
 done only by the person concerned, who should have a great 
 presence of mind: for all must be in the night, in a solitary 
 place, and nobody present; which conditions I do not know 
 whether you will be able to conform to.” She, more enamoured 
 than wise, replied, “ My love for him is such, that I would under¬ 
 take anything to have him again, who has abandoned me so 
 svrongfully; only tell me in what I must shew that presence of 
 mind you speak of.” Said the scholar then to her, “ Madam, I 
 must make an image of tin in his name whom you wish to have 
 yours, which I shall send to you ; and immediately, whilst the 
 moon is in the decline, you must, after your first sleep, bathe seven 
 times with it in the river; after which you must go into some 
 high tree or upon some uninhabited house-top, and, turning to the 
 north, repeat seven times, with the same image in your hand, some 
 certain words which I shall give you in writing ; and then two 
 damsels, the most beautiful that ever you saw, will appear to you, 
 graciously demanding what service you have for them to do, 
 which you may safely tell them, taking care not to name one 
 
EIGHTH DA Y. 
 
 403 
 
 porson for another; when they will leave you and you may gc 
 afterwards and dress yourself, and depart to your own house, being 
 assured that before midnight your lover will come with tears in 
 his eyes to beg your pardon, and from that time he will never 
 forsake you more.” The lady, hearing this story, began to think 
 she had already recovered her lover; and she replied, “Never 
 fear, I can do all this very well, having the most convenient place 
 for the purpose that can be ; for there is a farm of mine close to 
 the river Arno; and, now I remember, there is an uninhabited 
 tower not far off, where the shepherds climb up sometimes by help 
 of a ladder, to look for their strayed cattle; there I can do what 
 you have enjoined me.” The scholar, who knew perfectly both 
 the farm and tower, which was the very place that he himself had 
 contrived, answered, “ Madam, I never was in that country, and 
 therefore am unacquainted with the farm and tower you mention, 
 but if it be so, it is convenient enough ; so, at a proper time, I will 
 send the image, and the words you are to repeat; and I hope when 
 your point is secured, that you will be mindful of me in the 
 promise you have made me.” She agreed without fail to remember 
 him, and so took her leave. The scholar now concluding that his 
 scheme had taken effect, had an image made, and wrote out an 
 old tale by way of charm, which he sent as soon as he thought it 
 a proper time, to her, letting her know that he would have it 
 done the following night: and he went privately with one servant 
 to a friend’s house which was near, to be ready for what he had 
 designed. She also and her maid went to her farm, when, pre¬ 
 tending to go to bed, and having sent her maid to sleep, she went 
 to the river’s side, close to the tower, and looking round to see 
 that nobody was near, she stripped, and hid her clothes under a 
 bush, and bathed herself seven times with the image, and then 
 went naked to the tower with the image in her hand. The scholar, 
 about the beginning of the night, had hid himself along with his 
 servant in the sallows near to the place ; when, seeing her go past 
 him in that manner, and admiring the extraordinary beauty of her 
 person, he began to relent a little, and to have some thoughts of 
 putting up with the injury. Till calling to mind her unparalleled 
 inhumanity towards him, and what he had suffered, there was an 
 end of pity, and he resolved to put his purpose into execution. So 
 she mounted up into the tower, and having turned to the north, 
 began to say the words which he had given her to repeat, whilst he 
 
404 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 went softly after her, and took away the ladder, waiting afterwards 
 to see what she would say and do. She had now said the words 
 over seven times, and was expecting the two damsels to come; 
 and thus she waited until daylight began to appear, when, being 
 weary, as it was a little cool withal, and sorry also that it had not 
 happened as the scholar had told her, she began to say to herself, 
 ‘ Perhaps he has a mind I should pass such a night as I occasioned 
 him to have, but he mistakes the thing, for the nights are not one 
 third part so long now as they were then, and besides the cold was 
 infinitely greater at that time.” She then determined to come 
 down before it should be broad daylight; but looking for the 
 ladder, she perceived it was taken away. Upon this her heart 
 failed her, and she fell down in a swoon : and as soon as she came 
 to herself she began to lament; and, well knowing that it was the 
 scholar’s doing, to blame herself as well for giving the provocation 
 as for putting herself into his power afterwards. Looking then 
 everywhere to see if there was any other way to come down, and 
 finding there was not, she renewed her complaints, saying to 
 herself, “ Unhappy wretch! what will thy brothers, relations, and 
 all the people of Florence say, when it shall be known that thou 
 wast found here naked 1 Thy character will be quite lost; and 
 say what thou wilt in thy own vindication, the scholar will 
 contradict it. Miserable woman ! to lose both thy lover and thy 
 honour at the same time !” Here her grief was such, that she was 
 going to throw herself down headlong ; but as the sun was now 
 rising, she got to one corner of the wall to see if she could discover 
 any shepherd’s boy to send for her maid, when it happened that 
 the scholar, who had been taking a nap upon the grass, awoke and 
 saw her, and she him ; on which he said, “ Good morrow, madam, 
 are the damsels come yet T At this she fell a crying most bitterly, 
 and desired he would come to her, that they might have some talk 
 together. He readily obliged her in that, whilst she lying down, 
 with only her head appearing above the battlements, began to 
 weep and say, “ Sir, if I caused you to have a bad night, you are 
 suflSciently revenged: for, though it is in July, yet I have been 
 just starved to death, as I am naked ; not to mention my grief for 
 the trick I put upon you, and for my own folly in believing you, 
 that I have almost cried my eyes out of my head. Therefore I 
 entreat you, not out of any regard for me, for none is due from you; 
 but for your own sake, as you are a gentleman, that you would 
 
EIGHTH DAY. 
 
 40s 
 
 esteem what you have already made me suffer a sufficient revenge, 
 and that you would order my clothes to be brought, and let me 
 come down ; nor offer to take that away from me which it is not 
 in your power to restore; I mean my honour. For if I denied you 
 my company one night, you may have it as many nights as you 
 please in return for that one. Let this therefore suffice, and, like 
 a man of worth, think it enough that you have had me in your 
 power ; nor set your wit against a woman. Where is the glory in 
 an eagle’s vanquishing a poor yielding dove 1 Then for Heaven’s 
 sake, and your own honour, shew me some pity!” The scholar 
 found himself alternately influenced by two different motives; one 
 while he was moved with compassion to see her in that distress, 
 but revenge and fury at length gained the superiority, and he 
 replied as follows :—Madam, if my prayers (though unattended 
 with tears, and such soothing expressions as yours) could have 
 procured only a little shelter for me the night that I was dying in 
 your court, all covered with snow, I could, in that case, easily hear 
 now what you have to say : but you may remember that you were 
 then with your gallant, entertaining him with my sufferings •, let 
 him come and bring your clothes, and the ladder ; for he will be 
 the best guardian of honour, who has so often had it in keeping. 
 Why do not you call upon him then ] It is his business more than 
 any other person’s, and if he do not succour you, whom will he 
 regard ? You may now see whether your love for him, or your 
 great understanding, is able to deliver you from my folly ; as you 
 were pleased to make a doubt whether that folly or your love for 
 him was greater. And concerning the offer of your person, I 
 desire it not, neither could you withhold it from me if I did. No, 
 keep it all for your lover; for my own part I have had enough 
 of one night. You think to cajole me, by speaking of my great 
 worth and gentility, and would have me believe that I shall lessen 
 myself by this usage of you. But your flattery shall never blind 
 my understanding, as your fair promises once did: I now know 
 myself, and can say tha,t I never learnt so much all the time I was at 
 Paris, as you taught me in one night. But, allowing that I am of 
 a generous disposition, you are no proper object. Amongst savage 
 beasts as you are, the end of vengeance is death, but with men, 
 indeed, what you say should be sufficient. Therefore, although I 
 am no eagle, yet, knowing you to be no dove, but rather a 
 venomous serpent, I shall persecute you with all my might as an 
 
4 o6 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 old enemy; though what I do cannot be called revenge, sc 
 properly as chastisement; for revenge ought to exceed the offence 
 given, whereas, considering how I was served by you, were I to 
 take away your life, this would not be equal to it, nor even the lives 
 of a hundred more such women as yourself. For what the devil 
 are you better (setting aside a little beauty, which a few years will 
 take away from you) than the paltriest chambermaid 1 And yet 
 no thanks to you, that the life of a worthy gentleman was not lost, 
 as you were pleased just now to call me, which may be of greater 
 service to the world than a hundred thousand such lives as yours 
 could ever be, whilst the world endures. Learn then what it is to 
 mock and abuse people of understanding, and scholars, and be 
 wiser for the time to come, if you happen to escape. But if you 
 have such a desire to come, why do not you throw youself to the 
 ground. By breaking your neck, if it please Heaven, you may at 
 once escape the punishment which you seem to undergo, and make 
 me the happiest man in the world. So I have nothing more to say 
 to you, but that as I have shewed you the way up to the tower, do 
 you find a way, if you can, to come down as readily as you oould 
 insult me.” 
 
 All the while the scholar was speaking was she weeping, whilst 
 the time kept going on, and the sun rose higher and higher. And 
 when he had made an end, she said, “ Ah! cruel man; if that 
 unhappy night still galls you, and my crime appears so heinous, 
 that neither my youth, my tears, nor my humblest entreaties can 
 move you, yet let this last act of mine alone have some weight to 
 lessen the force of your severity; consider how I put entire con¬ 
 fidence in you, and entrusted you with my most secret designs, for 
 without that you would never have had it in your power to revenge 
 yourself of me, as you desired so much. Away, then, with all this 
 fury, and pardon me this time; I am ready, if you will forgive me 
 and set me at liberty, to abandon that unworthy young man, and 
 to have you only for my lover and my lord. And though you make 
 light of my beauty, esteeming it trifling and transitory, yet it is 
 what other young gentlemen would love and value, and you may 
 think otherwise. And, notwithstanding this cruel treatment, I can 
 never think you could wish to see me dash my brains out before 
 your face, when I was once so agreeable to you. For Heaven’s 
 sake, therefore, shew me some pity; the sun now waxes wami, and 
 is as troublesome as the coldness of the night.” The scholar then. 
 
EIGHTH DAY. 
 
 40? 
 
 who held her in talk only for his diversion, replied, “ Madam, the 
 confidence you reposed in me was out of no regard you had foi 
 me, but only to regain your lover; and you are mistaken if you 
 think I had no other convenient way to come at my revenge : I 
 had a thousand others, and had laid a thousand different snares to 
 entrap you ; so that, if this had not happened, I must necessarily 
 have taken you in some other ; nor was there any one but would 
 have been attended with as much shame and punishment to you 
 as this. I have made choice of it, therefore, not because you gave 
 me the opportunity, but that I might gain my end the sooner. 
 And though they had all failed, yet had 1 my pen left, with which 
 I would have so mauled you, that you should have wished a thou¬ 
 sand times a day that you had never been born. The force of satire 
 is much greater than they are sensible of on whom it was never 
 tried. I swear solemnly, then, that I would have written such 
 things of you, that you should have pulled your very eyes out for vex¬ 
 ation. As to the offer of your love, that is needless: let him take you, 
 if he will, to whom you more properly belong, and whom I now love 
 for what he has done to you, as much as before I hated him. You 
 women are all for young flighty fellows, without considering that 
 those people are never content with one mistress, but are roving 
 always from one to another, as you have found by experience. 
 Their greatest happiness is in gaining favours from you, and it is 
 their utmost glory to publish them. Truly, you think your love is all 
 a secret, and that nobody but your maid and I were ever acquainted 
 with it, whilst his neighbourhood and yours both talk of nothing 
 else , but it generally happens that the persons concerned are the 
 last that hear of such things. Therefore, if you have made a bad 
 choice, keep to it, and leave me, whom you have despised, to another 
 lady whom 1 have made choice of, one of more account than your 
 self, and wlio knows better how to distinguish people. As to my 
 being concerned for your death, if you please, you may make the 
 experiment. But, as I suppose, you will scarcely humour me so 
 far, so 1 now tell you, that if the sun begin to scorch, you may call 
 to mind the cold you made me endure, and together they will make 
 a proper temperature.” The disconsolate lady, seeing that all these 
 words tended to some cruel purpose, began to weep again, and say, 
 “Behold, if nothing that concerns myself can move you to pity, yet 
 let your love for that lady whom you say you Jiave met with, who 
 is wiser than I, and by whom you say you are beloved; lot your 
 
408 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 regard, I say, for her prevail upon you to forgive rae, and to bring 
 me my clothes, that I may dress myself and go down.” The scholar 
 fell a laughing at this, and seeing it was about noon, he replied, “Lo, 
 I know not how to say to you nay, as you entreat me by that lady; 
 then tell me where they are, and I will go for them that you may 
 come down.” She was a little comforted at this, and directed him to 
 the place where she had laid them : so he went away, and ordered 
 his servant to keep strict watch that nobody came to her relief till 
 his return; and in the meantime, he went to a friend’s house, where 
 he dined, and laid himself down to sleep. The lady, conceiving some 
 vain hopes of being released, had seated herself down in the utmost 
 agonies, getting to that corner of the wall in which there was the 
 most shade, where she continued, sometimes thinking, and then 
 again lamenting; this moment in hopes, and the next altogether in 
 despair of his return with the clothes; at last, musing of one thing 
 after another, being quite spent with grief, and having had no rest the 
 night before, she dropped asleep. The sun was now in the meridian, 
 darting all its force directly upon her naked and most delicate body, 
 as also upon her head; so that it not only scorched all the skin 
 that lay exposed, but cleft it by little and little into chinks, and 
 blistered it to that degree that it made her awake ; when, finding 
 herself perfectly roasted, and olFering to turn about, it all seemed 
 to rend asunder like a piece of burnt parchment that had been 
 kept upon the stretch. Besides all this, her head ached to that 
 degree as if it would rive in pieces, which was no wonder. More¬ 
 over, the reflection of the heat against her feet was so strong, that 
 she could not rest anywhere, but kept crying, and moving from 
 place to place. And as there was no wind, the flies and hornets 
 were constantly buzzing about her, striking their stings into the 
 chinks of her flesh, and covering her over with wounds, whilst it 
 was her whole employment to beat them off, still cursing herself, 
 her lover, and the scholar. Being thus harassed by the heat, by 
 insects, by hunger, but much more by thirst, and pierced to the 
 heart by a thousand bitter reflections, she got up to see if anybody 
 was near, resolving, whoever was within call, to beg their assistance; 
 but even this comfort her ill fortune had denied her. The labourers 
 were all gone out of the fields, on account of the heat, though it 
 happened that nobody had been at work thereabouts all that day, 
 being employed in threshing their corn at home, so that she heard 
 nothing but the grasshoppers, and saw the river Arno, which, by 
 
EIGHTH DA Y. 
 
 409 
 
 making her long for some of its water, instead of quenchi g, only 
 added to her thirst. She saw also pleasant groves, cool shades, and 
 country-houses, which made her trouble so much the greater. 
 What can be said more of this unhappy ladyl She who, the 
 night before, could, by the whiteness of her skin, dispel even 
 the shade of night, was now all brown and spotted, so that she 
 seemed the most unsightly creature that could be. Being thus 
 void of all hope, and expecting nothing but death, towards the 
 middle of the afternoon, the scholar happened to awake, when he 
 called her to mind, and returned to the tower, sending the servant 
 back, who was yet fasting, to get his dinner. As soon as she saw 
 him, all weak and miserable as she was, she came and placed her¬ 
 self down by the battlements, and said, “ O sir, you are most un¬ 
 reasonably revenged; for if I made you freeze almost with cold, 
 one night in my court, you have roasted and burnt me for a whole 
 day upon this tower, where I have been at death’s door with hunger 
 and thirst; I conjure you, therefore, that you would come up, and 
 bestow that death upon me, which my heart will not let me inflict 
 upon myself, and v/hich I entirely covet, to put an end to that pain 
 which I can no longer endure; or, if you deny me this favour, that 
 you would send me up a little water to wash my mouth, my tears 
 not being sufiicient, such is the drought and scorching I feel.” 
 The scholar was sensible, by her manner of speaking, how weak 
 she was ; he perceived, also, by what he saw of her body, how it 
 was scorched and blistered; for that reason, therefore, as well as 
 her entreaties, he began to have a little compassion, but said, 
 “ Vile woman ! thou shalt never meet with thy death from my 
 hands; from thine own thou mayest if thou wilt; and just so much 
 water will I give thee, as thou gavest me Are in my extremity. 
 This only grieves me, that, whilst I was forced to lie in dung for 
 my recovery, thou, nevertheless, wilt be cured with the coldness of 
 perfumed rosewater; and though I was near losing both limbs and 
 life, yet thou, when stripped of thy skin, wilt appear with fresh 
 beauty, like a serpent just uncased.”—“ Alas!” quoth the lady, 
 “ may only my enemies gain charms in that manner ! But you, 
 more cruel than any savage beast, how could you bear to torture 
 me as you have done 1 What could I have expected worse from 
 you, had I put all your relations to death in the cruellest manner 
 imaginable What greater punishment could be thought of for a 
 traitor, who had been the destruction of a whole city, than to be 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 410 
 
 roasted in the sun, and then devoured by flies ? and not to give me 
 a taste of a little water, whilst the vilest malefactors, when they 
 are about to suffer, are not denied even wine.—Now I see you fixed 
 in your barbarous resolution, nor any way moved with what I have 
 suffered, I shall wait patiently for my death. The Lord have mercy 
 on me, and look with a just eye on what you have done !” 
 
 With these words she withdrew to the middle of the place, 
 despairing of her life, and ready to faint away a thousand times 
 with thirst, where she sat lamenting her condition. But it being 
 now towards the evening, and he thinking she had suffered enough, 
 made his servant take her clothes, wrapped up in his cloak, and 
 he went with them to her house, where he found her maid sitting 
 at the door, all sad and disconsolate for her long absence; and he 
 said to her, “ Pray, good woman, what is become of your mistress '1” 
 —“ Sir,’’ she replied, “ I do not know: I thought to have found 
 her in bed this morning, where I saw her last night, but she is 
 neither to be found there nor anywhere else, nor do 1 know what 
 is become of her. But can you give me any tidings of her T —“ I 
 wish only,” quoth he, “ that thou hadst been along with her, that 
 I might have taken the same revenge of thee that I have had of 
 her. But depend upon it thou shalt never escape; I will so pay 
 thee for what thou hast done, that thou shalt remember me every 
 time thou shalt offer to put a trick upon anyone.” And then he 
 said to the servant, “ Go, carry her clothes, and tell her she may 
 go for her mistress if she has a mind.” The servant accordingly 
 delivered them, with that message, and the girl knowing them 
 again, and hearing what he said, was afraid she was murdered, 
 and could scarcely help making an uproar about it; so she ran 
 thither, full of grief. Now it happened that a labourer of hers 
 had lost two of his hogs that day, and coming near to the tower 
 to look for them, just as the scholar was departed, he heard the 
 complaints that the poor creature was making, so he cried out, 
 “ Who makes that noise T She immediately knew his voice, and 
 called him by his name, saying, “Go, I pray now, and desire my 
 maid to come to me.” The man then knew her, and said, “ Alas, 
 madam, who has brought you hither ^ Your maid has been looking 
 for you all day long. But who could have thought of finding you 
 in this place 1” And he took the sides of the ladder, and placed 
 them as they should be, binding them about with osiers : and as 
 he was doing this, the maid came, and being able to hold hei 
 
EIGHTH DA Y. 
 
 411 
 
 tongue no longer, she wrung her hands, and fell a roaring out, 
 “ Dear madam, oh, where are you T She, hearing her, replied, as 
 well as she coul^ “ Good girl, never stand crying, but make haste 
 and bring me my clothes.’^ She was pretty easy when she heard 
 her speak, and jumping upon the ladder before it was quite made 
 fit, by the man’s help got upon the tower, when, seeing her lie 
 naked there, burnt like a log of wood, and quite spent, she cried 
 over her as if she had been dead. But the lady desired her to be 
 quiet, and dress her ; and understanding by her that nobody knew 
 where she was but the persons who brought the clothes to her and 
 the servant that was there, she was a little comforted, ’ begging 
 earnestly of them to keep it secret. The labourer now took her 
 upon his back, as she had no strength to go, and brought her down 
 safely in that manner; whilst the girl, following after with less 
 caution than was necessary, slipped her foot, and falling down the 
 ladder, broke her thigh, which occasioned her to make a most 
 grievous outcry. The man, after h-e had set his lady on the grass, 
 went to see what was the matter with the maid, and finding that 
 she had her thigh broke, he laid her down by the lady, who, seeing 
 this addition to her misfortunes, and that she was disabled from 
 whom she expected most succour, began to lament afresh, and the 
 man, unable to pacify her, fell a weeping likewise. But it being 
 now about sunset, he took her to his own house, and brought two 
 of his brethren and his wife back with him for the maid, whom 
 they carried thither upon a table. Having given the lady some 
 water to refresh her, and used all the kind comfortable words 
 they could think of, she was brought to her own chamber; and 
 the man’s wife gave her a little bread soaked in water, and un¬ 
 dressed and put her to bed. It was then contrived that they 
 should both be taken to Florence that night, and so they were. 
 There the lady, who was never at a loss for invention, cooked up 
 an artful story, which was believed by her brothers and sisters, 
 and every other almost, viz., that it was all done by enchantment. 
 Physicians were sent for, who, with a great deal of pain and trouble 
 to her, and not without the loss of her whole skin several times 
 over, cured her of a violent fever, and other accidents attending 
 it; and they also set the girl’s broken thigh. From that time she 
 forgot her lover, and was more careful for the future, both in 
 choosing a spark and in making her sport. The scholar, also, 
 bearing what had happened to the girl, thought he had full 
 
412 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 revenge, and so no more was said about it. Thus the foolish lady 
 was served for her wit and mockery, thinking to make a jest of a 
 scholar, as if he had been a common person, never considering that 
 the greatest part of them have the devil, as they say, in a string. 
 Then take care, ladies, how you make your jest, but especially 
 with scholars. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL VIIL 
 
 Two neigJ'hours are very intimate together; when one mahing very fret 
 with the other’s wife^ the other finds it out^ and returns the complimerU, 
 whilst the friend is locked up in a chest all the time. 
 
 H HE lady’s sujfferings seemed grievous to all that heard them; 
 though their pity for her was the less, as they judged that 
 she had in some measure deserved them; whilst the scholar 
 was deemed most rigidly obstinate, and even cruel. But Pampinea 
 having made an end, the queen ordered Flammetta to go on, who 
 spoke as follows :— 
 
 As I suppose you have been under some concern for the scholar’s 
 severity, it may be proper, I believe, to revive your drooping spirits 
 with some more cheerful subject. Therefore I shall tell you a story 
 of a certain young man, who received an injury with more mildness 
 than he, and returned it with more moderation. Whence you may 
 learn, that a person ought to be content if he gives people as good 
 as they bring, without desiring an unreasonable vengeance, and far 
 beyond what the provocation which he may have received 
 requires. 
 
 Know then, that at Siena lived, as I have been told, two young 
 wealthy citizens, the one named Spinelloccio Tanena, and the other 
 Zeppa di Mino, near neighbours to each other, and as intimate 
 together as if they had been brothers : and each had a very hand¬ 
 some wife. Now it happened that Spinelloccio, going often to the 
 other’s house, whether he was at home or not, became too familiar 
 at last with his wife, which continued some time before anybody 
 perceived it. But Zeppa being at home one day, without her 
 knowing it, Spinelloccio came to inquire for him, and being told 
 by her that he was gone abroad, he began to make free with her 
 as usual. This Zeppa was a witness to, and greatly troubled at; 
 yet knowing that making a clamour would no way lessen tJ-p 
 injury, but rather add to his shame, he began to think of some 
 
EIGHTH DA K 
 
 413 
 
 revenge, which should make no noise abroad, and with which he 
 should yet be content. Kesolving at length what to do, he went 
 into the room after the friend was gone away, when he found her 
 setting her head-dress a little to rights, and he said, “ What are 
 you doing, madamT She replied, “Do not you seeT—“Yes, 
 truly,” quoth he, “ and I have seen a great deal more than I could 
 have wished.” So he charged her with the thing, and she came to 
 an open confession, as it was in vain to deny it, and began to weep 
 and beg his pardon. He then said to her, “ You see you have been 
 guilty of a very great crime; if you expect forgiveness from me, 
 you must resolve to do what I shall enjoin you, which is to tell 
 Spinelloccio that about the third hour to-morrow he must find 
 some pretence of leaving me to go to you, when I will return 
 home; and as soon as you hear me, do you make him go into that 
 chest, and lock him up, and after you have done this I will tell 
 you the rest. Have no doubt, however, about it, for I promise 
 you I will do him no harm.” She agreed to do so; and the next 
 day, the two friends being together at that time, Spinelloccio, who 
 had promised the lady to be with her then, said to Zeppa, “ I am 
 engaged to go and dine with a friend, whom I would not have 
 wait for me; so fare you well.” Quoth Zeppa, “ It is a long while 
 till dinner yet.”—“Yes,” replied the other, “but we have business 
 to confer about, which requires me to be there in good time.” So 
 he left him, and took a little circuit, and went to the lady, and 
 they had no sooner shut themselves in the chamber, but Zeppa 
 returned; when she, seeming to be very much frightened, made 
 him go into the chest, as the husband had directed, and locked 
 him up, and then came out to her husband, who asked her whether 
 dinner was ready. She replied, “ It will be soon.”—“ Then,” 
 quoth he, “ as Spinelloccio is gone to dine with a friend, and left 
 his wife at home by herself, do you call to her out of the window, 
 to come and dine with us.” She readily obeyed out of fear for 
 herself, and Spinelloccio’s wife came, after much entreaty, hearing 
 that her husband was not to dine at home: when Zeppa shewed 
 the greatest fondness towards her imaginable, and making a sign 
 for his wife to go into the kitchen, he took her by the hand and 
 led her into the chamber, when he made fast the door. Upon this 
 she began to say, “ Alas, sir, what mean you to do % Is this what 
 you invite me for % This the regard you have for your friend V’ 
 Zeppa then drawing near to the chest where her husband was shut 
 
4*4 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 ap, and holding her fast, he said, “ Madam, before you utter Any 
 complaints, hear what I am going to tell you: I have loved youi 
 husband as if he had been my brother ; and yesterday, though he 
 knows nothing of it, I found out that he has as great an intimacy 
 with my wife as he has with you. Now I respect him so much, 
 that I intend to take no other revenge but what is agreeable to the 
 quality of the offence. If you will not consent to this, be assured 
 I shall revenge myself in such a manner that both he and you 
 shall have cause to repent it.”—“ Well,” quoth she, “ since your 
 revenge then is to fall upon me, I must be content. Do you only 
 make my peace with your wife for what I do, in like manner as I 
 am ready to forgive her.” He promised to do that, and to make 
 her a present also of a jewel; Spinelloccio, hearing what passed, 
 was fit to burst with vexation; and had it not been that he was pre¬ 
 vented by the fear of Zeppa, he would have clamoured against and 
 have abused her, even shut up as he was. But considering again 
 that he had given the provocation, and that Zeppa had reason for 
 what he had done, and had behaved courteously and like a friend, 
 he resolved to respect him more than ever. Coming out of the 
 chamber then together, and she demanding the jewel which he 
 had promised, he called his wife up, who said only this to her, 
 “Now, madam, we may quit scores,” and she spoke it with a 
 smile. Quoth Zeppa then, “ Here, open this chest,” which she did, 
 and he shewed Spinelloccio to his wife. Now it would be difficult 
 to say which of the two was most confounded, whether the man 
 at seeing his friend, and knowing that he was privy to what he had 
 done, or the woman at seeing her husband, and being conscious 
 that he must have heard what had passed over his head. “ Behold,” 
 added Zeppa, “this is the jewel; I now give it you.” Spinelloccio 
 hereupon came out of the chest, and said, “ Well, now we are 
 even; and, as you said before to my wife, it is best for us to con¬ 
 tinue friends;” the other was content. So they dined very amicably 
 together; and the same good understanding remained amonii^t 
 them for the time to come. 
 
EIGHTH DAY. 
 
 415 
 
 NOVEL IX 
 
 % 
 
 Master Simon, the doctor, is imposed upon hy Bruno and Buffalm.aceo, and 
 made to believe that he is to he one of the company of rovers, and after~ 
 wards they leave him in a ditch. 
 
 ^HE communication of wives mentioned in the last novel 
 occasioned a good deal of discourse, when the queen, 
 knowing it was her turn, began in this manner : 
 
 Well did Spinelloccio deserve what he met with from his friend 
 Zeppa; and I think they are not to blame who put jests upon 
 people of their own seeking, and such as they have really merited, 
 though Pampinea was of a different opinion. Now as to Spinel¬ 
 loccio, it was no more than his due; but I purpose to speak of 
 another, who would needs seek after it, and I commend those 
 merry fellows for what they did. 
 
 This then was a certain doctor of physic who returned from 
 Bologna to Florence, strutting in the robes belonging to his pro¬ 
 fession, though an ass would have become them as well as he. We 
 frequently see your citizens, after they have been to study at 
 Bologna, come back, one a lawyer, another a physician, a third a 
 notary, with their long scarlet gowns and furs, with other things 
 to make a figure; and to what purpose, every day’s experience 
 shews us. Amongst the rest was one Master Simon da Villa, more 
 rich in estate than learning, who appeared in his scarlet robes 
 and ermine, calling himself a doctor of physic, and took a house in 
 the Via del Cocomero. Now, this Master Simon, being newly come 
 thither, amongst his other notable qualities, had one, which was 
 to enquire who every person was that he saw in the street; and, 
 as though he was to have compounded his medicines according 
 to the different gestures and manners of people, he observed and 
 noted all. But he had cast his eye more particularly upon two 
 painters, whom we have mentioned before, Bruno and Buffalmacco, 
 who were always together, and lived in his neighbourhood., And 
 perceiving that they had less regard for the world than other people, 
 and were always more cheerful, he asked a great number of persons 
 about them. Being told then by everyone that they were both 
 poor men, and painters, he could not conceive how they could pos¬ 
 sibly live so merrily in their poverty, but supposed, as they were 
 cunning fellows, that they must have some secret way of getting 
 money; he had a mind therefore to become acquainted with one 
 
416 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 or both of them, and so he happened to fall in with Bruno, whc\ 
 soon seeing to the bottom of him, made the merest game of him 
 that could be, and the doctor was wonderfully delighted always in 
 hearing him talk. And having invited him several times to dinner, 
 and thinking upon that account that he might discourse the more 
 freely with him, he expressed, at length, his great wonder how he 
 and BufFalmacco, who were both poor, could yet be so cheerful, 
 and desired to know how they managed in that case. Bruno could 
 not help laughing to himseK, to hear the doctor put such a simple 
 question, and resolving to give him a suitable answer, he said, 
 “ There are many people, master, that I would never tell that to; 
 but as you are a friend, and I know will keep it secret, I shall be 
 less scrupulous with you. It is true we live as merrily as you 
 imagine, or perhaps more so, and yet all we earn or possess will 
 hardly find us salt to our broth, and I hope you do not think we 
 steal: no, we go a roving, and bring home with us everything we 
 can desire; and thus it comes to pass that we live so merrily, as 
 you observe.” The doctor wondered what this going a roving could 
 mean, and desired he would inform him, assuring him that he 
 would never reveal the secret. “ Alas, Master Doctor, what a re¬ 
 quest is this ! It is too great a secret, and I shall be ruined if I 
 disclose it.”—“ You may depend upon what I say,” quoth the doc¬ 
 tor, “ it shall never go farther for me.” He then, after making 
 abundance of excuses, said, “ Behold, master, the regard I have for 
 your superexcellent understanding, and the confidence I repose in 
 you is such that I can deny you nothing; therefore I will tell you, 
 if you will swear to me, as you have just now promised, never to 
 reveal it.” The doctor swore and swore again. “ You must know 
 then, my dear master,” quoth he, “ that there was lately a necro¬ 
 mancer in this city, called Michael Scotus, because he was a 
 Scotchman, who had great honour shewed him by many of the 
 gentry, few of whom are now living; and who, being about to leave 
 this place, at their request, left it in charge with two of his dis¬ 
 ciples, that they should always be ready to serve those people who 
 had honoured him. Some therefore they obliged in their love affairs, 
 and some in other matters. At last being taken with the city, and 
 the manners of the people, they resolved to make it their place of 
 residence, when they contracted a friendship with divers persons, 
 such as were agreeable to their own tempers, without considering 
 whether those people were rich or poor at that time; and to please 
 
EIGHTH DA K 
 
 4*7 
 
 those friends they established a society of five-and-twenty persons, 
 who were to meet in some place that was fixed upon by them, twice 
 at least in a month, when everyone was to say what he wanted, and 
 they supplied him with it that very night. Now my friend and 1, 
 as a particular mark of favour to us, were admitted into this 
 society. And it is wonderful to behold the costly furniture in the 
 room where we sit, the tables spread in a most royal manner, with 
 the great number of goodly servants, both men and women, at 
 everyone’s command; the basins, flagons, and cups also both of 
 gold and silver, in which we eat and drink, and the great variety 
 and plenty of victuals which are set before us. It is impossible for 
 me to tell you what difi'erent musical instruments there are, and 
 the delightful melody that we hear ; or what numbers of wax can¬ 
 dles are burnt at one of these feasts, any more than the immense 
 quantities of sweetmeats consumed, and the very rich wines which 
 are then drunk. Now I would not have you suppose, my dear 
 friend, that we appear in the same dress that you behold. No, 
 there is not one of us seems less than an emperor, so richly are we 
 attired. But of all our pleasures, that of having the ladies’ com¬ 
 pany is the greatest, and who are brought to us, according to every¬ 
 one’s desire, from all quarters of the world. There you may see 
 the great lady of Barbanicchia, the Queen of Baschia, the wife to 
 the great Sultan, the Empress of Osbech, the Ciancianfera of Nor- 
 veca, the Semistante of Berlinzone, and the Scalpedra of Narsia. 
 But what need have I to recount so many % There are all the 
 queens in the world, even to Prester John’s lady. Then observe, 
 now: after we have eaten and drunk, and taken a dance or two, 
 everyone selects that particular lady whom he had desired should 
 be sent for : and you must know that the chambers we retire to 
 are a perfect paradise, and no less odoriferous than a perfumer’s 
 shop ; the beds also that we lie in are as beautiful as the very best 
 that belongs to the Duke of Venice. Do you then judge of our 
 happiness. But none seem to fare better at these times than my 
 friend and I; for he generally has the Queen of France, and I have 
 the Queen of England, who are the two most beautiful ladies in 
 the whole world, and they like no other person so well as us. 
 Imagine, therefore, if we have not reason to be merry more than 
 any other people; for, besides having the affection of two such 
 queens, if we want a thousand or two thousand florins at any time, 
 tliey immediately supply us. And this we call g^diig a roving; for, 
 
 ^7 
 
THE DECAMERObf, 
 
 41UI 
 
 as the corsairs rob and plunder everyone they meet, so do we, v/ith 
 this difference only, that they make no restitution, which we do as 
 soon as it has served our purpose. Thus I have told you, master, 
 what we mean by going a roving : you may easily see how great a 
 secret it is, and so I need say no more to you upon that head.” 
 
 The doctor, whose knowledge reached no farther, perhaps, than 
 to cure children of the itch, gave the same credit to this story as 
 he would have done to the most established truth, and became as 
 desirous of being admitted into this society as he would have 
 been of anything in the world : so he told the other that he did 
 not wonder to see him so cheerful; and could scarcely refrain 
 from asking the favour of being accepted among them, deferring it 
 only till he could do it with a better grace. From that time 
 therefore he was continually inviting him to dine and sup ; and 
 their intimacy was such, that the doctor scarcely knew how to 
 live without him. And in return for these favours, Bruno, that he 
 might not appear ungrateful, painted in his hall the whole story of 
 Lent, an Agnus Dei over his chamber-door, and an urinal over the 
 door to the street, that people who wanted his advice might know 
 where to have it. He painted also in a little gallery the battle of 
 the cats and the rats; which the doctor thought a pretty fancy. 
 And some nights, when he happened to sup elsewhere, he would 
 say at his return, “I was last night at our meeting, when, being dis¬ 
 pleased with the Queen of England, I ordered the gumedra of the 
 great Cham of Tartary to be brought me.”—“ Pray what does that 
 word mean I” quoth the doctor; “I do not understand such 
 names.”—“ I do not wonder at that,” said Bruno ; for Porcograsso 
 and Vannacena take no notice of them.”—“You mean,” quoth the 
 doctor, “Ipocrasso and Avicenna.”—“Very likely,” said Bruno; 
 “ but I know as little of those names as you know of mine. But 
 gumedra is no more than empress. 0! you would think her a fine 
 woman; she would soon make you forget all your recipes and 
 your plaisters.” Talking frequently in this manner to excite him 
 the more, and the doctor thinking, one night as he held the candle 
 for him whilst he was painting, that he was now under sufficient 
 obligations to grant any favours he should desire, he resolved to 
 open his mind, as they were alone, and he said, “ Bruno, there 
 is nobody that I value so much as yourself; nor is there 
 anything you could ask, but what I should be ready to oblige you 
 in : then be not surprised at my making one request of you. You 
 
EIGHTH DA K 
 
 411 
 
 know, not long since, you were telling me of your meetings ; now 
 there is nothing I desire so much as to make one amongst you, and 
 for a very good reason ; for I will bring the prettiest girl into your 
 company that you have seen a long time, to whom I have devoted 
 my entire love ; and you must know I once offered her ten pieces, 
 and she refused them. Tell me then, I pray you, what 1 must do 
 to be admitted, and do you take care that I be so, and I promise 
 that you shall always find me your true and trusty friend. 
 You may observe that my person is proper and good, and I am a 
 doctor of physic too, and perhaps you have none of that profession 
 among you; moreover I know a great many pretty things, and 
 can sing divers pretty songs, as you shall hear.” Here he began 
 one, whilst Bruno had much ado to keep his countenance, and 
 after he had done he asked him what he thought of it “ Most 
 certainly,” replied he, “the best violin is no way comparable.” 
 —“Then,” quoth the doctor, “to this and many other qualifica¬ 
 tions too tedious to relate at present, I may add, that my father 
 was a gentleman, though he lived in a country village, and my 
 mother of the Vallecchio family. Besides, there is no physician in 
 Florence has better c/^thes, or a more complete library than 
 myself ; and I give you my word, that if you be sick at any time I 
 will cure you for nothing.” Bruno, to make him believe that he was 
 more intent upon his painting, replied, “ Pray, sir, snuff the 
 candle, and let me finish these rats’ tails, and then I will talk with 
 you.” When, seeming much displeased with the request, he said, 
 “ Oh, sir, I have received great favours from you, I must confess, 
 and there is nobody I would serve sooner ; but you ask too much. 
 Now though I cannot directly oblige you in what you desire, yet I 
 can put you into a method whereby I am very sure you will 
 succeed.”—“ Then tell me,” quoth the doctor; “you don’t know how 
 well I can keep a secret. Signor Guasparrnolo da Saliceto, when 
 he was a judge, entrusted me with many things.”—“Well,” quoth 
 Bruno, “ if he trusted you, I may do it more securely. The means 
 you are to use are as follow: we have a captain and two 
 counsellors, who are chosen every six months, and next Christmas 
 Buffalmacco will certainly be the captain, and I one of the coun¬ 
 sellors. Now it is in the captain’s power to admit you if he pleases, 
 therefore you should immediately get acquainted with him. 1 
 know he will be very fond of you, as he is of all men of under¬ 
 standing ; and after you have been often in his company, and 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 420 
 
 ingratiated yourself with him, you may then ask the favour, and he 
 will not know how to refuse you. I have given him a character 
 of you already, and he has conceived a great regard for you, and 
 when this is done you may leave the rest to me.”—“ You say well,” 
 quoth the doctor, “ if he delights in people of sense and learning he 
 will not miss of his aim : I have enough of both to furnish a whole 
 city, and yet leave sufficient for myself.” When the matter was 
 thus agreed, Bruno went and related the whole to Buffalmacco^ 
 who was very impatient to let the doctor have what he sought for. 
 Kow the doctor, who was eager to be concerned, found it no hard 
 matter to get acquainted with him ; and he began to treat them, 
 both noon and night, with everything that was nice and elegant, 
 so that they lived entirely upon him; telling him at the same time 
 that it was a favour they would shew to nobody else. - At length, 
 when he thought it a fit time, he made the same request to Buffal- 
 macco, that he had done before to Bruno, who seemed much con¬ 
 cerned, and made a great clamour at his friend, threatening to 
 break his head for betraying those secrets to the doctor. But the 
 doctor excused him very much, protesting that he had it from 
 another person. 
 
 On this he seemed a little more pacified, and said, “Dear 
 doctor, I plainly see you have been at the university, and know 
 how to keep your mouth shut upon occasion; and I farther tell 
 you, that you have not learned your A, B, C, in the manner most 
 blockheads do : moreover, if I am not mistaken, you were born on 
 a Sunday; and though Bruno tells me that your study has been 
 physic, yet to me it seems as if you had learned to captivate 
 men, which you do by your great sense and manner of speaking, 
 far beyond any that ever I saw.” Here the doctor interrupted 
 him, and said, turning to Bruno, “ This it is to have to do with 
 people of understanding; there are few that could have penetrated 
 into the depth of my designs so easily as this worthy man has 
 done. You did not take my meaning half so soon; but let him 
 know what I said upon your telling me that he delighted in people 
 of sense.—Do not you think I spoke truth at that time 1 ”—“ No 
 doubt,” replied the other. Then said he to Buffalmacco, “ What 
 would you have said, had you seen me at Bologna, vrhere were 
 none, either great or small, doctor or scholar, but doated on me, so 
 much did they profit bv my wise discourses ^ Nay, more than 
 that, I never spoke but they all laughed, so highly were they 
 
EIGHTH DA Y. 
 
 421 
 
 ^)leased to hear me. And when I came away, they expressed the 
 greatest concern imaginable at parting with me, and to encourage 
 me to continue with them, offered me the sole privilege of reading 
 lectures on medicine to all the students. But I refused it, being 
 resolved to come and live here upon my estate, which is very con¬ 
 siderable.’*—“Well,” said Bruno to his friend, “what think you 
 now] You would not believe me when I told you there was not 
 a physician in all this country could cast an ass’s water better 
 than himself ; nor is there his fellow, I will maintain it, from this 
 place to Paris. Go, then, and use all your endeavours to gratify 
 him in his request.”—“ Bruno is in the right,” quoth the doctor 
 “ but here nobody knows me ; they are all a parcel of ignorant 
 stupid people; but I wish you had seen how I appeared among 
 the doctors.”—“Indeed, Master Doctor,” quoth Buffalmacco, “you 
 know a great deal more than I could have thought; in which 
 respect, speaking unto you as becomes me to a person of your 
 understanding and parts, I dare assure you that you shall be one 
 of our society.” This promise made him increase his favours 
 towards them, and they were extremely diverted with his great 
 simplicity, promising that he should have the Countess di* Civillari 
 for his mistress, who was the goodliest and sweetest creature 
 in the whole world. The doctor asked what countess she was ] 
 “ Oh,” quoth Buffalmacco, “ she is a very great lady, and there are 
 few houses but where she has some jurisdiction. Her officers are 
 all about, and store of her great barons are to be seen everywhere, 
 namely, Tamagnint della Porta, Don Meta, Manico di Scopa, and 
 the rest, whose names have escaped me. You shall leave your old 
 mistress then for this lady, of whom we will give you the full 
 possession.” 
 
 Now the doctor, who had been brought up at Bologna, understood 
 not the meaning of these Florentine terms, and so was pieced with 
 the hopes of enjoying what they had promised him. In a little 
 time they brought him the news of his being admitted. The day 
 therefore, that they were to have their meeting, he had them both 
 to dine with him, and after dinner he asked them in what manner 
 he had best go to this assembly. When Buffalmacco replied, “ It 
 
 * This means no more than a common jakes, or the Temple of 
 Oloacina. 
 
 + These are ail different words for the same thing. 
 
422 
 
 TffE DECAMERON, 
 
 behoves you, master, to proceed resolutely, otherwise you may 
 receive an impediment, and do us great injury. Now you shall 
 hear in what manner I would have you do so. You must contrive 
 to be upon one of those raised tombs in New St. Maria’s church¬ 
 yard, at the time of people’s going to sleep, with your best gown 
 on, in order to make a figure amongst us at your first appearance, 
 and to verify our character of you to the countess, who intends to 
 make you a knight of the bath, at her own expense. There you 
 must wait till we send for you. And, that you may be apprised of 
 everything, I must acquaint you that there will be a black-horned 
 beast, of no great stature, come for you, capering and dancing about 
 to terrify you; but, after he finds you are not to be daunted, he 
 will gently come near you, when you may descend from the tomb : 
 and, without thinking of heaven, or any of the saints, mount boldly 
 upon his back ; and, as soon as you shall be seated, lay your hands 
 upon your breast, without touching him : he will then move easily 
 along, and bring you to us: but if you mention anything of a 
 prayer, or express the least fear, he will throw you down into some 
 noisome place or other; so that you had better not attempt it, 
 unless you can depend upon your own courage, for you may do us 
 a great deal of mischief, and yourself no good.” Said the doctor, 
 “You do not know me yet; because I wear a gown, you think me 
 faint-hearted. If you did but know what I have done some nights 
 at Bologna, when I went with some of my companions to visit 
 the girls there, you would be surprised. One night, I assure 
 you, I met with a little, young baggage, who refused to go along 
 with us, when I dragged her by force a considerable way, and after¬ 
 wards she went willingly enough. Another time, I remember, 
 having nobody with me but my boy, that I went through the friar’s 
 churchyard, after evening prayers, when a woman had been buried 
 there that night, and I was not at all afraid. Never fear, therefore, 
 but I will be courageous and resolute as you can desire. To do you 
 the greater honour, too, I intend to go in the scarlet robes in which 
 I commenced doctor, and you will see what joy there will be in your 
 assembly at my coming, and if I shall not go near to be immediately 
 declared your captain. You shall see also how the case will go 
 after I have made my appearance, in regard that the countess, 
 having as yet never seen me, is so enamoured with me, that she wiD 
 make me a knight of the bath ; and as to supporting the honour, 
 that you may leave to ma” 
 
EIGHTH DAY. 
 
 423 
 
 “Very well spoken,” said Buffalmacco ; but take care you do not 
 Impose upon us, and so not come at all, or be not found there 
 when we send for you; and I give you this caution because the 
 weather is cold, and you doctors love to take care of yourselves.” 
 “No,” quoth the doctor, “I am one of those hardy ones that have 
 no regard for the weather, and if I have occasion to rise in the 
 night, I only put a fur gown over my doublet; so you need make 
 no doubt about it.” As soon as they were departed, and it was 
 night, he made some excuse or other to his wife, and got away his 
 best gown, which he put on when he thought it was the time, and 
 went and stood upon one of the grave-stones, it being a very cold 
 night, expecting the beast. Whilst Buffalmacco, who was pretty 
 lusty, had procured a vizard mask, such as they used formerly in 
 farces, and he covered himself with a black fur gown, which was 
 turned inside out, that he seemed like a bear, only that his mask 
 had two horns, and so he had more the appearance of the devil 
 Being thus equipped, he went to the square by New St. Maria’s, 
 Bruno following at a distance, to see how they went on. And as 
 soon as he found that his doctor was there, he fell a skipping and 
 roaring about as if he were mad, which put our physician into a 
 most terrible fright, and he began to wish heartily that he was at 
 home again. But as he was come out upon this affair, he resolved to 
 acoomplish it, so urgent was his desire to behold the wonders which 
 they had been relating. At last, after Buffalmacco had played his 
 tricks for some time, he grew a little more quiet, and drew near to 
 the stone where the doctor was, and where he stood out of harm’s 
 way ; whilst he, who shook all over for fear, was in doubt whether 
 he should mount or not. Till apprehending that some mischief 
 might befal him if he did not, this latter fear expelled the former, 
 and coming down from the tomb, he mounted upon the beast, 
 praying God to help him, and laid his hands upon his breast, as he 
 had been directed. Buffalmacco then began to shape his course 
 towards St. Maria della Scala, and from thence conducted him, 
 groping all the way in the dark, as far as the ladies of Bipole. 
 Hereabouts were divers ditches, made by the husbandmen to empty 
 the Countess di Civilian into, for the sake of manuring their lands 
 afterwards. Buffalmacco then being come to the brink of one of 
 them, and putting his hand under one of the doctor’s feet, pitched 
 him headlong in, when he began to make a terrible noise, stamping 
 and roaring about, and so went back by St Maria della Scala, 
 
424 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 towards Prato d’Ogni Santi, where he met with Bruno, who had 
 been forced to leave him, because he could not hold from laughing, 
 and both turned back once more, to see how the poor doctor would 
 behave in that condition; who, finding himself in such a place, 
 laboured with all his might to get released, but falling sometimes 
 on one side, and sometimes on the other, he was all over imbrued ; 
 till at length, with the utmost difficulty, he made shift to scramble 
 out with the loss of his hood. When he cleaned himself as well 
 as he could, and not knowing what other course to take, he 
 went home, and knocked at the door till they let him in. The 
 door was no sooner shut again, but Bruno and Bufialmacco were 
 there listening to hear what a reception the doctor would meet with 
 from his wife, who met him with all the bad language she could 
 devise, saying, “ You are in a fine condition, truly—what, you have 
 been with some other woman, and so had a mind to make a figure 
 in your scarlet robes !—Am not I enough for you 1 I wish you had 
 been choked when you fell into all that nastiness. Here is a fine 
 physician indeed ! who is not content with his own wife, but must 
 be running out at night after other women.” With these and such 
 like words she rallied him till midnight, when she had him washed 
 and made clean. The next morning Bruno and Bufialmacco came 
 with their bodies all painted over with blue spots, as if they had 
 been beaten, to his house, when they found him just risen out of 
 bed, and everything in a sad condition. He seeing them coming, 
 went and wished them a good morning; but they seeming much 
 out of temper, replied, “We wished you had been hanged for a 
 sorry man as you are ; we have been near losing our lives, meaning 
 to do you honour, being beaten like two asses, and in danger of being 
 excluded our assembly, where we would have had you introduced. 
 If you will not believe us, pray behold our bodies so taking him 
 into a corner, where there was not much light, they just opened 
 their bosoms for him to see, and immediately buttoned them up 
 again. The doctor endeavoured to have excused himself, and was 
 telling them of his misfortunes, and where he had been thrown. 
 When Bufialmacco said, “ I wish you had been thrown from the 
 bridge into the river; what had you to do with prayers 1 Were 
 not you told of that beforehand —“ Indeed,” quoth he, “ I used 
 no prayers.”—“ How do you say! no prayers !” answered the others; 
 “ I am sure our messenger told us that you prayed and trembled 
 like an aspen leaf. We will never be served so again, either by you 
 
EIGHTH DA Y, 
 
 4»5 
 
 or anyone else ; nor must yon expect ever any more to have such 
 favours shewed you.” The doctor here began to ask pardon, en- 
 treating them not to resent it; and, lest they should expose him, 
 by making it public, he entertained them at his house more than 
 ever. And thus our doctor was taught vsomething more than he 
 had learned at Bologna. 
 
 NOVEL X. 
 
 A certain Sicilian damsel cheats a merchant of all the money he had taken 
 for his goods at Palermo. Afterwards he 'pretends to return with a 
 greater stock of goods than before ; when he contrives to borrow a large 
 sum of money of her, leaving sham pledges for her security. 
 
 OW much they were all diverted with the queen’s novel it 
 is needless to say; and it being now ended, Dioneus began 
 in this manner ;— 
 
 It is certain that those stratagems are the more entertaining, the 
 more cunning and artful the person is who is imposed upon by 
 them. Therefore, though the other novels have been agreeable 
 enough, yet I think to relate one that will please you better ; in¬ 
 asmuch as the lady outwitted was a greater mistress of those 
 devices than any of the persons before-mentioned. 
 
 It was formerly a custom, and may be still, in seaport towns, for 
 all the merchants that come thither to bring their goods into a 
 common warehouse, under the keeping of the community, or else 
 the lord of the town; when they give a particular account, in 
 writing, of the nature and value of theux: the goods are kept 
 under lock and key, and the account entered in a register, for the 
 merchants to pay the accustomed dues, as all or part are sold, and 
 delivered out of the warehouse. From this register the brokers 
 are informed both of the quantity and quality of the goods, and 
 also who are the owners, to treat with for them, either by exchange, 
 truck, or sale. This was the way at Palermo, as well as in many 
 other places, where was likewise great plenty of handsome women, 
 not overstored with modesty. And yet, to all appearance, many 
 of them were grand ladies, and pretended, to a character: who, 
 making it their whole employ to shave, and even skin, such men 
 as fell into their clutches, no sooner did they see a strange 
 merchant, but they would inform themselves from that register, both 
 of the nature and value of hie goods; when, by their amorous wiles. 
 
425 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 they would endeavour to bring him to their lure, which they often 
 did; and some have been choused out of part of their goods; 
 others have lost ship, goods, and body, to boot; so finely have they 
 been touched over by these cunning shavers. Now it happened 
 not long since, that a certain young Florentine, called Niccolo da 
 Cigniano, though more usually Salabaetto, arrived there by way of 
 factor, with as much woollen cloth, which had been left unsold at 
 the fair of Salerno, as might be worth five hundred florins ; and 
 having given in his account to the officers, and laid his goods safely 
 up in the warehouse, he was in no great haste to dispatch his busi¬ 
 ness, but took a turn up and down the town to amuse himself. 
 Being a personable young man, one of these female barterers that 
 we have been speaking of, called Madam Jiancofiore, having heard 
 something of his affairs, soon took notice of him, which he per¬ 
 ceiving, and supposing she was some great lady who had taken a 
 fancy to him, resolved to conduct the affair with the utmost 
 caution; so without saying a word to anyone, he used to take his 
 walks frequently by her house. She was soon sensible of this, 
 and when she thought his affection towards her fully secured, 
 under pretence of languishing for him, she sent one of her women 
 to him, an adept in that sort of business, who told him, with tears 
 in her eyes, that her lady was so in love with him, that she could 
 get no rest night or day; therefore she desired very much, when¬ 
 ever he would do her that favour, to meet her at a bagnio; and 
 with these words she took a ring out of her purse, and gave it him 
 as a token. Salabaetto was overjoyed at the message; so taking 
 the ring, and looking carefully at it, and kissing it, he put it upon 
 his finger, and said, “ If your lady loves me as you say, be assured 
 she has not misplaced her affection, for I love her more than I do 
 my own life, and shall be ready to meet her at any time and place 
 she shall appoint." She had no sooner reported this answer, but 
 she was posted back to tell him that her mistress would meet him 
 at such a bagnio that evening. Accordingly he went thither at 
 the time fixed, and found it engaged for that lady’s use. He had 
 not waited long before two women slaves came, the one loaded 
 with a fine cotton mattress and the other a hamper full of things. 
 This mattress they laid upon a bed in one of the chambers, cover¬ 
 ing it with a pair of sheets, curiously edged with silk, and over the 
 whole was spread a rich Grecian counterpane, with two pillows, 
 worked m a most deficate manner; after which they went into the 
 
EIGHTH DA Y, 
 
 m 
 
 bath, and cleaned it very carefully. The lady now came attended 
 by two slaves, and after some sighs and embraces, she said, “ My 
 dear Tuscan, there is nobody could have obtained this favour from 
 me but yourself;” so they went into the bath together, and with 
 them two of their slaves, who washed them with soap, scented 
 with musk and gilliflowers. The other slaves then brought two 
 line sheets, smelling of nothing but roses, in one of which they 
 wrapped Salabaetto, and in the other the lady, and carried them 
 to bed, where, after they had lain some time to perspire, those 
 sheets were taken away, and they were left between the others. 
 After this, they took out of the hamper silver canisters of rose, 
 orange, and jessamine water, which they sprinkled upon the bed, 
 and presented them with sweetmeats and rich wines, by way of 
 collation: he all the time thought himself in paradise, wishing 
 heartily that they would go away, and leave him in possession of 
 his mistress. At length they left a taper light in his chamber, and 
 departed. After they had lain a convenient time, the servants 
 returned, and put on their clothes; and when they had taken some 
 more refreshment of wine and sweetmeats, and washed their hands 
 and faces with orange water, as they were going to depart, she 
 said, “ If it be agreeable to you, I should be vastly pleased if you 
 would come and sup with me, and stay all night.” When he, sup¬ 
 posing himself as dear to her as her own heart, replied, “ Madam, 
 whatever is pleasing to you, is entirely so to me; now, therefore, 
 and at all times, I shall be ready to obey your commands.” So 
 she went home, and had her apartment richly set out, and provided 
 a costly supper for him; who accordingly went thither as soon as 
 it was dark, and was very elegantly received; and after supper 
 they went into a chamber scented with costly odours, where was 
 a most noble bed, and everything besides that was grand and 
 sumptuous. All which made him conclude that she was some very 
 great and rich lady. And though he had heard various reports 
 about her, yet he would not believe them for the world; nay, had 
 he been convinced of her tricking other people, he could never 
 have been made to believe that she would serve him so. He stayed 
 with her then all that night, and the next morning she made him 
 a present of a fine wrought belt and purse, saying to him, “ My 
 dear Salabaetto, fare you well; and from henceforth be persuaded, 
 as you are entirely to my good liking, that my person and all I 
 possess are at your service.” He then took hia leave with great 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 satisfaction, and went to the place where the merchants usually 
 resort. And continuing his visits to her without any expense, 
 and becoming every day more enamoured, it happened that he 
 sold his cloth and gained considerable profit; which she being 
 immediately apprised of, not from himself, but other hands, as he 
 was with her one night, she seemed to express a more than ordi¬ 
 nary fondness for him, and would needs make him a present of 
 two beautiful silver cups, worth about thirty florins, which he 
 refused to accept; having had divers things of her before, to the 
 value of thirty more, without giving her the worth of a single 
 farthing. At last, after she had set him all on fire, as it were, with 
 this extraordinary love and liberality, she was called out by one of 
 her slaves, as she had contrived beforehand, when she returned in 
 a little time full of tears, and throwing herself down upon the 
 bed, she seemed to grieve most immoderately. Salabaetto was 
 under the greatest astonishment, and taking her in his arms, he 
 began to say, “ Alas ! my dear heart, what is it that has happened 
 to you thus suddenly % Tell me, my life, I entreat you, do.” She 
 at last replied, “ My dear lord, I know neither what to do, nor 
 what to say. I have just received letters from Messina, wherein 
 my brother informs me, that, though I pawn all I have, I must, 
 without fail, remit a thousand florins of gold in eight days; other¬ 
 wise he must inevitably lose his head. Now I find it impossible 
 to raise the money upon so short a notice : had I but fifteen days, 
 I could procure it from a place whence I could command even a 
 greater sum; or I could sell some of my lands: but as it cannot 
 now be done, I wish I had been in my grave rather than live to 
 know this trouble;” and she continued weeping; whilst Salabaetto 
 whose love had taken away his understanding, thinking that her 
 tears were real, and what she said was true, made answer: “ Madam, 
 I am unable to furnish you with a thousand, but with five hundred 
 I can, as you think you will be able to pay me in fifteen days : 
 and it is your good fortune that I happened to sell my cloth yes¬ 
 terday, otherwise I could not have spared you one farthing.”— 
 “ Alas,” quoth the lady, “ then have you been in want of money 1 
 Why did not you speak to me % For though I have not a thousand, 
 I have always a hundred or two to spare for you. You deprive 
 me of the assurance to accept your profFerred favour.” He, quite 
 captivated with these fine speeches, made answer, “ Madam, you 
 shall have it nevertheless; had I been in the like circumstanoe I 
 
EIGHTH DA Y. 
 
 42c 
 
 should have applied to you.”—“ Dear me!” she replied, “ I am 
 convinced of your most constant and entire love towards me, to 
 supply me with such a sum of your own accord : I was yours 
 before, and now am much more so ; nor shall I ever forget that it 
 is to you I am indebted for my brother’s life. But Heaven knows 
 I accept it very unwillingly, considering that you are a merchant, 
 and must have occasion for a great deal of ready money; but being 
 constrained by necessity, and assured also that I shall be able to 
 return it at your time, I will make use of it; and I will pawn all 
 my houses rather than fail in my engagement to you.” With these 
 words she fell down, weeping, in his arms. He did all he could 
 to comfort her, and stayed with her all that night; and the next 
 morning, to shew what a liberal lover he was, and without waiting 
 for any farther request, brought her the five hundred florins, 
 which she received with laughter at her heart, though with tears 
 in her eyes, he looking only to her simple promise. But after she 
 had got the money, the times were soon changed; and whereas 
 before he had free admittance to her as often as he pleased, now 
 reasons were given that he could not get a sight of her once in 
 seven times that he went; nor did he meet with those smiles and 
 caresses, nor with the same generous reception, as before. More¬ 
 over, the time limited was past, and one or two months over, and 
 when he demanded his money he could get nothing but words by 
 way of payment. Whilst he, now sensible of the arts of this 
 wicked woman, as well as of his own want of sense, and knowing 
 that he had no proof against her, but what she herself would please 
 to acknowledge, there being nothing of any writing between them, 
 was ashamed to make his complaint to anyone, both because he 
 had notice of it before, and also on account of the disgrace he 
 must undergo for his monstrous credulity ; so he continued uneasy 
 and disconsolate to the last degree. And receiving frequent letters 
 from his masters, in which he was required to get bills of exchange 
 for the money, and remit to them, he resolved, to prevent a dis¬ 
 covery, to leave the place ; and he embarked on board a little 
 vessel, not for Pisa, as he should have done, but for Naples. 
 
 At that time lived there Signor Pietro dello Canigiano, treasurei 
 to the Empress of Constantinople, a very subtle, sensible man, and 
 a great friend to Salabaetto and his masters ; to whom he made 
 his case known, requesting his assistance in getting himself a 
 livelihood, and declaring tfijic he would never more return to 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 Florence. Canigiano, who was much concerned for him, replied, 
 “You have done very ill; very ill indeed have you behaved your¬ 
 self : small is the regard which you have shewed to your principles, 
 too much have you expended upon your pleasures. It is done, how¬ 
 ever, and we must remedj?' it as well as we can.” Then, like a prudent 
 man, he considered what course it was best to take, and acquainted 
 him with it. Salabaetto was pleased with the scheme, and resolved 
 to follow it; and having some money of his own, and Canigiano 
 lending him some, he made divers bales of goods well packed 
 together, and procured about twenty casks for oil, which he filled, 
 and returned with them to Palermo, where he entered them as on 
 his own account in the register, with what value he pleased to put 
 upon them ; and he laid them up in the warehouse, declaring that 
 they were not to be meddled with till more goods of his should 
 arrive, which he was daily expecting. The lady hearing of this, 
 and understanding that the goods he had already there were worth 
 two thousand florins, and that what remained to come were rated 
 at three thousand more, began'to think that she had as yet got too 
 little from him; therefore she thought of returning the five hundred 
 to come in for a better part of the five thousand, and accordingly 
 she sent for him. He went with malice in his heart, whilst she, 
 seeming to know nothing of what he had brought, appeared 
 wonderfully pleased at seeing him, and said; “Now, were you 
 really vexed because I failed giving you your money at your 
 time T He smiled, and replied, “ In truth, madam, I was a little 
 uneasy, since I would pluck my very heart out if I thought it 
 would please you; but you shall see how much I was offended. 
 Such is my regard for you, that I have sold the greatest part of my 
 estate, and have brought as much merchandise as is worth two 
 thousand florins, and I expect from the Levant what will amount 
 to three thousand more ; resolving to have a warehouse, and to 
 abide here, for the sake of being near you, as I think nobody can 
 be happier in their love than I am in yours.” She then replied, 
 “ Now trust me, Salabaetto, whatever redounds to your benefit is 
 extremely pleasing to me, as I hold you dearer than my own life; 
 and I am glad you are returned with an intention of staying, 
 because I hope to have a great deal of your company ; but it is fit 
 that I excuse myself to you, in that sometimes you came to see me, 
 and were not admitted, and at other times not so cheerfully 
 received as before; and besides this, for my not paying you the 
 
EIGHTH DA K. 
 
 43 * 
 
 money according to promise. Now you must know that I was then 
 in very great trouble, and upon such occasions, be one’s love what it 
 will, one cannot look so pleasantly as at another time : I must tell 
 you likewise that it is a very difficult thing for a lady to raise a 
 thousand florins, people impose upon us in that manner, without 
 ever minding what they promise ; so that we are forced to deceive 
 others. Hence it is, therefore, and for no other reason, that I did 
 not return you your money ; but I had got it ready just as you 
 went away, and would have sent it after you, had I known where 
 to have found you ; but as I did not, I kept it carefully for you.” 
 So sending for a purse, which had the very same florins in it, that 
 he had delivered to her, she put it into his hand saying, “ See, and 
 count if there are five hundred.” Never was Salabaetto so over¬ 
 joyed as at that present time ; so telling them over, and finding 
 there were just five hundred, he replied, “ Madam, I am convinced 
 that what you say is true ; but let us talk no more about it, you 
 have done your part, and I assure you, upon that account, as well 
 as the love I have for you, that whatever sum of money you shall 
 want at any time, if it be in my power to supply you, you may 
 command it; as you may soon see upon trial.” Thus their love 
 being renewed, in word at least, he continued artfully his visits as 
 before; whilst she shewed him all the respect and honour that 
 could be, expressing the same fondness as ever. But he, willing to 
 return measure for measure, being invited one night to sup with 
 her, went thither all sad and melancholy, like a person in despair. 
 When she kissing and embracing him, would needs know the 
 cause of all that sorrow. He, having suffered her to entreat him 
 for some time, at last said, “I am undone, for the ship which 
 had the goods on board, that I have been expecting, is taken by 
 the corsairs of Monaco, and put up at the ransom of ten thousand 
 florins, one thousand of which falls to my share, and I have not 
 one farthing to pay it with ; for the five hundred which you paid 
 me, I sent instantly to Naples, to lay out in cloth to be sent hither, 
 and were I to offer to sell the goods I have here, as it is an im¬ 
 proper time, I must do it to very great loss, and being a stranger, 
 I have nobody to apply to ; so that I know neithtjir what to say 
 nor what to do, and if the money be not sent immediately, they 
 will be carried into Monaco, and then they will be past redemption.” 
 
 She was under great concern at hearing this, reckoning a good 
 i^art of it as lost to herself ; and considering how to prevent the 
 
432 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 goods being sent to Monaco, at last she said, “ Heaven knows how 
 much my love for you makes me grieve for your misfortune. But 
 to what purpose is that 'i Had I the money, I would instantly 
 give it you, but I have not. Indeed there is a person that lent 
 me five hundred florins the other day, when I was in distress, but 
 he expects an exorbitant interest, viz., no less than thirty in the 
 hundred. If you will have the money of this man, you must give 
 him good security. Now I am ready to pledge my goods here, and 
 pass my word as far as that will go to serve you; but how wdll 
 you secure the remainder f’ Salabaetto knew the reason of her 
 proposing this piece of service, and that she herself was to lend 
 the money; so being well pleased, he returned her thanks, and 
 said, that let the interest be what it would, his necessity was such 
 that he must agree to it; then he added, that he would make a 
 security by his goods which he had in the warehouse, and that 
 they should be assigned over in the register to the person who 
 advanced the money, but that he would keep the key, as well for 
 the sake of shewing them, if any body should want to see them, as 
 to prevent their being exchanged or meddled with. The lady 
 replied, “ You speak extremely well, the security is sufficient 
 and at the time appointed she sent for a broker, in whom she put 
 great confidence, when she told him what he was to do, and gave 
 him the money, which he carried straightway to Salabaetto, who 
 assigned over his goods to him at the custom-house, and they were 
 entered in his name ; thus they parted, giving each other counter¬ 
 security. Salabaetto now immediately embarked with the fifteen 
 hundred florins and went to Pietro dello Canigiano at Naples, from 
 whence he remitted to his masters at Florence the entire account 
 of what he had made of their cloth ; and having paid Pietro and 
 every one else what he owed them, they laughed very heartily 
 together at the trick put upon his Sicilian mistress. From thence, 
 resolving to trade no longer, he went to Florence. In the mean 
 time, the lady, finding Salabaetto was not at Palermo, began to 
 wonder, and grow half suspicious; and, after waiting two months, 
 and hearing nothing of his return, she made the broker force open 
 the warehouse, when first she tried the casks, which she supposed 
 had been full of oil, and found them full of salt water, with a 
 small quantity of oil at the top, just at the bung-hole. She then 
 looked into the bales of goods, only two of which had cloth in 
 tiiein ; and the rest were stuffed with coarse hurds of hemp ; thati 
 
EIGHTH DA Y. 
 
 433 
 
 in short, the whole was not worth two hundred florins. So she, 
 finding herself thus imposed upon, was under great affliction for a 
 long time with regard to the five hundred florins that she had 
 restored, and much more for the thousand she had lent, often 
 saying, that whoever had to do with a Tuscan had need of ail 
 their eyes about them. Thus she became a common jest after¬ 
 wards, having found to her cost that some people have as much 
 cunning as others. 
 
 After Dioneus had made an end, Lauretta, knowing that her 
 reign was concluded, and having commended the good advice of 
 Pietro Canigiano, as appeared by its effect, and the sagacity of 
 Salabaetto, no less to be admired in putting it in execution, took 
 the crown from her own head, and placed it upon Emilia, saying, 
 “ Madam, I do not know whether you will make a pieasant queen 
 or not, but a pretty one I am sure you will. See then that your 
 works correspond with your beauty.” 
 
 Emilia, not so much for the honour conferred upon her, as for 
 hearing herself commended on account of that which ladies most 
 of all covet, blushed a little, seeming like the opening of a rose in 
 the morning; but after she had turned her eyes down to the ground, 
 till the redness was something gone off, and having given her orders 
 to the master of the household, concerning what she would have 
 done, she began in this manner : “ We often see, ladies, that after 
 oxen have laboured at the yoke all the day, they are then turned 
 loose, and permitted to graze through the forests at their pleasure. 
 It is also certain that gardens, which have a variety of trees in 
 them, are more delightful than groves, where nothing is seen but 
 oaks : for which reasons, considering how many days we have been 
 confined to certain laws, it may be convenient for us all to take a 
 little liberty, to refresh and gain strength against our returning to 
 the yoke. I shall, therefore, give you no particular subject for to¬ 
 morrow, but leave you aU to please yourselves, being of opinion 
 that a variety of things will be no less entertaining than keeping 
 strictly to one. My successor, if he pleases, may keep to the old 
 laws.” She then gave them leave to depart till supper-time. The 
 queen’s order was generally approved, and they went to their 
 different amusements. The ladies made nosegays and chaplets o^ 
 flowers, and the gentlemen sat down to play, or else to sing; and 
 thus they were employed till supper, when they placed themselves 
 by the tountaiii-side, and supped very merrily together. After* 
 
 28 
 
434 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 wards they began to dance and sing, when the queen, to pursue 
 the method of her predecessors, besides what many of them had 
 voluntarily given, ordered Pamphilus to sing a song, which he did 
 as follows; « 
 
 SONG., 
 
 I. 
 
 Such the abundant am’rous joy 
 
 With which my heart elate hath been^ 
 
 As no restraint, no bounds to know, 
 
 , And Hushing in my face is seen 1 
 
 II. 
 
 ^ V . . , 
 
 : " ' In vain my feeble song essays 
 
 ■ To paint what cannot be expressed ; 
 
 „„ H. '.A i And which.more fully to have known, 
 
 , Would bring but jealousy at best. 
 
 , ^ > iii^ 
 
 Could I have formed a wish like this, 
 
 • • My-utmost hope have reached so far, 
 
 To clasp her yielding taper waist. 
 
 And press my eager lips to her ? 
 
 Everyone joined in Pamphilus’s song ; nor was there any among 
 them but made more conjectures than were necessary, to find out 
 what he meant to conceal; and though they imagined difi'erent 
 things, yet none of them was in the right. But the queen, seeing 
 ' the song was ended, and that the company were disposed to rest, 
 
 ’ gave orders for them all to retire to berl. 
 
•Ut 
 
 i, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE NINTH DAY. 
 
 URORA had now changed the heavens from blue to purple, 
 and the flowers along the meadows began to open to the 
 ' rising sun, when the queen arose with all her company; 
 
 and they took a walk together to a grove, not far from the palace, 
 where they sav^r a variety of creatures, such as deer, goats, &c., so 
 secure from the hunter, by reason of the then raging pestilence, 
 that they stood gazing upon them as if they had been tame. Upon 
 a nearer approach, first to one, and then to another, as if they meant 
 to play with them, they were greatly delighted to see them run and 
 skip about them. But the sun being now risen to a good height, 
 it was thought convenient to return. They had all oak garlands 
 on, with their hands full of flowers, or sweet-smelling herbs ; so 
 that whoever had seen them must needs have concluded, either 
 that death would not be able to vanquish them, or at least that he 
 would find them no otherwise than merry. In this manner they 
 came step by step to the palace, laughing, joking, and singing, all 
 the way, where they found everything in order; and, after reposing 
 themselves awhile, they sung half a dozen songs before they would 
 sit down to table. They then washed their hands, and dinner was 
 served up ; when, being sufiiciently regaled, and after indulging in 
 a dance or two, the queen gave leave for such as were so disposed 
 to go to rest. At the usual hour they met at the usual place, when 
 the queen, looking on Philomena, desired her to begin for that 
 day, which she did in this manner : 
 
 NOVEL I. 
 
 Madam Francesca having two lovers, and liking neither of them, rids her¬ 
 self of both by making one go and lie down in a 'person!s grave, and 
 sending the other to fetch him out. 
 
 AM well pleased, madam, as it is your will, to run the first 
 ring, in this free and open field of relating novels, in which 
 your courtesy has placed us, not doubting, if I perform 
 well, but that they who come after will do as well or better. It has 
 
 28—2 
 
43 ® 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 often been made appear in our discourses, how great the Torce of 
 love is ; nor do I think the subject would be exhausted were we to 
 talk of nothing else from year’s end to year’s end : because it hath 
 led its votaries not only into various dangers of death, but even 
 into the very mansions of the dead. I purpose to add a story to 
 what has been already given, wherein, besides the power of love, 
 will be shewed the contrivance of a certain lady to rid herself of 
 two lovers, who were neither of them to her liking. 
 
 In the city of Pistoia there was a handsome widow lady, whom 
 two of our townsmen, who were banished thither from hence, were 
 desperately in love with, and who used their utmost endeavours to 
 gain her affection; the one named Rinuccio Palermino, and the 
 other Alessandro Chiarmontesi. Now this lady, who was called 
 Francesca de’ Lazari, had been often solicited by them, when she 
 listened too hastily to their importunities ; and being afterwards 
 desirous to quit herself of those engagements, without being able 
 W do it, it came into her head at last to ask a piece of service of 
 them, which, though possible to be done, she supposed neither 
 would undertake, and that, from their not complying, she might 
 have a just pretence for turning them adrift. The thing was 
 this; 
 
 The very day that she first thought of it, a man was buried at 
 Pistoia, who, though of a good family, was reputed to have been 
 one of the vilest wretches that ever was born : moreo ver, he was so 
 deformed, that they who did not know him would have been 
 frightened at the first sight of him. This circumstance, she 
 thought, fell in very aptly with her design ; therefore, she said to 
 her maid: 
 
 “ Thou knowest what plague and trouble I have had with these 
 two Florentines; now I have a mind to have neither the one nor 
 the other. In order, then, to shake them off, I intend to make a 
 trial of them in a certain affair which I am confident they will 
 refuse to do, and thou shalt hear what it is. Last night, thoii 
 knowest, was interred in the churchyard belonging to the lesser friars, 
 Scannadio (for so was the man called whom we have been speaking 
 of), who, even when alive, was frightful to most people. Do thou 
 go, then, privately, to Alessandro, and say that thy mistress order? 
 thee to acquaint him that the time is now come when he may be 
 secure of her love, in the following manner :—That one of her 
 '•“lations. for a reason which he will know afterwards, is to brine 
 
NINTH DA Y. 
 
 437 
 
 that man’s corpse to her house, which she is much averee to; 
 therefore she begs it as a favour of him, that he would go, about 
 the beginning' of the night, into the grave, and put the man’s 
 shroud on, waiting there till the person comes to take him away, 
 which he is to suffer him to do, without speaking a word, and to 
 let him carry him to her house, where she will be ready to receive 
 him; and the rest he may leave to her. If he agrees to it, it is 
 well; but if he refuse, charge him at his peril not to come any 
 more in her sight, or to trouble her with his messages. After this, 
 thou mu.st go to Kinuccio, and tell him that thy mistress is ready 
 to gratify him upon condition that he will do her one piece of 
 service, which is to fetch Scannadio out of his grave about mid¬ 
 night, and bring him to her house, the meaning of which he will 
 see at that time; and if he should refuse, that he offer to come no 
 more near her.” The maid obeyed, and going to both, delivered 
 her messages. They replied, that they would not only go into a 
 grave, but even to hell, if it was her desire. She accordingly 
 reported their answers to the lady, who was waiting to see if they 
 would be such fools as to do so. At night, therefore, Alessandro 
 stripped into his waistcoat and went to supply Scannadio’s place 
 in the vault, when he was seized with sudden terror by the way, 
 and began to say to himself, “What a fool am I! Whither am 1 
 going 1 How do I know but this is a trap laid by some of her 
 relations, who have made a discovery of my love, to murder me 
 in the vault, which may be effected, and nobody know anything of 
 the matter; or how can I be assured but it is a stratagem of some 
 rival, whom she may love better than me 1 But suppose again, on 
 the otUer hand, that none of these things are intended, and that 
 her relations carry me to her house, I must conclude that they 
 cannot want Scannadio’s body, either to keep themselves or to 
 present to her, but rather that they mean to mangle it, it having 
 deserved such treatment from them. She also enjoins me not to 
 speak a word, whatever shall be done to me. But suppose they 
 pluck out my eyes, or lop off my hands, how can I bear that 1 and 
 should I cry out, and they know me, they might then use me ill; 
 or, otherwise, they may not leave me with the lady, and so she may 
 pretend that I have disobeyed her orders, and my labour wiU be 
 all lost.” Full of these reflections, he was on the point of return¬ 
 ing home, till his love spurred him on with more prevailing 
 arguments to the contrary, and he hurried along to the vault, which 
 
THE BECAME A OH. 
 
 43^5 
 
 he opened, and having entered, he stripped the dead body, and 
 put on the shroud; and, after he had closed the grave again, he 
 laid himself down in Scannadio^s place, when calling to mind the 
 man’s character, and the reports which he had heard of his ran¬ 
 sacking people’s graves, and committing all kinds of villany, he 
 was so terrified that his hair stood on end, and he was expecting 
 every moment that the man should rise up and strangle him there. 
 Yet still his love got the better of his fear, and he lay as if he was 
 dead, waiting for the event. As soon as it was midnight, Rinuccio 
 went out also to obey his mistress’s commands ; and as he passed 
 along, he began to think of many things which might happen to 
 him; particularly his being met by the sheriff's officers with 
 Scannadio’s body on his back, and so punished for sacrilege, or 
 else his falling under the resentment of the man’s relations, if they 
 should chance to know it; with more such apprehensions, enough 
 to have deterred him from the enterprise. Till considering with 
 himself, he said, “What, and shall I say no to the lady’s first 
 request, whom I have loved, and do still love so much; especially 
 as it is to gain her favour ] Undoubtedly, were I sure to die in 
 the attempt, I would fulfil my promise.” Full of that resolution, 
 he went to the grave, and opened it. Alessandro, though he was 
 very much frightened, lay still nevertheless. Whilst Rinuccio, 
 thinking that it was Scannadio’s body, took Alessandro by the 
 feet, and drew him out, and hoisting him upon his shoulders, he 
 went on towards Francesco’s house. But carrying him along with¬ 
 out any great care, he would frequently hit him a great thump 
 against the wall, first on one side, and then on the other: the night 
 also was so dark, that he scarcely knew where he went; and being 
 now got to the door, and she sitting with her maid at the window, 
 expecting their comirg, and prepared to send them about their 
 business, it happened that the officers were waiting there, to take 
 a certain outlaw, when, hearing the noise of Rinuccio’s steps, they 
 drew out their lanterns to see who it was, whilst they raised up 
 their halberds, and cried out, “ Who is there V’ Rinuccio, upon 
 this, without any great deliberation, threw his burden down, and 
 ran away as fast as his legs could carry him. Alessandro too got 
 up as speedily as he could, though the dead man’s clothes were a 
 good deal too long for him, and made oft' as well as the other. — 
 N^ow the lady saw plainly, by the officers’ light, how Rinuccio had 
 the other upon his back, with the dead man’s shroud on, and was 
 
mNTH DAY, 
 
 439 
 
 astonished at the resolution of both; laughing heartily, however, 
 as soon as she saw Alessandro thrown down, and that each of them 
 took to his heels. And being thankful for her deliverance, she 
 returned into her chamber, declaring to her maid, that surely their 
 love must be very great to fulfil such conditions. Rinuccio stayed 
 at a distance, cursing his hard fortune, till the officers were gone, 
 when he came groping about to find where he had thrown Ales¬ 
 sandro down, desiring to complete his commands; but not meeting 
 with him, and supposing that the officers had taken him away, he 
 departed, vexed at his disappointment. Alessandro, also, not 
 knowing what to do, and being ignorant who the person was that 
 had carried him thither, went home with the like concern. And in 
 the morning, Scannadio’s vault being found open, and the body 
 not seen therein, because Alessandro had rolled it to the bottom, 
 the town was all in an uproar about it, many people believing that 
 the devil had certainly carried him offi Nevertheless, both the 
 lovers signified to the lady what they had done, and how they had 
 been disappointed, excusing themselves thereby for not having 
 fully executed her commands, and still entreating her favour and 
 love: whilst she, seeming to credit neither, cut them both short 
 with an absolute denial, inasmuch as both had failed in the pr 
 formance of the conditions required. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL II. 
 
 An abbess^ going in haste^ and in the darh^ to surprise one of her nuns^ 
 instead of her veil, 'puU on the priest's breeches. The lady accused 
 makes a just remark upon this, and so escapes. 
 
 ^ HILOMENA was now silent, and the lady’s contrivance to 
 free herself from two troublesome people, whom she could 
 not love, generally approved; their daring presumption 
 being judged the effect not of love, but folly. When the queen 
 pleasantly said, “Eliza, do you follow;” who immediately began : 
 —The lady you have just mentioned saved herself very dexterously 
 from trouble; but a certain nun escaped the most imminent danger 
 by a word or t.wo aptly spoken, more through her good fortune. 
 There are many simple people who prove the rigid masters and 
 correctors of others, whom fortune takes occasion sometimes very 
 justly to expose and humble, as was the case of the abbess, under 
 whose government the nun was, of whom I am going to speak 
 
440 
 
 THE DECAMERO'N, 
 
 In Lombardy was a monastery, famous for its sanctity; and 
 amongst the other nuns belonging to it was a lady, named Isabella, 
 of exquisite beauty, as well as of a noble family, who had fallen in 
 love with a young gentleman that came with a relation of hers to 
 see her at the grate. He also had conceived the same affection for 
 her, and this love continued some time without effect, to the great 
 concern of both. At last he thought of a way to get to her, and 
 continued visiting her in that manner till he was discovered by one 
 of the ladies. She communicated the affair to some others ; and 
 first, they were resolved to accuse her to the abbess, a worthy good 
 lady in the opinion of the nuns and other people that knew her : 
 but afterwards, for fear she should deny it, it was agreed that the 
 abbess should surprise them together; and so they kept watch by 
 turns, in order to find them out. One night, therefore, Isabella 
 having her lover in her chamber, without the least suspicion of their 
 designs, the scouts immediately perceived it, and dividing them¬ 
 selves into parties, one guarded the entrance into her room, whilst 
 the other ran to the lady abbess’s chamber, when, knocking at the 
 door, they cried, “ Pray, madam, get up as quick as you can, for 
 our sister Isabella has a man in her apartments.” Now that night 
 it happened that the abbess had a priest with her, who had been 
 frequently brought to her in a chest, and fearing lest, out of their 
 great hurry and eagerness, they might force the door open, she 
 immediately arose, and dressed herself as well as she could in the 
 dark ; and thinking that she had taken a certain plaited veil, which 
 she usually wore, she chanced to lay hold of the priest’s breeches, 
 and threw them over her head in its stead. She now went forth, 
 and locking the door after her, she said, “ Where is this wicked 
 woman T Away then she posted along with the nuns, who were so 
 zealous and intent upon finding out poor Isabella, that they never 
 took notice of what she had upon her head: and coming to her 
 chamber, they found her and her lover together, who were so con¬ 
 founded that they could not speak a word. She was then taken 
 and carried to the chapter-house, the young gentleman being left 
 in the chamber, waiting to see what the end would be, and resolving 
 to revenge himself, if any harm was offered to his mistress, and 
 afterwards to take her away. 
 
 The abbess having taken her place in the chapter, with her nuns 
 about her, who had all their eyes only on the guilty person, she 
 began to give her a most severe reprimand for having defiled, as 
 
NINTH DA Y. 
 
 441 
 
 she told her, by her most disorderly and wicked actions, the sanc¬ 
 tity, honesty, and good name of the monastery, adding thereto 
 most bitter threats. The lady, quite confounded between fear 
 and shame, was able to make no defence, moving many of them to 
 compassion with her silence; but the abbess still continuing her 
 abuses, she happened to raise up her head, when she saw the 
 breeches hanging on each side of the abbess’s neck, and being a 
 little comforted with that, as she conjectured the fact, she said, 
 “ Please, madam, to button your coif, and then tell me what you 
 would have.”—“ What coif is that you mean V’ replied she, “ you 
 wicked woman, you! Have you the assurance to laugh at me 1 
 Do you think jests will serve your turn in such an affair as this V 
 The lady said once more, “I beg, madam, that you would first' 
 button your coif, and then speak.” Upon which they all perceived 
 Isabella’s meaning. And the abbess, finding that she was detected 
 of the very same crime, soon changed her note, and began to excuse 
 and palliate the matter. So she returned to her priest, as Isabella 
 did to her lover. And they continued their interviews together, in 
 spite of all such as envied their hapijiness, whilst the rest procured 
 themselves lovers as soon as they could. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL III 
 
 Master Simon, the doctor, with Bruno, and the rest, malce Calandrino 
 believe that he is with child ; who gives them fowls and money, to compose 
 a medicine for him; and he recovers without being delivered. 
 
 FTER Eliza had concluded her novel, and the company all 
 expressed their joy for the lady’s happy escape from the 
 invidious censures of her sister-nuns, the queen ordered 
 Philostratus to proceed, which he immediately did in this manner:— 
 The odd figure of a judge, that was spoken of yesterday, pre¬ 
 vented my giving you a story of Calandrino, which I had ready to 
 tell you ; therefore, as whatever is related of him must be enter¬ 
 taining, though we have had a great deal already about him and 
 his companions, I shall now say what I had then in my mind. 
 
 You have heard who Calandrino was, as well as the rest of the 
 people concerned in this novel, so I shall tell you, without farther 
 preface, that he had an aunt died who left him about twenty 
 pounds, on which he began to talk of purchasing an estate, and was 
 running to treat with every broker in Florence, as if he had been 
 

 THE DECAMERCiSi. 
 
 worth the Indies, but there was an end always when they came to 
 talk of a price. Now Bruno and Buffalmacco, who knew all this, 
 had often told him that he had better spend it with them than lay 
 it out on a little paltry land, but in vain; he would never part with 
 a farthing. One day being in company with another painter, whose 
 name was Nello, and having agreed to feast themselves well at his 
 expense, and being resolved too in what manner, the next morning, 
 as he was going out of his house, he was met by Nello, who said, 
 “ Good morning to you, and a good year also.” After which the 
 other began to look wistfully in his face, when he said, “ What do 
 you look at]” quoth Nello, “Has anything been the matter with 
 you last night] You are quite a different person.” Calandrino 
 grew thoughtful at this, and said, “ Alas ! now, what do you think 
 I ad]” Nello replied, “Oh! I do not speak it upon that account, 
 it may be something else and away he went. Calandrino went 
 on a little diffident, though feeling nothing all the time, when Buf¬ 
 falmacco came up to him, seeing him part from Nello, and asked 
 him whether he was well. Calandrino replied, “ Indeed I do not 
 know : is it possible to be otherwise, and I not perceive it ]” Said 
 Buffalmacco, “ It may be so, or it may not; but I assure you you 
 look as though you were half dead.” He now* thought himself 
 in a high fever, when Bruno came up, and the first word he said 
 was, “ Monstrous ! how you look 1 why, you are dead. Have you 
 any sense of feeling]” He now concluded it was really so, and he 
 asked them, in a great fright, what he had best do. “ I advise,” 
 quoth Bruno, “ that you go home and get to bed, covering yourself 
 up close, whilst you send your water to Master Simon, the doctor: 
 he is our friend, you know, and will put you into a method ; in the 
 meantime we will go with you, and do what we can for you.” So 
 they took him to his own house, and he went upstairs ready to die 
 away every moment, when he said to his wdfe, “ Come and cover 
 me up well in bed, for I find myself extremely ill.” And being laid 
 down, he sent his water by a little girl to the doctor, whose shop 
 was in the old market, at the sign of the Melon. Bruno now said 
 to his friends, “ Do you stay here, and I will go and hear what the 
 doctor says, and bring him with me if there be occasion.” Said 
 Calandrino, “ Pray do, my good friend, and let me know how it 
 stands with me, for I feel myself strangely within.” Bruno getting 
 to the doctor’s before the girl, let him into the secret. When the 
 child came therefore, and he had examined the water, he said to 
 
NINTH DA V. 
 
 her, “ Go and bid him keep warm, and I will come instantly, and 
 direct what to do.” She returned, and told Calandrino, and in a 
 little time the'doctor and Bruno came together, when the doctor 
 sat down by him, and began to feel his pulse; at last he said, the 
 wife being present, “ I must tell you, as a friend, that your illness 
 is nothing else but your being with child.” As soon as he heard 
 this, he began to roar out, and say to his wife, “ Alas, this is all 
 your doing!” Whilst the poor woman was so surprised, and out 
 of countenance, that she left the room. He then continued liis 
 complaints, saying, “ What must I do 1 Or how shall I be de¬ 
 livered His companions had much ado to keep from laughing, 
 seeing him in all this fright; and as for the doctor, he shewed all 
 his teeth in such a manner that you might have drawn every one 
 out; tiU, at length, Calandrino requesting the doctor’s best advice 
 and assistance, the doctor replied, “ Calandrino, I would not have 
 you make yourself too uneasy, for since I know your ailment, I 
 doubt not but 1 shall soon give you relief, and with a very little 
 trouble ; but it will be with some expense.” “ O doctor,” quoth he, 
 “ I have twenty pounds, which should have bought me an estate; 
 take it all, rather than let it come to a labour; for I hear the 
 women make such a noise at those times, that I shall never get 
 through it.” “ Never fear,” said the doctor, “ I shall prepare you a 
 distilled liquor, very pleasant to the taste, which will resolve and 
 bring it away, so that in three days you shall be as well as ever, 
 nor subject any more to the like mishap. Now I must have six 
 fat fowls, and for the other things, which will cost about ten shil¬ 
 lings, you must give one of your friends here the money to buy, and 
 bring them to my shop ; and to-morrow morning I will send you 
 the distilled water, which you must drink by a large glass-full at a 
 time.” He replied, “ Doctor, I rely upon you.” So he gave Bruno 
 ten shillings, and money also for the fowls, and desired he would 
 take that trouble upon him. The doctor then made a little hip- 
 pocrass, and sent it him. Whilst Bruno, with his companions 
 and the doctor, were very merry over the fowls, and other good 
 cheer purchased with the rest of the money. After Calandrino had 
 drunk the hippocrass for the three mornings, the doctor came with 
 his companions to see him, and on feeling his pulse, he said, “ You 
 are now quite well, and need confine yourself within doors no 
 longer.” He was overjoyed at this, and gave the doctor great 
 thanks, telling everybody he met what a cure Doctor Simon had 
 
444 
 
 THR DECAMERON. 
 
 wrought him in three days’ time, and without the least pain. Nor 
 were his friends less pleased in overreaching his extreme avarice ; 
 but as to the wife, she saw into the trick, and made a great clamour 
 about it. 
 
 - o - 
 
 NOVEL IV. 
 
 Fortarrigo played away all that he had at Buonconvento^ as also the 
 money of Angiolieri, who was his master; then running awo^y in his 
 shirt, and pretending that the other had robbed him, he caused him to be 
 seized by the country people, when he put on his clothes, and rode away 
 upon his horse, leaving him there in his shirt. 
 
 ^]ALANDRINO’S simplicity had occasioned a good deal of 
 diversion; when Neiphile, as it was the queen’s pleasure. 
 
 began in this manner :— 
 
 If it were not more difficult for people to shew their worth and 
 good sense, rather than their bad dispositions and folly, they would 
 not need to lay their tongues under the severe restraint that many 
 are forced to do; now I mean to tell a story quite contrary to the 
 last, namely, how the vileness of one man came beyond the under¬ 
 standing of another, to the great detriment and derision of the 
 person so outwitted. 
 
 There dwelt, not long since, at Siena, two young men of equal 
 years, the one named Angiolieri, and the other Fortarrigo, who, 
 as they resembled each other in many things, so, more particularly 
 in their disobedience to their fathers, by which means they became 
 inseparable friends. But Angiolieri, who was an accomplished 
 gentleman, finding that he could not subsist very well there upon 
 his father’s allowance, and hearing that a certain cardinal was 
 come to Ancona, as the pope’s legate, who had shewed a particular 
 regard for him, he resolved to go thither, in hopes of bettering his 
 condition. So making his mind known to his father, he got half 
 a year’s stipend beforehand, in order to furnish himself with 
 clothes and horses for his more creditable appearance. And being 
 in want of a servant, Fortarrigo, who had notice of it, came and 
 requested the favour that he would take him along with him in 
 that capacity, offering to be his valet, footman, and everything else, 
 without a farthing of wages more than his expenses, which the 
 other refused, not that he thought him unfit for his service, but 
 because he knew him to be a gamester, and one that would fre¬ 
 quently get drunk. Fortarrigo assured him that he would be 
 
NINTH DA Y. 
 
 443 
 
 constantly on his guard with respect to both, confirming it with 
 many protestations, and begging so hard besides, that at last he 
 gave his consent. 
 
 Accordingly they set out upon their journey, and rode as far 
 as Buonconveato, where they stopped to dine; and after dinner, 
 as it was very hot weather, Angiolieri ordered a bed to be prepared, 
 when he made his man undress him, and went to sleep, ordering 
 him to call him up exactly as the clock struck nine. Whilst he 
 was asleep, therefore, Fortarrigo went to the tavern, and, after 
 drinking pretty heartily, began to play with some people there, 
 who soon won what little money he had, as also the clothes off his 
 back. When, being desirous of retrieving what he had lost, he 
 went, stripped as he was, to Angiolieri’s bed-side, and finding him 
 fast asleep, he took all the money out of his pocket, and returning 
 to play, lost it, as he had done the rest. As soon as Angiolieri 
 awoke, he arose and dressed himself, inquiring for Fortarrigo, 
 who, not being to be found, he supposed he was gone somewhere 
 or other to sleep, as he was used to do; therefore he determined to 
 leave him there, ordering the saddle and portmanteau to be put 
 upon his horse, with a design of providing himself with another 
 servant at Corsignano. And putting his hand into his pocket to 
 pay his landlord, he found he had no money, upon which he made 
 a great uproar, declaring he had been robbed, and threatening to 
 have them all sent prisoners to Siena; when, behold, Fortarrigo 
 came running in his shirt, with a design of stealing his clothes, as 
 he had before his money, and seeing him abo’at to ride away, he 
 said, “ What is the meaning of this, sir] Why should we go so 
 soon ] Do stay a little. A man has got my coat in pawn for eight- 
 and-thirty shillings, and I daresay he will let us have it for five- 
 and-thirty to be paid down.'^ But as he was saying this, a person 
 came and told Angiolieri that Fortarrigo was a thief, as appeared 
 from the quantity of money he had lost; upon which Angiolieri 
 was in a most violent passion, threatening to have him hanged up 
 and gibbetted; saying this, he mounted his horsa “ But,” said 
 Fortarrigo, as if he had been no way concerned, “pray, sir, leave 
 off this idle talk, and let us have regard to the main point; we 
 may have this coat now for five-and-thirty shillings, which, if we 
 stay till to-morrow, the person who lent me the money may 
 expect eight-and-thirty for. Then why should we Ipse these three 
 shillings ]” Angiolieri was out of all patience, hearing this from 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 446 
 
 him, and seeing the surprise of the people all around him, who 
 seemed to him to think not that Fortarrigo had gamed away his 
 money, but rather that he had some of Fortarrigo’s money in 
 keeping; so he said, “ Plague take thee and thy coat! Is it not 
 enough to have robbed me, but thou must insult me into the 
 bargain, and stop my going away T Still Fortarrigo continued, as 
 if he had not been the person spoken to, adding, “ Consider these 
 three shillings. Do you think I shall never pay you again 1 If 
 you have any regard for me, pray do. Why need you be in such a 
 hurry? We shall be time enough at Torrenieri Then open your 
 purse. I may go to every shop in Siena, and not get such another 
 coat. And to tell me that I must leave it for eight-and-thirty 
 shillings, when it is worth more than forty, is doing me a double 
 injury.'* Angiolieri, vexed to the last degree at seeing himself 
 robbed, and then kept in talk in that manner, turned his horse, 
 and rode towards Torrenieri. When Fortarrigo, who had still a 
 more knavish design, ran after him for two miles together, begging 
 for his coat; and as the other was going to put on, in order to get 
 rid of his noise, it happened that there were some labourers by 
 the road where Angiolieri was to pass, when he called out to them, 
 “Stop thief so they took their forks and spades, and seized him, 
 imagining that he had robbed the other, who was following after 
 in that manner. And it was in vain that he offered to tell them 
 how the case really was.—In the meantime, Fortarrigo came up, 
 and said, with an angry countenance, “ I have a good mind to 
 knock your brains out, you rascal you ! to ride away with what 
 belongs to me;” and turning to the people, he added, “You see, 
 gentlemen, in what plight he left me yonder at the inn, having 
 first gamed away all that he had of his own. I may well say that 
 it is you I am obliged to for getting them back, and I shall always 
 acknowledge it.” Angiolieri then told them a different story, but 
 they had no regard to what he said. So Fortarrigo dismounted 
 him, with their assistance, and stripped him of his clothes, which 
 he put on himself, and got upon his horse, leaving him there in 
 his shirt, and barefoot; when he returned to Siena, giving it out 
 everywhere that he had won Angiolieri’s horse and clothes at play; 
 whilst Angiolieri thinking to have visited the cardinal in a sump¬ 
 tuous manner, returned poor and naked to Buonconvento, and he 
 w’as so ashamed of himself, that he would not go back to Siena, 
 but procuring some money upon the horse that Fortarrigo had 
 
SI NTH DA y. 
 
 447 
 
 ridden on, he clothed himself, and went to his relations at Cor 
 signano, where he stayed till he got a supply from his father. Thus 
 An^riolieri^s good design was entirely frustrated by the other’s 
 subtle villany, which yet in due time met with its deserved 
 punishment. 
 
 NOVEL V. 
 
 Calandrlno is in love iinth a certain damsel, when Bruno prepares a charm 
 for her, by virtue of which she follows him, and they are found toyetkar 
 hy his wife. 
 
 " EIPHILE’S short novel was concluded, without either too 
 [ much talk or laughter, when the queen ordered Flametta 
 to follow, which she did cheerfully in this manner:— 
 There is nothing can be so often repeated, but what will please the 
 more always, if mentioned in due time and place. When I consider, 
 therefore, the intent of our meeting, which is only to amuse and 
 divert ourselves whilst we are here, I judge nothing either ill-timed 
 or ill-placed which serves to answer that purpose. For which reason, 
 though we have had much about Calandrino already, yet I will 
 venture to give you another story concerning him; in relating 
 which, were I disposed to vary from the truth, I should carefully 
 have disguised it in different names ; but, as romancing upon 
 these occasions greatly lessens the pleasure of the hearer, I shall 
 report it in its true shape, relying on the reason before assigned. 
 
 Niccolo Cornacchini was a citizen of ours, and a very rich man, 
 who, amongst his other estates, was possessed of one at Cameratta, 
 where he built himself a seat, and agreed with Bruno and Bufifal- 
 macco to paint it, but there being a great deal of work, they took 
 Nello and Calandrino in to assist them. Where, as there were 
 some chambers furnished, and an old woman there to look after 
 the house, a son of this Niccolo’s named Philippo, being a gay 
 young gentleman, would frequently bring a mistress thither for a 
 day or two, and then send her away. Amongst the rest that used 
 to come along with him, was one named Niccolosa, an agreeable 
 and facetious woman enough, who going from her chamber one 
 morning in a loose white bedgown, to wash her hands and face at 
 a fountain in the court, it happened that Calandrino was there at 
 the same time, when he made his compliments to her, which 
 she returned with a kind of a smile at the oddity of the man. 
 
448 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 Upon this he began to look wistfully at her, and seeing she waa 
 very handsome, he found pretences for staying, but durst not speak 
 a word. Still her looks seemed to give him encouragement, whilst 
 the poor man became so enamoured, that he had no power to leave 
 the place, till Philippo chanced to call her into the house. He 
 then returned to his friends in a most piteous taking, which Bruno 
 perceiving, said, “ What the devil is the matter with you, that you 
 seem to be in all this trouble T He replied, “ Ah ! my friend, if 
 I had any one to assist me, I should do well enough.’'—“As how]” 
 quoth the other. “ I will tell you,” he replied. “ The most beauri- 
 ful woman you ever saw, exceeding even the fairy queen herself, 
 fell in love with me just now, as I went to the well.”—“ Alas! 
 said Bruno, “ you must take care it be not Philippo’s mistress.”— 
 “ I believe it is the same,” he replied; “ for she went away the 
 moment he called her : but why should I mind that ] Was she 
 the king’s I would lie with her if I could.”—“ Well,” quoth Bruno, 
 “ I will find out who it is, and if she proves the same, I can tell 
 you in two words what you have to do; for we are well acquainted 
 together ; but how shall we manage that Buffalmacco may know 
 nothing of the matter ] I can never speak to her but he will be 
 present.”—“As to Buffalmacco,” said he, “I am in no pain for 
 him, but we must take care of Nello, he is my wife’s relation, and 
 would spoil our whole scheme.” Now Bruno knew her very well, 
 and as Calandrino w^as gone out one day, to get a sight of her, he 
 acquainted Buffalmacco and Nello with it, when they agreed 
 together what to do in the thing. Upon his return, therefore, 
 Bruno whispered him, and said, “ Have you seen her ]”—“ Alas!” 
 quoth he, “ I have, and she has slain me outright.”—“ I will go 
 and see,” said he again, “ whether it be the person I mean ; if it 
 should, you may leave the whole to me.” So he went and told 
 Philippo what had passed, and how they had resolved to serve 
 him ; when he came back and said, “ It is the same, therefore we 
 must be very cautious ; for if Philippo should chance to find it 
 out, all the water in the river would never wash off the guilt in his 
 sight. But what shall I say to her on your part ]” He replied, 
 “ First you must let her know that she shall have joy and pleasure 
 without end, and afterwards that I am her most obedient servant, 
 and so forth. Do you take me right ]”—“ Yes,” quoth Bruno, “ I 
 do, and you may now trust me to manage for you. When supper 
 time came, they left their work, and went down into the ccuil!. 
 
NiN’in DA y. 
 
 449 
 
 »i/]iere they found Philippo and his mistress waiting to make them¬ 
 selves merry with the poor man, whilst Calandrino began to ogle 
 her in such a manner, that a person that was blind almost must 
 have perceived it; in the meantime Philippo pretended to be 
 talking to the others, as if he saw nothing of the matter. But 
 a fter some time they parted, and as they were returning to Florence, 
 said Bruno to Calandrino, “ I tell you now, that you have made 
 jej melt like ice before the sun ; do you bring your guitar, and 
 play her a tune, and she will throw herself out of the window to 
 you.”—“ Do you think so V’ quoth Calandrino. “ Most certainly,” 
 replied the other. “Well,” quoth he again, “who but myself 
 could have made such a conquest in so small a time 1 I am not 
 like your young fellows, that whine for years together to no 
 manner of purpose. Oh ! you would be vastly pleased to hear me 
 play and sing : besides, I am not old, as you suppose, which I will 
 soon convince her of.” Thus he was so overjoyed that he could 
 scarcely contain himsel/, and accordingly the nest morning he 
 carried his instrument with him, and diverted them all very much; 
 whilst he was running to the window and to the door, at every 
 turn, to see her, so that he did little or no work. 
 
 Bruno, on the other part, answered all his messages, as from 
 her; and when she was not there, he would bring letters, which 
 gave him hopes that she would soon gratify his desires, but that 
 then she was with her relations, and could not see him.—Thus 
 they diverted themselves at his expense for some time, often 
 getting little presents from him to her, as a purse, or knife or 
 'some such thing, for which he brought him in return counterfeit 
 rings of no value, with which he was vastly delighted. Having 
 gone on in this manner for two months, when seeing that the 
 work was near finished, and imagining that unless he brought his 
 love to a conclusion before that time, he should have no oppor¬ 
 tunity of doing it afterwards, he began to be very urgent with 
 Bruno about it. When the lady being returned, and Bruno having 
 conferred with her and Philippo upon the matter, he said to 
 Calandrino, “ You know that she has made us a thousand promises 
 to no purpose, so that it appears to me as if she only did it to lead 
 us by the nose ; my advice therefore, is, that we will make her 
 comply, whether she will or not.” The other replied, “ Let us do 
 it then immediately.”—“ But,” says Bruno, “ will your heart serve 
 you to touch her with a certain charm that I shall give you V'' - 
 
THE DECAMERON, 
 
 “ Yon need not doubt that,” quoth Calandrino. ** Then,” continued 
 Bruno, “ you must procure me a little virgin-parchment, a living 
 bat, three grains of incense, and a consecrated candle.” All that 
 night was he employed in taking a bat, which at length he brought 
 with the other things to Bruno, who went into a room by himself 
 and scribbled some odd characters upon the parchment, when he 
 gave it him, saying, “ Be careful only to touch her with this, and 
 she will do that moment what you would have her. Therefore, if 
 Philippo should go from home, take an opportunity of coming 
 near, and having touched her, then go into the barn, which is a 
 most convenient place for your purpose, whither she will follow 
 you, when you know what you have to do.” Calandrino received 
 it with great joy, saying, “ Let me alone for that.” Whilst Nello, 
 whom he was most afraid of, was as deep as any in the plot, and 
 went, by Bruno s direction, to Calandrino’s wife, at Florence, when 
 he said, “ Cousin, you have now a fair opportunity to revenge 
 yourself of your husband, for his beating you the other day with¬ 
 out cause; if you let it slip, I will never look upon you more, 
 either as a relation or friend. He has a mistress, whom he is 
 frequently with, and at this very time they have made an appoint¬ 
 ment to meet; then pray be a witness to it, and correct him as he 
 deserves.” This seemed to her beyond a jest; so she said, “ Oh, 
 the villain ! But I will pay all his old scores.” Accordingly, 
 taking her hood, and a woman to bear her company, she went 
 along with him ; and when Bruno saw them at a distance, he said 
 to Philippo, Behold, our friends are coming, you know what 
 you have to do.” On this, Philippo went where Calandrino and 
 the people where at work, and said, “ Sirs, I must go to Florence, 
 you will take care not to be idle when I am away.” And he went 
 and hid himself in a place where he might see what passed; whilst 
 Calandrino, thinking that he was far enough off, went into the 
 court, where he found the lady, who, well knowing what he meant 
 to do, came near to him, and shewed herself freer than usual, upon 
 which he touched her with the writing, and then withdrew towards 
 the barn, whilst she followed him in, and shut the door ; when, 
 laying fast hold about his arms, without suffering him to stir at 
 all, she stood for some time as if she was feasting her eyes with the 
 sight of him. At length she cried out, “ O my dear Calandrino ! 
 my life I my soul! my only comfort! how long have I desired to 
 have thee in this mann^ unable to move, •*^id, “ My 
 
NINTH DA Y. 
 
 45 » 
 
 clearest jcy ! do let me have one kiss.’^—“ My jewel,” replied she, 
 *‘thou art in too much haste ; let me satisfy myself first with 
 gazing upon thee.” Bruno, Buffalmacco, and Philippo, heard and 
 saw all this; and just as he was striving to get a kiss from her 
 comes Nello along with the wife, who immediately said, “ I vow 
 they are together.” With this she burst open the door, which, 
 when Niccolosa saw, she left her spark, and went to Philippo ; 
 whilst the wife ran and seized him by the hair, crying out, “You 
 poor pitiful rascal, to dare to serve me in this manner! You old 
 villain you ! What! have you not enough to do at home ^ A fine 
 fellow, truly, to pretend to a mistress, with his old worn-out 
 carcass ! and she as fine a lady, to take up with such a precious 
 thing as you are!” He was confounded to that degree, that 
 he made no defence; so she beat him as she pleased, till at 
 length he humbly begged of her not to make that clamour, unless 
 she had a mind to have him murdered, for that the lady was no 
 less a person than the wife of the master of the house. “ A plague 
 confound her,” she said, “ be she who she will.” 
 
 Bruno and Buffalmacco, who with Philippo and Niccolosa, had 
 been laughing heartily at what passed, came in upon them now, 
 as though they had been drawn thither by the noise, when they 
 pacified her with much ado ; persuading him to go home, and to 
 come no more, for fear Philippo should do him a mischief. So 
 he went to Florence, miserably scratched and beaten, without 
 having the heart ever to return ; and plagued with the perpetual 
 reproaches of his wife, he put an end to his most fervent love, 
 after having afforded great matter for diversion to his friends, 
 Niccolosa, and to Philippo. 
 
 NOVEL VI. 
 
 Two young gentlemen lie at an inn, one of whom goes to hed to the landlord's 
 daughter ; whilst the Ibife, hy mistake, lies with the other. Afterwards, 
 he that had lain with the daughter gets to hed to the father, and tells him 
 all that had passed, thinking it had been his friend: a great uproar is 
 made about it; upon which the wife goes to hed to the daughter, and very 
 cunningly sets all to rights again. 
 
 ALANDRINO, who had so often diverted the company, 
 made them laugh once more; when the queen laid her 
 next commands upon Pamphilus, who therefore said :— 
 Ladies, the name of Niccolosa. mentioned in the last, puts me in 
 
 29—f 
 
452 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 mind of a novel concerning another of the same name ; in which 
 will be shewn how the subtle contrivance of a certain good woman 
 was the means of preventing a great deal of scandal. 
 
 In the plain of Mugnone lived an honest man, not a long time 
 since, who kept a little hut for the entertainment of travellers, serv¬ 
 ing them with meat and drink for their money; but seldom lodging 
 any, unless they were his particular acquaintance. Now he had a 
 wife, a good comely woman, by whom he had two children, the one 
 an infant, and the other a girl of about fifteen or sixteen years of 
 age, but unmarried, who had taken the fancy of a young gentleman 
 of our city, one who used to travel much that way: whilst she, 
 proud of such a lover, by endeavouring, with her agreeable carriage, 
 to preserve his good opinion, soon felt the same liking for him: 
 which love of theirs would several times have taken effect, to the 
 desire of both, had not Pinuccio, for that was the young gentle¬ 
 man’s name, carefully avoided it, for her credit as well as his own. 
 Till at last, his love growing every day more fervent, he resolved, 
 in order to gain his point, to lie all night at her father’s house, that 
 it might then be effected without anyone’s privity. Accordingly he 
 let a friend of his, named Adriano, into the secret, who had been 
 acquainted with his love; so they hired a couple of horses one 
 evening, and having their portmanteaus behind them, filled with 
 things of no moment, they set out from Florence; and, after taking 
 a circuit, came, as it grew late, to the plain of Mugnone; when 
 turning their horses, as if they had come from Romagna, they rode 
 on to this cottage, and knocking at the door, the landlord, who 
 was always very diligent in waiting upon his guests, immediately 
 went and opened it. When Pinuccio accosted him, and said, 
 “ Honest landlord, we must beg the favour of a night’s lodging, 
 for we designed to have reached Florence, but have so managed, 
 that it is now much too late, as you see.” The host replied, “ Sir, 
 you know very well how ill I can accommodate such gentlemen as 
 yourselves ; but as you are come in at an unseasonable hour, and 
 there is no time for your travelling any farther, I will entertain you 
 as well as I can.” So they dismounted, and went into the house, 
 having first taken care of their horses ; and as they had provision 
 along with them, they sat down and supped with him. Now there 
 •'"as only one little chamber in the house, which had three beds in 
 it, namely, two at one end, and the third at the other, opposite to 
 them, with just room to go between ; the leavSt bad and incom- 
 
NINTH DA Y. 
 
 453 
 
 iiiodioas of whicli the landlord ordered to be sheeted for these two 
 gentlemen, and put them to bed. A little time afterwards, neither 
 of them being asleep, though they pretended it, he made the 
 daughter lie in one of the beds that remained, and he and his wife 
 went into the other, whilst she set the cradle with the child by her 
 bed-side. Things being so disposed, and Pinuccio having made 
 an exact observation of every particular, as soon as he thought it a 
 proper time, and that everyone was asleep, he arose, and went 
 softly to the bed of the daughter, where he continued to his great 
 satisfaction. In the meantime, a cat happened to throw something 
 down in the house, which awakened the good woman, who, fearing it 
 was something else, got up in the dark, and went where she had heard 
 the noise. Whilst Adriano rose by chance, upon a particular occa¬ 
 sion, and finding the cradle in his way, he removed it, without any 
 design, nearer to his own bed; and having done what he rose for, 
 went to bed again, without taking care to put the cradle in its 
 place. The good woman, finding what was thrown down to be of 
 no moment, never troubled herself to strike a light, to see farther 
 about it, but returned to the bed where her husband lay; and not 
 finding the cradle, “ Bless me,” she said to herself, “ I had like to 
 have made a strange mistake, and gone to bed to my guests!” 
 Going farther then, and finding the cradle which stood by Adriano, 
 she stepped into bed to him, thinking it had been her husband. 
 He was awake, and treated her very kindly, without saying a word 
 all the time to undeceive her. At length Pinuccio, fearing lest he 
 should fall asleep, and so be surprised with his mistress, after having 
 made the best use of his time, left her to return to his own bed : 
 when meeting with the cradle, and supposing that was the host’s 
 bed, he went farther, and stepped into the host’s bed indeed, who 
 immediately awoke ; and Pinuccio thinking it was his friend, said 
 to him, “ Surely, nothing was ever so sweet as Niccolosa; never 
 man was so blessed as I have been with her all night long.” The 
 host hearing of this, and not liking it over well, said first to himself, 
 “ What the devil is the man doing here 1” Afterwards, being more 
 passionate than wise, he cried out, “ Thou art the greatest of vil¬ 
 lains to use one in that manner ; but I vow to God I will pay thee 
 for it.” Pinuccio, who was none of the sharpest men in the world, 
 seeing his mistake, without ever thinking how to amend it, as he 
 might have done, replied, “You pay me? What can you do?” 
 The nostess, imagining that she had been with her husband, said 
 
m 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 to Adriano, “ Alas! dost thou hear our guests 1 What is the 
 matter with them T He replied, with a laugh, ** Let them be 
 hanged, if they will; they got drunk, I suppose, last night.” The 
 woman now distinguished her husband’s voice, and hearing Adri¬ 
 ano, soon knew where she was, and with whom. Therefore she very 
 wisely got up, without saying a word, and removed the cradle, 
 though there was no light in the chamber, as near as she could 
 guess, to her daughter’s bed, and crept into her; when, seeming as if 
 she had been awoke with their noise, she called out to her husband 
 to know what was the matter with him and the gentleman. The 
 husband replied, “Do not you hear what he says he has been doing 
 to-night with our daughter T —“ He is a liar,” quoth she, “ he was 
 never in bed with her, it was I, and I assure you I have never 
 closed my eyes since. Therefore you were to blame to give any 
 credit to him. You drink to that degree in the evening, that you 
 rave all night long, and walk up and down, without knowing any¬ 
 thing of the matter, and think you do wonders; I am surprised 
 you do not break your neck. But what is that gentleman doing 
 there! why is he not in his own bed!” Adriano, on the other side, 
 perceiving that the good woman had found a very artful evasion, 
 both for herself and daughter, said, “ Pinuccio, I have told you 
 a hundred times that you should never lie out of your own house ; 
 for that great failing of yours, of walking in your sleep, and telling 
 your dreams for truth, will be of ill consequence to you some 
 time or other. Come here then to your own bed.” The land¬ 
 lord, hearing what his wife said, and what Adriano had just 
 been speaking, began to think Pinuccio was really dreaming ; 
 so he got up and shook him by the shoulders to rouse him, 
 saying, “ Awake, and get thee to thy own bed.” Pinuccio, 
 understanding what had passed, began now to ramble in his talk, 
 like a man that was dreaming, with which our host made himself 
 vastly merry. At last he seemed to awake, after much ado ; and 
 calling to Adriano, he said, “ Is it day! what do you wake me 
 for!”—“ Yes, it is,” quoth he; “ pray come hither.” He, pretending 
 to be very sleepy, got up at last, and went to Adriano. And in the 
 morning the landlord laughed very heartily, and was full of jokes 
 about him and his dreams. So they passed from one merry subject 
 to another, whilst their horses were getting ready, and their port¬ 
 manteaus tying upon them ; when, taking the host’s parting cup, 
 they mounted and went to Florence, no less pleased with the 
 
NINTH DAY. 
 
 455 
 
 manner of the things being effected, than what followed. After¬ 
 wards Pinuccio contrived other means of being with Niccolosa, 
 who still affirmed to her mother that he was asleep. Whilst she, 
 well remembering how she had fared with Adriano, thought herself 
 the only person that had been awake, 
 
 ■ — o- 
 
 NOVEL VIL 
 
 Talano di Molese dreamed that a wolf tore his wife's face and throat: and 
 he bids her take care of herself: hut she not regarding him, it happens as 
 he dreamed. 
 
 E AMPHILUS’S novel being concluded, and the good woman’s 
 ready thought much commended, the queen turned next to 
 Pampinea, who spoke as follows :— 
 
 We have had a great deal heretofore upon the subject of dreams, 
 which many people think nothing of; but notwithstanding what 
 has been said, I shall relate what happened, not long since, to a 
 neighbour of mine, for not believing her husband’s dream. 
 
 I do not know whether you are acquainted with Talano di Molese, 
 a man of great worth: he had a wife, a very handsome woman, but 
 the most fantastical, cross-grained piece of stuff that could be; 
 insomuch, that she would never do anything that was agreeable to 
 other people, neither could anything ever be done to please her; 
 which, though a great affliction to him, Talano was forced to bear 
 with. Now it happened one night as they were together at a 
 country house of his, that he dreamed he saw her going through a 
 pleasant grove not far from his house, when a monstrous fierce 
 wolf seemed to leap from a corner of it, which seized her by the 
 throat, and threw her down, and would have dragged her away, 
 whilst she cried out aloud for help ; and upon the wolfs leaving 
 her, it appeared that her face and throat were most miserably torn. 
 In consequence of this dream, he said to her in the morning, 
 ** Wife, though your nasty froward temper would never suffer me 
 to have one happy day with you, yet I should be sorry if any harm 
 was to befal you; therefore, if you would be ruled by me, you 
 should not stir out of your house to-day.” Being asked the reason, 
 he related his whole dream. Upon which she shook her head, and 
 said, “ He that means a person ill, dreams the same. You express 
 a good deal of concern for me, indeed, but you dream only as you 
 could wish it: assure yourself, however, that both now and at all 
 hmes, I shall be very careful not to give you any such pleasure.’ 
 
45 ^ 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 Talano replied, “I really thought what you would say; such thanks 
 a person has for currying a scald head ! But think as you will, I 
 spoke it with a good design, and I advise you again to stay 
 at home, or at least not to go into such a grove.”—“ Well,” she 
 replied, “ I will oblige you in that.” Afterwards, she began to say 
 to herself, “ This rogue has been making an assignation with some 
 base woman or other in yonder place, and thinks to fright me from 
 going thither : I should be blind, indeed, not to see through this 
 -irtifice ; but I will see what sort of cattle they are he is to meet, 
 chough I stay the whole day.” Having said this, the husband was 
 10 sooner out of one door but she went out at the other, posting 
 -iway to the grove ; and being come into the thickest part of it, she 
 stood waiting to see whether anybody came. Continuing upon the 
 watch in this manner, without any fears of the wolf, behold, a 
 aionstrous large one rushed out of a close thicket, and seized her 
 by the throat, before she had time, from the first seeing of it, to 
 say so much as Lord, help me ! and was carrying her away as he 
 would a lamb. She could make no noise, because he pinched her 
 throat, nor was she able to help herself in any other manner, so 
 that she must inevitably have been strangled had he not come in 
 the way of some shepherds, who made a noise, and forced him to 
 quit her. When, being known by them, she was carried to her 
 own house, all torn as she was, attended by several surgeons, v/ho 
 made a cure at last; yet not in such a manner, but that one side 
 of her face was strangely seamed and disfigured, so that there was 
 an end of her beauty. Afterwards, being ashamed to appear 
 abroad, did she lament all her life long her perverse disposition, in 
 not giving credit, in a point which would have cost her nothing, to 
 the true dream of her husband. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL VIII. 
 
 Blondello imposes upon one Ciacco with regard to a dinner : who revenges 
 himself afterwards^ and causes the other to he soundly beaten. 
 
 T was generally agreed, that what Talano had seen in his 
 sleep was no dream, but rather a vision, every part of it 
 having so exactly come to pass. But, being all silent, the 
 queen commanded Lauretta to follow, who therefore said,— 
 
 As everybody that has spoken hitherto has given something 
 which has been treated of before, the severe revenge taken by the 
 
mNTH DAY, 
 
 457 
 
 scholar, as related by Pampinea, reminds me of another revenge, 
 grievous enough to the person concerned, although less cruel than 
 that was. 
 
 In Florence there was a man, the greatest epicure perhaps that 
 ever was born, for which reason he was nicknamed Ciacco, i.e.^ 
 glutton ; who, unable to support the expense which such a craving 
 disposition required, and being in other respects a very agreeable 
 and merry companion, he used frequently to go amongst the rich 
 people, such particularly as loved to live well, and to dine and sup 
 with them, though perhaps he was not always invited. There was 
 also a little dapper spark called Biondello, a perfect butterfly; so 
 exact and finical always as to his person, that there never was a 
 hair amiss ; and he followed the same way of life. Being therefore 
 in the fish-market one morning in Lent, and buying a couple of very 
 large lampreys for Signor Vieri de’ Cierchi, he w^as taken notice of 
 by the other, who immediately asked who they were for? He 
 replied, “Yesterday Signor Corso Donati had three larger than 
 these sent him, along with a sturgeon ; which, not thinking suf¬ 
 ficient for all his company, he has ordered me to buy two more : 
 will not you go?” Ciacco replied, “You know very well that 1 
 shall.” So soon as he thought it was the time, he went to Signor 
 Corso’s house, when he found him with some of his neighbours, 
 dinner not being quite ready, who asked him whither he was going ? 
 He replied, “ Sir, I came to dine with you and your friends.” Signor 
 Corso replied, “ You are welcome ; it is about the time then, let us 
 go in.” So they sat down to some peas, and a few small fish fried, 
 without anything more. Ciacco now saw the trick, and resolved to 
 return it. A few days afterwards he met with Biondello, who had 
 made many people merry with the thing, who had accosted him, 
 asking how he liked Signor Corso’s lampreys? Ciacco replied, 
 “Before eight days are at an end, you will know much better than 
 I.” So the moment he parted from him, he met with a porter, 
 whom he carried near to the hall of Cavicciuli, where he shewed 
 him a certain knight named Philippo Argenti, the most boisterous 
 ill-conditioned man that could be; and he said, “ Go, take this 
 bottle in your hand, and say thus to yonder gentleman, ‘ Sir, Bion¬ 
 dello gives his service, and desires you would erubinate this flas' 
 with some of your best red wine, to treat his friends with but take 
 care he does not lay his hands upon you, for you would liave a bad 
 time of it if he should, and my scheme be quite defeated.” Quoth 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 45S 
 
 the porter, “ Must I say anything else 1 ”—“ No,” said Ciacco, “ only 
 say as I bid you, and when you come here again I will pay you.” 
 Accordingly the man delivered his message, whilst Philippo, who 
 was easily provoked, imagining that this was done on purpose to 
 enrage him, arose in a great passion, saying, “ Stay a little, honest 
 friend, and I will give thee what thou comest for ; and was going 
 to have laid hold of him, but the man was aware of it, and took to 
 his heels, returning to Ciacco, who saw the whole proceeding, and 
 who paid him with a great deal of pleasure. His next business 
 was to find out Biondello ; when he said, “ Have you been lately at 
 the Cavicciulir—“No,” he replied, “but why do you ask the 
 question 1”—“ Because,” quoth he, “ Philippo has been everywhere 
 to seek for you ; I do not know what it is for.”—“Then,” said he, 
 “ I will go and speak to him.” So he went, whilst the other fol¬ 
 lowed at some distance, to see how he would be received. Now 
 Philippo had not yet digested the porter’s message, and thinking 
 over and over about it, he concluded it could have no other mean¬ 
 ing than that Biondello had a mind to affront him. In the meantime 
 Biondello comes up to him, when he arose, and struck him with his 
 double fist; whilst Biondello cried out, “ Alas ! what is this for T 
 He took him by the hair, and threw him upon the ground, saying, 
 “Villain, I will teach thee to make thy jests of me.” At last, after 
 he had beaten him a good deal, the people interposed, and rescued 
 him, telling him how it came to pass, and blaming him for the mes¬ 
 sage, adding: “You should know Philippo better than to exercise 
 any of your wit upon him.” He protested that he never sent any 
 such message, and departed full of grief to his own house, con¬ 
 cluding that this was a trick of Ciacco. Some time afterwards 
 Ciacco happened to meet with him, when he said, with a laugh, 
 “Well! what think you of Philippo’s wineT He replied, “Just 
 as you thought of Corso’s lampreys.”—“ Whenever you are disposed 
 then,” quoth Ciacco, “ to give me such a dinner, I can give you as 
 good wine as this you have tasted.” Biondello now finding that 
 the other was more than his match, begged to be friend.s, and from 
 that time took care to give him no more provocatiom 
 
ISriNTH DA y. 
 
 m 
 
 NOVEL IX 
 
 Two young men go to King Solomon for his advice ; the one to know how 
 he is to behave to be beloved^ the other how to manage an, untoward wife. 
 To the first he replies^ Love ; to the second. Go to Goosebridgi. 
 
 NLY the queen now remained to speak, saving his privilege 
 to Dioneus; who, after they had laughed at the unfor¬ 
 tunate Biondello, began in this manner 
 Whoever rightly considers the order of things may plainly see 
 the whole race of woman-kind is by nature, custom, and the laws, 
 made subject to man, to be governed according to his discretion : 
 therefore it is the duty of every one of us that desires to have 
 ease, comfort, and repose, with those men to whom we belong, to 
 be humble, patient, and obedient, as well as chaste ; which is the 
 great and principal treasure of every prudent woman. And though 
 the laws which regard the good of the community may not teach 
 this in every particular, any more than custom, the force of which 
 is very great, and worthy to be esteemed, yet it is plainly shewed 
 by nature, who has formed us v/ith delicate and sickly constitu¬ 
 tions, our minds timorous and fearful, gentle and compassionate 
 as our tempers, of little bodily strength, our voices soft and pleasing, 
 and the whole motion of our limbs sweetly pliant, as so many 
 apparent proofs that we stand in need of another’s guidance and 
 protection. And whom should we have for our rulers and helpers 
 but men 1 To them, therefore, let us submit ourselves with all 
 due reverence and honour; and she that shall (iepart from this, I 
 hold worthy not only of reproof, but severe chastisement. I am 
 led to these reflections by what Pampinea has just now told us of 
 the perverse wife of Talano, on whom Providence inflicted a 
 heavier judgment than the husband ever could have thought of. 
 Therefore, as I said before, such wcwnen as are not mild, gracious, 
 and compassionate, as nature, custom, and the laws require, are 
 deserving of the greatest punishment; for which reason I shall 
 give you some of Solomon’s advice, as a salutary medicine, which 
 I would not have understood by such as stand in no need of it, as 
 if any way designed for them. Although men have the following 
 proverb, “ A good horse and a bad one both require spurs—a good 
 wife and a bad one both want a cudgel.” Which words we will 
 admit to be true, if spoken only by way of mirth and pastime ; 
 and even in a moral sense, we will allow that women are naturally 
 
460 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 prone and unstable, and therefore a stick maybe requisite to correct 
 the evil dispositions of some, as well as to support the virtue of 
 others, who behave with more discretion, and to be a terror to 
 prevent them from offending. But to let preaching alone, and to 
 proceed with my story. 
 
 The fame of Solomon’s most wonderful wisdom being carried 
 throughout the whole world, and his being very communicative to 
 such as resorted to him for proofs of it, people were flocking to 
 him from all parts to beg his advice in their most urgent and 
 momentous affairs. Amongst the rest was a young nobleman of 
 great wealth, called Melisso, who came from the city of Laiaz?o, 
 where he was born and dwelt; and as he was riding on towards 
 Jerusalem, he happened, going out of Antioch, to meet with another 
 young gentleman, named Gioseffo, passing the same road, when 
 they travelled for some time together, falling into discourse, as is 
 usual for people that travel, and knowing who Gioseffo was, and 
 from whence he came, he inquired whither he was going, and upon 
 what account. When Gioseffo replied that he was going to King 
 Solomon for advice what method to take with a most perverse ill- 
 conditioned woman that he had married, and whom no entreaties 
 nor fair speeches had the least effect upon to cure her of that 
 temper. He then asked whither he was bound, and upon what 
 occasion. Melisso made answer, “ I am of Laiazzo, and have an 
 affair that jroubles me in like manner; I am rich, and keep a most 
 noble table, entertaining all my fellow citizens, and yet it is a 
 most unaccountable thing, there is nobody that cares for or respects 
 me : so I am going to the same place to know what I must do to 
 be beloved.” Thus they rode on together till they came to Jeru¬ 
 salem; when they were introduced to King Solomon by one of his 
 barons. Melisso briefly set forth his misfortune, and Solomon 
 replied, “ Learn to love.” Immediately he was shewed out of doors, 
 and Gioseffo related his grievance : when Solomon made no reply 
 but this, “ Go to Goosebridge.” Accordingly he was also dismissed; 
 and coming to Melisso, who was waiting for him without, he told 
 him what the answer was he had received; who thinking much 
 upon the words, and being able to find out no sense or meaning in 
 them, or to draw any use from them, they considered it as all a 
 mockery, and were making the best of their way home again. 
 After travelling some days, they came to a bridge, where being a 
 great caravan of mules and horses laden, they were obliged to stay 
 
NINTH DA y. 
 
 461 
 
 till they had passed. The greatest part was now on the other 
 side; but there was a mule that took fright, which would by no 
 means go over: upon which one of the drivers took a stick, and 
 began to beat her gently, in order to make her pass; but she leaped 
 this way and that way, and sometimes would turn back; therefore 
 when he found her so stubborn, he began to lay on as hard as ever 
 he could strike, but all to no purpose. This our two gentlemen 
 saw, and would often say to the man, “ You sorry rascal! have you 
 a mind to kill the mule f You should lead her gently over; she 
 will go better in that manner than by so much beating.” The man 
 replied, “ Gentlemen, you know your horses, and I know my mule; 
 suffer me, then, to manage her as I will.” And he beat her again, 
 laying on her so thick, that at last he got the better of her, and 
 made her pass. So as they were going away, Gioseffo asked a 
 man that was sitting at the end of the bridge, what the name of 
 it was 1 “ Sir,” quoth the man, “ this place is called Goosebridge.” 
 
 This made him call to mind the words of Solomon; and he said to 
 Melisso, “Now, trust me, friend, Solomon’s counsel may be very 
 good and true ; for I never yet beat my wife, but this man hath 
 just now shewed me what I have to do.” And, coming to Antioch, 
 he kept Melisso at his house for some days, when, being received 
 by her with great joy, he ordered her to dress the supper according 
 to Melisso’s direction, who, seeing that it was his friend’s will, gave 
 his instructions for that purpose. But she, according to custom, 
 did everything quite the reverse of what Melisso had told her; 
 which Gioseffo saw with a good deal of vexation, and said, “ Were 
 not you told in what manner to dress this supper ]” She replied, 
 with great disdain, “ What is that to you 1 If you have a mind 
 to eat, do; if not, you may let it alone.” Melisso was surprised 
 at her reply, and began to blame her for it. But Gioseffo said, “ I 
 find, madam, you are still the same person; but I will make you 
 change your manners.” Then, turning to Melisso, he added, “ Well, 
 we shall now make trial of Solomon’s advice; however, I must beg 
 of you to consider it all as a joke, and not to offer me any hind¬ 
 rance; but remember what the man said when we were pitying 
 the mule.” Quoth Melisso, “I am in your house, and shall 
 conform to your pleasure.” So he took a good oaken stick, and 
 followed her into the chamber, whither she was gone in a pet, and 
 began to give her some severe discipline. When she cried out, 
 and threatened him very much; but finding that he still persisted, 
 
462 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 she threw herself upon her knees, and begged for mercy, promising 
 that for the future she would always be obedient to his will and 
 pleasure. He continued, nevertheless, laying on till he was weary, 
 that in short she had not a free part about her. And when he 
 had done, he came to Melisso, and said, “ To-morrow we shall see 
 the effect of the advice to go to Goosebridge.” Then he washed 
 his hands, and they sat down to supper, and afterwards, when it 
 was the time, they went to repose themselves. The poor lady had 
 much trouble to get up from the ground, when she threw herself 
 upon the bed, and betimes in the morning she arose and sent to 
 her husband, to know what he would have for dinner. He smiled 
 at this, with his friend, and told her. 
 
 When the time came, therefore, they found everything prepared 
 according to the directions given ; upon which they highly com¬ 
 mended the advice which they so ill understood. Some time 
 afterwards Melisso parted from Gioseffo, and went home; when he 
 acquainted a certain wise man in the neighbourhood with what 
 Solomon had told him; who said, “No better or truer advice could 
 possibly be given you; you know that you have a regard for no 
 one person, and that the entertainments you make are for no love 
 you bear those people, but only mere pomp and show. Love, then, 
 as Solomon advises, and you shall be beloved.” Thus the unruly 
 woman was managed, and the man by loving others was himself 
 beloved. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL X. 
 
 D(m John, at the request of his companion Pever, proceeds hy enchant¬ 
 ment to turn his wife into a mare ; hut when he is about to attach the 
 tail, Peter, in crying out that he will not have the tail, breaks the enchant¬ 
 ment. 
 
 'l^gHE foregoing novel related by the queen, though it made 
 the men laugh, caused some disapprobation among the 
 ladies ; but they were presently appeased; and it being 
 the turn of Dioneus, he said : 
 
 By your leave, fair ladies, I will tell you a tale which shall not 
 be so long, by which you will understand how carefully we must 
 observe whatever is commanded by those who are about to do 
 anything by force of incantation, and how a trifling mistake will 
 frustrate everything the enchantment would have effected. 
 
 There was last year at Barletta, a priest named Don John of 
 
NINTH DAY. 
 
 4<53 
 
 Barolo, whose benefice being so poor as not to afford a suflicient 
 livelihood, he began, with a single mare, to carry on a traffic at the 
 fairs of Puglia. In travelling the country he became particularly 
 intimate with a man who followed the same trade, and carried his 
 merchandise on an ass, and who was called Pietro di Tresanti 
 Don John, in token of kindness and friendship, and according to 
 the custom of Puglia, never called his acquaintance otherwise than 
 his “ Comrade Peter and whenever he came to Barletta he in¬ 
 vited him to sleep at his poor dwelling, and gave him the best 
 cheer in his power. Peter, however, was still poorer, having only 
 a little cabin in the village of Tresanti, which was merely big 
 enough for himseff, his young and handsome wife, and his ass; 
 nevertheless, when Don John came to Tresanti he brought him to 
 his cabin, and received and honoured him in the best manner he 
 could, out of gratitude for the treatment he had met with at Bar¬ 
 letta. But when bed-time arrived, Peter could not accommodate 
 Don John in the manner he could wish, for he had but one little 
 bed for himself and wife ; therefore Don John was obliged to sleep 
 on some straw near to his mare, who was lodged in a little stable 
 with the ass. Peter’s wife, knowing the hospitable reception which 
 the priest gave her husband when he went to Barletta, was desirous 
 of going to sleep with a female neighbour, in order that he might 
 have her half of the bed. The priest would not suffer this, but 
 said to her, “ My good Dame Gemmata, be not troubled on my 
 account, for I am very well off; I can when I please turn this mare 
 into a beautiful girl, and be happy with her; and when I wish to 
 go, I can again transform her into a mare: therefore I never 
 separate myself from her.” The young wife was greatly astonished 
 at this, but believing it implicitly, related it to her husband, saying, 
 “ If he is so much your friend as you tell me, why do you not make 
 him teach you this enchantment, in order that you might make a 
 mare of me, and carry on your business with the ass and the mare, 
 by which means we should gain double : when we came home, you 
 could make !ne return into a woman, as I am.” Peter, who was 
 more dull than otherwise, thought well of it, agreed to her propo¬ 
 sition, and began, with the best grace he could put on, to solicit 
 Don John to teach him the secret. Don John endeavoured to per¬ 
 suade hi m from such nonsense, but Peter would not be refused, 
 fie therefore said, “Since you will have it so, we must rise to¬ 
 morrow, as usual, before day-break, and I will show you how it is 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 464 
 
 done; but the most difficult part of this affair is the putting on the 
 tail, as you will see.” 
 
 Peter and his wife having scarcely slept during the night, and 
 being so anxious about this affair, rose the moment the time had 
 arrived, and called Don John, who got up and came in his shirt to 
 their chamber. He said, “ I know no one in the world for whom I 
 would do this but you ; but as it pleases you, Ill do it: you must, 
 however, do what I tell you, if you wish the incantation to succeed.” 
 They promised to do everything he bade them; Don John then took 
 a candle, and putting it in the hand of Peter, said, “ Notice well 
 what I do, and remember what I say; but have a care, as you love 
 yourself, that whatever you see you utter not a single word, or you 
 will spoil the whole, and pray to God that the tail may be well put 
 on.” After this, Don John made Gemmatta strip herself stark 
 naked, and go down upon all-fours, after the manner of a mare. 
 He then began with his hands to rub her face and head, saying, 
 “ this will be a fine mare’s head;” and touching her hair, “ this 
 will be a fine mare’s main ;” examining her arms, “ these will be 
 tine legs and fine feet for a mare ;” next, he felt her stomach, and 
 finding it firm and round, he made her rise up and stand erect, 
 saying, “ this will make a good mare’s chest;” and when he had in 
 this manner gone over her back, her buttocks, her thighs, and her 
 legs, and there remained nothing else to make but the tail,* levata la 
 camiscia, epresso ilpiuolo col quale eglipiantava gli uoinini, epresta- 
 mente nel solco per do fatto messolo, saying, “ and this will be a fine 
 mare’s tail.” Peter, who to this moment had silently regarded 
 everything that was done, seeing this conclusion, and thinking 
 everything was not right, cried, “ Stop, Don John, I will not have a 
 tail—I will not have a tail.” Era gia Vumido radicale^ per lo quale 
 
 * Pierre regardoit attentivement tout son manege, et s’inquietoit du 
 pen de progres de T operation magique. En effet le plus difficile restoit 
 a arranger; une jument ne peut se passer de queue; une femme n’a rien 
 que puisse aider a cette metamorphose ; Tobligeant ami se voyoit oblige 
 d’y suppleer, et ce denouement 6toit vraiment le moment le jilus inter- 
 essant de la piece ; mais a I’instant ou Barolle attachoit cette queue tant 
 attendue, et sentoit ce delire, cette fureur, ces transports qui annonce 
 que le charme va se consommer, ne voilat-il pas le benSt de mari qui 
 s’ecrie : “ Alte la, messire Barolle, je n’y veux point de queue; et qui 
 diable attacha jamais une queue si has ? messire Barolle, je n’y veux 
 point de queue.” Tant que Pierre se coiitenta de parler, I’operation 
 continua ; mais lorsque impatient 4 de I’obstination du magicien, il allu 
 ie tirer pas sa soutane. 
 
NINTH DA Y. 
 
 465 
 
 tutte le piante s’ appiccano, venuto^ quando Donno Gianni tiratolo 
 indietro, saying, “ Alas, my dear friend Peter, what have you done! 
 did I not tell you not to utter a word about what you saw] the mare 
 was almost niade; but you have spoilt the whole affair by speaking, 
 and ’tis now impossible to repair the mischief you have done.” 
 Peter replied, “ It is as weU as it is, for I will not have such a tail; 
 v/hy did you not tell me to do it myself ] you have also attempted 
 to put it on too low.” “Because,” said Don John, “you would 
 not, for the first time, have known how to put it on so well as I 
 do.” The yoimg wife hearing these words, raised herself on her 
 feet, and said, in good earnest, to her husband, “ Brute that you 
 are; why have you ruined both your own fortune and mine] What 
 mare have you ever seen without a tail ] You are poor; but if 
 God aids me you shall be well employed if you are not still poorer.” 
 There being no other means of turning the young wife into a mare, 
 in consequence of the words spoken by Peter, she, in a gTievous 
 and melancholy mood, put on her clothes, and her husband endea¬ 
 voured to carry on his usual business, as he had previously done, 
 with his single ass, and did not go with Don John to the fairs of 
 Bitonto ; nor did he, ever since that period, seek to enrich himself 
 by the aid of such services. 
 
 This tale was received with considerable laughter, and it appeared 
 that the ladies understood it better than Dioneus had intended. 
 
 The novels were now concluded, and the sun began to grow 
 warm, when the queen, knowing that her reign was at an end, 
 arose, and taking the crown from her own head, she placed it upon 
 Pamphilus, who was the only person on whom that honour had 
 not yet been conferred, saying, with a smile, “ Sir, a very great 
 charge now rests upon you ; for, as you are the last, you have to 
 supply my defect, and that of the rest who have been in my place, 
 which I hope you will do.” Pamphilus, pleased with the honour 
 done him, replied, “Your virtue, madam, and that of my other 
 subjects, will cause me to receive praise, as well as the rest that 
 have gone before me.” So, after giving the usual orders to the 
 master of the household, he turned to the ladies, and said, “ It was 
 Emilia’s great prudence yesterday to let us choose our own sub¬ 
 jects by way of ease and respect: therefore, being now a little 
 recruited, I will that we return to our old law; and for to-morrow 
 the subject shall be as follows: of such persons who have done 
 some g^ant or generous action, either as to love or anything else. 
 
 30 
 
466 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 The relating such stories as these will kindle in our minds a 
 generous desire of doing the like; so that our lives, the continuance 
 of which in these frail bodies can be but short, may be made im¬ 
 mortal in an illustrious- name which all persons, not devoted to 
 their lustful appetites, like brute beasts,' ought, with their whole 
 study and diligence, to covet and seek.” 
 
 The theme was agreeable to the whole assembly. And with the 
 leave of the new king they parted, and went,' as they were severally 
 disposed, to divert themselves till supper, when everything was 
 served up with great elegance and order. Afterwards they danced 
 as usual, singing also a thousand' songs, more agreeable indeed as 
 to the words than music ; when the king, at last, ordered Neiphile 
 to give one relating more to herself, which she did very agreeably 
 in the following manner;' 
 
 . : SONG. 
 
 Regardful through the meads I stray, 
 
 ;. < ’ Where flowers their various hues display; 
 
 ! ;! When all that’s sweet and pleasing there, 
 
 I to my lover’s charms compare. 
 
 II. 
 
 I pick out such as fairest seem, 
 
 And laugh and talk as ’twere to him. 
 
 Which, when my am’rous tale is said, 
 
 I to my lover’s charms compare. 
 
 III. 
 
 Whilst thus employed an equal joy 
 T find, as though himself were by: 
 
 How great! no language can reveal, 
 
 *Tis that my^ sighs alone can tell: 
 
 IV. 
 
 Which, harshness and distrust apart. 
 
 Breathe warm the dictates of my heart 5 
 Such as he ever shall approve. 
 
 And meet with equal zeal and love. 
 
 The song was much commended by the king, as well ac the 
 whole company : and, a good part of the night being spent, they 
 were ordered to go and repose themselves till the next day. 
 
I. Stcdiard, ILA. dlse^jw . .jdayusTe Zca>. maso 
 
THE TENTH DAY. 
 
 began certain little clouds, that were in the west, to 
 blush with a vermilion tint, whilst those in the east grew 
 bright at their extremities, like burnished gold, owing to 
 the sunbeams approaching near, and glancing upon them, when 
 Pamphilus arose, and assembled all his company. 
 
 After concluding whither they were to go, he led the way with 
 an easy pace, attended by Philomena and Flammetta, the rest all 
 following at a distance talking of many things relating to their 
 future conduct; and taking a considerable circuit, they returned, 
 as the sun grew warm, to the palace. There, plunging their 
 glasses in the clear current, they quaffed their morning draughts, 
 from whence they went amidst the shady walks of the garden to 
 amuse themselves till dinner. After dining and sleeping as usual, 
 they met where the king appointed, when he laid his first com¬ 
 mands on Neiphile, who began very pleasantly in this manner. 
 
 NOVEL I. 
 
 A certain knight in the service of the King of Spain thinks himself not 
 suficiently rewarded, when the king gives a remarkable proof that it ivas 
 not his fault so much as the knight’s ill fortune; and afterwards nobly 
 requites him. 
 
 EHOLD it, ladies, as a singular favour, that the king has 
 appointed me to speak first on so noble a subject as that of 
 magnificence, which, as the sun is the glory of heaven, is 
 the ornament and lustre of every other virtue. I shall relate, 
 therefore, a pleasant novel enough, in my opinion, and which can 
 be no other than useful. 
 
 Know, then, that amongst other worthy knights of our city was 
 one Ruggieri de’ Figiovanni, whose worth and valour made him 
 equal at least to the best; and who, finding, according to the dis¬ 
 positions of his countrymen, that he had no opportunity of shewing 
 his courage at home, resolved to go into the service of Alphonso, 
 King of Spain, the most celebrated prince of his time. So he went 
 
 JO—2 
 
468 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 attended with an honourable train, and was most graciously 
 received by the king, to whom he soon made his merit known as 
 well by his gallant way of life, as glorious feats of arms. Con¬ 
 tinuing then some time there, and having particular regard to 
 every action of the king’s, he found that he gave away castles, 
 cities, and baronies, sometimes to one, and sometimes to another, 
 without the least judgment, and where there was no show of 
 merit in the case, and that he came in for no part himself. There¬ 
 fore being sensible of his own worth, and fearful lest his character 
 should suffer by such an ovei-sight, he took a resolution to depart, 
 desiring the king’s leave, which was granted him. His majesty also 
 made him a present of a fine mule, which was very acceptable, on 
 account of the long journey he had to perform. After which the 
 king gave it in charge to one of his servants to contrive to fall in 
 wuth him upon the road, but in such a manner that the knight 
 should have no suspicion of his sending him, when he was to note 
 what he should say concerning the king, in order to carry a full 
 account back, and the next morning he was to command his return 
 with him to the king. Accordingly the servant waited for the 
 knight’s departure, and soon joined him, giving him to understand 
 that he was going towards Italy. Thus they rode on, chattering 
 together. The knight being upon the mule which the king had 
 given him, and it being now about three o’clock, he said, “We 
 should do well to give our beasts a little rest.” This being agreed, 
 they put them in a stable, when they all staled except the mule. 
 Going on afterwards, the servant attentive all the time to the 
 knight’s words, they came to a river, where, watering all their 
 beasts, the mule chanced to stale in the river, which when the 
 knight saw, he said, “ Plague on thee for an ill-conditioned beast, 
 thou art just like thy master that gave thee to me.” The servant 
 took particular notice of this, and though he hadr picked up many 
 things upon the road, there was no other but what redounded to 
 the king’s credit; so the next morning, as they had mounted their 
 horses, and were setting out for Italy, he delivered the king’s 
 mandate, upon which the knight immediately turned back. And 
 the king being informed of what he had said concerning the mule, 
 bad him brought before him, when he received him with a cheerful 
 countenance, demanding why the mule and he were compared to 
 each other. He very frankly replied, “ It is, my lord, because you 
 give where you ought not, and where you ought, there you give 
 
TENTH DAY. 
 
 469 
 
 nothing ; just as the mule would not stale where she should, but 
 did it where she should not.”—“ Believe me, Signor Euggieri,” 
 replied the king, “ if I have not given to you as I have done to 
 divers others, who are no way your equals, this happened not 
 because I have not known you to be a valiant knight, and deserv¬ 
 ing of all I could do for you ; but it was entirely your ill fortune, 
 as I will soon convince you.”—“ My lord,” answered the knight, 
 “I do not complain because I have yet received nothing from 
 your majesty, out of any desire of becoming richer, but only as 
 you have borne testimony in no respect to'my virtue; and though 
 I hold your excuse to be good, I should yet be glad to see what 
 you promise to shew me, notwithstanding I want no such proof.” 
 The king then led him into a great hall, where as he had before 
 given order, stood two large coffers, when he said, in the presence 
 of many of his lords, “Sir Knight, in one of these coffers is 
 my imperial crown, sceptre, globe, with all the best jewels that 
 I have; the other is filled only with earth; then choose which 
 you will, and it shall be yours; so you will see whether it is 
 I that am ungrateful to your merit, or whether it be your 
 ill fortune.” Euggieri, seeing it was the king’s pleasure, made 
 his choice of one, which the king ordered to be opened, and 
 it was full of earth, upon which the king laughed, and said, “ You 
 see now, sir, that what I said of your fortune is true ; but most 
 assuredly your valour deserves that I interpose in the case. I 
 know very well that you have no desire to become a Spaniard, for 
 which reason I would give you neither castle nor city; but this 
 chest, which your ill fortune deprived you of, I will shall be yours, 
 in despite of her. Take it home with you, that you may value 
 yourself upon your virtue amongst your neighbours and friends, 
 by this testimony of my bounty.” The knight received it, and, 
 after returning his majesty the thanks that were due foi such a 
 pretient, departed joyfully therewith to his native country. 
 
470 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 NOVEL II. 
 
 Ohino di Tacco takes the Abbot of Cligni prisoner^ and cures him of a pain 
 in his stomach, and then sets him at liberty; when he returns to the 
 court of Rom,e, and reconciling him with Pope Boniface, he is made 
 prior of an hospital. 
 
 jLPHONSO’S magnificence was much applauded, when the 
 j king, who seemed more particularly pleased with it, laid 
 his next commands upon Eliza, and she immediately said,— 
 For a king to be magnificent, and to give proofs of it to a person 
 that had served him, must be allowed a great and commendable 
 action. But what will you say to the wonderful generosity of a 
 clergyman towards one too that was his enemy ; can anything be 
 objected to that % Nothing surely can be said less than this, that 
 if the one was a virtue in a king, the other in a churchman was a 
 perfect prodigy; inasmuch as they are for the most part more 
 sordid than even women, and avowed enemies to everything of 
 generosity. And though it is natural to desire revenge, they, not¬ 
 withstanding their preaching up patience, and recommending the 
 forgiveness of injuries to others, pursue it with more rancour than 
 other people. This thing, therefore (I mean the generosity of a 
 certain prelate) will be made appear in the following story. 
 
 Ghino di Tacco was a man famous for his bold and insolent rob¬ 
 beries, who being banished from Siena, and at utter enmity with 
 the counts di Santa Fiore, caused the town of Kadicofani to rebel 
 against the church, and lived there whilst his gang robbed all who 
 passed that way. Now when Boniface the Eighth was pope, there 
 came to court the Abbot of Cligni, reputed to be one of the richest 
 prelates in the world, and having debauched his stomach with high 
 living, he was advised by his physicians to go to the bath of Siena, 
 as a certain cure. And, having leave from the pope, he set out 
 with a goodly train of coaches, carriages, horses, and servants, 
 paying no respect to the rumours concerning this robber. Ghino 
 was apprised of his coming, and took his measures accordingly; 
 when, without the loss of a man, he enclosed the abbot and his 
 whole retinue in a narrow defile, where it was impossible for them 
 to escape. This being done, he sent one of his principal fellows to 
 the abbot, with his service, requesting the favour of him to alight 
 and visit him at his castle. Upon which the abbot replied, with a 
 great deal of passion, that he had nothing to do with Ghino, but 
 
TENTH DA K 
 
 47* 
 
 that his resolution was to go on, and he would see who dared to stop 
 him. “ My lord,’^ quoth the man, with a great deal of humility, 
 “you are now in a place where all excommunications are kicked 
 out of doors; then please to oblige my master in this thing, it will 
 be your best way.” Whilst they were talking together, the place 
 was surrounded with highwaymen, and the abbot, seeing himself a 
 prisoner, went with a great deal of ill-will with the fellow to the 
 castle, followed by his whole retinue, where he dismounted, and 
 was lodged, by Ghino’s appointment, in a poor, dark, little room, 
 whilst every other person was well accommodated according to his 
 respective station, and the carriages and all the horses taken exact 
 care of. This being done, Ghino went to the abbot, and said, “ My 
 lord, Ghino, whose guest you are, requests the favour of you to let 
 him know whither you are going, and upon what account T The 
 abbot was wise enough to lay all his haughtiness aside for the 
 present, and satisfied him with regard to both. Ghino went away 
 at hearing this, and resolving to cure him without a bath, he 
 ordered a great fire to be kept constantly in his room, coming to 
 him no more till next morning, when he brought him two slices of 
 toasted bread, in a fine napkin, and a large glass of his own rich 
 white wine, saying to him, “ My lord, when Ghino was young, he 
 studied physic, and he declares that the very best medicine for a 
 pain in the stomach is what he has now provided for you, of which 
 these things are to be the beginning. Then take them, and have a 
 good heart.” The abbot, whose hunger was much greater than was 
 his will to joke, eat the bread, though with a great deal of indig¬ 
 nation, and drank the glass of wine ; after which he began to talk 
 a little arrogantly, asking many questions, and demanding more 
 particularly to see this Ghino. But Ghino passed over part of what 
 he said as vain, and the rest he answered very courteously, declaring 
 that Ghino meant to make him a visit very soon, and then left him. 
 He saw him no more till next morning, when he brought him as 
 much bread and wine as before, and in the same manner. And 
 thus he continued during many days, till he found the abbot had 
 eat some dried beans, which he had left purposely in the chamber, 
 when he inquired of him, as from Ghino, how he found his stomach? 
 The abbot replied, “ I should be well enough were I out of this 
 man’s clutches. There is nothing I want now so much as to eat, 
 for his medicines have had such an efi'ect upon me, that I am fit to 
 die with hunger.” Ghino, then, having furnished a room with the 
 
472 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 abbot’s own goods, and provided an elegant entertainment, to 
 which many people of the town were invited, as well as the abbot’s 
 own domestics, went the next morning to him, and said, “ My lord, 
 now you find yourself recovered, it is time for you to quit this 
 infirmary.” So he took him by the hand, and led him into th« 
 chamber, leaving him there with his own people; and as he went 
 out to give orders about the feast, the abbot was giving an account 
 how he had led his life in that place, whilst they declared that they 
 had been used by Ghino with all possible respect. When the time 
 came, they sat down, and were nobly entertained, but still without 
 Ghino’s making-himself known. But after the abbot had continued 
 some days in that manner, Ghino had all the goods and furniture 
 brought into a large room, and the horses were likewise led into the 
 court-yard which was under it, when he inquired how his lordship 
 now found himself, or whether he was yet able to ride. The abbot 
 made answer, that he w^as strong enough, and his stomach perfectly 
 well, and that he only wanted to quit this man. Ghino then 
 brought him into the room where all his goods were, shewing him 
 also to the window, that he might take a view of his horses, when 
 he said, “ My lord, you must understand it was no evil disposition, 
 but his being driven a poor exile from his own house, and perse¬ 
 cuted with many enemies, that forced Ghino di Tacco, whom I am, 
 to be a robber upon the iiighways, and an enemy to the court of 
 Rome. You seem, however, to be a person of honour; as, there¬ 
 fore, I have cured you of your pain in your stomach, I do not mean 
 to treat you as I would do another person that should fall into my 
 hands, that is, to take what I please, but I would have you consider 
 my necessity, and then give me what you will yourself. Here is all 
 that belongs to you ; the horses you may see out of the window: 
 take either part or the whole, just as you are disposed, and go or 
 stay, as is most agreeable to you.” The abbot was surprised to hear 
 a highwayman talk in so courteous a manner, which did not a little 
 please him; so, turning all his former passion and resentment into 
 kindness and good-will, he ran with a heart full of friendship to 
 embrace him : “ I protest solemnly, that to procure the friendship 
 of such a one as I take you to be, I would undergo more than 
 what you have already made me suffer. Cursed be that evil fortune 
 which has thrown you into this way of life !” So taking only a few 
 of his most necessary things, and also of his horses, and leaving all 
 the rest, he came back to Rome. The pope had heard of the abbot’s 
 
TENTH DA Y. 
 
 473 
 
 being u, prisoner, and thongli lie was much concerned at it, yet upon 
 seeing him, he inquired what benefit he had received from the 
 baths 1 The abbot replied, with a smile, “ Holy father, I found a 
 physician much nearer, who has cured me excellently welland 
 he told him the manner of it, which made the pope laugh heartily, 
 when, going on with his story, and moved with a truly generous 
 spirit, he requested of his holiness one favour. The pope, imagining 
 he would ask something else, freely consented to grant it. Then 
 said the abbot, “ Holy father, what I mean to require is, that you 
 would bestow a free pardon on Ghino di Tacco, my doctor, because, 
 of all people of worth that I ever met with, he certainly is most to 
 be esteemed, and the damage he does is more the fault of fortune 
 than himself. Change but his condition, and give him something 
 to live upon, according to his rank and station, and I dare say you 
 will have the same opinion of him that I have.’’ The pope, being 
 of a noble spirit, and a great encourager of merit, promised to do 
 so, if he was such a person as he reported, and, in the meantime, 
 gave letters of safe conduct for his coming thither. Upon that 
 assurance, Ghino came to court, when the pope was soon convinced 
 of his worth, and reconciled to him, giving him the priory of an 
 hospital, and creating him a knight. And there he continued as a 
 friend and loyal servant to the holy church, and to the Abbot of 
 Cligni, as long as he lived. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL III. 
 
 Mitliridanes envied the generosity of Nathan^ and went to hill him; when, 
 conversing together, without hiowhig him, and being informed in what 
 manner he might do it, he went to meet him in a wood as he had directed. 
 There he calls him to mind, is ashamed, and becomes his friend. 
 
 HE abbot’s extraordinary generosity seemed next to a miracle 
 to all that heard it; when Philostratus was commanded 
 to speak, who instantly said,—Great, most noble ladies, was 
 the magnificence of the King of Spain ; and that of the Abbot of 
 Cligni something quite unusual; but perhaps it will appear no less 
 strange to you to be told how a person, as a proof of his liberality 
 to another, who thirsted after his blood, nay, and his very soul too, 
 should contrive industriously to gratify him. And he had done so, 
 if the other would have taken what v/as so oliered, &£■ I am going to 
 shew you. 
 
474 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 Most certain it is, if any faith may be given to the Genoese, and 
 others that have been in those parts, that in the country of Cattaio 
 lived a person of noble extract, and rich beyond comparison, called 
 Nathan, who having an estate adjoining to the great road which 
 led from the east to the west, and being of a generous spirit, and 
 desirous of shewing it by his good works, summoned together many 
 master artificers, and in a very short time raised one of the most 
 grand and beautiful palaces that ever was seen, furnishing it with 
 everything necessary for the more honourable reception of persons 
 of distinction. He had also great numbers of servants, and kept 
 open house for all comers and. goers, continuing this noble way of 
 living, till not only the east but the west also resounded his fame. 
 Being grown into years, and his hospitality no way abated, it hap¬ 
 pened that his renown reached the ears of a young gentleman named 
 Mithridanes, living in a country not far from the other, who, think¬ 
 ing himself full as wealthy as Nathan, began to envy his fame 
 and virtue, resolving to annul or cloud them both by a superior 
 generosity. So he built such another palace as Nathan’s, and was 
 extravagantly generous to everybody, that how famous he soon 
 became it is needless to say. Now one day it happened, as he was 
 all alone in his palace-court, that a woman came in at one of the 
 gates, and demanded alms, which she received; after which she 
 came in at a second, and was relieved a second time, and so on for 
 twelve times successively, and returning the thirteenth, he said, 
 “ Good woman, you grow troublesome f but yet he gave her. The 
 old woman, at hearing these words, said, “ The prodigious generosity 
 of Nathan ! O how greatly is it to be admired ! I went in at all 
 the thirty-two gates which are at his palace, as well as this, and 
 received an alms at every one, without being known all the time, as 
 it seemed to me, and here I come but thirteen, and am known and 
 flouted!” and so went away without ever coming there more. 
 Mithridanes, imagining that this concerning Nathan was a diminu¬ 
 tion of his own fame, grew extremely incensed, and said, “ Alas ! 
 when shall I come up to Nathan in great things, not to say surpass 
 him, as is my intention, when I fall short even in the smallest 
 matters! Undoubtedly, it is all labour in vain, unless I dismiss 
 him from the world, which, seeing old age ineffectual, I must do 
 instantly with my own hands. So rising up in a passion, without 
 making anyone acquainted with his design, he mounted his horse, 
 taking very few attendants with him, and the tliird day he arrived 
 
TENTH DAY, 
 
 475 
 
 at Nathan’s palace, when he ordered his people not to seem to 
 belong to him, but provide themselves with lodgings till they heard 
 further from him. Coming there towards the evening, and being 
 lett by himself, he found Nathan alone, not far from his palace, 
 taking a walk for his amusement, in a very plain habit, when he, not 
 knowing him, desired he would show him the way to Nathan’s 
 dwelling. Nathan cheerfully replied, “ Son, there is nobody in this 
 country can shew you better than myself; then, if you please, I 
 will conduct you thither.” The young gentleman replied, “I 
 ^ould be extremely obliged to you ; but could wish, if it were pos¬ 
 sible, neither to be seen nor known by Nathan.”—“ This also,” quoth 
 Nathan, “ I will do for you, if it be your design.” So he alighted, 
 and walked along with him, falling agreeably into discourse together, 
 till they came to the palace, when Nathan bid one of his servants 
 take the horse, and he whispered in the fellow’s ear for him to 
 acquaint all the people in the house that none of them should let 
 the gentleman know he was Nathan, which was done. Being entered 
 into the palace, he put Mithridanes into a very fine apartment, 
 where nobody should see him but those whom he had appointed to 
 wait upon him ; and shewed him all possible respect, himself con¬ 
 stantly keeping him company. 
 
 After Mithridanes had been for some time with him, he asked, 
 with a great deal of reverence, who he was. When he replied, “ I 
 am an inferior servant of Nathan’s, who have grown old in his 
 service, and yet he never promoted me to anything more than what 
 you see me ; and, therefore, though other people commend him, I 
 have little reason to do so.” These words gave Mithridanes some 
 hopes that he might the better and more securely ejffect his base 
 purpose. Nathan then inquired very courteously of him concern¬ 
 ing who he was, and the occasion of his coming thither, offering 
 him his best advice and assistance. Mithridanes hesitated a little 
 upon that, but at length resolved to let him into his design ; so, 
 after a long preamble requesting secrecy, and that he wmuld lend 
 him a helping hand, he declared who he was, what he came thither 
 for, and his inducement. Nathan, hearing his detestable resolu¬ 
 tion, was quite changed within himself; nevertheless, without any 
 appearance thereof, he replied boldly, and with a steady counte¬ 
 nance, “ Mithridanes, your father was truly a noble person, nor 
 are you willing to degenerate, having undertaken so glorious au 
 enterprise as is that of being liberal to all people; I do greatly 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 <\7^ 
 
 commend the envy you bear to Nathan’s virtue, because, were 
 there many more men of the same principle, the world, though bad 
 enough at present, would soon grow better. Your affair I shall 
 most assuredly keep secret, which I can further more by my advice, 
 than any help I am able to give you, and that in the following 
 manner :— 
 
 “About half a mile from hence is a grove, where he generally takes 
 a walk for a considerable time every morning; there you may 
 easily meet with him, and do what you purpose. If you should 
 kill him, in order to return home without any hindrance, do not 
 go the way you came, but take a path that leads out of the grove 
 to the left, which, though not so much frequented as the other, 
 is yet a shorter way to your house, as well as more secure.” 
 When Mithridanes had received this instruction, and Nathan was 
 departed, he let his attendants, that were in the same house, know 
 privately where they were to wait for him the next day. And 
 early in the morning Nathan arose, his mind being no way changed 
 from the counsel given to Mithridanes, and went to the grove with 
 a design of meeting with his death. Mithridanes also took his 
 bow and sword, having no other weapon, and rode to the same 
 place, where he saw Nathan walking at a distance by himself; and 
 being minded before he put him to death, to hear what he had to 
 say, he laid hold of the turban that was upon his head, and cried 
 out, “Old dotard ! thou art a dead man.” Nathan made no reply 
 but this: “ Then I have deserved it.” Mithridanes, hearing his 
 voice, and looking in his face, found it was the same person that 
 had so kindly received him, kept him company, and faithfully 
 advised him: upon which his rage and malice were turned into 
 shame and remorse, and throwing away his sword, which he had 
 ready drawn to stab him, he dismounted, and fell with tears at his 
 feet, saying, “My dearest father, I am now convinced of your 
 liberality, considering what pains you have taken to bestow your 
 life upon me, which I was very unjustly desirous of having. But 
 God, more careful of my doing my duty than I was myself, opened 
 the eyes of my understanding, which envy had closed, at a time 
 when there was the greatest need of it. The more ready, therefore, 
 you were to oblige me, so much the greater I acknowledge my 
 remorse to be. Take that revenge then, of me which you think 
 adequate to the nature of my crime.” Nathan raised him up and 
 embraced him, saying, “ Son, your design, call it wicked, or what 
 
TENTH DAY, 
 
 47? 
 
 you will, needs neither your asking any pardon nor yet my grant* 
 ing it,; because it was out of no hatred, but only a desire to excel 
 Be assured, then, there is nobody regards you more than I do, 
 considering the greatness of your soul, which was given you not 
 for the amassing of wealth, as is the case of misers, but the dis¬ 
 tribution of it; be not ashamed of your design of cutting me off, 
 to become more famous, nor think I am at all surprised at it: the 
 greatest monarchs, by no other art than that of killing not one man 
 only, as you would have done, but infinite numbers, destroying 
 whole countries, and laying cities in ruins, have enlarged their 
 empire, and consequently their fame. Therefore, to kill me alone, 
 to make yourself famous, is neither new nor strange.” Mithri- 
 danes far from excusing his evil intent, but commending Nathan’s 
 honest gloss upon it, proceeded so far as to tell him, that he 
 wondered exceedingly how he could bring himself to such a readi¬ 
 ness to die, and be even advising and aiding to it. 
 
 When Nathan replied, “1 would not have you wonder at all at 
 it; for ever since I have been my own master, and resolved to do 
 that wherein you have endeavoured to follow my example, nobody 
 ever came to my house, whom I did not content to the utmost of 
 my power, as to what was required of me. Now it was your 
 fortune to come for my life ; therefore, that you should not be the 
 only person who went away ungratified, I resolved to give it, 
 advising you in such a manner that you might be secure of it 
 without losing your own. Therefore I conjure you to take it, if it 
 will be any pleasure to you: I do not know how I can better 
 bestow it. Eighty years have I had the full enjoyment of it; and, 
 according to the course of nature, and as it fares with other men, 
 and all other things, I can keep it but very little time longer : so 
 I hold it better to part with it of my own accord, as I have done 
 my wealth and estate, than to keep it till it is wrested from me 
 by nature. A hundred years are no great matter; what then, are 
 six or eight, which are all that are left me 1 Take it, then, I say 
 again, if you please, for I never met with any one before that 
 desired it, nor do I expect any other will accept it, if you do not. 
 Besides, the longer it is kept, of the less value it grows, so take it 
 once for all, whilst it is worth something.” Mithridanes was 
 extremely confounded and said, “God forbid that, so far from 
 touching a thing of the value your life is, I should even desire it 
 as I did just now. Instead of lessening your years, I would 
 
47 « 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 willingly add of my own, if it were possible.”—“And would you,' 
 he replied, “ if you could % That would be doing to you what 1 
 have done yet to no one, I mean robbing you to enrich myself. 
 But I will tell you what you shall do : you shall come and live 
 here, and be called Nathan, and I will go to your house, and take 
 the name of Mithridanes.’^ He replied, “ If I knew how to behave 
 as well as you do, I should readily embrace your offer; but as I am 
 sensible I should only lessen the fame of Nathan, I shall never 
 seek to impair that in another which I cannot increase in myself, 
 so pray excuse me.” With these and more such compliments, they 
 returned to the palace, where Nathan shewed great respect to 
 Mithridanes, confirming him in his great and noble design ; who, 
 being disposed to return home, took his leave, fully convinced that 
 he could never come up to Nathan in liberality. 
 
 NOVEL IV. 
 
 Svjnor Geniil de* Carisendi takes a lady out of her grave, whom he had 
 loved, and who was buried for dead. She recovers, and is brought to bed 
 of a son, which he presents along with the lady to her husband. 
 
 T seemed strange to them all for a man to be lavish of his 
 blood, and it was agreed that Nathan had outdone both the 
 King of Spain and the Abbot of Cligni. When the king 
 signified his will to Lauretta that she should begin, which ghe did 
 to this effect:— 
 
 Great, as well as beautiful, most noble ladies, are the incidents 
 which have been already related, nor does anything seem wanting, 
 in my opinion, to bring our argument home to the subject, but that 
 we take in the affair of love, which affords matter enough for dis¬ 
 course upon any question whatever. For this reason, then, and 
 as it is always an agreeable topic to youth, I shall mention the 
 generosity of an enamoured young gentleman, which, all things 
 considered, will appear, perhaps, no way inferior to the others : if it 
 be true that people give away their wealth, forget animosities, run 
 a thousand risks of their lives, and, what is more, their fame and 
 honour too, and all to come at the thing desired. 
 
 In Bologna was a knight, of great consequence and worth, called 
 Gentil Carisendi, who was in love with Catalina, the wife of Nic' 
 coluccio Caccianimico ; and, meeting with no return, he went in a 
 kind of despair to Modena, whither he was called as Podesta. In 
 
TENTH DA Y. 
 
 479 
 
 the meantime, Mccoluccio being absent from Bologna, and his lady 
 at a country-house about three miles distant, where she was gone 
 to stay, being with child, it happened she was taken with an hys¬ 
 teric fit, which' quite extinguished all signs of life, so that her 
 physician declared her dead. And because her acquaintance said, 
 they had been informed by her that she was not quick with child, 
 she was immediately buried in a vault belonging to a neighbouring 
 church. This was soon signified by a friend to Signor Gentil, who, 
 though he had never received the least mark of her favour, grieved 
 extremely, saying at last to himself, “ Behold, my dear Catalina, 
 you are dead; living you would never deign me one kind look; 
 now, however, that you cannot prevent it, I will please myself with 
 a kiss.” So, giving orders that his departure should be a secret, 
 towards evening he mounted his horse, and taking a servant along 
 with him, he rode directly to the vault where she was buried, which 
 he opened, and laying down by her, he put his cheek to hers, and 
 wept. At length, laying his hands for some time upon her bosom 
 he thought he felt something beat, when, throwing all fear aside, 
 and attending more nicely to the circumstance, he was convinced 
 she had a small spark of life remaining in her; therefore, by the 
 help of his servant, he took her out of the vault as gently as pos¬ 
 sible, and, laying her upon the horse, he brought her privately to 
 his house at Bologna. There his mother, a worthy, good lady, 
 having the whole account from him, by warm baths and other 
 means, soon brought her to herself; when, after fetching a deep 
 sigh, she said, “ Alas! where am I V’ The good lady replied, 
 “ Make yourself easy, you are in a very good place.Looking then 
 all round, and seeing Signor Gentil before her, her astonishment 
 was great, and she desired his mother to inform her by what means 
 she had come thither. He then related everything to her; at 
 which she was concerned, and, after giving due thanks, she re¬ 
 quested of him, by his love and generous deportment, to attempt 
 nothing contrary to her honour and that of her husband, and that, 
 when it was daylight, he would suffer her to go home. “ Madam,’' 
 he replied, “ whatever my love has been heretofore, I promise both 
 now and hereafter, seeing I have been so fortunate to bring you to 
 life, to use you with the same regard as I would my sister ; but, as 
 I think myself entitled to some reward, I must insist upon your 
 granting me one favour.” —“ Sir,” said she, “ you may command 
 anything from me consistent with modesty.” He made answer, 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 480 
 
 “ Madam, your relations and all the people of Bologna are assured 
 of your being dead ; therefore I insist only upon your staying here 
 with my mother till I return from Modena, which will be very 
 soon. My reason is, that I would then, in the presence of the prin¬ 
 cipal inhabitants here, make a valuable and solemn present of you 
 to your husband.’^ The lady, knowing her obligations to the 
 knight, and that his demand was honourable, consented, and gave 
 her word to abide by it, notwithstanding she longed extremely to 
 gratify her relations with the news of her being alive. And whilst 
 they were talking, she felt labour-pains come upon her, and she was 
 soon delivered of a son, which added greatly to their joy. Signor 
 Gentil ordered that she should have the same care taken of her as 
 if she had been his own wife, and then returned privately to 
 Modena. There he continued till the expiration of his office, and 
 the morning he was to come home, he ordered a great entertain¬ 
 ment to be made at his house, to which Niccoluccio Caccianimico, 
 with many of the principal citizens, were invited : and after he had 
 dismounted, and found the company waiting for him, understanding 
 too that the lady and child were both very well, he received them 
 all with a great deal of joy; and dinner was immediately served up 
 in the most magnificent manner possible. Towards the end, having 
 concerted everything beforehand with the lady, he addressed him¬ 
 self to his guests in the following manner : “Gentlemen, I remember 
 to have heard of a pretty custom in Persia, that when anyone has 
 a mind to shew the greatest respect in his power to any of his 
 friends, that he invites them to his house, and produces that thing, 
 be what it will, wife, mistress, or daughter, that is most dear to 
 him, declaring thereby that he would, if he was able, lay his very 
 heart before them. This custom I mean to introduce at Bologna. 
 You do me honour with your company at this feast, and I will 
 return it, by shewing that thing which is the most dear to me of 
 all that I have in the world, or ever shall possess. But I must first 
 beg your solution of a difficulty which I am going to start to you. 
 
 “ A certain person had a very honest and trusty servant, who was 
 taken extremely ill, whom, without more to do, he sent out into the 
 street in that condition ; when a stranger, out of mere compassion, 
 took him into his house, and with a great deal of trouble and 
 expense had him restored to his former health. Now I would 
 gladly know whether the first master has any right to complain of 
 the second, for keeping him In his service, and refusing to restore 
 
TENTH DA Y. 
 
 48 > 
 
 him.” This occasioned a .ajreat deal of argument, and all agreed at: 
 last in opinion, leaving Niccoluccio Caccianimico, who was an ele¬ 
 gant speaker, to report it. He, therefore, after commending the 
 Persian custom, said, they were all persuaded that the first master 
 had no right, after he had not only abandoned him, but thrown 
 him away as it were ; and that, on account of the kindness done to 
 him, he justly belonged to the second, who oftered no violence or 
 injury to the first in detaining him. The rest of the company, 
 being all wise and worthy persons, declared that they joined in 
 opinion with Niccoluccio. When the knight, pleased with the 
 answer, and having it too from Niccoluccio, affirmed that those 
 were his sentiments, adding, “ It is now time for me to honour you 
 according to promise.” So he sent two of his servants to the lady, 
 whom he had taken care to be very gaily dressed, desiring her to 
 favour his guests with her company. Accordingly, she came into 
 the hall, followed by two servants, with the little infant in her arms. 
 And after she had seated herself, he said, “ Behold, this is what I 
 value beyond everything else ; see if you think I am in the right.” 
 The gentlemen all praised her extremely, pronouncing her worthy 
 of his esteem : and, after looking more nicely at her, many of them 
 were going to have owned her, had it not been that they thought 
 her dead. But none viewed her so much as Niccoluccio, who, the 
 knight having stepped a little aside, grew impatient to know who 
 she was ; and, unable any longer to contain himself, demanded of 
 her if she was a citizen or stranger. The lady, hearing this from 
 her husband, could scarcely refrain from giving him an answer, yet, 
 in regard to her injunctions, she held her peace. Another inquired 
 whether that was her child ; and a third, whether she was wife, or 
 any relation to Signor Gentil. Still she made no reply to any. So 
 when the knight returned, one of the company said, “ Sir, this is 
 really a pretty creature, but she appears to be dumb: is she actually 
 so T “ Gentlemen,” he replied, “ her silence is no small argument 
 of her virtue.” “ Tell us, then,” quoth one, “ who she is.” “ That 
 I will,” said the knight, “ with all my heart, if you will promise me 
 in the meantime that none of you stir from your places tiU I have 
 made an end.” This being agreed, and the tables all removed, he 
 went and sat down by her, saying, “ Gentlemen, this lady is that 
 good and faithful servant of whom I proposed the question ; who, 
 being set at nought by her friends, and thrown into the street, as it 
 were, for thin^ of no accc uiit, was by me with great care takei> 
 
 3^ 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 482 
 
 up, and redeemed from death, and from so terrible an object as she 
 once was, brought to what you now see. But, for your more perfect 
 understanding of what has happened, I will make it plain to you 
 in a few words.” So he began from his being first enamoured, and 
 related everything particularly that had happened, to the great 
 amazement of the hearers ; adding, at last, “ For these reasons, if 
 you stick to what you said just now, and Niccoluccio especially, the 
 lady is mine, and nobody has any right to demand her from me." 
 No reply was made to this, but all stood expecting to hear what he 
 had further to say. In the meantime, Niccoluccio and the rest of 
 the company, as well as the lady, were so affected, that they all 
 wept. But Signor Gentil arose, and taking the child in his arms, 
 and the lady by the hand, he went towards Niccoluccio, and said, 
 “ Rise, my friend ; behold I do not give you your wife, whom you 
 and her relations had thrown away, but I bestow this lady upon 
 you, as an acquaintance of mine, along with her little son, which is 
 yours, and whom I have called by my own name: and I entreat 
 you not to have the worse opinion of her, for having been three 
 months in my house; for I call Heaven to witness, that, though my 
 love was the cause of her being preserved, she has lived with the 
 same honour in my house, along with my mother, as she could have 
 done with her own parent.” Then, turning to the lady, he said, 
 “ Madam, I now acquit you of your promise, and give you freely 
 up to your husband.” So giving him the lady and the child into 
 his arms, he returned, and sat down. Niccoluccio received them 
 with the greater joy, as it was the more unexpected, loading the 
 knight with infinite thanks, whilst the company, who could not 
 refrain from weeping, highly commended his generosity, as did 
 every one also that heard it. The lady now was brought to her 
 own house with great demonstrations of joy, and the people all 
 beheld her with the same wonder as if she had been raised from 
 the dead. Moreover, the knight was in the greatest esteem ever 
 after, both with her and Niccoluccio, as well as their relations and 
 friends. What will you say, then, ladies 1 Is a king’s giving away 
 his crown and sceptre, an abbot’s reconciling a malefactor to the 
 pope, or an old man’s offering his throat to an enemy’s dagger, any¬ 
 thing like this action of Signor Gentil’s 1 who, being in the bloom 
 and heat of youth, and seeming to have a good title to that which 
 other people’s carelessness had throivn away, and he by good for¬ 
 tune happened to pick up, not only restrained his desire, much to 
 
TENTH DA Y. 
 
 45^3 
 
 nis honour, but generously resigned what he had entirely coveted, 
 and sought at all events to possess. To me they seem no way 
 comparable. 
 
 ' -o- 
 
 NOVEL V. 
 
 Dlanora requires Ansaldo to present her with a garden in January as 
 beautiful as in May. He engages a necromancer to do it. Her husband, 
 upon this, gives her leave to keep her word with Ansaldo ; who, hearing 
 of the husband's generosity, quits her of her promise; and the necro¬ 
 mancer likewise takes nothing for his trouble. 
 
 IGNOE, GENTIL was extolled to the very skies by the 
 whole assembly, when the king ordered Emilia to follow; 
 who immediately, as though she were desirous of speak¬ 
 ing, began in this manner :— 
 
 There is no one but must allow that Signor Gentil did a very 
 noble action, but to say that nothing greater could be done is 
 saying too much, as I shall shew in a very short novel. 
 
 In the country of Frioli, which, though very cold, is yet beautified 
 with many pleasant mountains, fine rivers, and crystal springs, is 
 a place called Udine, where lived a worthy lady, named Dianora, 
 the wife of a very agreeable man, and one of great wealth, called 
 Gilberto. Now she had taken the fancy of a great and noble lord, 
 called Ansaldo, one of extraordinary generosity and prowess, and 
 known to all the country; who used frequently to solicit her with 
 messages and offers of love, but in vain. At length, being quite 
 wearied with his importunity, and seeing that he still persisted, 
 notwithstanding her repeated denials, she resolved to rid herself 
 of him by a new, and, as she thought, impossible demand. So she 
 said to his emissary one day, “ Good woman, you have often told 
 me that Ansaldo loves me beyond all the world, and have offered 
 me great presents on his part, which he may keep to himself, for I 
 shall never be prevailed upon to a compliance in that manner. 
 Could I be assured, indeed, that his love is really such as you say, 
 then I should certainly be brought to return it: therefore, if he 
 will convince me of that by a proof which I shall require, I will 
 instantly be at his service.’' “ What is it, then,” quoth the good 
 woman, “ that you desire him to do U “ It is this,” she replied : 
 “I would have a garden in the month of January, which is now 
 coming on, as full of green herbs, flowers, and trees laden with 
 fruit, as though it were the month of May: unless he does this 
 
 31—2 
 
THE DECAMERON, 
 
 484 
 
 for me, charge him to trouble me no more, for that I will instantly 
 make a complaint to my husband and all my friends.” 
 
 He being acquainted with the demand, which seemed next to an 
 impossibility, and knowing that it was contrived on purpose to 
 deprive him of all hopes of success, resolved yet to try all possible 
 means in such a case, sending to every part of the world to find 
 out a person able to assist him ; when at length 'he met with a 
 magician, who would undertake it for a large sum of money ; and 
 having agreed upon a price, he waited impatiently for the time of 
 its being done. On the first of January, therefore, at night, the 
 cold being extreme, and everything covered with snow, this wise 
 man, in a meadow near to the city, made one of the finest gardens 
 spring up that ever was seen, filled with all kinds of herbs, flowers, 
 and fruits, which Ansaldo saw with infinite pleasure, and picking 
 some of the fairest fruit and flowers, he sent them privately to 
 the lady, inviting her to come and see the garden which she had 
 required, in order to be convinced of his love, and that she might 
 call to mind the promise she had made, and so be reputed a woman 
 of her word. The lady, viewing the present, and hearing also 
 from many people of this wonderful garden, began to repent of 
 what she had done. But with all this repentance, being still 
 desirous of seeing strange sights, she went thither with many more 
 ladies, and having highly commended it, returned home sorrowful 
 enough, thinking of her engagement. She continued so very un¬ 
 easy, that her husband at last perceived it, and demanded the 
 reason. For some time she was ashamed to speak, but being con¬ 
 strained at last, she related the whole thing. Gilberto was greatly 
 disturbed about it, till, considering the upright intention of his 
 lady in the affair, he began to be something pacified, and said, 
 “No wise and virtuous lady would ever receive any messages, or 
 make any conditions with regard to her chastity. Words have a 
 more ready admittance to the heart than many people imagine, 
 and with lovers nothing is impossible. You were highly to blame 
 first to listen, and afterwards to covenant: but as I know the purity 
 of your intention, and to free you from your engagement, I will 
 grant what nobody else would do in such a case. For fear of this 
 necromancer, who, by Ansaldo’s instigation, may do us some 
 mischief if you disappoint him, I consent that you go to Ansaldo, 
 and if you can by any means get quit of that tie with safety to 
 your honour, that you endeavour to do it. otherorise that you 
 
TENTH DA K 
 
 48s 
 
 ci>inply, m deed, though your will be chaste ana pure,*^ She 
 wept and shewed great reluctance, but he insisted upon it. So, 
 early in the morning, without any great care to make herself fine, 
 she went with her woman and two men-servants to Ansaldos 
 house, who, hearing the lady was there, arose with great surprise, 
 and called the wise man, saying to him, “ You shall now see the 
 effect of your skill.” So he went to meet her, and shewed her 
 into a handsome room, where there was a great fire, and sitting 
 down together, he said, “ Madam, I beg, if the long regard I have 
 had for you merit any reward, that you would please to tell me 
 why you come here at this time, and with this company.” She 
 blushed, and replied, with tears, “ Sir, it was neither love, nor 
 yet regard to my promise, but merely my husband’s order, who, 
 shewing more respect to the labours of your inordinate love than 
 his honour and mine, has forced me to come hither; therefore, as 
 it is commanded, I submit to your pleasure.” If Ansaldo was 
 surprised at the sight of the lady, he was now much more so at 
 hearing her talk; and, being moved with Gilberto’s generosity, his 
 love was changed into compassion, and he said, “ Madam, Heaven 
 forbid that I should ever take away the honour of a person who 
 has shewed such pity for my love : therefore, you are as safe with 
 me as if you were my sister, and when it seems good to you, you 
 may depart, upon condition that you tender your husband, in my 
 name, those thanks which you think are due to his great 
 generosity, requesting him, for the time to come, to esteem me 
 always as his brother and faithful servant.” The lady, overjoyed 
 with this, replied, “ All the world, sir, could never make me believe, 
 when I consider your character, that anything could have happened 
 on my coming hither, otherwise than now it has done ; for which 
 I shall always be obliged to you.” So she took her leave, and 
 returned to her husband, when, relating what had happened, it 
 proved the occasion of a strict friendship ever after between him 
 and Ansaldo. The necromancer now being about to receive his 
 reward, and having observed Gilberto’s generosity to Ansaldo, and 
 that of Ansaldo to the lady, said, “ As Gilberto has been so liberal 
 of his honour, and you of your love, you shall give me leave to 
 be the same with regard to my pay : knowing it then to be 
 worthily employed, I design it shall be yours.” Ansaldo was 
 ashamed, and pressed him to take all or part, but in vain. And 
 after the third day wa.s passed that the necromancer had taken 
 
(^i-6 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 away his garden, and was willing to depart, he thankfully dismissed 
 him, having extinguished his inordinate desires out of a mere 
 principle of honour. What say you now, ladies % Shall we prefer 
 the dead lady and the love of Gentil, grown cold, as destitute of 
 all hope, to the liberality of Ansaldo, who loved more than ever, 
 and who was fired with the greater expectation, since the prey so 
 long pursued was then in his power ? It is mere folly to suppose 
 that generosity can ever be compared to this. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL VI. 
 
 Old King Charles, surnamed the Victorious, being in love xvlth a young 
 lady, and ashamed afterwards of his folly, marries both her and her 
 sister much to their advantage. 
 
 HO can recount the various disputes that arose amongst 
 the company, whether Gilberto’s generosity, or Ansaldo’s, 
 or, lastly, the necromancer’s, with regard to Dianora, was 
 the greatest ? Surely it would be too tedious at this time. But 
 the king, after suffering them to dispute a while, ordered Flam- 
 metta to put an end to the debate; who began presently to this 
 effect:— 
 
 Ladies, I was always of opinion that, in such company as ours, 
 people should speak so fully as to leave no room for doubt con¬ 
 cerning the meaning of anything that is advanced; for disputes 
 more properly belong to students in the schools than to us, who 
 can scarcely manage our wheels and our distaffs. Therefore, seeing 
 you have been already embroiled, I shall leave something of doubt 
 which I was going to mention, to relate an affair of no insignificant 
 person, but of a most mighty king, stating how he behaved with 
 regard to his honour. 
 
 Y ou must all have heard of King Charles the Ancient, or the 
 First, by whose glorious enterprise and great victory obtained over 
 King Manfredi, the Ghibelline faction was driven out of Florence, 
 and the Guelphs restored. On which account a certain knight, 
 called Neri de gli Uberti, departed with his whole family and great 
 store of wealth, meaning yet to live under the protection of no 
 other king ; and choosing a solitary place, with a design to end his 
 days in quiet, he went to Gastello da Mare, where he purchased, 
 about a bow-shot from all other houses, amongst the olives and 
 chestnuts with which that place abounds* a little estate, and built 
 
TENTH DA V. 
 
 487 
 
 a small convenient house upon it, by the side of which was a most 
 delightful garden, and in the middle of that, according to our taste, 
 as there was a great command of water, he made a fine canal, storing 
 it well with fish; and attending only to the care of his garden, it hap¬ 
 pened that King Charles came during the summer to amuse himself 
 at Caatello da Mare for a few days ; when, hearing of Neri's fine 
 garden, he had a great desire to see it; and, considering he was of 
 the adverse party, he resolved to use the more familiarity towards 
 him ; so he sent him word, that he and four friends should come 
 and sup with him the next evening in his garden. This was an 
 agreeable message to Signor Neri, who made the necessary pro¬ 
 vision for his entertainment, receiving him afterwards in the best 
 manner he was able. The king highly commended both the houses 
 and garden; and the table being spread by the side of the canal, 
 he sat down, ordering Count Guido di Monforte, who was amongst 
 his attendants, to sit on one side, and Signor Neri on the other ; 
 and as for the remaining three, they sat as they were placed by 
 Signor Neri. Supper now was served up in the most delicate order, 
 with the best and richest wine, greatly to the king’s liking; and 
 whilst he was eating, with great admiration of the beauty of the 
 place, two young damsels, of about fifteen years of age, entered the 
 garden, with their hair like golden wire, most curiously curled, and 
 garlands of flowers upon their heads, whilst their mien and deport¬ 
 ment bespoke them rather angels than mortal creatures: their 
 garments were of fine linen cloth, as white as snow, which were 
 girt round their waists, and hung in large folds from thence to 
 their feet. She that came first had two fishing-nets, which she 
 carried in her left hand upon her shoulder, and in her right was a 
 long stick : the other that followed had a frying-jjan upon her left 
 shoulder, and under the same arm a faggot of wood, with a trevet 
 in her hand, and in the other hand a bottle of oil and a lighted 
 torch ; at which the king was greatly surprised, and waited atten¬ 
 tively to see what it meant. 
 
 The damsels being come before him, made their obeisance in the 
 humblest and modestest manner; and at the entrance of the pond, 
 she that had the pan with the other things, laid them down upon 
 the ground ; and taking up the stick which the other carried, they 
 both stepped into the canal, the water of which came up to their 
 breasts. A servant immediately kindled a fire, and laying the paL 
 upon the trevet, and putting oil therein, he began to wait till the 
 
488 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 damsels should throw him some fish. So one of them beating the 
 places where the fish lay, and the other holding the net, they soon 
 caught fish enough, to the great diversion of the king; and throwing 
 them to the servant, who put them alive as it were into the pan, 
 they took out some of the finest, as they had been before instructed, 
 and cast them upon the table before the king, Count Guido, and 
 their father. The king was highly delighted with seeing them 
 jump about, and he took and tossed them about in like manner, 
 and so they diverted themselves, till the servant had fried that 
 which he had in his pan, wliich was set before the king by Signor 
 Nerks order, more as a curiosity than anything nice and dainty. 
 The damsels, thinking they had now done enough, came out of the 
 water, with their garments hanging about them in such a manner 
 as scarcely to conceal any part of their bodies, and modestly salut¬ 
 ing the king as before, they returned into the house. The king, 
 with the count and gentlemen that attended, were much taken with 
 their extraordinary beauty and modest behaviour : the king espe¬ 
 cially, who was perfectly lost in admiration, and finding a secret 
 passion stealing upon him, without knowing which to prefer, they 
 were so exactly alike, he turned to Signor Neri, and asked who 
 those two damsels were 1 When he replied, “ My lord, they are 
 my daughters, born at a birth, one of whom is called Gineura, the 
 pretty, and the other Isotto, the fair.” The king commended them 
 very much, and advised him to marry them ; but he excused him¬ 
 self, alleging that he was not in circumstances to do it. Nothing 
 now remained to be served up but the dessert, when the two ladies 
 came attired in rich Scatin, with two silver dishes in their hands, 
 full of all manner of fruit, which they set before the king ; and 
 retiring afterwards to some distance, they sang a song, beginning 
 in the following manner : 
 
 power, O love ! who can resist? &c., 
 
 with such exquisite sweetness,that it seemed to the king as if choirs of 
 angels were descended fron heaven for his entertainment. No sooner 
 was the song ended, but they fell upon their knees before him, to 
 take their leave, which the king, though he was secretly grieved at 
 it, seemed graciously to conijily with. When supper was concluded, 
 the king, with his attendants, mounted their horses, and returned 
 to the palace, where, being unable to forego the love that he had 
 conceived for Gineura, for whose sake he also loved her sister, as 
 
TENTH DAY, 
 
 489 
 
 resembling each other, he grew so uneasy that he could think of 
 nothing else ; upon which account he cultivated, under other pre¬ 
 tences, a strict'friendship with the father, and used frequently to 
 visit him at his garden, in order to see Gineura; till, unable to 
 contain any longer, seeing he could think of no better way, he 
 resolved to take not one only, but both from him by force, and he 
 signified his intention to Count Guido, who, being a nobleman of 
 strict honour, said to this effect: “ My liege, I am greatly surprised at 
 what you now say, and more perhaps than any other person would 
 be, since I have known you more, even from your infancy, and as I 
 never remember any such thing of you in your youth, when love 
 has the greatest power over us, it seems so odd and out of the way, 
 that I can scarcely give credit to it. Did it become me to reprove 
 you, I know very well what I might say, considering that you are 
 yet in arms in a kingdom newly conquered, amongst a people not 
 known to you, abounding with treachery and deceit, and have many 
 great and weighty affairs upon your hands ; yet you can sit down 
 at ease in such circumstances, and give way to such an idle passion 
 as love. This is not like a great king, so much as an inglorious 
 stripling. And what is worse, you say you are resolved to take the 
 two daughters away from a poor gentleman, whom he had to v/ait 
 upon you out of his abundant respect, as well as to shew his great 
 confidence in you, believing you to be a generous prince, and not a 
 rapacious wolf. Have you so soon forgotten that it was Manfredi’s 
 taking the same liberties which opened your way to this kingdom ] 
 Can there be a baser crime than to take away from one that 
 honours you, his honour, his hope, and entire comfort ] What will 
 people say in such a case? Do you think it any excuse, his being 
 of a different party ? Is this kingly justice, to treat people in that 
 manner, be they of what party they will, that throw themselves 
 under your protection ? It was great glory to conquer Manfredi, 
 but, let me tell you, it will be much greater to conquer yourself. 
 You, therefore, who are ordained to correct vice in others, learn to 
 subdue your own ; ^ curb that unruly appetite, nor stain with so 
 foul a blot the character you have so gloriously acquired.” These 
 words touched the king to the quick, and so much the more as he 
 knew them to be true : therefore he sighed, and said, “ Count, I 
 hold it an easy conquest over any enemy, however formidable, 
 compared to one’s own passion; but, be the difficulty ever so great, 
 such is the force of your words, that, before many days are past. I 
 
490 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 will convince you, if I know how to conquer others, that 1 am able 
 also to withstand myself.” So he went to Naples soon after, when, 
 to put it out of his power to do a base thing, as v/ell as to reward 
 the knight for the favours shewn him, he resolved, however grating 
 it seemed, to give another the possession of that which he himself 
 coveted, to marry both the ladies, not as Signor Neri’s daughters, 
 but his own. Bestowing, then, large fortunes upon them, Gineura, 
 the pretty, he gave to Signor Maffeo da Palizzi; and Isotto, the 
 fair, to Signor Gulielmo della Magna, both vrorthy knights, retiring 
 himself afterwards to Puglia ; where, with great pains and trouble, 
 he got the better at last of his passion, and lived with ease and 
 quiet ever after. Now some people, perhaps, may say, that it is a 
 small thing for a king to have bestowed two ladies in marriage. I 
 allow it: but for a king to give away the very lady that he himself 
 was in love with, and without plucking the least bud, flower, or 
 fruit of his love, that I will maintain to be great indeed.—Such, 
 then, were the virtues of this most generous king ; rewarding the 
 courtesy of a noble knight, shewing a great and. proper regard to 
 his beloved fair one, and subduing his own desires with strict 
 resolution and honour. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL VII. 
 
 King Pietro, hnowing that a lady was lovesick for him, makes her a visii, 
 and marries her to a worthy gentleman ; then kissing her forehead, calls 
 himself ever afterwards her knight. 
 
 ■ LAMMETTA’S novel was concluded, and the manly king s 
 generosity much commended, although there were some of 
 the Ghibelline faction present that seemed not to relish it; 
 when Pampinea, having the king’s command, began as follows :— 
 Every one must praise the king for what he did, excepting such 
 as bear him ill-will upon some other account; but as I now call to 
 mind a thing no less praiseworthy, that was done by an enemy of 
 his to a lady of our city, I shall beg leave to relate it. 
 
 At the time when the French were driven out of Sicily, there 
 dwelt at Palermo, a Florentine apothecary, called Bernardo Puccini, 
 one of very great substance, and who had an only daughter, a fine 
 young lady, and of age to be married. Now King Pietro being 
 become lord of the whole island, made a great feast for all his 
 barons at Palermo ; and, justing in the street called Catalana, it 
 
TENTH DA Y. 
 
 491 
 
 chanced that Bernardo^s daughter, whose name was Lisa, observed 
 him, as she was in companj^ with other ladies, out of a window, 
 with great pleasure, and she gazed so long, that at last she found 
 herself deeply in love. The feast being over, she returned home, 
 still thinking of nothing but this great and exalted love. But 
 what troubled her most was the considei-ation of her mean rank, 
 which left her no hopes of success ; nevertheless, she would by no 
 means withdraw her affection, at the same time that she was afraid 
 to disclose it. Love thus getting every day more power over her, 
 the fair maid, unable to hold up any longer, fell at last into a 
 languishing sickness, wasting manifestly like snow before the sun. 
 The father and mother, by their own continual care, as well as the 
 help of physicians, did all in their power to relieve her, but to no 
 purpose ; &he despaired in her love, and so desired to die. Now 
 one day it happened, as the father was offering his best services, 
 that a thought came into her head, to make her love known to the 
 king before her death, and she desired that Minuccio d’Arezzo 
 might come to her. This Minuccio was a fine singer, and often with 
 the king. The father, therefore, supposing that she had a mind 
 to be a little diverted, sent for him ; when he came and played a 
 tune or two upon his violin, and sang her several songs, which, 
 instead of appeasing, only added to her love. At length she 
 expressed a desire to speak to him in private ; so every one else 
 having left the room, she spoke to this purpose: “ Minuccio, I 
 have chosen to entrust you with a secret, hoping in the first place, 
 that you will only reveal it to the person concerned; and secondly, 
 I desire you would assist me to the utmost of your power. The 
 case, you must know, is this : the day of King Pietro’s rejoicing 
 for his accession, I fell so much in love on seeing him run his tilts, 
 that it has brought me to what you see. Knowing, therefore, how 
 ill-placed my love is on a king, and not being able to shake it off, 
 or any way impair it, I have resolved, seeing it is too grievous to 
 be borne, to die. It is true, I shall die with great uneasiness, 
 unless he knows it first; and as I have nobody that I can trust iu 
 this affair but yourself, I therefore commit it entirely to you, in 
 hope that you will not refuse me this service ; and when you have 
 done to let me know it, that so, being disburdened, I may die with 
 more ease and comfort.” Minuccio was surprised both at the 
 greatness of her soul, and her cruel resolution ; and being grieved 
 for her, he thought of a way whereby he uught hririy do her 
 
THE DECAMERON-. 
 
 492 
 
 service; go he eaid, “ Madam, be assured I will never deceive 
 you : I commend your fancy in the choice of so great a king, and 
 offer you my best assistance, hoping that before three days are 
 expired, I shall bring you news that will be agreeable. To lose no 
 time, then, I will go directly about it.”—She promised to comfort 
 herself as well as she could, and wished him success. He conse¬ 
 quently went to one Mico da Siena, a tolerable poet in those days, 
 who, at his request, composed the following song. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Go, love, and to my lord declare 
 The torment which for him I find; 
 
 Go, say I die, whilst still my fear 
 Forbids me to declare my mind. 
 
 I. 
 
 With hands uplifted, I thee pray, 
 
 0 love ! that thou wouldst haste awsy. 
 
 And gently to my lord impart 
 The warmest wishes of my heart; 
 
 Declare how great my sorrows seem. 
 
 Which sighing, blushing, I endure for him. 
 
 Go, love, &c. 
 
 II. 
 
 Why was I not so bold to tell, 
 
 For once, the passion that I feel ? 
 
 To him for whom I grieve alone, 
 
 The anguish of my heart make known 1 
 He might rejoice to hear my grief 
 Awaits his single pleasure for relief. 
 
 Go, love, &c. 
 
 III. 
 
 But if this my request be vain, 
 
 Hor other means of help remain. 
 
 Yet say, that when in armour bright 
 He march’d as if equipp’d for fight, 
 Amidst his chiefs, that fatal day 
 I saw, and gaz’d my very heart away. 
 Go, love, &c. 
 
 Theae words he set to a soft languishing air, as the subject 
 required : and the third day he went to court, where the king was 
 at dinner; and being ordered to give him a song, he began that, 
 in such an easy, sweet manner, that all the people in the room 
 seemed converted to statues; so silently, so attentively did they 
 
TENTH DA Y. 
 
 493 
 
 stand to listen. But the king was more affected than all the rest, 
 and after Minuccio had made an end, he demanded why he had 
 never heard 'that song before 1 “ My lord,” the other replied, 
 
 the words and tune both are not yet three days old.” The king 
 then inquiring whom it was they concerned, he made answer, 
 “ That I can only tell your majesty.” The king being desirous of 
 knowing it, went with him into the chamber, as soon as the cloth 
 was taken away, when Minuccio related the whole affair; with 
 which the king seemed greatly pleased, and desired him to go 
 directly to her, and assure her, on his part, that he would certainly 
 visit her that evening. Minuccio, overjoyed to be the bearer of 
 such news, went immediately with his violin, and after relating to 
 her in private what had been done, he sung her the very song. From 
 that time there appeared great signs of amendment; and, without 
 any one having the least suspicion of it, she waited in full expecta¬ 
 tion of the evening, when she should see her lord. The king, who 
 was a gracious and good prince, having thought much of what 
 Minuccio told him, felt more and more pity for the lady, as being- 
 no stranger to her extraordinary beauty. So, getting on horseback 
 in the evening, as if he was taking a ride, he rode to this apothe¬ 
 cary’s house, desiring to see a fine garden that he had ; where 
 after walking for some time together, the king inquired what was 
 become of his daughter, and whether she was yet married ] Ber¬ 
 nardo replied, “ My lord, she is not married; she has been ex¬ 
 tremely ill, and is still so, though we think since nine o’clock, that 
 she is wonderfully mended.” The king knew what that amend¬ 
 ment meant, and said, “ In good truth it would be a pity to lose 
 such a pretty young lady ; let us go and see her.” So he went 
 with two attendants only, and the father, into the chamber : and 
 going to the bed-side, where she sat raised up, and full of expecta¬ 
 tion of his coming, and taking her by the hand, he said, “ Fair 
 maid, how comes it that you are ill % You are young, and should 
 be a delight to others ; then why will you suffer this illness to 
 prey upon youl For my sake be comforted, and get well.” The 
 lady, feeling the touch of his hand, whom she loved beyond all 
 the world, though she could not help blushing, thought herself in 
 perfect paradise, and answered as well as she could: “My lord, by 
 opposing my little strength to too heavy a burden, I have happened 
 to languish in this manner; but you will soon see an amendment.” 
 Only the king knew her covert way of speaking, and after he had 
 
494 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 stayed some time longer with her, and encouraged her as much a& 
 possible, he took his leave. This condescension of the king’s was 
 much commended, and thought a great honour both to the apothe¬ 
 cary and his daughter, who was as much pleased with it as any 
 other lady could be with her lover ; and being assisted by better 
 hopes, became in a little time quite well, and more fair than ever. 
 Some time after, the king, having consulted with the queen about 
 it, on a day appointed, went on horseback, attended by many of 
 his barons, to the apothecary’s house, and walking in the garden, he 
 sent for him and his daughter. Presently after the queen came with 
 a gi’eat number of ladies, and after they had spent eome time in 
 diversion, the king and queen called Lisa to them, w hen he said, 
 “ Fair lady, your love for me has obtained you this favour, with 
 which, for my sake, I beg you would be satisfied ; what I mean is, 
 to g?ve you a husband, but still I would preserve the character of 
 your knight, without requesting anything in return but a kiss.” 
 She blushed, and replied, with a low and humble voice, to this 
 effect: “ My lord, were it to be pubhcly known that I had fixed 
 my aff'ection upon your majesty, I doubt not but I should be 
 reckoned the greatest of fools, and unacquainted with my own 
 meanness as much as your grandeur. But God, who knows my 
 heart, is my judge, that I then thought of you as a great king, and 
 of myself as an apothecary’s daughter, and was sensible how ill it 
 became me to fix my love upon an object so infinitely above me. 
 But your majesty knows, as well as myself, there is no choice in 
 love, it is fancy only; I opposed my feeble might, which was all I 
 could do; so that I did, do still, and always shall love you. 
 Since, therefore, I have found myself captivated by you, I thought 
 it my duty to make your will my own ; if then, you would com¬ 
 mand anything else, I should certainly obey it. But for you, who 
 are my king, to be called my knight, that it becomes me not to 
 speak to, any more than the kiss, which you require as the sole 
 recompense of my love, without leave from our lady the queen. 
 Nevertheless, for your great kindness towards me, as well as that 
 of the queen, may Heaven shower down its blessings upon you 
 both ; for my part I am able to make no return.” Here she was 
 silent. The queen was pleased with the lady’s reply, thinking her 
 as prudent as the king had reported her ; who instantly called for 
 her father and mother, and finding they approved of his intention, 
 'le sent for a young gentleman of small fortune, whose name was 
 
TENTH DA V, 
 
 495 
 
 Perdicone, and caused him, not unwillingly, to espouse her; when, 
 besides many jewels and other valuable presents given by them 
 both, he bestowed Ceffalu and Calatabellotta, two very considerable 
 estates, upon them, saying, “ These I give by way of dowry with 
 your wife ; what I intend for yourself, you shall see some time 
 hence.” Then, turning to her, he said, “ I must now receive the 
 fruit that is due to me from your love and he just saluted her 
 forehead. So the marriage was solemnized, to the great joy both 
 of her husband, father and mother: and many report that the king 
 was very constant to his promise ; for that, as long as he lived, he 
 always styled himself her knight, and never carried any other 
 token of favour upon his arms, but what she sent him.—Such 
 actions as these gain the hearts of the people, serve as an example 
 for others to imitate, and secure at last an everlasting fame. But 
 there are few now-a-days that trouble their heads about that, the 
 greatest part of our princes being rather cruel tyrants. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL VIII. 
 
 Sophronia, believing herself to he the wife of GislppuSy is really married 
 to Titus Quintus Fulvius, who carries her to Rome; where Gisippus 
 arrives some time after in great distress, and, thinJcing himself despised 
 by T'itus, confesses himself guilty of a murder, in order to put an end 
 to his life. Titus recollects him, and, to save him, accuses himself; 
 which, when the murderer sees, he delivers himself up as the guilty 
 person. On which account th'y are all set at liberty by Octavius, and 
 Titus marries Gisippus to his sister, and gives him half his estate. 
 
 
 
 HILOMENA now, by the king’s order (Pampinea having 
 ceased to speak, and King Pietro being much commended 
 by the whole company, but especially the Gliibelline lady) 
 began in this manner ;— 
 
 We all know, ladies, that kings can do, as often as they are so 
 disposed, everything that is great and noble. Such things are 
 more particularly required of them. He, therefore that does his 
 duty does well; but yet w^e should not wonder in that manner, 
 and extol them so highly for it, as we would do another, who, not 
 having the ability, has less incumbent upon him, and yet does as 
 much. If, therefore, you commend the actions of princes to that 
 degree, and think them glorious, I make no doubt but those of our 
 equals will be much more admired by you, when they are found to 
 
496 
 
 THE DECAMERON-. 
 
 resemble, or even exceed them. I shall, therefore, relate the great 
 and noble behaviour of two citizens and friends. 
 
 At the time when Octavius Caesar (afterwards Augustus) 
 governed the empire as one of the triumvirate, there dwelt at 
 Rome a gentleman called Publius Quintus Fulvius, who having a 
 son named Titus Quintus Fulvius, a youth of wonderful parts and 
 learning, sent him to Athens to study philosophy; recommending 
 him to a nobleman there, called Chremes, who was his old friend. 
 This noble person kept him in his own house, as a companion to a 
 son of his own, named Gisippus, and they. were both put under 
 the tuition of a philosopher, whose name was Aristippus. Being 
 brought up thus together, their ways and tempers were so con¬ 
 formable, that a brotherly affection and strict friendship sprung up 
 between them, inseparable by any other accident than death; nor 
 had they either happiness or repose but in each other’s company. 
 They began their studies together, and proceeded, as they had 
 each an uncommon genius, to the greatest depths of philosophy 
 with equal steps and marvellous applause. Thus they went on 
 for three years, to the great joy of Chremes, who seemed to have 
 the same regard for both; when it chanced that he died, being 
 stricken in years, at which they expressed a like concern : nor 
 could it be well said which was most disconsolate. In a few months 
 afterwards, the friends and relations of Gisippus cams to see him, 
 and, along with Titus, began to comfort and persuade him to take 
 a wife, recommending a citizen of theirs, a lady of extraordinary 
 beauty and family, about sixteen years of age. The time of their 
 marriage drawing near, Gisippus prevailed upon Titus, who had 
 not yet seen her, to go with him to pay her a visit. Coming then 
 to the house, and she seating herseK between them, Titus, con¬ 
 sidering the charms of his friend’s contracted spouse, began to 
 view her with the greater attention; and being immoderately taken 
 with every part and every feature of her, and praising them 
 secretly to himself, he soon grew as much enamoured as ever man 
 in the world was v/ith a woman, without however shewing the 
 least sign of it. After they had stayed some time, they left her, 
 and returned home ; and Titus, going into his chamber by himself, 
 began to reflect upon what he had seen, and the more he thought, 
 the more he grew in love. Recollecting himself at last, after many 
 passionate sighs, he broke out to this effect: “ Ah ! unhappy Titus, 
 where and on whom hast thou fixed thy heart, thy affection, and 
 
TENTH DA Y. 
 
 49 ? 
 
 thy whole hope ? Knowest thou not, that for the favours received 
 from Chremes and his family, as well as the close friendship be¬ 
 twixt thee and Gisippus, to whom she is espoused, thou oughtest 
 to reverence her as a sister % Whom, then, dost thou love % Why 
 suffer thyself to be thus ensnared % To what purpose that deceitful 
 hope 1 Open the eyes of thy understanding, O miserable man 1 
 and know thyself. Give way to reason, curb thy inordinate 
 appetite, moderate thy irregular desires, and direct them to a 
 different object; subdue thy lascivious passion in the beginning, 
 and be thy own master whilst it is in thy power. It is not con¬ 
 venient what thou desirest! it is not honest. What thou art in 
 pursuit of, even wert thou sure to obtain it, as thou art not, thou 
 oughtest to flee from, if thou hast any regard to what true friend¬ 
 ship and thy own duty both require. What, then, wilt thou do % 
 To act reasonably, thou must quit this love.” 
 
 Then calling to mind the lady, and renouncing what he had 
 before alleged, he said, “ The laws of love are of greater force than 
 any other; they disannul those of friendship, or even the laws 
 divine. How often has a father loved his daughter, a brother his 
 sister 1 which are much stranger things than one friend to love 
 another friend’s wife. Besides, I am young, and youth is wholly 
 subject to the government of love. What that directs, then, I 
 approve. Let people of more years think of what is honest; I 
 can will nothing but to love. This her beauty commands from 
 everyone. How am I then to blame? I love her, not because she 
 is espoused to my friend, but I should love her to whomsoever she 
 belonged. It is only fortune that is in fault, in having bestowed 
 her upon him; and perhaps he may be less uneasy at my admiring 
 her, than he would be with any other person.” 
 
 Thus he kept reasoning with himself backwards and forwards, 
 not that day and night only, but many others, insomuch that he 
 neither eat nor slept, till at last he was forced to keep his bed. 
 Gisippus had observed him pensive for some time, and now seeing 
 him fall sick, was extremely grieved, and sought, by all manner of 
 means, to comfort him, pressing earnestly to know the cause of 
 his grief. When he returned frivolous answers, far from truth, 
 which Gisippus knew to be such; and as he was still urgent to 
 know the real cause, Titus, compelled, as it were, at length to 
 speak, began with sighs and tears to this effect: 
 
 “ 0, Gisippus ! if it had pleased the gods, death would have 
 
 32 
 
THE DECAMERON, 
 
 498 
 
 been mnch more welcome to me than to live any longer, now I 
 come to reflect that fortune has brought me into a strait, in which 
 trial is to be made of my virtue, and I perceive that it is vanquished 
 to my eternal reproach. But I expect ere long the proper reward, 
 namely, death; which will be much more dear to me than to live 
 with the consciousness of my own baseness; which, as I neither 
 can nor ought to conceal anything from you, I now disclose with 
 shame.” 
 
 Here he related from the beginning the whole cause of his un¬ 
 easiness and conflict within himself; as also which way the victory 
 inclined; owning his extreme passion for Sophronia, and declaring, 
 on account of the dishonourableness of it, his resolution to die, 
 which he hoped would shortly come to pass. Gisippus, hearing 
 this discourse, and seeing his affliction, stood some time in 
 suspense, having a love for the lady, though in a more moderate 
 degree : but at length his friend’s life was preferred, and, sympa¬ 
 thising with him, he wept, and said, “ Titus, were it not that you 
 stand more in need of comfort, I should upbraid you for a breach 
 of friendship, in keeping your passion so long a secret. Admitting 
 it to be dishonourable, yet ought it no more to be concealed than 
 if it were otherwise; for if it be the part of a friend to rejoice at 
 what redounds to his friend’s credit, it is no less so to attempt to 
 drive from that friend’s heart what he judges contrary to it. But 
 to leave this subject, and come to that of which you stand most 
 in need. That you are so passionately in love with Sophronia, 
 who is affianced to me, I am not at all surprised, but should wonder 
 rather if it were otherwise, considering her extraordinary beauty, 
 and the generosity of your soul, so much the more susceptible of 
 love, in proportion to the excellency of the object. The more 
 reason, then, there is for your loving Sophronia, the more unjustly 
 do you complain of fortune in having bestowed her upon me, 
 supposing your love would have been more reputable had she 
 belonged to any other person. But you should rather be pleased 
 that fortune has made her mine; for an indiflferent person would 
 have given the preference to himself, which you can never suppose 
 in me, if you hold me as much your friend as I really am. And 
 my reason is this ; I do not remember, since the commencement 
 of our friendship, that I ever possessed anything but it was as 
 much yours as my own; and if it was so in every other case, it 
 shall be the same in this. It is true she is my spouse, and I have 
 
TENTH DA K 
 
 499 
 
 loved her most affectionately, waiting with impatience the con¬ 
 summation of our nuptials: but, as your desire and passion for 
 her are the stronger, be assured that she shall be conducted ipto 
 my chamber, not as my wife, but yours. Then leave these 
 despairing thoughts, shake off that cloudy disposition, re-assume 
 your former health and cheerful temper, and from this hour expect 
 the reward and completion of your love, far more deserving of the 
 lady than mine.” 
 
 As much pleasure as Titus’s hopes afforded him, with so much 
 shame was he overwhelmed from this consideration, that the 
 greater his friend’s liberality, the greater disgrace it would be to 
 accept it. Therefore, unable to refrain from tears, he thus feebly 
 replied : “ Gisippus, your sincere and generous friendship points 
 out to me what on my part ought to be done. Heaven forbid that 
 I should take her for mine, who was more deservedly destined to be 
 yours : had the gods thought her a fit wife for me, they would have 
 ordered it to have been so. Accept thankfully, then, thy own choice 
 and her gift, and leave me to waste away in tears as unworthy of 
 such a blessing; for either I shall get the better of this passion, 
 and so continue your friend, or else it will get the better of me, 
 and I shall then be out of my misery.” Gisippus replied, “ My 
 dear friend, if our intimacy might permit me to force you in any 
 respect to comply with my will, it is in this case that I would 
 make use of such influence ; if, then, you refuse to condescend 
 to my entreaties, I shall, with that compulsion which is necessary 
 for my friend’s welfare, take care that Sophronia be wholly yours. 
 I know full well the force of love, and that many of its votaries 
 have been brought by it to an unhappy end; I see you abo in such 
 clanger, that you would unavoidably sink under the burden ; nor 
 should I be long behind you. Therefore, were there no other 
 reason, yet for my own sake would your life be dear to me. You, 
 then, shall be possessed of her, because you will never meet with 
 any so agreeable to yourself : but for my part I may fancy some 
 other as well. There is no such generosity in this; women are 
 easier found than friends ; another wife I can easily procure, but 
 such a friend, perhaps, never. I can better transfer my affection 
 to another, than think of losing you. Rouse yourself, then, I 
 entreat you, if you have any regard for me, from this affliction. 
 Comfort at once both yourself and me, and prepare to receive the 
 joy which your most passionate love so eagerly thirsts after.” 
 
 32 —7. 
 
500 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 Although Titus was ashamed to give his consent, yet love, and 
 his friend’s importunities, at length prevailed, and he replied, 
 “ Gisippus, in doing what you entreat, and say is so much your 
 desire, I know not whether I may be supposed principally to con¬ 
 sult your pleasure or my own. As, therefore, your liberality is such 
 that it surmounts all shame in me, I will do as you command. But 
 remember, it is not being gratified in my love only, however great 
 that may be; but it is receiving my life also at your hands, for 
 which 1 must own myself your debtor. And may the gods grant 
 that I may be able, some time or other, to shew how much I think 
 myself obliged, in your manifesting a greater regard for me than I 
 had for myself!” After this was over, Gisippus said to him, 
 “ Titus, in order that we succeed in this affair, I hold it best to 
 take this method : you know everything is concluded between her 
 friends and mine, and were I now to declare my refusal of her, it 
 would be a matter of great reproach, and I should for ever dis¬ 
 oblige both her relations and mine, though the latter I should not 
 so much regard, could I be assured you would obtain her by that 
 means : but I am afraid, in such case, lest they should bestow her 
 upon some other person, and so you lose what I gain not. If you 
 think well of it, then I intend to proceed in the affair, and bring her 
 home as my own spouse, when you shall privately be put to bed to 
 her, as if she was your wife, and at a proper time the thing shall be 
 made public ; if they approve of it, it will be well; if otherwise, it 
 will be done, and cannot then be undone, for which reason they 
 must be satisfied.” Titus liked this stratagem, and as soon as he 
 was perfectly recovered, Gisippus brought her home with great 
 rejoicings, when the women put her into his bed, and departed. 
 Now Titus’s chamber adjoined to Gisippus’s, so that a person might 
 go out of one into the other; Gisippus, therefore, having put out 
 the candles, went silently to Titus, and told him that he might now 
 go to bed to his lady. Upon which Titus was so overcome with 
 shame, that he began to repent, and refused it. But Gisippus, 
 who was as much his friend as he had always professed himself, 
 after a long contest, sent him to her. When being gotten into bed, 
 he softly asked if she was willing to be his wife. She, thinking it 
 was Gisippus, replied, “ Yes.” Then taking a ring of value, and 
 putting it upon her finger, he said, “ And I will be your husband.” 
 Thus everything was consummated, she thinking all the time that 
 she had been with Gisippus. By this time Publius, the father of 
 
TENTH DA K 
 
 501 
 
 Titus, departed this life, when letters came to Titus, requiring 
 him instantly to depart for Rome upon his private affairs ; which he 
 instantly resolved upon, designing also to take with him Sophronia 
 and Gisippus; but not seeing how this could be well managed, 
 without his first making a full discovery of what had been done, he 
 therefore one day called her into the chamber, and told her the 
 whole affair, which he made clear to her by many remarkable cir¬ 
 cumstances. Upon which she gazed first at one, and then the other, 
 with a good deal of confusion, and at length burst out into tears, 
 complaining bitterly of Gisippus’s trick upon her; but before she 
 made any stir about it in the house, she went directly to her 
 father’s, and declared to him and her mother the whole treachery, 
 affirming that she was not the wife of Gisippus, as they imagined, 
 but of Titus. This was a most grievous thing both to them and all 
 her relations, who complained heavily of Gisippus, and there was 
 much disturbance and confusion about it. Great was the resent¬ 
 ment of his own relations, as well as hers, and all declared him 
 worthy not of reproof only, but severe chastisement. But he, not¬ 
 withstanding, justified what he had done, averring that thanks were 
 rather due to him from her friends, inasmuch as he had married 
 her to one better than himself. Titus, on the other part, beheld all 
 this with great concern, and knowing it to be the temper of the 
 Greeks to make a mighty noise and stir when no opposition is 
 made, but where there is any resistance, then to be tame and sub¬ 
 missive, he resolved to bear their reproaches no longer without a 
 reply ; and having an Attic genius, with a true Roman spirit, he had 
 all Gisippus’s and Sophronia’s friends summoned together into a 
 temple; and coming thither, accompanied only by Gisippus, he 
 addressed himself to the expecting multitude in the following 
 manner:— 
 
 “It is the opinion of many philosophers that we mortals do 
 nothing but what is pre-ordained by the immortal gods, from whence 
 some conclude that our actions are determined by a fatal necessity, 
 though others refer that necessity to things already past. Whoever 
 has regard to either of these tenets, must allow, that to find fault 
 with vv^hat cannot be revoked, is, in other terms, to quarrel with 
 T’rovidence, whom we should believe to govern by perpetual laws, 
 not subject to error, both us and all our affairs ; and yet you your¬ 
 selves are the people that presume to do this, if it be true what I 
 hear, that you are continually exclaiming against my marriage with 
 
502 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 Soplironia, whom you had given to Gisippus, never considering that 
 it was decreed from the beginning that she should not be his wife, 
 but mine, as the effect now proves. However, as discoursing upon 
 the secrets of Providence is too knotty and intricate a subject for 
 most people to comprehend, I am willing to suppose that no regard 
 is had to what is done here below, and shall confine myself alto¬ 
 gether to the dictates of human reason. Speaking, therefore, in 
 that manner, I am forced to do two things contrary to my natural 
 temper : to commend myself, and to blame or lessen other people. 
 But as I shall keep strictly to the truth in both respects, and the 
 nature of the case requires me to do both, I therefore proceed. 
 Your complaints arise more from rage than reason; you are con¬ 
 tinually reviling Gisippus, because he generously parted with a 
 lady whom you designed to be his wife. This action, nevertheless, 
 deserves the highest commendation, and that for two reasons. First, 
 because he has thereby performed a most noble act of friendship ; 
 and, secondly, he has acted more wisely than yourselves would have 
 done. How far the sacred bonds of friendship oblige one friend to 
 go for another, I shall not at present examine, but content myself 
 barely with reminding you, that they are much stronger than the 
 ties of blood.—Our friends are our own choice, but our relations we 
 receive from the hands of fortune. If, therefore, Gisippus, who is 
 my friend, valued my life beyond your favour, you need not be 
 surprised. But, secondly, I will shew, by divers instances, seeing 
 that you know little of Providence, and much less of the effects of 
 friendship, that he has proved himself wiser than you all. You 
 gave Sophronia to him, being a young gentleman and a philosopher; 
 he bestowed her on a young gentleman and a philosopher also. 
 You gave her to an Athenian ; he conferred her upon a Roman. 
 You gave her to one of a good family ; he to a person of a better. 
 You to one that was rich ; he to another much richer. You to one 
 w'ho but little esteemed, and scarcely knew her; he to one that 
 loved her as his own life. Consider, then, what I have said, article 
 by article. \Ye are of equal years, and our studies have been the 
 same ; he, indeed, is an Athenian, and I a Roman, but no one can 
 pretend to put those two cities in competition. Rome is an inde¬ 
 pendent, free city ; Athens, a tributary one. Rome is mistress of 
 the whole world ; whilst Athens is under her subjection. Rome 
 ie justly famed for arms, extent of empire, and all sorts of polite 
 learning; whilst Athens is only remarkable for a little philosophy 
 
TENTH DA Y. 
 
 503 
 
 And though you see me here a scholar, and of no great account, yet 
 I am not descended from the dregs of the people. My houses and 
 the public places are filled with the statues of my ancestors, and 
 our annals record the numberless triumphs of the Quintii brought 
 home by them into the Roman Capitol. Nor has time itself tar¬ 
 nished our glory, but the lustre of our house continues the same as 
 ever. I say nothing of my wealth, out of mere shame, remembering 
 that a virtuous poverty was the noblest patrimony of the ancient 
 Romans : but if you be of a different opinion, and think with the 
 ignorant multitude there is any real excellence in riches, I can then 
 tell you that I am abundantly provided, not from my own covetous 
 desires, but the gift of fortune. I know very well that you des^r^.d 
 his alliance, as he is of your own city: but why should not I be 
 as much esteemed by you at Rome, considering that you will then 
 have a faithful friend and advocate in all your affairs, both public 
 and private] Upon all these accounts I must conclude that Gisip- 
 pus has judged more wisely than yourselves. Sophronia is married 
 to a noble and wealthy citizen of Rome, one of an ancient family, 
 and a friend of Gisippus ; therefore, whoever makes any complaint 
 or stir about it, neither does as he ought, nor yet knows what he 
 does. But some, perhaps, may say, “We do not so much blame 
 the thing, as the manner in which it was done, she being made his 
 wife, as it were, by stealth.” Why, this is no such strange matter! 
 How many examples are there of this kind in the world ] Do not 
 daughters marry without their parents’ consent] Some go into 
 foreign countries with their gallants, and others never discover 
 their marriages at all, till their appearance or lying-in does it 
 for them. Now there is nothing like this in Sophronia’s case ; she 
 was decently and honourably disposed of by Gisippus to me. 
 Others may allege that she was married to a person for whom she 
 was never designed; but those complaints are now very foolish, 
 and to no purpose. Fortune makes use of strange methods some¬ 
 times to bring things to pass. What is it to me, whether it be a 
 vobbler or a philosopher that does any business of mine, or whether 
 it be in public or private, provided the end be good ] Indeed, if I 
 find the cobbler indiscreet in his management, he shall have no 
 more to do for me, but still I am obliged to thank him when he 
 does me any real service. Gisippus has married Sophronia well; 
 then to what purpose is it how he did it ] If you question his pru¬ 
 dence, let him have no more of your daughters* to dispose of ; but 
 
504 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 still ttank him for providing so well for this. I never meant tc 
 throw a stain upon your family, in the person of Sophronia ; and 
 though I married her in that manner, 1 neither came as a ravisher, 
 nor one refusing your alliance ; I was charmed with her beauty and 
 virtue; and feaiing if I proceeded in the usual way, that you would 
 never give your consent, on account of my taking her away to 
 Rome, I therefore had recourse to this artifice, and made Gisippus 
 espouse her for me. Moreover, though I loved her most immoder¬ 
 ately, yet, to shew that my designs were strictly honourable, I first 
 espoused her with my own ring, as she can bear me witness, asking 
 her whether she was willing to take me for her husband, when she 
 made answer that she was ; if she was deceived, she herself is to 
 blame for not asking me who I was. This, then, is the mighty 
 crime committed by him as a friend, and me as a lover: for this 
 you lay snares for, and threaten his life. What could you do more, 
 had he given her to the veriest scoundrel in the universe But 
 letting this alone for the present, the time is now come, on account 
 of my father’s unexpected death, for my returning to Rome ; and, 
 intending to take Sophronia along with me, I have thought it 
 proper to declare what might otherwise have been kept secret; 
 if you be wise, you will take it in good part, for were I capable of 
 such an action, I might basely have left her. But Heaven forbid 
 that such a thought should ever enter the breast of a Roman! 
 Sophronia, therefore, is mine, by the will of Heaven, the laws of 
 men, the generosity of my friend, and the innocent artifice where¬ 
 with love inspired me : whilst you, thinking yourselves wiser than 
 other people, or even the gods themselves, contest this my title two 
 ways, both very injurious to me: first, by detaining Sophronia, 
 over whom you have no more power than what I please to give 
 you ; and, secondly, by your ill treatment of my friend, to whom 
 yourselves are greatly obliged. How indiscreet you are in both 
 cases I shall not say at present, but only advise you amicably to 
 give up your resentment, and deliver Sophronia to me, that I may 
 depart your friend, and continue so; assuring you, whether you 
 be pleased or otherwise with what is done, that, if you offer to 
 proceed in a different manner, I will then take Gisippus along with 
 me ; and when I come to Rome, fetch her, who is mine by right, in 
 spite of you all, from amongst you, making you sensible, at the 
 same time, what it is to incur the just displeasure of the Romans.” 
 
 After Titus had done speaking, he took Gisippus by the hand, 
 
TENTH DAY, 
 
 505 
 
 and went out with him, knitting his brows, and shewing all the 
 marks of passion at those within the temple ; whilst they, moved 
 partly with the reasons he had given, and partly terrified with his 
 last words, thought it better to admit him as a relation, since 
 Gisippus had refused it, than to lose the alliance of one, and pro¬ 
 cure the enmity of the other. So they went with one accord, and 
 told him that they consented he should have Sophronia, and should 
 esteem him as their kinsman, and Gisippus as their friend. Thus 
 they made a solemn agreement together, and departed, delivering 
 Sophronia up to him ; who, being wise enough to make a virtue 
 of necessity, the love which she had borne to Gisippus she imme¬ 
 diately transferred to Titus, and went with him to Eome, where 
 she v/as received with great honour and respect. 
 
 Gisippus continued at Athens in little esteem with the people ; 
 and powerful parties were formed against him, insomuch that he 
 was at length driven from the place, and doomed, with all his 
 family, to perpetual banishment. Being thus destitute of all 
 friends, and no better than a common beggar, he travelled, as well 
 as he could, for Rome, to see if Titus w^ould take any notice of him. 
 When, finding that he was alive, and in great favour with the 
 people, he inquired for his house, and went thither, waiting till he 
 should come past. 
 
 Not daring to speak a word, on account of his poverty, he 
 yet put himself in his way, in hopes that he would recollect 
 and challenge him; but he passed by, and Gisippus imagining 
 that he had seen and despised him, and calling to mind what 
 he had formerly done for him, he went away confounded with 
 grief and despair. It was now night, and he had been fasting 
 all that day, and being without a penny of money in his pocket, 
 and desiring nothing so much as to die, he rambled, without 
 knowing whither, till he came to a solitary part of the city, 
 where he found a great cavern, and went into it, with a design of 
 staying all night, when, laying himself down, almost naked, upon 
 the hard ground, he wept himself asleep. To this place two 
 thieves, who had been robbing all night, came with their booty to¬ 
 wards break of day, and, quarrelling together about it, one killed 
 the other, and departed. This Gisippus perceiving, and thinking 
 he had now found a way to die, without laying hands upon himself, 
 he stayed there till the officers, who had notice of the murder, came 
 and hurried him violently away. Upon examination, he confessed 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 506 
 
 that he had committed the fact, and had not the power afterwards 
 to stir from the place. 
 
 On this, Marcus Varro, who was the praetor, gave sentence that 
 he should be crucified, as was the usual manner of death in those 
 cases. Now it happened, by great chance, that Titus came into the 
 hall at the very time, and looking attentively in the prisoner’s face, 
 and hearing the cause of his condemnation, he instantly knew him 
 to be Gisippus. He wondered, therefore, greatly at this change of 
 fortune, and what could bring him thither ; and was determined, 
 at all events, to save him; but seeing no other way but by accusing 
 himself, he stepped resolutely forwards, and called aloud to the 
 praetor in this manner: “ Marcus Yarro, recall thy sentence ; for 
 the person whom thou hast condemned is innocent: it was I who 
 offended the gods, by the murder of that man whom the officers 
 found slain this morning: then do not offend them still more by the 
 murder of another innocent person.” Varro was quite astonished, 
 and grieved to that degree, that the whole hall heard him; but not 
 being able, with regard to his own honour, to alter the course of 
 the laws, he ordered Gisippus to come back, when he said, in 
 the presence of Titus, “ How couldst thou be so foolish to confess, 
 without any torture, a crime whereof thou art no way guilty, and 
 which would affect thy life? Thou saidst that thouwert the person 
 that slew the man, and now here is another come, who says it was 
 not thou, but he, that did it.” 
 
 Gisippus lifted up his eyes, and saw that it was Titus, when, 
 concluding that this was done out of a grateful remembrance of 
 the favours he had received, he fell into tears, and said, “ Indeed, 
 sir, I did murder him, and Titus’s regard for my safety comes now 
 too late.” Titus, on the other part, said, “ Marcus Verro, take 
 notice, this man is a stranger, and was found, without any arms, 
 by the man’s side that was murdered ; it is only his poverty that 
 makes him desirous of dying; then, set him at liberty, and 
 punish me, who have deserved it.” Varro was greatly astonished 
 at the pressing instances of both, presuming that neither one nor 
 the other was guilty; and as he was thinking of a method how 
 they might both be acquitted, behold, a young fellow, named 
 Publius Ambustus, one of a notorious character, and who had 
 actually done the thing, had the humanity, seeing each accusing 
 himself, to come before the praetor, and say, “ Sir, the Fates have 
 forced me hither, to solve this difficulty. Some ^od or nowei 
 
TENTH DAY. 
 
 within me spnrs me on to make a confession of my own guilt 
 Know, therefore, that neither of these people was any way acces¬ 
 sary, who are 'impeaching themselves : I murdered the man early 
 this morning, and this poor wretch was there asleep, whilst I and 
 the man who is killed were dividing our spoil. As for Titus, there 
 is no occasion for my vindicating him; his character is without 
 reproach. Set them both, then, at liberty, and let me suffer what 
 the laws require.” 
 
 This affair was soon told to Octavius Caesar, who, being desirous 
 of knowing why they wanted so much to suffer, had all three 
 brought before him, when each related fully how the thing really 
 was. Upon which he set the two friends at liberty, because they 
 were innocent, and pardoned the third also for their sakes. Titus 
 then took his friend Gisippus, and, after reproving him for his 
 distrust and cool credence of his friendship, brought him to his 
 own house, when Sophronia received him with the same affection 
 as if he had been her brother ; and giving him clothes suitable to 
 his worth and quality, he afterwards divided his whole substance 
 with him, and bestowed a sister of his, named Fulvia, an agreeable 
 young lady, upon him in marriage ; saying further to him, “ Gisip¬ 
 pus, you have your free choice, whether to stay with me, or to go, 
 with what I have given you, into Greece but he, moved partly 
 by his exile, and partly by his love and friendship for Titus, agreed 
 to stay at Rome, where they all lived together in one house, he with 
 his Fulvia, and Titus with his fair Sophronia. to their mutual 
 satisfaction, every day adding something, if possible, to their 
 felicity. A most sacred thing, therefore, is friendship ! and 
 worthy not only of singular reverence, but to be celebrated 
 with perpetual applause, as being the prudent mother of mag¬ 
 nificence and honesty, the sister of gratitude and charity, and 
 the enemy of hatred and avarice; always ready, without being 
 requested, to manifest that virtuous kindness to others which she 
 would have shewed to herself ; whose divine effects are rarely now 
 to be met with, to the gi-eat reproach of the sordidness of mankind, 
 which has driven it in a long exile to the farthest corner of the 
 earth. What degree of love, wealth, or affinity, could have wrought 
 so effectually upon the heart of Gisippus, to make him feel the 
 pangs of his friend, and give him up to his beloved spouse 1 What 
 laws, what threats, or fears, could cause the youth and vigour of 
 Gisippus to forsake his own bed, where a beautiful young lady lay 
 
5 o8 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 expecting him, and betake himself to dark and lonesome places 1 
 What greatness, what rewards, could make him heedless of dis¬ 
 obliging all his own relations, as well as Sophronia’s, despising the 
 unjust murmurs and insults of the people, to serve his friend 1 
 What, I say, but this only 1 On the other part, what could prompt 
 Titus, without deliberation, when he might have fairly pretended 
 not to have seen him, to contrive his own death, in order to save 
 Gisippus If What made him so liberal in parting with half his 
 substance to Gisippus, whom fortune had dispossessed of his own 
 patrimony? What induced Titus, when he saw him poor and 
 destitute, to give him his sister, but only this ? To what purpose, 
 then, do men covet numbers of relations, brethren, and children, 
 and procure, at a vast expense, great plenty of servants, when, for 
 the least inconvenience that they may sustain, people are apt to 
 forget their duty to parent, brother, or master 1 Whereas, in true 
 friendship it is quite otherwise, that sacred obligation serves instead 
 of all degrees of affinity. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL IX. 
 
 Sa^adin, disguising himself like a merchant, is generously entertained by 
 Signor I'orello; who, going upon an expedition to the Holy Land, 
 allowed his wife a certain time to marry again. In the meantime he is 
 taken prisoner, and being employed to look after the hawks, is known to 
 the Soldan, who shews him great respect. Afterwards Torello falls sick, 
 and is conveyed, by magic art, in one night, to Pavia, at the very time 
 that his vjife was to have been married: when he makes himself known to 
 her, and returns with her home. 
 
 HILOMENA had now concluded her story, and Titus’s 
 
 _ gratitude was much applauded; when the king began in 
 
 this manner:— 
 
 Most certainly, ladies, Philomena is in the right as to what she 
 has said upon friendship ; and it was with reason she comydained, 
 last of all, of its being in such little esteem with mankind : and, 
 had we met here to correct or reprove the vices of the age, I could 
 proceed in a loose harangue to the same purpose ; but, as that is 
 foreign to our design, I intend to relate, in a long, but pleasant 
 novel, one, out of the many generous actions of Saladin; to the 
 end, that if, through our imperfections, we cannot attain the friend¬ 
 ship of anyone, we should j^’et make it a pleasure to oblige, in hopes 
 that a reward may ensue some time or other. 
 
 I say, therefore. 
 
 4.1 
 
 hat in the rsim of the Emperor Frederick the 
 
TENTH DA F. 
 
 509 
 
 First, a general crusade was undertaken by all the Christian 
 princes, for the recovery of the Holy Land ; which design of theirs 
 coming first to the ears of Saladin, a most renowned prince, then 
 Soldan of Babylon, he resolved to go in person to see what prepara¬ 
 tions were making against him, in order to provide the better for 
 his own defence. So, settling all his affairs in Egypt, and taking 
 with him two of his most sage and principal nobles, and three 
 servants only, he set forwards, in the habit of a merchant, as if he 
 was going on a pilgrimage. After travelling over many Christian 
 countries, and riding through Lombardy, in order to pass the 
 mountains, it happened, towards the evening, that, between Pavia 
 and Milan, he met with a gentleman, named Torello d’Istria, who 
 was going with his hawks, hounds, and servants, to a country-house 
 that he had on the river Tesino. Torello, upon seeing them, sup¬ 
 posed that they were strangers of some quality, and as such was 
 desirous of shewing them respect. Therefore, Saladin having asked 
 one of the servants how far it was to Pavia, and if they could get 
 there time enough to be admitted, Torello would not let the ser¬ 
 vant reply, but answered himself, “ Gentlemen, it is impossible for 
 you to reach Pavia now before the gates are shut.” “ Then,” quoth 
 Saladin, please to inform us, as we are strangers, where we may 
 meet with the best entertainment.” Torello replied, “ That I will 
 do with all my heart; I was just going to send one of my fellows 
 to a place near Pavia, upon some particular business ; he shall go 
 with you, and bring you to a place where you will be accommodated 
 well enough.” So taking one of the most discreet of his men aside, 
 and having told him what he should do, he sent him along with 
 them, whilst he made the best of his way to his own house, where 
 he had as elegant a supper provided for them as could be supposed 
 for the time, and the tables all spread in the garden ; which wher 
 he had done he went to the door to wait for his guests. The ser¬ 
 vant rode chatting along with them, leading them by other round¬ 
 about ways, till at last, without their perceiving it, he brought 
 them to his master’s house. As soon as Torello saw them, he 
 advanced pleasantly, saying, “ Gentlemen, you are heartily wel¬ 
 come.” Saladin, who was a very shrewd person, perceived that 
 the knight was doubtful whether they would have accepted his 
 invitation, had he asked them to go with him home, and that he 
 had contrived this stratagem not to be denied the pleasure of 
 entertaining them. So he returned his compliment, and said, “ If 
 
T'HE DECAMERON. 
 
 5 l« 
 
 it was possible for one person to complain of another’s courtesy 4 
 we should have cause to blame yours, which, not to mention the 
 hindrance of our journey, compelled us, without deserving your 
 notice otherwise than by a casual salutation, to accept of such great 
 favours as these.” Torello, being both wise and eloquent, replied, 
 “ Gentlemen, it is poor respect you receive from me, compared to 
 what you deserve, so far as I can judge by your countenances; but 
 in truth there was no convenient place out of Pavia that you could 
 possibly lie at; then pray take it not amiss that you have stepped 
 a little out of your way, to be something less incommoded.” 
 
 Having said this, the servants were all at hand to take their 
 horses, when thej^ alighted, and were shewn into rooms prepared 
 for them; where they had their boots pulled off, and were refreshed 
 with a glass of wine; falling into agreeable discourse together after¬ 
 wards till supper-time. 
 
 Now Saladin and his people all spoke Latin extremely well, so 
 that they were easily understood by each other, and Torello seemed, 
 in their judgment, to be the most gracious, accomplished gentleman, 
 and one that talked the best, of any they had ever met with. On 
 the other part, Torello judged them to be people of great rank and 
 figure, and much beyond what he at first apprehended; for which 
 reason he was extremely concerned that he could not then have an 
 entertainment and guests suitable. But for this he resolved to 
 make amends the following day; and having instructed one of his 
 servants what he would have done, he sent him to Pavia, which 
 was near at hand, and by a way where no gate was locked, to his 
 wife, who was a lady of great sense and magnanimity. 
 
 Afterwards, taking his guests into the garden, he courteously 
 demanded of them who they were. Saladin replied, “We are 
 merchants from Cyprus, and are going upon our affairs to Paris.” 
 “Would to Heaven, then,” said Torello, “that our country pro¬ 
 duced such gentry as I see Cyprus does merchants !” So they fell 
 from one discourse to another till the hour for supping, when they 
 seated themselves just as they pleased, and a supper, entirely un¬ 
 expected, was served up with great elegance and order. In some 
 little time, after the tables were removed, Torello, supposing they 
 might be weary, had them conducted to their chambers, where 
 most sumptuous beds were prepared for them, and he in like 
 manner went to take his rest. 
 
 The servant that was sent to Pavia delivered his message to the 
 
TENTH DA K 
 
 511 
 
 lady; who, not with a feminine disposition, but a soul truly loyal, 
 got together great numbers of the friends and servants of Torello, 
 and had everything provided to make a feast indeed, sending 
 through the city by torchlight to invite most of the nobility, and 
 setting forth all the rooms with rich furniture of cloth of gold, fine 
 tapestry, velvets, &c., according to his directions. 
 
 In the morning the gentlemen arose, and mounted their horses 
 along with Torello, who ordered out his hawks, and carried them 
 to a neighbouring lake, where he shewed two or three fair flights. 
 But Saladin requesting somebody to direct him to the best inn in 
 Pavia, Torello said, “ That I will do, because I have business there.” 
 So they were satisfied, and rode on along with him, arriving there 
 about the third hour of the day. And whilst they supposed that 
 he would carry them to the best inn, he brought them directly to 
 his own house, where were about fifty of the principal persons of 
 the city ready to receive them. Saladin and his friends perceiving 
 this, readily guessed how the matter was, and they said, “ Sir, 
 this is not what we desired; you did enough for us last night, 
 and more than we could have wished ; you might now, therefore, 
 very well let us pursue our journey.” He made answer, “ Gentle¬ 
 men, last night I was obliged to fortune, which surprised you upon 
 the road in such manner that you were necessitated to take up 
 with my little mansion; but now I shall be indebted to you, and 
 these noble persons all around equally with me, if, out of your 
 great courtesy, you will not refuse the favour of dining with me.’^ 
 Thus they were prevailed upon, and they alighted from their 
 horses, when they were welcomed by the company with great joy 
 and respect, and conducted into several apartments most richly 
 set out for their reception, where, laying aside their riding dresses, 
 and taking some refreshment, they then made their appearance 
 in the grand hall. After washing their hands they sat down all 
 in order, when such a prodigious entertainment was served up, 
 that if the emperor himself had been present, he could not have 
 been more sumptuously regaled. Even Saladin and his friends, 
 who were people of figure, and ao*customed to everything of 
 grandeur, could not help being astonished, having regard to the 
 rank of the person, whom they knew to be only a private gentle¬ 
 man. 
 
 When dinner was over, and they had discoursed a little together, 
 the Pavian gentry, the weather being extremely hot, all witndrew 
 
512 
 
 THE DECAMERON, 
 
 to repose themselves; and Torello, being left with his three guests, 
 shewed them into a drawing-room, where, that nothing which he 
 valued might be left unseen by them, he sent for his lady. She, 
 therefore, being a person of extraordinary beauty, and most sump¬ 
 tuously attired, was speedily introduced between her two little 
 sons, who seemed like angels, when she very modestly and genteelly 
 saluted them. At her coming, they arose, and received her with 
 great deference and respect, seating her down by them, and taking 
 great notice of the children. In a little time, after some discourse 
 together, and Torello was gone out of the room, she, in a modest 
 and graceful manner, began to inquire of them whence they came, 
 and whither they were going. To which they returned the same 
 answer they had done to Torello. “ Then,” said she, very plea¬ 
 santly, “ I see, gentlemen, that my poor design may be acceptable, 
 I beg, then, as a particular favour, that you will not think lightly 
 of a very small present which I mean to offer you; but, consider¬ 
 ing that women give little things, according to their slender 
 abilities, that you would accept it, more out of respect to the good 
 intention of the donor, than the real value of the present.” So 
 she ordered two robes to be brought for each, the one lined with 
 Taffeta, and the other with fur, not so much becoming a citizen 
 or a merchant as a great lord; and three doublets of sarsenet, with 
 the same of linen, saying, “ Gentlemen, pray accept of these things: 
 I clothe you as I do my husband; and, for the rest, considering 
 that you are a great way from your wives, that you have come a 
 long journey, and have far yet to go, they may be of service, 
 though of small value; especially as you merchants love always to 
 be genteel and neat.” They were greatly surprised, seeing plainly 
 that Signor Torello would let no part of his respect be wanting; 
 doubting likewise, when they came to see the richness of the 
 presents, whether they were not discovered.—But at length one of 
 them said, “Madam, these are very great things, and such as we 
 ought not to accept, unless you force them upon us; in which case 
 we must comply.” Her husband now returned, when she took her 
 leave, and went and made suitable presents to their servants. 
 Torello, with much entreaty, prevailed upon them to stay all that 
 day: therefore, after taking a little sleep, they put on those robes, 
 and took a ride with him round the city, and at their return were 
 nobly entertained with a great deal of good company at supper. 
 
 A t due time they went to bed, and when they arose in the morning, 
 
TENTH DAY. 
 
 5^3 
 
 instead of their wearied steeds they found three strong, handsome, 
 fresh ones, with new serviceable horses also for their servants ; 
 which, when Sa,ladin saw, he turned to his friends, and said : “ T 
 vow to Heaven, a more complete, courteous, or a more under¬ 
 standing gentleman I never met with anywhere; and if the 
 Christian kings be in degree like to him, the soldan of Babylon 
 would never be able to stand against one, much less so many as 
 are now preparing to invade us.” Knowing well that it would be 
 in vain to refuse them, after returning all due thanks, he and his 
 attendants got on horseback, whilst Torello, with a great number 
 of his friends, went with them a considerable distance from the 
 city: and, though Saladin was grieved to separate, such was the 
 regard he had conceived for him, yet, being constrained to depart, 
 he begged he would return. He, yet loath to leave them, replied, 
 “ Gentlemen, I will do so, as it is your desire; but this I must 
 tell you, I know not who you are, nor do I seek to be informed 
 any farther than you desire I should ; but, be you who you will, 
 you shall never make me believe that you are merchants, and so 
 I commend you to Providence.”—Saladin then took leave of all 
 the company; and to Torello he said, “ Sir, we may chance to shew 
 you some of our merchandize, and so convince you; but, in the 
 meantime, fare you well.” Thus Saladin departed, and his com- 
 panions, with a firm resolution in case he lived, and the approaching 
 war did not prevent it, to show no less respect and honour to 
 Signor Torello than he had received from him : and talking much 
 of him, his lady, and everything that he had said and done, he 
 commended all to the greatest degree imaginable.—At length, after 
 he had travelled over the west, not without great labour and fatigue, 
 he embarked on board a ship for Alexandria, and being fully 
 informed as to every particular, he prepared for a vigorous defence. 
 Signor Torello returned to Pavia, full of conjectures who these 
 three people should be, in which, however, he was far from the 
 truth. But the time now drawing nigh for the march of the 
 forces, and great preparations being made everywhere, Torello, 
 notwithstanding the prayers and tears of his lady, resolved to go; 
 and having everything in readiness, and being about to mount 
 his horse, he said to her, whom he loved most affectionately, “ My 
 dear, you see I am going upon this expedition, as well for the 
 glory of my body as the safety of my soul; I commend my honour 
 and everything else to your care; and, as my departure is certain, 
 
 33 
 
514 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 but my return, by reason of a thousand accidents which may 
 happen, uncertain, I request, therefore, this one favour, that, 
 happen what will to me, if you have no certain account of my 
 being alive, you would only wait a year, a month, and a day, 
 without marrying again, reckoning from the day of my leaving 
 you.” The lady, who wept exceedingly, thus replied, “ My dear 
 husband, I know not how I shall be able to bear the grief in which 
 you leave me involved for your going from me : but, if I should 
 outlive it, and anything happen amiss to you, you may live and 
 die assured that I shall live and die the wife of Torello, and of 
 his memory.” He then said, “ I make not the least doubt, but 
 that what you promise will be performed, as far as lies in your 
 power; but you are young, beautiful, and well descended, and your 
 virtues so universally known, that I am afraid, should there be 
 the least suspicion of my death, lest many great lords and noble 
 personages should come, and demand you of your brethren and 
 other relations, from whose most urgent solicitations you could 
 never defend yourself, however you might be disposed, and so you 
 be compelled to give way. It is then for this reason that I 
 would tie yc.u down to that time, and not a moment longer.” The 
 lady said, “ I will do all in my power with regard to my promise; 
 but should I ever think of acting otherwise, yet your injunction 
 I will steadily abide by. Heaven grant, however, that I see you 
 long before that time !” Here she embraced him, shedding abun¬ 
 dance of tears, and taking a ring from her finger, gave it him, and 
 said, “ If I should chance to die before your return, remember me 
 always when you look upon this.’’ He received it, and bidding 
 everyone farewell, mounted his horse and rode away, with a hand¬ 
 some retinue, for Genoa, where they all embarked, and soon arrived 
 at Acre, when they joined the Christian army, which was visited 
 by a mortal pestilence, that swept away a great part of the people; 
 and the thin remains of it were, by the dexterity or good fortune 
 of Saladin, taken prisoners almost to a man, and distributed into 
 divers cities to be imprisoned; when it was Torello’s fortune to 
 be sent to Alexandria; where, being unknown, and fearing lest he 
 should be discovered, he was driven by necessity to undertake the 
 care of hawks, of which he was a great master. By that means 
 he soon fell under the notice of Saladin, who set him at liberty, 
 and made him his falconer. Torello, who went by no other name 
 than that of the Christian, and neither rememb^^^^d. the soldan. 
 
TENTH DA Y. 
 
 nor the soldan him, had all his thoughts at Pavia, and was often 
 contriving how to make his escape, though without success. But 
 some ambassadors from Genoa being come thither, to treat with 
 the soldan about the redemption of certain of their countrymen, 
 as they were just upon their departure, he resolved to write to 
 his lady, to let her know he was alive, and would make all possible 
 haste home; praying her, therefore, to be in daily expectation of 
 his coming; and so he did. He earnestly entreated also one of 
 the ambassadors, whom he knew, that he would take care those 
 letters came to the hands of the abbot of San Pietro, who was 
 his uncle. Whilst Torello remained in this condition, it happened 
 one day, as Saladin was talking with him about his hawks, that 
 he chanced to laugh, when he made a certain motion with his 
 lips, which Saladin, when he was at his house in Pavia, had taken 
 particular notice of. Upon which he recollected him, and looking 
 steadfastly at him, believed he was the same person. Now leaving 
 his former discourse, he said, “ Tell me, Christian, of what country 
 in the west art thou 1”—“ My lord,’’ replied he, “ I am a Lombard, 
 and born in a city called Pavia; but am a poor man, and of no 
 account.” When Saladin heard that, he became assured of what 
 he doubted before, saying joyfully to himself, “ Providence has 
 now given me an opportunity of shewing how acceptable his 
 generosity was to me.” So causing his wardrobe to be set open, 
 he carried him thither, and said, “ Take notice, Christian, if there 
 is any one robe amongst these that thou hast seen before.” Torello 
 soon cast his eye upon that which his lady had given to Saladin, 
 but not imagining it could be the same, he replied, “ My lord, I 
 know not one; two there are, indeed, which are like what I have 
 worn formerly, and v/hich I gave to three merchants that were at 
 my house.” Now Saladin could contain no longer, but taking 
 him joyfully in his arms, he said, “ You are Signor Torello dTstria, 
 and I am one of the three merchants to whom your lady gave 
 these robes : and now the time is come for me to convince you 
 what my merchandise is, as I said at my leaving you might possibly 
 happen.” Torello, at hearing these words, was overwhelmed both 
 with joy and shame; joy in having had such a guest, and shame 
 to think how indifferently he had received him. When Saladin 
 said, “ Torello, as Providence hath sent you hither, account your¬ 
 self to be master, and not me.” So, after great expressions of joy, 
 he clothed him in royal apparel, and having recommended him to 
 
 33-2 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 516 
 
 all his principal barons, and spoken highly in his praise, he com¬ 
 manded them to shew him the same respect and honour as they 
 would himself, if they expected any favour at his hands ; which 
 accordingly they all observed, especially the two lords who had 
 accompanied Saladin to his house. 
 
 The great pitch of grandeur and glory to which Torello saw him¬ 
 self so suddenly advanced, had made him forgetful of his affairs in 
 Lombardy, especially as ha was in hopes that his letters had been con¬ 
 veyed safely to his uncle. Now there was amongst the Christians, 
 on the day they were surprised by Saladin, a gentleman of small 
 esteem, dead and buried, called Torello di Dignes ; consequently, 
 as Torello dTstria was universally known through the whole army, 
 on account of his nobility, whoever heard that Torello was dead 
 concluded it was he of Istria. and not of Dignes : and they being 
 all taken prisoners immediately upon it, prevented people being 
 undeceived, so that many Italians returned home with the news, 
 and some were daring enough to affirm that they had seen him 
 dead, and were present at his interment. This occasioned great 
 grief both to his wife and relations, as also to every one that knew 
 him. It would be tedious to shew the lady’s trouble and affliction, 
 who, after wearing out some months in mourning, and beginning 
 now to be a little comforted, was much pressed by her brethren 
 and relations, seeing she was courted by divers great lords of 
 Lombardy, to marry again. She several times, with tears, with¬ 
 stood their solicitations, till, being over-importuned, she consented 
 at last, provided they would let her wait the time prescribed by 
 Torello. 
 
 Things proceeding thus at Pavia, and there wanting only eight 
 days for her taking a second husband, it happened one day that 
 Torello met with one of the people whom he had seen go on 
 board with the Genoese ambassadors, and inquired of him what 
 sort of a voyage they had, and when they arrived at Genoa. The 
 other replied, “ Sir, they had a very bad one, as we understood at 
 Crete, whither I was bound; for, as they came near to Sicily a 
 stroiig north wind arose, which drove them upon the sands of 
 Barbary, so that every soul of them perished, and amongst the rest 
 two of my brethren were lost.” Torello gave credit to this account, 
 which indeed was very true, and calling to mind that the limited 
 time was near expiring; supposing likewise that no tidings had 
 come to Pavia concerning him, he took it for granted that she 
 
TENTH DA Y. 
 
 S17 
 
 would be married again, and laid it so much to heart that he 
 began to loathe his victuals, and was brought to death’s door; 
 which, when Saladin understood, who had a great affection for 
 him, he came to visit him, and learning after great importunity 
 the cause of his disorder, he reproved him for not acquainting him 
 with it sooner, desiring him nevertheless to be easy, and promising 
 that he should be at Pavia within the time, and he told him 
 in what manner. Torello gave credit to these words, hearing it 
 was possible, and had been often done, and he began to take heart, 
 and to press Saladin about it; who, therefore, had recourse to a 
 necromancer, whose skill he had made trial of, desiring he would 
 convey Torello upon a bed to Pavia in one night’s time. Thi 
 necromancer promised it should be done, but said it would be 
 convenient for him to be thrown into a sleep. This was concerted, 
 whilst Saladin returned to Torello, and found him bent upon being 
 at Pavia, if possible, within the time, otherwise wishing to die; 
 when he said to him, “ Torello, if you have that prodigious value 
 for your lady, and are in such concern lest she should be given 
 away to another. Heaven knows my heart, I can in no way blame 
 you for it; because, of all the women I ever saw, her address and 
 behaviour, setting beauty aside, which is only a fading flower, are 
 most to be commended and esteemed. I should have been glad, as 
 fortune has sent you hither, that what time we have to live we 
 might have reigned together in these our kingdoms. But as I am 
 not likely to have this favour, and you seem resolved to go to 
 Pavia in due time, or else to die, I could greatly have wished to 
 have known it early enough, that I might have sent you home 
 with that state and equipage which your virtue justly requires. 
 But as this did not happen, and you are desirous of being instantly 
 there, I will take care you shall be conveyed in the manner I 
 related to you.” Torello then replied, “ My lord, the effects, with¬ 
 out words, have sufficiently made manifest your disposition towards 
 me, and which, in that supreme degree, is far beyond my deserts ; 
 and what you say, living or dying, I shall most assuredly rely 
 upon you. As that then, is my desire, I beg it may be done im¬ 
 mediately, for to-morrow is the last day of my being expected.”— 
 This Saladin promised, and resolving to send him away the follow¬ 
 ing night, he had a most beautiful and rich bed put up in his 
 grand hall, made of fine velvet and cloth of gold, according to their 
 custom, over which was a most curious counterpoint, wrought in 
 
4 
 
 in 
 
 Sl8 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 p2 
 
 certain figures, with the largest pearls and other precious stones^ 
 supposed to be of an immense value, with two noble pillows, suit- ||! 
 
 able to such a bed. When this was done, he ordered Torello to be •« 
 
 clothed after Saracen manner, with the richest and most beautiful d 
 robes that were ever seen, and a large turban folded upon hia > 
 
 head ; and, it now growing late, he went with divers of his nobles 1 
 
 to the chamber where Torello was ; when, sitting down by him, 
 he began to weep, and say, “ Torello, the hour is now at hand ^ 
 
 which must divide us ; and, as I can neither attend you myself, 
 nor cause you to be attended, through the nature of the journey 
 you have to go, which will not admit of it, I must, therefore, take 
 leave of you in your chamber, for which purpose I am now come ^ 
 
 hither. First, then, I commend you to God’s providence, begging ^ 
 
 you, by the love and friendship existing between us, to be mindful i 
 
 of me always, and, if it be possible, before we finish our lives, that j 
 
 you would settle your affairs in Lombardy, and come once more at 
 least to see me, in order to make some amends for the pleasure 
 which your hasty departure now deprives me of: and, till this 
 shall happen, do not think much to visit me by letters, asking 
 whatever favours you please from me, being assured there is no 
 person living whom I would so readily oblige as yourself.” Torello 
 could not refrain from tears, and answered, as well as he could for 
 weeping, in a few words, that it was impossible the favours he 
 had received should ever be forgotten by him, and that, at a proper 
 time, he would not fail to do what he desired. Saladin then 
 embraced him, and saying, “ God be with you !” departed out of 
 the chamber, weeping : the nobles also took their leave, and went 
 with Saladin into the great hail, where the bed was provided. 
 
 But it now waxing late, and the necromancer desiring dispatch, a 
 physician came with a certain draught, and telling him that it was 
 to fortify his spirits, he made him drink it off, when he was im¬ 
 mediately cast into a profound sleep. He was then, by Saladin’s 
 order, laid upon that magnificent bed, on which was set a most 
 beautiful crown, of prodigious value, written upon in such a 
 manner, as to shew that it was designed by Saladin as a present 
 to Torello’s lady. On his finger he put a ring, wherein -was a 
 carbuncle, that appeared like a flaming torch, the value of which 
 was not to be estimated. To his side was a sword girt with such 
 ornaments, that the like was scarcely ever seen. About his neck 
 was a kind of solitaire, not to be equalled for the value of the 
 
TENTH DAY. 
 
 519 
 
 pearls, and other precious stones, with which it was embellished. 
 And lastly, on each side were two great basins of gold, full of 
 double ducats, with many strings of pearl, rings, girdles, and other 
 things too tedious to mention, which were laid all round him. 
 When this was done, he kissed Torello once more, as he lay upon 
 his bed, commanding the necromancer then to use all possible 
 expedition. Instantly the bed, with Torello upon it, was carried 
 away in presence of them all, leaving them in discourse about it, 
 and set in the church of San Pietro di Pavia, according to his own 
 request, where he was found by the sacrist, fast asleep, with all 
 these jewels and other ornaments, in the morning when it rung to 
 matins ; who, coming into the church with a light in his hand, 
 and seeing that rich bed, was frightened out of his wits, and ran 
 out. When the abbot and monks saw him in this confusion, they 
 were greatly surprised, and inquired the reason, which the monk 
 told them. “HowP quoth the abbot, “thou art no child or 
 stranger here, to be so easily terrified ; let us go and see this bug¬ 
 bear.” They then took more lights, and went altogether into the 
 church, where they saw this wonderful rich bed, and the knight 
 lying upon it fast asleep. And as they stood gazing at a distance, 
 and fearful of taking a nearer view, it happened, the virtue of the 
 draught being gone, that Torello awoke, and fetched a deep sigh; 
 at which the monks and abbot cried out, “ Lord, have mercy upon 
 us!” and away they ran. Torello now opened his eyes, and looking 
 all around him, saw he was where he had desired Saladin to have 
 him conveyed, at which he was extremely satisfied; so raising 
 himself up, and beholding the treasure he had with him, whatever 
 Saladin’s generosity seemed to him before, he now thought it 
 greater than ever, as having had more knowledge of it. Neverthe¬ 
 less, without stirring from the place, seeing the monks all run 
 away in that manner, and imagining the reason, he began to call 
 the abbot by name, and to beg of him to entertain no doubts in 
 the affair, for that he was Torello, his nephew.—The abbot, at 
 hearing this, was still more afraid, as he supposed him dead many 
 months before ; till being assured, by good and sufficient reasons, 
 and hearing himself again called upon, he made the sign of the cross, 
 and went to him. When Torello said, “Father, what are you in 
 doubt about 1 I am alive, God be thanked, and now returned from 
 beyond sea.” The abbot, notwithstanding he had a great beard, and 
 was dressed after the Turkish fashion, soon remembered Jiim ; and 
 
520 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 assuming some courage, he took him by the hand, and said, “ So7\ 
 you are welcome home.” And he added, “ You need not be sur¬ 
 prised at my fear, for there was nobody here but was fully per¬ 
 suaded of your death, insomuch that, I must tell you, your lady. 
 Madam Adalieta, overpowered by the prayers and threats of her 
 friends, is now married again, contrary to her own will, and this 
 morning she is to go home to her new husband, and everything is 
 prepared for solemnizing the nuptials.” 
 
 Torello now arose, and saluted the abbot and all the monks, 
 begging of them to say nothing of his return, till he had dispatched 
 a certain affair. Afterwards, having carried all the jewels and 
 wealth into a place of safety, he related all that had passed to the 
 abbot, who was extremely rejoiced. He then desired to know 
 who that second husband was, and the abbot informed him; when 
 he replied, “ I should be glad before she knows of my return, to 
 see how she relishes this wedding; therefore, though it be unusual 
 for the clergy to go to such entertainments, yet, for my sake, I wish 
 you would contrive so that we may be both there.” The abbot 
 answered, that he would with all his heart. When it was daylight, 
 he sent to the bridegroom to let him knov/, that he and a friend 
 would come together to his wedding. The bridegroom replied, 
 that he should be obliged to them for the favour. And when 
 dinner-time came, Torello, in the same habit in which he arrived, 
 went along with the abbot to the bridegroom’s house, where he 
 was wonderfully gazed at, though known by nobody ; the abbot 
 giving out that he was going as an ambassador from the soldan to 
 the King of France. Torello then was seated at a table opposite 
 to his wife, whom he beheld with great pleasure, and thought he 
 saw uneasiness in her looks at these nuptials. She would likewise 
 give a look sometimes towards him, not out of any remembrance 
 she had of him, for that was quite taken away by his great beard, 
 strange dress, and her full persuasion that he was dead. At last, 
 when he thought it a fit time to try if she would remember him., he 
 took the ring in his hand which she had given him at his de¬ 
 parture, and calling one of the young men that was in waiting, he 
 said, “ Tell the bride, from me, that it is a custom in our country, 
 when any stranger as I may be, is at such an entertainment as this, 
 for the bride, in token of his being welcome, to send the cup in 
 which she herself drinks, full of wine; when after the stranger 
 hart drunk what he i/'eases and covered the cup, the bride then 
 
TENTH DAY. 
 
 521 
 
 pledges him with the rest.” The youth delivered the message to 
 the lady, who, thinking him to be some great personage, to let 
 him see his company was agreeable, ordered a large golden cup, 
 which she had before her, to be washed, and filled with wine, and 
 to be carried to him. Torello, having put the ring into his mouth, 
 contrived to let it fall into the cupj without any one’s perceiving 
 it; and leaving but little wine therein, he covered it up and sent 
 it to the lady, who received it; and, in compliance with the 
 custom, uncovered and put it to her mouth, when she saw the 
 ring ; and, considering it a while, and knowing it to be the same 
 she had given her husband, she took it, and began to look atten¬ 
 tively at the supposed stranger ; when, calling him to mind, like a 
 distracted person, she threw all the tables down before her, crying 
 out, “ This is my lord ! This is truly Torello !” Then running to 
 the table where he was sitting, without having regard to anything 
 that was on it, she cast that down likewise, and clasped her arms 
 about him in such a manner, as if she would never separate from 
 him more. At last, the company being in some confusion, though 
 for the most part pleased with the return of so worthy a knight; 
 Torello, after requesting silence, gave them a full account of what 
 had befallen him to that hour; concluding, that he hoped the 
 gentleman who had married his wife, supposing he was dead, 
 would not be disobliged, seeing he was alive, that he took her 
 back again. The bridegroom, though he was not a little dis¬ 
 appointed, replied freely, and as a friend, that no doubt he might 
 do what he pleased with his own. She consequently gave up the 
 ring and crown, which she had received from her new husband, 
 and put on that ring instead which she had taken out of the cup, 
 and likewise the crown sent to her by Saladin ; and, leaving the 
 bridegroom’s house, she went home with all nuptial pomp along 
 with Torello, whither his friends and relations, whom his loss 
 rendered disconsolate, and all the citizens likewise, looking upon 
 him as a miracle, went joyfully to see him, and pay him their 
 respects. Part of the jewels Torello gave to him who had been at 
 the expense of the marriage-feast, and part to the abbot, and to 
 divers others ; and having signified his happy arrival to Saladin, 
 he remained from that time his friend and faithful servant, living 
 many years afterwards with his most worthy spouse, and con¬ 
 tinuing more generous and hospitable than ever. This, then, was 
 the end of both their afflictions, and the reward of their most 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 5*2 
 
 cheerful and ready courtesy. Many there are that attempt the 
 like, who, though they have the means, do it yet with such an ill 
 grace, as turns rather to their discredit. If, therefore, no merit 
 ensue from thence, neither they nor any one else ought to be 
 surprised. 
 
 -o- 
 
 NOVEL X. 
 
 Tlie Marquis of Saluzzo having been prevailed upon by his subjects to 
 marry, in order to please himself in the affair, made choice of a country¬ 
 man's daughter, by whom he had two children, which he pretended to put 
 to death. Afterwards, seeming as though he was weary of her, and had 
 taken another, he had, his own daughter brought home, as if he had 
 espoused her, whilst his wife was sent away in a most distressed condition. 
 At length, being convinced of her patience, he brought her home again, 
 presented her children to her, who were now of considerable years,and ever 
 afterwards loved and honoured her as his lady. 
 
 HE king’s long novel being concluded, which had all the 
 appearance of pleasing, Dioneus, as the only person left 
 to speak, began in this manner : 
 
 We seem, to-day, most gracious ladies, to have had only to do 
 with kings, soldans, and such-like people: therefore, that I may 
 not be left too far behind, I intend to speak of a marquis ; not 
 with regard to anything noble and great, but rather monstrously 
 vile and brutish, although it ended well at last; which, notwith¬ 
 standing the event, I would yet advise nobody to imitate. 
 
 It is a long time ago, that, amongst the marquises of Saluzzo, 
 the principal or head of the family was a youth, called Gualtieri, 
 who, as he was a bachelor, spent his whole time in hawking and 
 hunting, without any thought of ever being encumbered with a 
 wife and children; in which respect, no doubt, he was very wise. 
 But this being disagreeable to his subjects, they often pressed him 
 to marry, to the end he might neither die without an heir, noB 
 they be left without a lord; offering themselves to provide such a 
 lady for him, and of such a family, that they should have great 
 hopes from her, and he reason enough to be satisfied. “Worthy 
 friends,” he replied, “ you urge me to do a thing which I was fully 
 resolved against, considering what a difficult matter it is to find a 
 person of a suitable temper, with the great abundance everywhere 
 of such as are otherwise, and how miserable also the man’s life 
 must be who is tied to a disagreeable woman. As to your getting 
 a woman’s temper from her family, and so choosing one tOiOlease 
 
TENTH DA Y. 
 
 523 
 
 me, that seems quite a ndiculous fancy : for, besides the nncer¬ 
 tainty with regard to their true fathers, how many daughters do 
 we see resembling neither father nor mother^ Nevertheless, as 
 you are so fond of having me noosed, I will agree to be so. There¬ 
 fore, that I may have nobody to blame but myself, should it 
 happen amiss, I will make my own choice; and I protest, let me 
 marry whom I will, that, unless you show her the respect that is 
 due to her as my lady, you shall know, to your cost, how grievous 
 it is to me to have taken a wife at* your request, contrary to my 
 own inclination.” The honest men replied that they were well 
 satisfied, provided he would but make the trial. Now he had 
 taken a fancy, some time before, to the behaviour of a poor 
 country girl, who lived in a village not far from his palace ; and 
 thinking that he might live comfortably enough with her, he deter¬ 
 mined, without seeking any farther, to marry her. Accordingly 
 he sent for her father, who was a very poor man, and acquainted 
 him with it. Afterwards he summoned all his subjects together 
 and said to them, “ Gentlemen, it was and is your desire that I 
 take a wife ; I do it rather to please you, than out of any liking I 
 have to matrimony. You know that you promised me to be 
 satisfied, and to pay her due honour, whoever she is that I shall 
 make choice of. The time is now come when I shall fulfil my 
 promise to you, and 1 expect you to do the like to me : I have 
 found a young woman in the neighbourhood after my own heart, 
 whom I intend to espouse, and bring home in a very few days. 
 Let it be your care, then, to do honour to my nuptials, and to 
 respect her as your sovereign lady; so that I may be satisfied with 
 the performance of your promise, even as you are with that of 
 mine.” The people all declared themselves pleased, and promised 
 to regard her in all things as their mistress. Afterwards they 
 made preparations for a most noble feast, and the like did the 
 prince ; inviting all his relations, and the great lords in all parts 
 and provinces about him : he had also most rich and costly robes 
 made, shaped by a person that seemed to be of the same size with 
 his intended spouse; and provided a girdle, ring, and fine coronet, 
 with everything requisite for a bride. And when the day appointed 
 was come, about the third hour he mounted his horse, attended by 
 all his friends and vassals; and having everything in readiness, 
 he said, “ My lords and gentlemen, it is now time to go for my 
 new spouse.So on they rode to the village, and when he was 
 
5-4 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 come near the father’s house, he saw her carrying some water from 
 the well, in great haste, to go afterwards with some of her 
 acquaintance to see the new marchioness; when he called her by 
 name, which was Griselda, and inquired where her father was. 
 She modestly replied, “ My gracious lord, he is in the house.” He 
 then alighted from his horse, commanding them all to wait for 
 him, and went alone into the cottage, where he found the father, 
 who was called Giannucolo, and said to him, “ Honest man, I am 
 come to espouse thy daughter; but would first ask her some ques¬ 
 tions before thee.” He then inquired whether she would make it 
 her study to please him, and not be uneasy at any time, whatever 
 he should do or say; and whether she would always be obedient; 
 with more to that purpose. To which she answered, “Yes.” He 
 then led her out by the hand, and made her strip before them all; 
 and ordering the rich apparel to be brought which he had provided, 
 he had her clothed completely, and a coronet set upon her head, 
 all disordered as her hair was; after which, everyone being in 
 amaze, he said, “ Behold, this is the person whom I intend for my 
 wife, provided she will accept of me for her husband.” Then, 
 turning towards her, who stood quite abashed, “ Will you,” said 
 he, “have me for your husband“1” She replied, “Yes, if so please 
 your lordship.”—“Well,” he replied, “and I take you for my wife.” 
 So he espoused her in that public manner, and mounting her on 
 a palfrey, conducted her honourably to his palace, celebrating the 
 nuptials with as uiuch pomp and grandeur as though he had been 
 married to the daughter of the King of France; and the young 
 bride shewed apparently that with her garments she had changed 
 both her mind and behaviour. She had a most agreeable person, 
 and was so amiable, so good-natured withal, that she seemed rather 
 a lord’s daughter than that of a poor shepherd; at which everyone 
 that knew her before was greatly surprised. She was, too, so 
 obedient to her husband, and so obliging in all respects, that he 
 thought himself the happiest man in the world; and to her subjects 
 likewise so gracious and condescending that they all honoured and 
 loved her as their own lives; praying for her health and prosperity; 
 and declaring, contrary to their former opinion, that Gualtieri was 
 the most prudent and sharp-sighted prince in the whole world ; 
 Lor that no one could have discerned such virtues under a mean 
 i'.abit and country disguise, but himself. In a very short time, her 
 liscreet behaviour and good works were the common subject of 
 
TENTH DAY. 
 
 525 
 
 discourse, not in that country only, but everywhere else; and what 
 had been objected to the prince, with regard to his marrying her, 
 now took a contrary turn. They had not lived long together before 
 she proved with child, and at length brought forth a daughter, for 
 which he made great rejoicings. But soon afterwards a new 
 fancy came into his head; and that was, to make a trial of her 
 patience by long and intolerable sufferings: so he began with 
 harsh words, and an appearance of great uneasiness; telling her 
 that his subjects were greatly displeased with her for her mean 
 parentage, especially as they saw she bore children ; and that 
 they did nothing but murmur at the daughter already born. 
 Which, when she heard, without changing countenance or her 
 resolution in any respect, she replied, “ My lord, pray dispose of 
 me as you think most for your honour and happiness: I shall 
 entirely acquiesce, knowing myself to be meaner than the meanest 
 of the people, and that I was altogether unworthy of that dignity 
 to which your favour was pleased to advance me.’’ This was very 
 aggeeable to the prince, seeing that she was no way elevated with 
 the honour he had conferred upon her. Afterwards, having often 
 told her, in general terms, that his subjects could not bear with 
 the daughter that was born of her, he sent one of his servants, 
 whom he had instructed what to do, who, with a very sorrowful 
 countenance, said to her, “ Madam, I must either lose my own 
 life, or obey my lord’s commands : now he has ordered me to take 
 your daughter, and-” without saying anything more. 
 
 She, hearing these words, and noting the fellow’s looks, remem¬ 
 bering also what she had heard before from her lord, concluded 
 that he had orders to destroy the child. So she took it out of the 
 cradle, kissed it, and gave it her blessing; when, without changing 
 countenance, though her heart throbbed with maternal affection, 
 she tenderly laid it in the servant’s arms, and said, “Take it, and 
 do what thy lord and mine has commanded; but prithee leave it 
 not to be devoured by the fowls or wild beasts, unless that be his 
 will.” Taking the child, he acquainted the prince with what she 
 said; who was greatly surprised at her constancy, and he sent the 
 same person with it to a relation at Bologna, desiring her, without 
 revealing whose child it was, to see it carefully brought up and 
 educated. Afterwards the lady became with child the second time, 
 and was delivered of a son, at which he was extremely pleased.— 
 But, not satisfied with what he had already done, he began tc 
 
526 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 grieve and persecute her still more; saying one day to her, seem¬ 
 ingly much out of temper, “ Since thou hast brought me this son, 
 
 I am able to live no longer with my people; for they mutiny to 
 that degree, that a poor shepherd’s grandson is to succeed, and be 
 their lord after me, that, unless I would run the risk of being 
 driven out of my dominions, I must be obliged to dispose of this 
 child as I did the other; and then to send thee away, in order to 
 take a wife more suitable to me.” She heard this with a great 
 deal of resignation, making only this reply: “ My lord, study only 
 your own ease and happiness, without the least care for me; for 
 nothing is agreeable to me but what is pleasing to yourself.” Not 
 many days after, he sent for the son in the same manner as he 
 had done for the daughter; and, seeming also as if he had procured 
 him to be destroyed, had him conveyed to Bologna, to be taken 
 care of with the daughter. This she bore with the same resolution 
 as before, at which the prince wondered greatly, declaring to him¬ 
 self that no other woman was capable of doing the like. And, 
 were it not that he had observed her extremely fond of her children, 
 whilst that was agreeable to him, he should have thought it want 
 of aftection in her; but he saw it was only her entire obedience 
 and condescension. The people, imagining that the children were 
 both put to death, blamed him to the last degree, thinking him the 
 most cruel of men, and shewing great compassion for the lady. 
 Who, whenever she was in company with the ladies of her 
 acquaintance, that they condoled with her for her loss, she would 
 only say, “ It was not my will, but his who begot them.” But 
 more years being now passed, and he resolving to make the last 
 trial of her patience, declared, before many people, that he could 
 no longer bear to keep Griselda as his wife, owning that he had 
 done very foolislily, and like a young man, in marrying her, and 
 that he meant to solicit the pope for a dispensation to take another, 
 and send her away: for which he was much blamed by many 
 worthy persons; but he said nothing in return, only that it should 
 be so. She, hearing this, and expecting to go home to her father’s, 
 and possibly tend the cattle as she had done before; whilst she . 
 saw some other lady possessed of him whom she dearly loved and 
 honoured, was perhaps secretly grieved; but as she had withstood 
 other strokes of fortune, so she determined resolutely to do now. 
 Soon afterwards, Gualtieri had counterfeit letters come to him, aa 
 from Home, acquainting all his peojile that his holiness tJiereby 
 
TENTH DA Y. 
 
 527 
 
 dispensed with his marrying another, and turning away Griselda; 
 he had her brought before them, when he said, “ Woman, by the 
 pope’s leave I may dispose of thee, and take another wife. As my 
 ancestors, then, have been all sovereign princes of this country, 
 and thine only peasants, I intend to keep thee no longer, but to 
 send thee back to thy father’s cottage, with the same portion which 
 thou broughtest me; and afterwards to make choice of one more 
 suitable in quality to myself.” It was with the utmost difficulty 
 she could now refrain from tears; and she replied, “My lord, I 
 w>as always sensible that my servile condition would no way accord 
 with your high rank and descent. For what I have been, I own 
 myself indebted to Providence and you; I considered it as a favour 
 lent me: you are now pleased to demand it back ; I, therefore, 
 willingly restore it. Behold the ring with which you espoused 
 me; I deliver it to you. You bid me take the dowry back which 
 I brought you; you will have no need for a teller to count it, nor 
 I for a purse to put it in, much less a sumpter-horse to carry it 
 away; for I have not forgotten that you took me naked: and if 
 you think it decent to expose that body which has borne you 
 two children in that manner, I am contented; but I would entreat 
 you, as a recompense for my virginity, which I brought you, and 
 do not carry away, that you would please to let me have one shift 
 over and above my dowry.” He, though ready to weep, 3 /et put 
 on a stern countenance, and said, “ Thou shalt have one only then.’^ 
 And, notwithstanding the people all desired that she might have 
 an old gown, to keep her body from shame who had been his wife 
 thirteen years and upwards, yet it was all in vain. So she left 
 his palace in that manner, and returned weeping to her father’s, to 
 the great grief of all who saw her. The poor man, never supposing 
 that the prince would keep her long as his wife, and expecting 
 this thing to happen every day, had safely laid up the garments of 
 which she had been despoiled the day he espoused her. He now 
 brought them to her, and she put them on, and went as usual 
 about her father’s little household affairs, bearing this fierce trial 
 of adverse fortune with the greatest courage imaginable. The 
 prince then gave it out that he was to espouse a daughter of one 
 of the counts of Panago; and, seeming as if he made great pre¬ 
 paration for his nuptials, he sent for Griselda to come to him, and 
 said to her, “ I am going to bring this lady home whom I have 
 just married, and intend to shew her all possible respect at her 
 
528 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 first coining: thou knowest that I have no women with me able K 
 set out the rooms, and do many other things which are requisite 
 on so solemn an occasion. As, therefore, thou art best acquainted 
 with the state of the house, I would have thee make such provision 
 as thou shalt judge proper, and invite what ladies thou wilt, even 
 as though thou wert mistress of the house; and when the marriage 
 is ended, return thee home to thy father^s again.^’ Though these 
 words pierced like daggers to the heart of Griselda, who was unable 
 to part with her love for the prince so easily as she had done her 
 great fortune, yet she replied, “ My lord, I am ready to fulfil all 
 your commands.” She then went into the palace, in her coarse 
 attire, from whence she had but just before departed in her shift, 
 and with her own hands did she begin to sweep, and set all the 
 rooms to rights, cleaning the stools and benches in the hall like 
 the meanest servant, and directing what was to be done in the 
 kitchen, never giving over till everything was in order, and as it 
 ought to be. After this was done, she invited, in the prince’s 
 name, all the ladies in the country to come to the feast. And on 
 the day appointed for the marriage, meanly clad as she was, she 
 received them in the most genteel and cheerful manner imaginable. 
 
 Now Gualtieri, who had his children carefully brought up at 
 Bologna (the girl being about twelve years old, and one of the 
 prettiest creatures that ever was seen, and the boy six), had sent to 
 his kinswoman there, to desire she would bring them, with an 
 honourable retinue, to Saluzzo, giving it out all the way she came 
 that she was bringing the young lady to be married to him, without 
 letting any one know to the contrary. 
 
 Accordingly, they all set forwards, attended by a goodly train of 
 gentry; and, after travelling some days, reached Saluzzo about 
 dinner-time, when they found the whole country assembled, w'aiting 
 to see their new lady. The young lady was most graciously re¬ 
 ceived by all the women present; and being come into the hall 
 where the tables were all covered, Griselda, meanly dressed as she 
 waa, went cheerfully to meet her, saying, “ Your ladyship is most 
 kindly welcome.” The ladies, who had greatly importuned the 
 prince, though to no purpose, to let Griselda be in a room by her¬ 
 self, or else that she might have some of her own clothes, and not 
 appear before strangers in that manner, were now seated, and going 
 to be served round ; whilst the young lady was universally admired, 
 %nd everyone said that the prince had made a good chance ; but 
 
TENTH DA Y. 
 
 529 
 
 Unselda in particular highly commended both her and her brother. 
 The marquis now thinking that he had seen enough with regard to 
 his wife’s patience, and perceiving that in all her trials she was still 
 the same, being persuaded likewise that this proceeded from no 
 want of understanding in her, because he knew her to be singularly 
 prudent, he thought it time to take her from that anguish which 
 he supposed she might conceal under her firm and constant deport¬ 
 ment. So, making her come before all the company, he said, with 
 a smile, “ What thinkest thou, Griselda, of my bride T “ My lord,’’ 
 she replied, “ I like her extremely well; and if she be as prudent 
 as she is fair, you may be the happiest man in the world with her: 
 but I most humbly beg you would not take those heart-breaking 
 . measures with this lady as you did with your last wife; because 
 she is young, and has been tenderly educated, whereas the other 
 was inured to hardships from a child.” 
 
 Gualtieri perceiving, that though Griselda thought that person 
 was to be his wife, that she nevertheless answered him wdth great 
 humility and sweetness of temper, he made her sit down by him, 
 and said, “ Griselda, it is now time for you to reap the fruit of your 
 long patience, and that they who have reputed me to be cruel, 
 unjust, and a monster in nature, may know that what I have done 
 has been all along with a view to teach you how to behave as a 
 wife ; to shew them how to choose and keep a wife ; and, lastly, to 
 secure my own ease and quiet as long as we live together, which I 
 was apprehensive might have been endangered by my marrying. 
 Therefore I had a mind to prove you by harsh and injurious treat¬ 
 ment ; and not being sensible that you have ever transgressed my 
 will, either in word or deed, I now seem to have met with that 
 happiness I desired : I intend, then, to restore in one hour what I 
 have taken away from you in many, and to make you the sweetest 
 recompence for the many bitter pangs I have caused you to suffer. 
 Accept, therefore, this young lady, whom you thought my spouse, 
 and her brother, as your children and mine. They are the same 
 which you and many others believed that I had been the means of 
 cruelly murdering ; and I am your husband, who love and value 
 you above all things ; assuring myself that no person in the world 
 can be happier in a wife than I am.” 
 
 With this he embraced her most affectionately, when, rising up 
 together, (she weeping for joy, they went where their daughter was 
 sitting, quite astonished with these things, and tenderly saluted 
 
 34 
 
530 
 
 THE DECAMERON. 
 
 both her and her brother, undeceiving them and the whole com¬ 
 pany. At this the women all arose, overjoyed, from the tables, and 
 taking Griselda into the chamber, they clothed her with her own 
 noble apparel, and as a marchioness, resembling such an one even 
 in rags, and brought her into the hall. And being extremely 
 rejoiced with her son and daughter, and every one expressing the 
 utmost satisfaction at what bad come to pass, the feasting was pro¬ 
 longed many days. The marquis was judged a very wise man, 
 though abundantly too severe, and the trial of his lady most 
 intolerable ; but as for Griselda, she was beyond compare. In a 
 few days the Count da Panago returned to Bologna, and the mar¬ 
 quis took Giannucolo from his drudgery, and maintained him as 
 his father-in-law, and so he lived very comfortably to a good old 
 age. 
 
 Gualtieri afterwards married his daughter to one of equal no¬ 
 bility, continuing the rest of his life with Griselda, and shewing 
 her all the respect and honour that was possible. What can we 
 say, then, but that Divine spirits may descend from heaven into 
 the meanest cottages; whilst royal palaces shall produce such as 
 seem rather adapted to have the care of hogs, than the government 
 of men. Who but Griselda could, not only without a tear, but even 
 with seeming satisfaction, undergo the most rigid and unheard of 
 trials of her husband 'i Many women there are who, if turned out 
 of doors naked in that manner, would have procured themselves 
 tine clothes, adorning at once their own persons and their husbands’ 
 brows. 
 
 Dioneus’s novel, which was now concluded, was much canvassed 
 by the company, this blaming one thing, and that commending 
 another, according to their respective fancies; when the king, 
 seeing the sun was now far in the west, and that the evening drew 
 on apace, said, without rising from his seat, “ I suppose you all 
 know, ladies, that a person’s sense and understanding consist, not 
 only in remembering things past, or knowing the present; but to 
 be able, by both these means, to foresee what is to come, is, by the 
 more knowing part of mankind, judged the greatest proof of wis¬ 
 dom. To-morrow, you are sensible, it will have been fifteen days 
 since we, by way of amusement, and for the preservation o-f our 
 lives, came out of Florence, avoiding all those cares and melancholy 
 reflections which continually haunted us in the city, since the 
 beginning of that fatal pe.stilence»—And. in my opinion, we have 
 
TENTH DA V. 
 
 53» 
 
 done honestly and well. For, though some light things have been 
 talked of, and a loose given to all sorts of innocent mirth, yet am 
 I not conscious of any thing blameworthy that has passed among 
 us; but everything has been decent, everything harmonious, and 
 such as might well beseem the community of brothers and sisters. 
 
 Lest, therefore, something should happen, which might give us 
 uneasiness, and make people put a bad construction upon our 
 being so long together, now all have had their days, and their shares 
 of honour, which at present rests in me, I hold it most advisable 
 for us to return from whence we came. Besides, as people know 
 of our being together, our company may probably in-crease, which 
 would make it entirely disagreeable. If you approve of it, then, I 
 will keep the power till to-morrow, that we depart; but if you 
 resolve otherwise; I have a person in my eye to succeed me.” This 
 occasioned great debates, but at last it was thought safest and best 
 to comply with the king. He consequently called the master ol 
 the household, and, after giving proper directions for the next 
 morning, dismissed them all till supper-time. They now betook 
 themselves, as usual, some to one thing, and some to another, for 
 their ajnusement; and, when the hour came, supped very agreeably 
 together, after which they began their music ; and whilst Lauretta 
 led up a dance, the king ordered Flammetta to sing a song, which 
 she did in a pretty, easy manner, as follows :— 
 
 SONG. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Did love no jealous cares infest, 
 
 No nymph on earth would be so blest. 
 
 1 . 
 
 If sprightliness, and blooming youth, 
 
 An easy and polite address, 
 
 Strict honour, and regard for truth, 
 
 Are charms which may command success; 
 
 Then sure you will my choice apj rove, 
 
 For these all centre in my love 
 Chorus. Did love, &c. 
 
 II. 
 
 Btib when I see what arts are triedj 
 By nymphs as fair and wise as I, 
 
 A thousand fears my heart betide, 
 
 Lest they should rob me of my ^ oy : 
 
 34—2 
 
THE DECAMERON. 
 
 ‘ 5 * 
 
 Thus that for which I triumph'd oo 
 
 Becomes the cause of all my woe. 
 
 Chorus. Did love, &c. 
 
 III. 
 
 Would he prove firm to my desire, 
 
 N o more I should myself perplex , 
 
 But virtues like to his inspire 
 The same regard in ail our sex : 
 
 This makes me dread what nymph be nign. 
 
 And watch each motion of his eye. 
 
 Chorus. Did love, 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hence, then, ye damsels, I implore, 
 
 As you regard what’s just and fit. 
 
 That you, by am’rous wiles, no more 
 This outrage on my love commit: 
 
 For know, whilst thus you make me grieve. 
 
 You shall repent the pain you give. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Did love no jealous cares infest, 
 
 N o nymph on earth would be so blest. 
 
 As soon as Flammetta had finished her song, Dioneus, who sal 
 close to her, laughed, and said, “ Madam, it would be kind to let 
 ladies know whom you mean, for fear some other should take pos¬ 
 session out of ignorance, and you have cause to be offended.^’ This 
 song was followed by many others, and, it now drawing near 
 midnight, they all went, at the king’s command, to repose them¬ 
 selves. By break of day they arose, and, the master of the 
 household having sent away their carriages, returned, under the 
 conduct of their discreet king, to Florence, when the three gentle¬ 
 men left the seven ladies in New St. Mary’s church, where they 
 first met, going from thence w'here it was most agreeable to 
 themselves ; and the ladies, when they thought fit, repaired to 
 Dieir several houses. 
 
 THE ENIX