Imaginary Conversations and Poems: A Selection
his arms, and slept instantaneously. The consequence of his wholesome
slumber was a calm alacrity: and the idea that his visitor would be
happy at seeing him on his feet again, made him attempt to get up: at
which he succeeded, to his own wonder. And it was increased by the
manifestation of his strength in opening the casement, stiff from
being closed, and swelled by the continuance of the rains. The morning
was warm and sunny: and it is known that on this occasion he composed
the verses below:
My old familiar cottage-green!
I see once more thy pleasant sheen;
The gossamer suspended over
Smart celandine by lusty clover;
And the last blossom of the plum
Inviting her first leaves to come;
Which hang a little back, but show
'Tis not their nature to say no.
I scarcely am in voice to sing
How graceful are the steps of Spring;
And ah! it makes me sigh to look
How leaps along my merry brook,
The very same to-day as when
He chirrupt first to maids and men.
_Petrarca._ I can rejoice at the freshness of your feelings: but the
sight of the green turf reminds me rather of its ultimate use and
destination.
For many serves the parish pall,
The turf in common serves for all.
_Boccaccio._ Very true; and, such being the case, let us carefully
fold it up, and lay it by until we call for it.
Francesco, you made me quite light-headed yesterday. I am rather too
old to dance either with Spring, as I have been saying, or with
Vanity: and yet I accepted her at your hand as a partner. In future,
no more of comparisons for me! You not only can do me no good, but you
can leave me no pleasure: for here I shall remain the few days I have
to live, and shall see nobody who will be disposed to remind me of
your praises. Beside, you yourself will get hated for them. We neither
can deserve praise nor receive it with impunity.
_Petrarca._ Have you never remarked that it is into quiet water that
children throw pebbles to disturb it? and that it is into deep caverns
that the idle drop sticks and dirt? We must expect such treatment.
_Boccaccio._ Your admonition shall have its wholesome influence over
me, when the fever your praises have excited has grown moderate.
... After the conversation on this topic and various others had
continued some time, it was interrupted by a visitor. The clergy and
monkery at Certaldo had never been cordial with Messer Giovanni, it
being suspected that certain of his _Novelle_ were modelled on
originals in their orders. Hence, although they indeed both professed
and felt esteem for Canonico Petrarca, they abstained from expressing
it at the villetta. But Frate Biagio of San Vivaldo was (by his own
appointment) the friend of the house; and, being considered as very
expert in pharmacy, had, day after day, brought over no indifferent
store of simples, in ptisans, and other refections, during the
continuance of Ser Giovanni's ailment. Something now moved him to cast
about in his mind whether it might not appear dutiful to make another
visit. Perhaps he thought it possible that, among those who
peradventure had seen him lately on the road, one or other might
expect from him a solution of the questions, What sort of person was
the _crowned martyr_? whether he carried a palm in his hand? whether a
seam was visible across the throat? whether he wore a ring over his
glove, with a chrysolite in it, like the bishops, but representing the
city of Jerusalem and the judgment-seat of Pontius Pilate? Such were
the reports; but the inhabitants of San Vivaldo could not believe the
Certaldese, who, inhabiting the next township to them, were naturally
their enemies. Yet they might believe Frate Biagio, and certainly
would interrogate him accordingly. He formed his determination, put
his frock and hood on, and gave a curvature to his shoe, to evince his
knowledge of the world, by pushing the extremity of it with his
breast-bone against the corner of his cell. Studious of his figure and
of his attire, he walked as much as possible on his heels, to keep up
the reformation he had wrought in the workmanship of the cordwainer.
On former occasions he had borrowed a horse, as being wanted to hear
confession or to carry medicines, which might otherwise be too late.
But, having put on an entirely new habiliment, and it being the season
when horses are beginning to do the same, he deemed it prudent to
travel on foot. Approaching the villetta, his first intention was to
walk directly into his patient's room: but he found it impossible to
resist the impulses of pride, in showing Assunta his rigid and stately
frock, and shoes rather of the equestrian order than the monastic. So
he went into the kitchen where the girl was at work, having just taken
away the remains of the breakfast.
'Frate Biagio!' cried she, 'is this you? Have you been sleeping at
Conte Jeronimo's?'
'Not I,' replied he.
'Why!' said she, 'those are surely his shoes! Santa Maria! you must
have put them on in the dusk of the morning, to say your prayers in!
Here! here! take these old ones of Signor Padrone, for the love of
God! I hope your Reverence met nobody.'
_Frate._ What dost smile at?
_Assunta._ Smile at! I could find in my heart to laugh outright, if I
only were certain that nobody had seen your Reverence in such a funny
trim. Riverenza! put on these.
_Frate._ Not I indeed.
_Assunta._ Allow me then?
_Frate._ No, nor you.
_Assunta._ Then let me stand upon yours, to push down the points.
... Frate Biagio now began to relent a little, when Assunta, who had
made one step toward the project, bethought herself suddenly, and
said:
'No; I might miss my footing. But, mercy upon us! what made you cramp
your Reverence with those ox-yoke shoes? and strangle your Reverence
with that hangdog collar?'
'If you must know,' answered the Frate, reddening, 'it was because I
am making a visit to the Canonico of Parma. I should like to know
something about him: perhaps you could tell me?'
_Assunta._ Ever so much.
_Frate._ I thought no less: indeed I knew it. Which goes to bed first?
_Assunta._ Both together.
_Frate._ Demonio! what dost mean?
_Assunta._ He tells me never to sit up waiting, but to say my prayers
and dream of the Virgin.
_Frate._ As if it was any business of his! Does he put out his lamp
himself?
_Assunta._ To be sure he does: why should not he? what should he be
afraid of? It is not winter: and beside, there is a mat upon the
floor, all round the bed, excepting the top and bottom.
_Frate._ I am quite convinced he never said anything to make you
blush. Why are you silent?
_Assunta._ I have a right.
_Frate._ He did then? ay? Do not nod your head: that will never do.
Discreet girls speak plainly.
_Assunta._ What would you have?
_Frate._ The truth; the truth; again, I say, the truth.
_Assunta._ He _did_ then.
_Frate._ I knew it! The most dangerous man living!
_Assunta._ Ah! indeed he is! Signor Padrone said so.
_Frate._ He knows him of old: he warned you, it seems.
_Assunta._ Me! He never said it was I who was in danger.
_Frate._ He might: it was his duty.
_Assunta._ Am I so fat? Lord! you may feel every rib. Girls who run
about as I do, slip away from apoplexy.
_Frate._ Ho! ho! that is all, is it?
_Assunta._ And bad enough too! that such good-natured men should ever
grow so bulky; and stand in danger, as Padrone said they both do, of
such a seizure?
_Frate._ What? and art ready to cry about it? Old folks cannot die
easier: and there are always plenty of younger to run quick enough for
a confessor. But I must not trifle in this manner. It is my duty to
set your feet in the right way: it is my bounden duty to report to Ser
Giovanni all irregularities I know of, committed in his domicile. I
could indeed, and would, remit a trifle, on hearing the worst. Tell me
now, Assunta! tell me, you little angel! did you ... we all may, the
very best of us may, and do ... sin, my sweet?
_Assunta._ You may be sure I did not: for whenever I sin I run into
church directly, although it snows or thunders: else I never could see
again Padrone's face, or any one's.
_Frate._ You do not come to me.
_Assunta._ You live at San Vivaldo.
_Frate._ But when there is sin so pressing I am always ready to be
found. You perplex, you puzzle me. Tell me at once how he made you
blush.
_Assunta._ Well then!
_Frate._ Well then! you did not hang back so before him. I lose all
patience.
_Assunta._ So famous a man!...
_Frate._ No excuse in that.
_Assunta._ So dear to Padrone....
_Frate._ The more shame for him!
_Assunta._ Called me....
_Frate._ And _called_ you, did he! the traitorous swine!
_Assunta._ Called me ... _good girl_.
_Frate._ Psha! the wenches, I think, are all mad: but few of them in
this manner.
* * * * *
... Without saying another word, Fra Biagio went forward and opened
the bedchamber door, saying briskly:
'Servant! Ser Giovanni! Ser Canonico! most devoted! most obsequious! I
venture to incommode you. Thanks to God, Ser Canonico, you are looking
well for your years. They tell me you were formerly (who would believe
it?) the handsomest man in Christendom, and worked your way glibly,
yonder at Avignon.
'Capperi! Ser Giovanni! I never observed that you were sitting
bolt-upright in that long-backed armchair, instead of lying abed.
Quite in the right. I am rejoiced at such a change for the better. Who
advised it?'
_Boccaccio._ So many thanks to Fra Biagio! I not only am sitting up,
but have taken a draught of fresh air at the window, and every leaf
had a little present of sunshine for me.
There is one pleasure, Fra Biagio, which I fancy you never have
experienced, and I hardly know whether I ought to wish it you; the
first sensation of health after a long confinement.
_Frate._ Thanks! infinite! I would take any man's word for that,
without a wish to try it. Everybody tells me I am exactly what I was a
dozen years ago; while, for my part, I see everybody changed: those
who ought to be much about my age, even those.... Per Bacco! I told
them my thoughts when they had told me theirs; and they were not so
agreeable as they used to be in former days.
_Boccaccio._ How people hate sincerity!
Cospetto! why, Frate! what hast got upon thy toes? Hast killed some
Tartar and tucked his bow into one, and torn the crescent from the
vizier's tent to make the other match it? Hadst thou fallen in thy
mettlesome expedition (and it is a mercy and a miracle thou didst
not) those sacrilegious shoes would have impaled thee.
_Frate._ It was a mistake in the shoemaker. But no pain or incommodity
whatsoever could detain me from paying my duty to Ser Canonico, the
first moment I heard of his auspicious arrival, or from offering my
congratulations to Ser Giovanni, on the annunciation that he was
recovered and looking out of the window. All Tuscany was standing on
the watch for it, and the news flew like lightning. By this time it is
upon the Danube.
And pray, Ser Canonico, how does Madonna Laura do?
_Petrarca._ Peace to her gentle spirit! she is departed.
_Frate._ Ay, true. I had quite forgotten: that is to say, I recollect
it. You told us as much, I think, in a poem on her death. Well, and do
you know! our friend Giovanni here is a bit of an author in his way.
_Boccaccio._ Frate! you confuse my modesty.
_Frate._ Murder will out. It is a fact, on my conscience. Have you
never heard anything about it, Canonico! Ha! we poets are sly fellows:
we can keep a secret.
_Boccaccio._ Are you quite sure you can?
_Frate._ Try, and trust me with any. I am a confessional on legs:
there is no more a whisper in me than in a woolsack.