The Decameron of Giovanni Boccaccio
fair words and store of pious instances, gave her his benison and let
her go. The lady being gone, the friar, never thinking how he was
gulled, sent for his friend, who, coming and finding him troubled, at
once divined that he was to have news of the lady and awaited what the
friar should say. The latter repeated that which he had before said to
him and bespeaking him anew angrily and reproachfully, rebuked him
severely of that which, according to the lady's report, he had done.
The gentleman, not yet perceiving the friar's drift, faintly enough
denied having sent her the purse and the girdle, so as not to
undeceive the friar, in case the lady should have given him to believe
that he had done this; whereat the good man was sore incensed and
said, 'How canst thou deny it, wicked man that thou art? See, here
they are, for she herself brought them to me, weeping; look if thou
knowest them.' The gentleman feigned to be sore abashed and answered,
'Yes, I do indeed know them and I confess to you that I did ill; but I
swear to you, since I see her thus disposed, that you shall never more
hear a word of this.' Brief, after many words, the numskull of a friar
gave his friend the purse and the girdle and dismissed him, after
rating him amain and beseeching him occupy himself no more with these
follies, the which he promised him. The gentleman, overjoyed both at
the assurance that himseemed he had of the lady's love and at the
goodly gift, was no sooner quit of the friar than he betook himself to
a place where he made shift to let his mistress see that he had the
one and the other thing; whereat she was mightily rejoiced, more by
token that herseemed her device went from good to better. She now
awaited nought but her husband's going abroad to give completion to
the work, and it befell not long after that it behoved him repair to
Genoa on some occasion or other. No sooner had he mounted to horse in
the morning and gone his way, than the lady betook herself to the holy
man and after many lamentations, said to him, weeping, 'Father mine,
I tell you now plainly that I can brook no more; but, for that I
promised you the other day to do nought, without first telling you, I
am come to excuse myself to you; and that you may believe I have good
reason both to weep and to complain, I will tell you what your friend,
or rather devil incarnate, did to me this very morning, a little
before matins. I know not what ill chance gave him to know that my
husband was to go to Genoa yestermorn; algates, this morning, at the
time I tell you, he came into a garden of mine and climbing up by a
tree to the window of my bedchamber, which giveth upon the garden, had
already opened the lattice and was for entering, when I of a sudden
awoke and starting up, offered to cry out, nay, would assuredly have
cried out, but that he, who was not yet within, besought me of mercy
in God's name and yours, telling me who he was; which when I heard, I
held my peace for the love of you and naked as I was born, ran and
shut the window in his face; whereupon I suppose he took himself off
(ill-luck go with him!), for I heard no more of him. Look you now if
this be a goodly thing and to be endured. For my part I mean to bear
with him no more; nay, I have already forborne him overmuch for the
love of you.' The friar, hearing this, was the wrathfullest man alive
and knew not what to say, except to ask again and again if she had
well certified herself that it was indeed he and not another; to which
she answered, 'Praised be God! As if I did not yet know him from
another! I tell you it was himself, and although he should deny it,
credit him not.' Then said the friar, 'Daughter, there is nothing to
be said for it but that this was exceeding effrontery and a thing
exceeding ill done, and in sending him off, as thou didst, thou didst
that which it behoved thee to do. But I beseech thee, since God hath
preserved thee from shame, that, like as thou hast twice followed my
counsel, even so do thou yet this once; to wit, without complaining to
any kinsman of thine, leave it to me to see an I can bridle yonder
devil broke loose, whom I believed a saint. If I can make shift to
turn him from this lewdness, well and good; if not, I give thee leave
henceforth to do with him that which thy soul shall judge best, and my
benison go with thee.' 'Well, then,' answered the lady, 'for this once
I will well not to vex or disobey you; but look you do on such wise
that he be ware of annoying me again, for I promise you I will never
again return to you for this cause.' Thereupon, without saying more,
she took leave of the friar and went away, as if in anger. Hardly was
she out of the church when up came the gentleman and was called by the
friar, who, taking him apart, gave him the soundest rating ever man
had, calling him disloyal and forsworn and traitor. The other, who had
already twice had occasion to know to what the monk's reprimands
amounted, abode expectant and studied with embarrassed answers to make
him speak out, saying, at the first, 'Why all this passion, Sir? Have
I crucified Christ?' Whereupon, 'Mark this shameless fellow!' cried
the friar. 'Hear what he saith! He speaketh as if a year or two were
passed and he had for lapse of time forgotten his misdeeds and his
lewdness! Hath it then escaped thy mind between this and matinsong
that thou hast outraged some one this very morning? Where wast thou
this morning a little before day?' 'I know not,' answered the
gentleman; 'but wherever it was, the news thereof hath reached you
mighty early.' Quoth the friar, 'Certes, the news hath reached me.
Doubtless thou supposedst because her husband was abroad, that needs
must the gentlewoman receive thee incontinent in her arms. A fine
thing, indeed! Here's a pretty fellow! Here's an honourable man! He's
grown a nighthawk, a garden-breaker, a tree-climber! Thinkest thou by
importunity to overcome this lady's chastity, that thou climbest up to
her windows anights by the trees? There is nought in the world so
displeasing to her as thou; yet must thou e'en go essaying it again
and again. Truly, thou hast profited finely by my admonitions, let
alone that she hath shown thee her aversion in many ways. But this I
have to say to thee; she hath up to now, not for any love she beareth
thee, but at my instant entreaty, kept silence of that which thou hast
done; but she will do so no more; I have given her leave to do what
seemeth good to her, an thou annoy her again in aught. What wilt thou
do, an she tell her brothers?' The gentleman having now gathered
enough of that which it concerned him to know, appeased the friar, as
best he knew and might, with many and ample promises, and taking leave
of him, waited till matinsong[159] of the ensuing night, when he made
his way into the garden and climbed up by the tree to the window. He
found the lattice open and entering the chamber as quickliest he
might, threw himself into the arms of his fair mistress, who, having
awaited him with the utmost impatience, received him joyfully, saying,
'Gramercy to my lord the friar for that he so well taught thee the way
hither!' Then, taking their pleasure one of the other, they solaced
themselves together with great delight, devising and laughing amain
anent the simplicity of the dolt of a friar and gibing at wool-hanks
and teasels and carding-combs. Moreover, having taken order for their
future converse, they did on such wise that, without having to resort
anew to my lord the friar, they foregathered in equal joyance many
another night, to the like whereof I pray God, of His holy mercy,
speedily to conduct me and all Christian souls who have a mind
thereto."
[Footnote 158: Lit. (_riscaldare gli orecchi_).]
[Footnote 159: _i.e._ three a.m. next morning.]
THE FOURTH STORY
[Day the Third]
DOM FELICE TEACHETH FRA PUCCIO HOW HE MAY BECOME BEATIFIED
BY PERFORMING A CERTAIN PENANCE OF HIS FASHION, WHICH THE
OTHER DOTH, AND DOM FELICE MEANWHILE LEADETH A MERRY LIFE OF
IT WITH THE GOOD MAN'S WIFE
Filomena, having made an end of her story, was silent and Dioneo
having with dulcet speech mightily commended the lady's shrewdness and
eke the prayer with which Filomena had concluded, the queen turned
with a smile to Pamfilo and said, "Come, Pamfilo, continue our
diversion with some pleasant trifle." Pamfilo promptly answered that
he would well and began thus: "Madam, there are many persons who, what
while they study to enter Paradise, unwittingly send others thither;
the which happened, no great while since, to a neighbour of ours, as
you shall hear.
According to that which I have heard tell, there abode near San
Pancrazio an honest man and a rich, called Puccio di Rinieri, who,
devoting himself in his latter days altogether to religious practices,
became a tertiary[160] of the order of St. Francis, whence he was
styled Fra Puccio, and ensuing this his devout life, much frequented
the church, for that he had no family other than a wife and one maid
and consequently, it behoved him not apply himself to any craft. Being
an ignorant, clod-pated fellow, he said his paternosters, went to
preachments and attended mass, nor ever failed to be at the Lauds
chanted by the seculars,[161] and fasted and mortified himself; nay,
it was buzzed about that he was of the Flagellants.[162] His wife,
whose name was Mistress Isabetta,[163] a woman, yet young, of
eight-and-twenty to thirty years of age, fresh and fair and plump as a
lady-apple, kept, by reason of the piety and belike of the age of her
husband, much longer and more frequent fasts than she could have
wished, and when she would have slept or maybe frolicked with him, he
recounted to her the life of Christ and the preachments of Fra
Nastagio or the Complaint of Mary Magdalene or the like. Meantime
there returned home from Paris a monk hight Dom[164] Felice,
Conventual[165] of San Pancrazio, who was young and comely enough of
person, keen of wit and a profound scholar, and with him Fra Puccio
contracted a strait friendship. And for that this Dom Felice right
well resolved him his every doubt and knowing his pious turn of mind,
made him a show of exceeding devoutness, Fra Puccio fell to carrying
him home bytimes and giving him to dine and sup, as the occasion
offered; and the lady also, for her husband's sake, became familiar
with him and willingly did him honour. The monk, then, continuing to
frequent Fra Puccio's house and seeing the latter's wife so fresh and
plump, guessed what should be the thing whereof she suffered the most
default and bethought himself, an he might, to go about to furnish her
withal himself, and so spare Fra Puccio fatigue. Accordingly, craftily
casting his eyes on her, at one time and another, he made shift to
kindle in her breast that same desire which he had himself, which when
he saw, he bespoke her of his wishes as first occasion betided him.
But, albeit he found her well disposed to give effect to the work, he
could find no means thereunto, for that she would on nowise trust
herself to be with him in any place in the world save her own house,
and there it might not be, seeing that Fra Puccio never went without
the town. At this the monk was sore chagrined; but, after much
consideration, he hit upon a device whereby he might avail to
foregather with the lady in her own house, without suspect, for all
Fra Puccio should be at home. Accordingly, the latter coming one day
to visit him, he bespoke him thus, 'I have many a time understood, Fra
Puccio, that all thy desire is to become a saint and to this end
meseemeth thou goest about by a long road, whereas there is another
and a very short one, which the Pope and the other great prelates, who
know and practise it, will not have made known, for that the clergy,