The Decameron of Giovanni Boccaccio
Vesture to change,--so fair in that dusk wede
I was and glad, whereas in this more gay
A weary life I lead,
Far less than erst held honest, welaway!
Ah, dolorous bridal day,
Would God I had been dead
Or e'er I proved thee in such ill estate!
O lover dear, with whom well pleased was I
Whilere past all that be,--
Who now before Him sittest in the sky
Who fashioned us,--have pity upon me
Who cannot, though I die,
Forget thee for another; cause me see
The flame that kindled thee
For me lives yet unquenched
And my recall up thither[210] impetrate.
[Footnote 208: Lit. made (_Di me il feci digno_).]
[Footnote 209: _i.e._ false suspicion (_falso pensiero_).]
[Footnote 210: _i.e._ to heaven (_e costa su m'impetra la tornata_).]
Here Lauretta made an end of her song, wherein, albeit attentively
followed of all, she was diversely apprehended of divers persons, and
there were those who would e'en understand, Milan-fashion, that a good
hog was better than a handsome wench;[211] but others were of a
loftier and better and truer apprehension, whereof it booteth not to
tell at this present. Thereafter the king let kindle store of
flambeaux upon the grass and among the flowers and caused sing divers
other songs, until every star began to decline, that was above the
horizon, when, deeming it time for sleep, he bade all with a good
night betake themselves to their chambers.
[Footnote 211: The pertinence of this allusion, which probably refers
to some current Milanese proverbial saying, the word _tosa_, here used
by Boccaccio for "wench," belonging to the Lombard dialect, is not
very clear. The expression "Milan-fashion" (_alla melanese_) may be
supposed to refer to the proverbial materialism of the people of
Lombardy.]
HERE ENDETH THE THIRD DAY
OF THE DECAMERON
_Day the Fourth_
HERE BEGINNETH THE FOURTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER
THE GOVERNANCE OF FILOSTRATO IS DISCOURSED OF THOSE WHOSE
LOVES HAVE HAD UNHAPPY ENDINGS
Dearest ladies, as well by words of wise men heard as by things many a
time both seen and read of myself, I had conceived that the boisterous
and burning blast of envy was apt to smite none but lofty towers or
the highest summits of the trees; but I find myself mistaken in my
conceit, for that, fleeing, as I have still studied to flee, from the
cruel onslaught of that raging wind, I have striven to go, not only in
the plains, but in the very deepest of the valleys, as many manifestly
enough appear to whoso considereth these present stories, the which
have been written by me, not only in vulgar Florentine and in prose
and without [author's] name, but eke in as humble and sober a style as
might be. Yet for all this have I not availed to escape being cruelly
shaken, nay, well nigh uprooted, of the aforesaid wind and all torn of
the fangs of envy; wherefore I can very manifestly understand that to
be true which the wise use to say, to wit, that misery alone in things
present is without envy.[212]
[Footnote 212: Sic (_senza invidia_); but the meaning is that misery
alone is without _enviers_.]
There are then, discreet ladies, some who, reading these stories, have
said that you please me overmuch and that it is not a seemly thing
that I should take so much delight in pleasuring and solacing you; and
some have said yet worse of commending you as I do. Others, making a
show of wishing to speak more maturely, have said that it sorteth ill
with mine age henceforth to follow after things of this kind, to wit,
to discourse of women or to study to please them. And many, feigning
themselves mighty tender of my repute, avouch that I should do more
wisely to abide with the Muses on Parnassus than to busy myself among
you with these toys. Again, there be some who, speaking more
despitefully than advisedly, have said that I should do more
discreetly to consider whence I might get me bread than to go peddling
after these baubles, feeding upon wind; and certain others, in
disparagement of my pains, study to prove the things recounted by me
to have been otherwise than as I present them to you.
With such, then, and so many blusterings,[213] such atrocious
backbitings, such needle-pricks, noble ladies, am I, what while I
battle in your service, baffled and buffeted and transfixed even to
the quick. The which things, God knoweth, I hear and apprehend with an
untroubled mind; and albeit my defence in this pertaineth altogether
unto you, natheless, I purpose not to spare mine own pains; nay,
without answering so much [at large] as it might behove, I mean to rid
mine ears of them with some slight rejoinder, and that without delay;
for that if even now, I being not yet come to[214] the third part of
my travail, they[215] are many and presume amain, I opine that, ere I
come to the end thereof, they may, having had no rebuff at the first,
on such wise be multiplied that with whatsoever little pains of theirs
they might overthrow me, nor might your powers, great though they be,
avail to withstand this.
[Footnote 213: _i.e._ blasts of calumny.]
[Footnote 214: _i.e._ having not yet accomplished.]
[Footnote 215: _i.e._ my censors.]
But, ere I come to make answer to any of them, it pleaseth me, in mine
own defence, to relate, not an entire story,--lest it should seem I
would fain mingle mine own stories with those of so commendable a
company as that which I have presented to you,--but a part of
one,--that so its very default [of completeness] may attest that it is
none of those,--and accordingly, speaking to my assailants, I say that
in our city, a good while agone, there was a townsman, by name Filippo
Balducci, a man of mean enough extraction, but rich and well addressed
and versed in such matters as his condition comported. He had a wife,
whom he loved with an exceeding love, as she him, and they lived a
peaceful life together, studying nothing so much as wholly to please
one another. In course of time it came to pass, as it cometh to pass
of all, that the good lady departed this life and left Filippo nought
of herself but one only son, begotten of him and maybe two years old.
Filippo for the death of his lady abode as disconsolate as ever man
might, having lost a beloved one, and seeing himself left alone and
forlorn of that company which most he loved, he resolved to be no more
of the world, but to give himself altogether to the service of God and
do the like with his little son. Wherefore, bestowing all his good for
the love of God,[216] he repaired without delay to the top of Mount
Asinajo, where he took up his abode with his son in a little hut and
there living with him upon alms, in the practice of fasts and prayers,
straitly guarded himself from discoursing whereas the boy was, of any
temporal thing, neither suffered him see aught thereof, lest this
should divert him from the service aforesaid, but still bespoke him of
the glories of life eternal and of God and the saints, teaching him
nought but pious orisons; and in this way of life he kept him many
years, never suffering him go forth of the hermitage nor showing him
aught other than himself.
[Footnote 216: _i.e._ in alms.]
Now the good man was used to come whiles into Florence, where being
succoured, according to his occasions, of the friends of God, he
returned to his hut, and it chanced one day that, his son being now
eighteen years old and Filippo an old man, the lad asked him whither
he went. Filippo told him and the boy said, "Father mine, you are now
an old man and can ill endure fatigue; why do you not whiles carry me
to Florence and bring me to know the friends and devotees of God and
yourself, to the end that I, who am young and better able to toil than
you, may after, whenas it pleaseth you, go to Florence for our
occasions, whilst you abide here?" The worthy man, considering that
his son was now grown to man's estate and thinking him so inured to
the service of God that the things of this world might thenceforth
uneath allure him to themselves, said in himself, "The lad saith
well"; and accordingly, having occasion to go thither, he carried him
with him. There the youth, seeing the palaces, the houses, the
churches and all the other things whereof one seeth all the city full,
began, as one who had never to his recollection beheld the like, to
marvel amain and questioned his father of many things what they were
and how they were called. Filippo told him and he, hearing him, abode
content and questioned of somewhat else.
As they went thus, the son asking and the father answering, they
encountered by chance a company of pretty and well-dressed young
women, coming from a wedding, whom as soon as the young man saw, he
asked his father what manner of things these were. "My son," answered
Filippo, "cast your eyes on the ground and look not at them, for that
they are an ill thing." Quoth the son, "And how are they called?" The
father, not to awaken in the lad's mind a carnal appetite less than
useful, would not name them by the proper name, to wit, women, but
said, "They are called green geese." Whereupon, marvellous to relate,
he who have never seen a woman and who recked not of palaces nor oxen
nor horses nor asses nor monies nor of aught else he had seen, said
suddenly, "Father mine, I prithee get me one of these green geese."
"Alack, my son," replied the father, "hold they peace; I tell thee
they are an ill thing." "How!" asked the youth. "Are ill things then
made after this fashion?" and Filippo answered, "Ay." Then said the
son, "I know not what you would say nor why these are an ill thing;
for my part, meseemeth I never yet saw aught goodly or pleasing as are
these. They are fairer than the painted angels you have shown me
whiles. For God's sake, an you reck of me, contrive that we may carry
one of yonder green geese back with us up yonder, and I will give it
to eat." "Nay," answered the father, "I will not: thou knowest not
whereon they feed." And he understood incontinent that nature was
stronger than his wit and repented him of having brought the youth to
Florence. But I will have it suffice me to have told this much of the
present story and return to those for whose behoof I have related it.
Some, then, of my censurers say that I do ill, young ladies, in
studying overmuch to please you and that you please me overmuch. Which
things I do most openly confess, to wit, that you please me and that I
study to please you, and I ask them if they marvel thereat,--considering
(let be the having known the dulcet kisses and amorous embracements
and delightsome couplings that are of you, most sweet ladies, often
gotten) only my having seen and still seeing your dainty manners and
lovesome beauty and sprightly grace and above all your womanly
courtesy,--whenas he who had been reared and bred on a wild and
solitary mountain and within the bounds of a little cell, without
other company than his father, no sooner set eyes on you than you
alone were desired of him, you alone sought, you alone followed with
the eagerness of passion. Will they, then, blame me, back bite me,
rend me with their tongues if I, whose body Heaven created all apt to
love you, I, who from my childhood vowed my soul to you, feeling the
potency of the light of your eyes and the sweetness of your honeyed
words and the flame enkindled by your piteous sighs,--if, I say, you
please me or if I study to please you, seeing that you over all else
pleased a hermitling, a lad without understanding, nay, rather, a wild
animal? Certes, it is only those, who, having neither sense nor
cognizance of the pleasures and potency of natural affection, love you
not nor desire to be loved of you, that chide me thus; and of these I