Imaginary Conversations and Poems: A Selection
I am in feather again, as you see; and in tune, as you shall hear.
April is not the month for moping. Sing it lustily.
_Boccaccio._ Let it be your business to sing it, being a Frate; I can
only recite it.
_Frate._ Pray do, then.
_Boccaccio._
Frate Biagio! sempre quando
Qua tu vieni cavalcando,
Pensi che le buone strade
Per il mondo sien ben rade;
E, di quante sono brutte,
La piu brutta e tua di tutte.
Badi, non cascare sulle
Graziosissime fanciulle,
Che con capo dritto, alzato,
Uova portano al mercato.
Pessima mi pare l'opra
Rovesciarle sottosopra.
Deh! scansando le erte e sassi,
Sempre con premura passi.
Caro amico! Frate Biagio!
Passi pur, ma passi adagio.
_Frate._ Well now really, Canonico, for one not exactly one of us,
that canzone of Ser Giovanni has merit; has not it? I did not ride,
however, to-day; as you may see by the lining of my frock. But _plus
non vitiat_; ay, Canonico! About the roads he is right enough; they
are the devil's own roads; that must be said for them.
Ser Giovanni! with permission; your mention of eggs in the canzone has
induced me to fancy I could eat a pair of them. The hens lay well now:
that white one of yours is worth more than the goose that laid the
golden: and you have a store of others, her equals or betters: we have
none like them at poor St. Vivaldo. _A riverderci, Ser Giovanni!
Schiavo! Ser Canonico! mi commandino._
* * * * *
... Fra Biagio went back into the kitchen, helped himself to a quarter
of a loaf, ordered a flask of wine, and, trying several eggs against
his lips, selected seven, which he himself fried in oil, although the
maid offered her services. He never had been so little disposed to
enter into conversation with her; and on her asking him how he found
her master, he replied, that in bodily health Ser Giovanni, by his
prayers and ptisans, had much improved, but that his faculties were
wearing out apace. 'He may now run in the same couples with the
Canonico: they cannot catch the mange one of the other: the one could
say nothing to the purpose, and the other nothing at all. The whole
conversation was entirely at my charge,' added he. 'And now, Assunta,
since you press it, I will accept the service of your master's shoes.
How I shall ever get home I don't know.' He took the shoes off the
handles of the bellows, where Assunta had placed them out of her way,
and tucking one of his own under each arm, limped toward St. Vivaldo.
The unwonted attention to smartness of apparel, in the only article
wherein it could be displayed, was suggested to Frate Biagio by
hearing that Ser Francesco, accustomed to courtly habits and elegant
society, and having not only small hands, but small feet, usually wore
red slippers in the morning. Fra Biagio had scarcely left the outer
door, than he cordially cursed Ser Francesco for making such a fool of
him, and wearing slippers of black list. 'These canonicoes,' said he,
'not only lie themselves, but teach everybody else to do the same. He
has lamed me for life: I burn as if I had been shod at the
blacksmith's forge.'
The two friends said nothing about him, but continued the discourse
which his visit had interrupted.
_Petrarca._ Turn again, I entreat you, to the serious; and do not
imagine that because by nature you are inclined to playfulness, you
must therefore write ludicrous things better. Many of your stories
would make the gravest men laugh, and yet there is little wit in them.
_Boccaccio._ I think so myself; though authors, little disposed as
they are to doubt their possession of any quality they would bring
into play, are least of all suspicious on the side of wit. You have
convinced me. I am glad to have been tender, and to have written
tenderly: for I am certain it is this alone that has made you love me
with such affection.
_Petrarca._ Not this alone, Giovanni! but this principally. I have
always found you kind and compassionate, liberal and sincere, and when
Fortune does not stand very close to such a man, she leaves only the
more room for Friendship.
_Boccaccio._ Let her stand off then, now and for ever! To my heart, to
my heart, Francesco! preserver of my health, my peace of mind, and
(since you tell me I may claim it) my glory.
_Petrarca._ Recovering your strength you must pursue your studies to
complete it. What can you have been doing with your books? I have
searched in vain this morning for the treasury. Where are they kept?
Formerly they were always open. I found only a short manuscript, which
I suspect is poetry, but I ventured not on looking into it, until I
had brought it with me and laid it before you.
_Boccaccio._ Well guessed! They are verses written by a gentleman who
resided long in this country, and who much regretted the necessity of
leaving it. He took great delight in composing both Latin and Italian,
but never kept a copy of them latterly, so that these are the only
ones I could obtain from him. Read: for your voice will improve them:
TO MY CHILD CARLINO
Carlino! what art thou about, my boy?
Often I ask that question, though in vain,
For we are far apart: ah! therefore 'tis
I often ask it; not in such a tone
As wiser fathers do, who know too well.
Were we not children, you and I together?
Stole we not glances from each other's eyes?
Swore we not secrecy in such misdeeds?
Well could we trust each other. Tell me then
What thou art doing. Carving out thy name,
Or haply mine, upon my favourite seat,
With the new knife I sent thee over sea?
Or hast thou broken it, and hid the hilt
Among the myrtles, starr'd with flowers, behind?
Or under that high throne whence fifty lilies
(With sworded tuberoses dense around)
Lift up their heads at once, not without fear
That they were looking at thee all the while.
Does Cincirillo follow thee about?
Inverting one swart foot suspensively,
And wagging his dread jaw at every chirp
Of bird above him on the olive-branch?
Frighten him then away! 'twas he who slew
Our pigeons, our white pigeons peacock-tailed,
That fear'd not you and me ... alas, nor him!
I flattened his striped sides along my knee,
And reasoned with him on his bloody mind,
Till he looked blandly, and half-closed his eyes
To ponder on my lecture in the shade.
I doubt his memory much, his heart a little,
And in some minor matters (may I say it?)
Could wish him rather sager. But from thee
God hold back wisdom yet for many years!
Whether in early season or in late
It always comes high-priced. For thy pure breast
I have no lesson; it for me has many.
Come throw it open then! What sports, what cares
(Since there are none too young for these) engage
Thy busy thoughts? Are you again at work,
Walter and you, with those sly labourers,
Geppo, Giovanni, Cecco, and Poeta,
To build more solidly your broken dam
Among the poplars, whence the nightingale
Inquisitively watch'd you all day long?
I was not of your council in the scheme,
Or might have saved you silver without end,
And sighs too without number. Art thou gone
Below the mulberry, where that cold pool
Urged to devise a warmer, and more fit
For mighty swimmers, swimming three abreast?
Or art thou panting in this summer noon
Upon the lowest step before the hall,
Drawing a slice of water-melon, long
As Cupid's bow, athwart thy wetted lips
(Like one who plays Pan's pipe) and letting drop
The sable seeds from all their separate cells,
And leaving bays profound and rocks abrupt,
Redder than coral round Calypso's cave?
_Petrarca._ There have been those anciently who would have been
pleased with such poetry, and perhaps there may be again. I am not
sorry to see the Muses by the side of childhood, and forming a part of
the family. But now tell me about the books.
_Boccaccio._ Resolving to lay aside the more valuable of those I had
collected or transcribed, and to place them under the guardianship of
richer men, I locked them up together in the higher story of my tower
at Certaldo. You remember the old tower?
_Petrarca._ Well do I remember the hearty laugh we had together (which
stopped us upon the staircase) at the calculation we made, how much
longer you and I, if we continued to thrive as we had thriven
latterly, should be able to pass within its narrow circle. Although I
like this little villa much better, I would gladly see the place
again, and enjoy with you, as we did before, the vast expanse of
woodlands and mountains and maremma; frowning fortresses inexpugnable;
and others more prodigious for their ruins; then below them, lordly
abbeys, overcanopied with stately trees and girded with rich
luxuriance; and towns that seem approaching them to do them honour,
and villages nestling close at their sides for sustenance and
protection.
_Boccaccio._ My disorder, if it should keep its promise of leaving me
at last, will have been preparing me for the accomplishment of such a
project. Should I get thinner and thinner at this rate, I shall soon
be able to mount not only a turret or a belfry, but a tube of
macarone, while a Neapolitan is suspending it for deglutition.
What I am about to mention will show you how little you can rely on
me! I have preserved the books, as you desired, but quite contrary to
my resolution: and, no less contrary to it, by your desire I shall now
preserve the _Decameron_. In vain had I determined not only to mend in
future, but to correct the past; in vain had I prayed most fervently
for grace to accomplish it, with a final aspiration to Fiametta that
she would unite with your beloved Laura, and that, gentle and
beatified spirits as they are, they would breathe together their purer
prayers on mine. See what follows.
_Petrarca._ Sigh not at it. Before we can see all that follows from
their intercession, we must join them again. But let me hear anything
in which they are concerned.
_Boccaccio._ I prayed; and my breast, after some few tears, grew
calmer. Yet sleep did not ensue until the break of morning, when the
dropping of soft rain on the leaves of the fig-tree at the window, and
the chirping of a little bird, to tell another there was shelter under
them, brought me repose and slumber. Scarcely had I closed my eyes, if
indeed time can be reckoned any more in sleep than in heaven, when my
Fiametta seemed to have led me into the meadow. You will see it below
you: turn away that branch: gently! gently! do not break it; for the
little bird sat there.
_Petrarca._ I think, Giovanni, I can divine the place. Although this
fig-tree, growing out of the wall between the cellar and us, is
fantastic enough in its branches, yet that other which I see yonder,
bent down and forced to crawl along the grass by the prepotency of the
young shapely walnut-tree, is much more so. It forms a seat, about a
cubit above the ground, level and long enough for several.
_Boccaccio._ Ha! you fancy it must be a favourite spot with me,
because of the two strong forked stakes wherewith it is propped and
supported!
_Petrarca._ Poets know the haunts of poets at first sight; and he who
loved Laura.... O Laura! did I say he who _loved_ thee? ... hath
whisperings where those feet would wander which have been restless
after Fiametta.
_Boccaccio._ It is true, my imagination has often conducted her
thither; but there in this chamber she appeared to me more visibly in
a dream.