Day 3. The Eighth Story of the Decameron This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Philippa Jevons. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio, translated by J. M. Rigg. Day 3. The Eighth Story Ferondo, having taken a certain powder, is interred for dead. Is disinterred by the abbot, who enjoys his wife, is put in prison and taught to believe that he is in purgatory, is then resuscitated and rears as his own a boy begotten by the abbot upon his wife. Ended Emilia's long story, which to none was the last pleasing for its length, but was deemed of all the ladies brief in regard of the number and variety of the events therein recounted, a gesture of the Queen's suffice to convey her behest to Lauretta, and cause her thus to begin. Dearest ladies, I have it in mind to tell you a true story which wears far more of the aspect of a lie than of that which it really was. It is brought to my recollection by that which we have heard of one being bewailed and buried in lieu of another. My story then is of one that living was buried for dead, and after believed with many others that he came out of the tomb not as one that had not died, but as one risen from the dead, whereby he was venerated as a saint who ought rather to have been condemned as a criminal. Know then that there was and still is in Tuscany an abbey, situate as we see not a few in a somewhat solitary spot, wherein the office of Abbot was held by a monk who in all other matters ordered his life with great sanctity, save only in the commerce with women, and therein knew so well how to cloak his indulgence, that scarce any there were that so much as suspected not to say detected it, so holy and just was he reputed in all matters. Now the Abbot consorted much with a very wealthy Contadino, Ferondo by name, a man coarse and gross beyond measure, whose friendship the Abbot only cared for because of the opportunities which it afforded of deriving amusement from his simplicity, and during their intercourse the Abbot discovered that Ferondo had a most beautiful wife, of whom he became so hotly enamoured that he could think of naught else either by day or by night. But learning that however simple and inept in all other matters, Ferondo showed excellent good sense in cherishing and watching over this wife of his, he almost disbared. However, being very astute, he prevailed so far with Ferondo that he would sometimes bring his wife with him to take a little recreation in the Abbey Garden, where he discoursed to them with all lowliness of the blessedness of life eternal, and the most pious works of many men and women of times past, in so much that the Lady conceived a desire to confess to him, and craved and had Ferondo's leave therefore. So, to the Abbot's boundless delight, the Lady came and seated herself at his feet to make a confession, where too she prefixed the following exordium. If God, sir, had given me a husband, or had not permitted me to have one, but chanced would be easy for me under your guidance to enter the way of which you have spoken that leads to life eternal. But considering what manner of man Ferondo is, and his stupidity, I may call myself a widow while yet I am married, in that so long as he lives I may have no other husband, and he, fool that he is, is without the least cause so inordinately jealous of me that it is not possible but that my life with him be one of perpetual tribulation and woe. Wherefore, before I address myself to make further confession, I in all humility beseech you to be pleased to give me some counsel of this matter, for here or nowhere is to be found the source of the amelioration of my life, and if it be not found neither confession nor any other good work will be of any avail. The Abbot was overjoyed to hear her thus speak, deeming that fortune had opened a way to the fulfilment of his heart's desire. Wherefore, he said, my daughter, I doubt not that it is a great affliction to a lady, fair and delicate as you are, to have a fool for a husband, and still more so that he should be jealous, and as your husband is both the one and the other I readily credit what you say of your tribulation. But, to come to the point, I see no resource or remedy in this case, save only this, that Ferondo be cured of his jealousy. The medicine that shall cure him, I know very well how to devise, but it behoves you to keep secret what I am about to tell you. Doubt not of it, my father, said the lady, for I had rather suffered death than tell any ought that you forbade me to tell. But the medicine, how is it to be devised? If we would have him cured, replied the abbot, it can only be by his going to purgatory. And how may that be, returned the lady? Can he go thither while he yet lives? He must die, answered the abbot, and so he will go thither, and when he has suffered pain enough to be cured of his jealousy, we have certain prayers with which we will supplicate God to restore him to life, and he will do so. Then, said the lady, am I to remain a widow? Yes, replied the abbot, for a certain time, during which you must be very careful not to let yourself be married to another, because to defend God, and when Ferondo was restored to life you would have to go back to him, and he would be more jealous than ever. Be it so, then, said the lady, if he be but cured of his jealousy, and so I be not doomed to pass the rest of my days in prison, I shall be content, do as you think best. And so will I, said the abbot, but what reward shall I have for such a service? My father, said the lady, what you please, so only it be my power. But what may the like of me do that may be acceptable to a man such as you? Madam, replied the abbot, it is in your power to do no less for me than I am about to do for you, as that which I am minded to do will ensure your comfort and consolation, so there is that which you may do which will be the deliverance and salvation of my life. If it be so, said the lady, I shall not be found wanting. In that case, said the abbot, you will give me your love, and gratify my passion for you, with which I am all a fire, and wasting away. What is the lady all consternation, replied? Alas! my father, what is this you crave? I took you for a holy man. Now does it seem holy men to make such overtures to ladies that come to them for counsel? Marvel not, fare my soul, returned the abbot. Hereby is my holiness in no wise diminished, for holiness resides in the soul, and this which I ask of you is but a sin of the flesh. But, however it may be, such is the might of your bewitching beauty that love constrains me thus to act, and let me tell you good cause have you to vaunt you of your beauty more than other women, in that it delights the saints, who are used to contemplate celestial beauties, where too I may add that, albeit I am an abbot, yet I am a man, even as others, and, as you see, not yet old. Nor need this matter seem formidable to you, but rather to be anticipated with pleasure. For while Ferondo is in purgatory, I shall be your nightly companion, and will give you such solace as he should have given you. Nor will it ever be discovered by any, for all think of me, even as you did a while ago, or even more so. Reject not the grace that God accords you, what is in your power to have, and if you are wise, and follow my advice, you shall have that which women not a few desire in vain to have. And moreover I have jewels, fair and rare, which I am minded shall be yours and none others. Wherefore, sweet my hope, deny me not, due girdon of the service which I gladly render you. The lady, her eyes still downcast, knew not how to deny him, and yet scrupled to gratify him, wherefore the abbot, seeing that she had harkened and hesitated to answer, deemed that she was already half-one, and following up what he had said with much more to the like effect did not rest until he had persuaded her that she would do well to comply, and so with some confusion she told him that she was ready to obey his every behest, but it might not be until Ferondo was in purgatory. The abbot, well content, replied, and we will send him thither forthwith, do but arrange that he come hither to stay with me to-morrow or the day after, which said he slipped a most beautiful ring on her finger, and dismissed her. Pleased with the gift and expecting more to come, the lady rejoined her attendance, with whom she forthwith fell a talking marvellous things of the abbot's sanctity, and so went home with them. Some few days after, Ferondo being come to the abbey, the abbot no sooner saw him than he resolved to send him to purgatory. So he selected from among his drugs a powder of marvellous virtue which he had gotten in the Levant from a great prince who avert that was wont to be used by the old man of the mountain, when he would send any one to or bring him from his paradise, and that, without doing the recipient any harm, toward inducing him, according to the quantity of the dose, a sleep of such duration and quality, that while the efficacy of the powder lasted, none would deem him to be alive.  After which he took Ferondo to the cloister, and there with some of his monks fell to making merry with him and his ineptitudes. In no long time, however, the powder so wrought that Ferondo was seized in the head with a fit of somnolence so sudden and violent that he slept as he stood, and sleeping fell to the ground. The abbot put on an agitated air, caused him to be untrust, sent for cold water and had it sprinkled on his face, and applied such other remedies as if he would feign, call back, life, and sense banished by vapours of the stomach or some other intrusive force. But as, for all that he and his monks did, Ferondo did not revive, they, after feeling his pulse and finding their no sign of life, one and all pronounced him certainly dead. Wherefore they sent word to his wife and kinsfolk, who came forthwith and mourned a while, after which Ferondo, in his clothes, was by the abbot's order laid in a tomb. The lady went home, saying that nothing should ever part her from a little son that she had borne Ferondo, and so she occupied herself with the care of her son and Ferondo's estate. At night the abbot rose noiselessly, and with the help of a Bollinier's monk, in whom he reposed much trust, and who was that very day arrived from Bologna, got Ferondo out of the tomb and bore him to a vault which admitted no light, having been made to serve as a prison for delinquent monks, and having stripped him of his clothes and habited him as a monk, they laid him on a truss of straw, and left him there until he should revive. Expecting which event and instructed by the abbot how he was then to act, the Bollinier's monk, none else knowing ought of what was a foot, kept watch by the tomb. The day after the abbot with some of his monks paid a pastoral visit to the lady's house, where he found her in mourning weeds and sad at heart, and after administering a little consolation, he gently asked her to redeem her promise. Free as she now felt herself, and hampered neither by Ferondo nor by any other, the lady, who had noticed another beautiful ring on the abbot's finger, promised immediate compliance, and arranged with the abbot that he should visit her the very next night. So at nightfall the abbot donned Ferondo's clothes, and, attended by his monk, paid his visit, and lay with her until matins, to his immense delight and solace, and so returned to the abbey. And many visits he paid her on the same errand, whereby some that met him coming or going that way, supposed that it was Ferondo perambulating those parts by way of penance, and fables not a few passed from mouth to mouth of the foolish rustics, and sometimes reached the ears of the lady who was at no loss to account for them. As for Ferondo, when he revived, to his only to find himself, he knew not where. While the Bollanier's monk entered the tomb, gibbering horribly and armed with a rod, wherewith, having laid hold of Ferondo, he gave him a severe thrashing. Blobbering and bellowing for pain, Ferondo could only ejaculate, Where am I? In purgatory replied the monk. How? returned Ferondo. Am I dead then?  The monk brought him somewhat to eat and drink, of which when Ferondo caught sight, oh, said he, dead folk eat, then do they? They do, replied the monk, and this which I bring thee is what the lady that was thy wife sent this morning to the church by way of arms for masses for thy soul, and God is minded that it be assigned to thee. God grant her a happy year, said Ferondo. Dearly I loved her while I yet lived, and would hold her all night long in my arms, and cease not to kiss her, I, and would do yet more to her when I was so minded. Whereupon he fell to eating and drinking with great avidity, and finding the wine not much to his taste, he said, Now, God do her a mischief! Why gave she not the priest of the wine that is in the cask by the wall? When he had done eating, the monk laid hold of him again, and gave him another sound thrashing with the rod. Ferondo bellowed mightily, and then cried out, Alas! why service thou me so? God, answered the monk, has decreed that thou be so served twice a day. For why, said Ferondo? Because, returned the monk, thou wast jealous, notwithstanding thou hadst to wife a woman that has not heard peer in thy countryside. Alas! said Ferondo, she was indeed all that thou says'd. I am the sweetest creature to know, come fit so, honey'd. But I knew not that God took it amiss that a man should be jealous, or I'd not been so. Of that, replied the monk, thou shouldst have bethought thee while thou wast there, and have amended thy ways, and should it fall to thy lot ever to return thee, thou be sure that thou so lay to heart the lesson that I now give thee, that thou be no more jealous. Oh! said Ferondo, dead folk sometimes return to earth, do they? They do, replied the monk, if God so will. Oh! said Ferondo, if I ever return, I will be the best husband in the world. Never will I beat her or scold her, save for the wine that she has sent me this morning, and also for sending me never a candle so that I have had perforce to eat in the dark. Nay, said the monk, she sent them, but they were burned at the masses. Oh! said Ferondo, I doubt not you say true, and of assurity if I ever return, I will let her do just as she likes, but tell me, who are thou that entreats me thus? Late of Sardinia I, answered the monk, dead too, and for that I gave my Lord much countenance in his jealousy, doomed by God for my proper penance to entreat thee thus with food and drink and thrashings, until such time as he may ordain otherwise, touching thee and me. And are we two the only folk here? inquired Ferondo. Nay, there are thousands, beside, answered the monk, but thou canst neither see nor hear them, nor they thee. And how far, said Ferondo, may we be from our country?  If faith, said Ferondo, that is far indeed. Me thinks we must be out of the world. In such a course, alternately beaten, fed, and amused with idle tales, was Ferondo kept for ten months, while the abbot, to his great felicity, paid many a visit to the fair lady, and had the jolliest time in the world with her. But, as misfortunes will happen, the lady conceived, which fact, as soon as she was aware of it she imparted to the abbot, whereupon both agreed that Ferondo must without delay be brought back from purgatory to earth and her, and be given to understand that she was with child of him. So the very next night the abbot went to the prison, and in a disguised voice, pronounced Ferondo's name, and said to him, Ferondo, be of good cheer, for God is minded that thou return to earth, and on thy return thou shalt have a son by thy lady, and thou shalt call him Benedetto, because it is in answer to the prayers of thy holy abbot, and thy lady, and for love of St. Benedict, that God accords thee this grace. Where at Ferondo was overjoyed, and said, It likes me well! God give a good year to Master Lord God, and the abbot and St. Benedict, and my cheese-powdered, honey-sweet wife.  On the morrow at daybreak Ferondo revived, and perceiving through a chink in the tomb a glimmer of light to which he had been a stranger for full ten months, he knew that he was alive, and began to bellow, Let me out! Let me out! Then, setting his head to the lid of the tomb, he heaved a main, whereby the lid being insecure, started, and he was already thrusting it aside when the monks, Mattens being now ended, ran to the spot, and recognized Ferondo's voice, and saw him issue from the tomb, by which unwanted event they were also affrighted that they took to flight, and hide them to the abbot, who, rising as if from prayer, said, Sons, be not afraid, take the cross and the holy water, and follow me, and let us see what sign of his might God will vouchsafe us. And so he led the way to the tomb, beside which they found Ferondo standing, deathly pale by reason of his long estrangement from the light. On sight of the abbot he ran and threw himself at his feet, saying, My father, it has been revealed to me that just to your prayers, and those of St Benedict and my lady, that I owe my release from purgatorial pain and restoration to life, wherefore is my prayer that God give you a good year and good callons to day and all days. Lord we the power of God, said the abbot, Go then, son, as God has restored thee to earth, comfort thy wife, who since thou didst depart this life has been ever in tears, and mayest thou live henceforth in the love and service of God. Sir, answered Ferondo, Tease well said, and for the doing trust me, that as soon as I find her I shall kiss her, such is the love I bear her. So, saying, he went his way, and the abbot, left alone with his monks, made as if he marveled greatly at the affair, and caused devoutly chance the Misere. So Ferondo returned to his hamlet, where all that saw him fleeing, as folk are won't to flee from spectacles of horror, he called them back, asseverating that he was risen from the tomb. His wife at first was no less timorous, but as folk began to take heart of Grace, perceiving that he was alive, they plied him with many questions, all which he answered as one that had returned with ripe experience, and gave them tidings of the souls of their kinsfolk, and told of his own invention the prettiest fables of the purgatorial state, and in full folk moot recounted the revelation vouchsafed him by the mouth of Ragnolo Braghiello before his resuscitation. Thus was Ferondo reinstated in his property, and reunited to his wife, who, being pregnant, as he thought by himself, chanced by the time of her delivery to countenance the vulgar error that the woman must bear the infant in the womb for exactly nine months, and gave birth to a male child, who was named Benedetto Ferondi. Ferondo's return from purgatory, and the report he brought thence, immeasurably enhanced the fame of the abbot's holiness. So Ferondo, cured of his jealousy by the thrashings which he had gotten for it, verified the abbot's prediction, and never offended the lady again in that sort. Wherefore she lived with him, as before, in all outward simlinness, albeit she failed not, as occasion served, to foregather with the holy abbot, who had so well and sedulously served her in her a special need. by J. M. Rigg. Day three, the ninth story. Gillette of Narbonne cures the king of France of a fistula, craves for Spouse Bertrand Roussillon, who marries her against his will, and hies him in despite to Florence, where, as he courts a young woman, Gillette lies with him in her stead, and has two sons by him, for which cause he afterwards takes her into favour, and entreats her as his wife. Loretta's story being ended, and the queen being minded not to break her engagement with Dioneo, it was now her turn to speak. Wherefore, without awaiting the call of her subjects, thus with me most gracious, she began. Now that we have heard Loretta's story, who shall tell any to compare with it for beauty? Lucky indeed was it that she was not the first, for few that followed would have pleased, and so, I misdoubt me, to all fare ill with those that remain to complete the day's narration. However, for what it may be worth, I will tell you a story which seems to me germane to our theme. Nose-en, that in the realm of France there was a gentleman, Isnar Conte de Roussillon by name, who, being in ill health, kept ever in attendance on him a physician, one master-gerard of Narbonne. The said Count had an only son named Bertrand, a very fine and winsome little lad, with whom were brought up other children of his own age, among them the said physician's little daughter Gillette, who with a love boundless and ardent out of all keeping with her tender years became enamoured of this Bertrand. And so, when the Count died and his son, being left a ward of the King, must needs go to Paris, the girl remained beside herself with grief, and her father dying soon after would gladly have gone to Paris to see Bertrand, might she but have found a fair excuse. But no decent pretext could she come by, being left a great and sole heiress, and very closely guarded. So, being come of marriageable age, still cherishing Bertrand's memory, she rejected not a few suitors to whom her kinsfolk would feign have married her, without assigning any reason. Now, her passion waxing ever more ardent for Bertrand, as she learned that he was grown a most goodly gallant, tidings reached her that the King of France, in consequence of a tumour which he had in the breast, and which had been ill-tended, was now troubled with a fistula which occasioned him extreme distress and suffering. Nor had he as yet come by a physician that was able, though many had assayed, to cure him, but had rather grown worse under their hands, wherefore in despair he was minded no more to have recourse to any for counsel or aid. Were at the damsel was overjoyed, deeming not only that she might find there in lawful occasion to go to Paris, but that if the disease was what she took it to be, it might well be tied that she should be wedded to Bertrand. So, for not a little knowledge had she gotten from her father, she prepared a powder from certain herbs serviceable in the treatment of the supposed disease, and straightway took horse and hide her to Paris. Arrived there she made it her first concern to have sight of Bertrand, and then, having obtained access to the King, she besought him of his grace to show her his disease. The King knew not how to refuse so young, fair and winsome a damsel, and let her see the place, whereupon no longer doubting that she should cure him, she said, Sire, so please you, I hope in God to cure you of this malady within eight days without causing you the least distress or discomfort. The King only scoffed at her words, saying to himself, How should a damsel have come by a knowledge and skill that the greatest physicians in the world do not possess? He therefore graciously acknowledged her good intention, and answered that he had resolved no more to follow advice of physician. Sire, said the damsel, You disdain my art because I am young and a woman, but I bid you bear in mind that I rely not on my own skill, but on the help of God, and the skill of Master Gérard of Narbonne, my father, and a famous physician in his day, whereupon the King said to himself, Put chance, she is sent me by God. Why put I not her skill to the proof, seeing that she says she can cure me in a short time and cause me no distress? And being minded to make the experiment, he said, Damsel, and if, having caused me to cancel my resolve, you should fail to cure me, what are you content should ensue? Sire answered the damsel, Set a guard upon me, and if within eight days I cure you not, have me burned. But if I cure you, what shall be my garden? You seem, said the King, to be yet unmarried, If you shall effect the cure, we will marry you well and in high place. Sire returned the damsel, well content indeed, am I, that you should marry me, so it be to such a husband as I shall ask of you, save that I may not ask any of your sons or any other member of the royal house. Where to the King forthwith consented, and the damsel, thereupon applying her treatment, restored him to health before the period assigned. Wherefore, as soon as the King knew that he was cured, damsel, said he, well have you won your husband. She answered, In that case, Sire, I have won Bertrand de Rossillon, of whom, while yet a child, I was enamoured, and whom I have ever since most ardently loved. To give her Bertrand seemed to the King no small matter, but having pledged his word he would not break it. So he sent for Bertrand and said to him, Bertrand, you are now come to man's estate, and fully equipped to enter on it.  And who is the damsel, Sire, said Bertrand. She it is, answered the King, that has restored us to health by her physics. Now Bertrand, knowing Gillette, and that her lineage was not such as matched his nobility, albeit seeing her he had found her very fair, was overcome with disdain, and answered, So, Sire, you would then give me a she-doctor to wife. Now God forbid that I should ever marry any such woman. Then said the King, you would have as fail of the faith which we pledged to the damsel, who asked you in marriage by way of garden for our restoration to health. Sire, said Bertrand, you may take from me all that I possess, and give me as your man to whomsoever you may be minded, but rest assured that I shall never be satisfied with such a match. No, but you will, replied the King, for the damsel is fair and discreet, and loves you well, wherefore we anticipate that you will live far more happily with her than with a dame of much higher lineage. Bertrand was silent, and the King made great preparations for the celebration of the nuptials. The appointed day came, and Bertrand, albeit reluctantly, nevertheless complied, and in the presence of the King was wedded to the damsel, who loved him more dearly than herself. Which done, Bertrand, who had already taken his resolution, said that he was minded to go down to his county, there to consummate the marriage. And so, having craved and had leave of absence of the King, he took horse, but instead of returning to his county, he hide him to Tuscany, where, finding the Florentines at war with the Sienese, he determined to take service with the Florentines, and being made heartily and honourably welcome, was appointed to the command of part of their forces at a liberal stipend, and so remained in their service for a long while. Distressed by this turn of fortune, and hoping by her wise management to bring Bertrand back to his county, the bride hide her to Roussillon, where she was received by all the tenants as their liege-lady. She found that during the long absence of the Lord everything had fallen into decay and disorder, which, being a capable woman, she rectified with great and sedulous care to the great joy of the tenants, who held her in great esteem and love, and severely censured the count that he was not satisfied with her. When the lady had duly ordered all things in the county, she dispatched two knights to the count with the intelligence, praying him that, if it was on her account that he came not home, he would so inform her, in which case she would gratify him by departing, to whom with all harshness, he replied, she may even please herself in the matter, for my part I will go home and live with her when she has this ring on her finger, and a sun-gotten of me upon her arm. The ring was one which he greatly prized, and never removed from his finger by reason of a virtue which he had been given to understand that it possessed. The knights appreciated the harshness of a condition which contained two articles, both of which were all but impossible, and seeing that by no words of theirs could they alter his resolve, they returned to the lady and delivered his message. Soly distressed, the lady, after long pondering, determined to try how and where the two conditions might be satisfied, that so her husband might be hers again. Having formed her plan, she assembled certain of the more considerable and notable men of the county, to whom she gave a consecutive and most touching narrative of all that she had done for love of the Count, with the result, concluding by saying that she was not minded to tarry there to the Count's perpetual exile, but to pass the rest of her days in pilgrimages and pious works for the good of her soul. Wherefore, she prayed them to undertake the defence and governance of the county, and to inform the Count that she had made entire and absolute session of it to him, and was gone away with the intention of never more returning to Hossion. As she spoke, tears not a few coursed down the cheeks of the honest men, and again and again they besought her to change her mind and stay. All in vain, however.  She took the road, nor tarried until she was arrived at Florence. There she lodged in a little inn kept by a good woman that was a widow, bearing herself lowly as a poor pilgrim and eagerly expectant of news of her Lord. Now it so befell that the very next day she saw Bertrand pass in front of the inn on horseback at the head of his company, and though she knew him very well, nevertheless she asked the good woman of the inn whom he was. The hostess replied, "'Tis a foreign gentleman, Count Bertrand," they call him, a very pleasant gentleman and courteous and much beloved in this city. And he is in the last degree enamoured of one of our neighbours here, who is a gentle woman, but in poor circumstances. A very virtuous damsel she is too, and being as yet unmarried by reason of her poverty, she lives with her mother, who is an excellent and most discreet lady, but for whom per chance she would before now have yielded and gratified the Count's desire. No word of this was lost on the Lady. She pondered and meditated every detail with the closest attention, and having laid it all to heart, took her resolution. She ascertained the names and abode of the Lady and her daughter that the Count loved, and hired her one day privily wearing her pilgrims' weeds to their house, where she found the Lady and her daughter in very evident poverty, and, after greeting them, told the Lady that if it were agreeable to her she would speak with her. The gentle woman rose and signified her willingness to listen to what she had to say. So they went into a room by themselves and sat down. And then the Countess began thus, Madam, me thinks you are, as I am, under fortune's frown, but per chance you have it in your power, if you are so minded, to afford solace to both of us. The Lady answered that, so she might honourably find it, solace indeed was what she craved most of all things in the world. Whereupon the Countess continued, I must first be assured of your faith, wherein, if I can find and am deceived, the interests of both of us will suffer. Have no fear, said the gentle woman, speak your whole mind without reserve, for you will find that there is no deceit in me. So the Countess told who she was, and the whole course of her love affair, from its commencement to that hour, on such wise that the gentle woman, believing her story the more readily that she had already heard it in part from others, was touched with compassion for her. The narrative of her woes complete, the Countess added, Now that you have heard my misfortunes, you know the two conditions that I must fulfil if I would come by my husband. Nor know I any other person than you that may enable me to fulfil them. But so you may, if this which I hear is true, to wit that my husband is in the last degree enamoured of your daughter. Madam replied the gentle woman, I know not if the Count loves my daughter, but true it is that he makes great show of loving her, but how may this enable me to do ought for you in the matter that you have at heart? The how, Madam, returned the Countess, I will shortly explain to you, but you shall first hear what I intend shall ensue if you serve me. Your daughter, I see, is fair and of a marriageable age, and by what I have learned and may well understand, it is because you have not the wherewith to marry her that you keep her at home. Now, in recompense of the service that you shall do me, I mean to provide her forthwith from my own moneys, with such a dowry as you yourself shall deem adequate for her marriage. The lady was too needy not to be gratified by the proposal, but nevertheless with the true spirit of the gentle woman she answered, Nay, but, Madam, tell me that which I may do for you, and if it shall be such as I may honourably do, gladly will I do it, and then you shall do as you may be minded. Said then the Countess, I require of you that through someone in whom you trust, you send word to the Count, my husband, that your daughter is ready to yield herself entirely to his will. So she may be sure that he loves her even as he professes, whereof she will never be convinced until he send her the ring which he wears on his finger, and which she understands he prizes so much, which, being sent, you shall give to me, and shall then send him word that your daughter is ready to do his pleasure.  Perchance by God's grace I shall conceive, and so, having his ring on my finger, and a sun-gotten of him on my arm, shall have him for my own again, and live with him even as a wife should live with her husband, and owe it all to you. The Lady felt that it was not a little that the Countess craved of her, for she feared lest it should bring reproach upon her daughter. But she reflected that to aid the good Lady to recover her husband was an honourable enterprise, and that in undertaking it she would be subserving a like-end. And so, trusting in the good and virtuous disposition of the Countess, she not only promised to do as she was required, but in no long time, proceeding with caution and secrecy as she had been bidden, she both had the ring from the Count, loathe though he was to part with it, and cunningly contrived that the Countess should lie with him in place of her daughter, in which first commingling so ardently sought by the Count, it so pleased God that the Lady was gotten, as in due time her delivery made manifest, with two sons. Nor once only, but many times did the Lady gratify the Countess with the embraces of her husband, using such secrecy that no word thereof ever got wind, the Count all the while supposing that he lay not with his wife, but with her that he loved, and being wont to give her, as he left her in the morning, some fair and rare jewel which she jealously guarded. When she perceived that she was with child, the Countess, being minded no more to burden the Lady with such service, said to her, Madam, thanks be to God and to you, I now have that which I desired, and therefore it is time that I make you grateful or acquittal, and take my leave of you. The Lady answered that she was glad if the Countess had got an ought that gave her joy, but that was not as hoping to have Gerdon thereof that she had done her part, but simply because she deemed it meat, and her duty so to do. Well said, Madam, returned the Countess, and in like manner, that which you shall ask of me, I shall not give you by way of Gerdon, but because I deem it meat, and my duty to give it. Whereupon the Lady, yielding to necessity, and abashed beyond measure, asked of her a hundred pounds, wherewith to marry her daughter. The Countess, marking her embarrassment, and the modesty of her request, gave her five hundred pounds, besides jewels fair and rare, worth perhaps no less, and having thus much more than contented her, and received her super-abundant thanks, she took leave of her, and returned to the inn. The Lady, to render purposeless further visits or messages on Bertrand's part, withdrew with her daughter to the house of her kin spoke in the country. Nor was it long before Bertrand, on the urgent entreaty of his vassals, and intelligence of the departure of his wife, quitted Florence, and returned home. Greatly elated by this intelligence the Countess tarried a while in Florence, and was there delivered of two sons, as like as possible to their father, whom she nurtured with sedulous care. But by and by she saw fit to take the road, and being come unrecognized by any to Montpellier rested there a few days. And being on the alert for news of the Count and where he was, she learned that on all Saints' Day he was to hold a great reception of ladies and gentlemen at Roussillon. With her retaining her now-wanted pilgrims' weeds she hired her, and finding that the ladies and gentlemen were all gathered in the Count's palace, and on the point of going to table, she tarried not to change her dress, but went up into the hall, bearing her little ones in her arms, and threading her way through the throng to the place where she saw the Count stand, she threw herself at his feet, and sobbing said to him, My Lord, thy hapless bride am I, who to ensure thy homecoming and abidance in peace have long time been a wanderer, and now demand of the observance of the condition whereof word was brought me by the two knights whom I sent to thee. Low in my arms not one son only, but twain, gotten of thee, and on my finger, thy ring, to his time, then, that I be received of thee as thy wife, according to thy word. Where at the Count was all dumbfounded, recognizing the ring and his own lineaments in the children so like were they to him, but saying to himself, nevertheless, how can it have come about? So the Countess, while the Count and all that were present marveled exceedingly, told what had happened, and the manner of it, in precise detail. Wherefore the Count, perceiving that she spoke truth, and having regard to her perseverance and address, and her two fine boys, and the wishes of all his vassals and the ladies, who with one accord besought him to own and honor her thenceforth as his lawful bride, laid aside his harsh obduracy, and raised the Countess to her feet, and embraced and kissed her, and acknowledged her for his lawful wife, and the children for his own. Then, having caused her to be re-arrayed in garments befitting her rank, he, to the boundless delight of as many as were there, and of all other his vassals, gave up that day, and some that followed, to feasting and merry-making, and did ever thenceforth honor, love, and most tenderly cherish her as his bride and wife. End of Day Three, the Ninth Story, Recording by Ruth Golding Day Three, the Tenth Story of the Decameron This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information, or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. Reading by Andy Minter The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio Translated by J. M. Rig Day Three, the Tenth Story Alibach turns hermit, and is taught by Rasticoe, a monk, how the devil is put in hell. She is afterwards conveyed thence, and becomes the wife of Neobali. Dio Neal, observing that the Queen's story, which he had followed with the closest attention, was now ended, and that it only remained for him to speak, waited not to be bitten, but smilingly thus began.  Wherefore, without deviating far from the topic of which you have discoursed throughout the day, I will tell you how it is done. It may be that the lesson will prove inspiring. Besides which, you may learn therefrom that albeit love prefers the gay palace and the dainty chamber to the rude cabin, yet for all that he may at times manifest his might in wilds matted with forests rugged with alps and desolate with caverns, whereby it may be understood that all things are subject to his sway. But to come to my story, I say that in the city of Capsa in Barbary there was once a very rich man, who, with other children, had a fair and dainty little daughter, Alibach by name. Now Alibach, not being a Christian, and hearing many Christians that were in the city, speak much in praise of the Christian faith and the service of God. Did one day inquire of one of them, after what fashion it were possible to serve God with as few impediments as might be, and was informed that they served God best who most completely renounced the world and its affairs, like those who had fixed their abode in the wilds of the Tibet desert, whereupon actuated by no sober predilection but by childish impulse, the girl, who was very simple in about fourteen years of age, said never a word more of the matter, but stole away on the morrow, and quite alone set out to walk to the Tibet desert. And by force of resolution, albeit with no small suffering, she, after some days, reached those wilds, where, espying a cabin a great way off, she hide her thither, and found a holy man by the door, who, marvelling to see her there, asked her what she came there to seek. She answered that, guided by the spirit of God, she was come thither, seeking if happily she might serve him, and also find someone that might teach her how he ought to be served, marking her youth and great beauty, the worthy man, fearing lest, if he suffered her to remain with him, he should be ensnared by the devil, commended her good intention, set before her a frugal repast of roots of herbs, crab-apples and dates, with a little water to wash them down, and said to her, My daughter, there is a holy man not far from here, who is much better able to teach thee that of which thou art in quest than I am. Go to him, therefore, and he showed her the way. But when she was come wither she was directed, she met with the same answer as before, and so, setting forth again, she came at length to the cell of a young hermit, a worthy man, and very devout, his name Rustico, whom she interrogated as she had the others.  Hardly had she done so before the solicitations of the flesh, joined battle with the powers of Rustico's spirit, and he, finding himself left in the lurch by the latter, endured not many assaults before he beat a retreat and surrendered at discretion, wherefore he bade adieu to holy meditation and prayer and discipline, and fell amusing on the youth and beauty of his companion, and also how he might so order his conversation with her, that without seeming to her to be a libertine, he might yet compass that which he craved of her. So, probing her by certain questions, he discovered that she was as yet entirely without cognizance of man, and as simple as she seemed. Wherefore, he ex-cogitated a plan for bringing her to pleasure him under colour of serving God. He began by giving her a long lecture on the great enmity that subsists between God and the devil, after which he gave her to understand that God, having condemned the devil to hell, to put him there, was of all services the most acceptable to God. The girl, asking him how it might be done, Rustico answered, Thou shalt knowest in a trice Thou hast but to do that which thou seest me do. Then, having divested himself of his scanty clothing, he threw himself stock naked on his knees, as if he would pray, whereby he caused the girl, who followed his example, to confront him in the same posture. The following are untranslated. Ora è l'imida grandissima molestia, tanto che io appena la posso sofferire. Allora disse la giovane, O lo dato sia il Dio che io veggio che io sto meglio che non stai tu, che io non ho col testo di avolo io. Disse Rustico, tu di vero, ma tu hai un'altra cosa che non la ho io, e hai il niscambio di questo. Disse Alibek, ok, a cui Rustico disse, hai il ninferno, e dicoti che io mi credo che il Dio t'abbia qui mandata per la salute della annima mia, perciò che se questo diavolo pur mi darà questa noia, ove tu vogli aver di me tanta pietà e sofferire che io in inferno il remetta, tu mi darai grandissima consolazione e 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, O padre mio, poscia che io il ninferno sia pure quando vi piacerà. Disse allora Rustico, figlio la mia, benedetta sia tu. Andiamo dunque e rimettiamolo vi, si, che egli poscia mi lasci stare. E cosiddetto, menata la giovane sopra uno del loro leticelli, le insegnò come starsi dovesse ad overe incarcerare quel male detto da Dio. La giovane che mai più non aveva in inferno messo diavolo alcuno per la prima volta sentì un poco di noia, perché ella disse a Rustico. Per certo, padre mio, ma la cosa di essere questo diavolo è veramente nemico di Dio, che ancora al ninferno, nonché altrui, duele quando egli vi dentro rimesso. Disse Rustico, figliola, egli non avverrà sempre così. E per fare che questo non avvenisse, da sei volte, anzi che di su il leticell si muovessero, vell'immisero tanto che per quella volta gli trasersi la superbia del capo, che egli si stette volentieri in pace. Ma, ritornata agli poi nel seguente tempo più volte, e la giovane ubidiente sempre a tragliele si disponesse, avvenne che il gioco le cominciò a piacere e cominciò a dire a Rustico. Enveggio che il ver dicevano che Valentuomini incapsa che gli servire a Dio era così dolce cosa. E per certo io non mi ricordo che mai alcuna altra ne facessi che di tanto di letto e piacermi fosse, quanto è il rimettere il diavolo in inferno. E perciò io giudico ogni altra persona che ad altro che a servire a Dio attende essere una bestia. Per la qualcosa essa spesse volte andava Rustico e gli dicea, Padre mio, io sono qui venuta per servir a Dio, e non per istare oziosa, andiamo a rimettere il diavolo in inferno. La qualcosa facendo diceva Ella alcuna volta. Rustico, io non so perché il diavolo si sfuga di inferno. Che se egli vi stesse così volentieri come il inferno il riceve e tiene, egli non se ne uscirebbe mai. Così ad un tempo invitando spesso la giovane Rustico era al servigio di Dio confortandolo si la bambaggia del farsetto tratta gli avea che Elly a tal ora sentiva freddo che un altro sarebbe sudato. E perciò Elly incomincio a dire alla giovane che il diavolo non era da castigare né da rimettere in inferno, se non quando Elly per superbia levassi il capo. E noi, per grazie di Dio, l'abbiamo si sgannato, che Elly priega il Dio di starse in pace, e così al quanto impose di silenzio alla giovane. La qual poiché vide Rustico non la richiedeva ad over il diavolo rimettere in inferno, gli disse un giorno. Rustico, se il diavolo tuo è castigato e più non ti dà noia, me il mio inferno non lascia stare, perché tu farei bene che tu, col tuo diavolo aiuti a tuttare la rabbia al mio inferno, come io col mio inferno ho aiutato a trare la superbia del tuo diavolo. Rustico, che di radici, derba ed acqua viveva, poteva male rispondere alle poste, e dissele che troppi diavoli vorrebono essere a potere all'inferno a tuttare, ma che Elly ne farebbe ciò che per lui si potesse. E così, alcuna volta li soddisfaceva, ma si era di rado che altro non era che gittare una fava in bocca al leone, di che la giovane, non parendole tanto servire a Dio quanto voleva, mormorava, anzi che no. However, the case standing thus, deficiency of power against superfluity of desire between Rustico's devil and Ellybeck's hell, it chanced that a fire broke out in Capsa, whereby the house of Ellybeck's father was burned, and he and all his sons and the rest of his household perished, so that Ellybeck was left so heiress of all his estate. And the young gallant, near Bali by name, whom by reckless munificence had wasted all his substance, having discovered that she was alive, addressed himself to the pursuit of her. And having found her, in time to prevent the confiscation of her father's estate as an eschiat for failure of heirs, took her, much to Rustico's relief and against her own will, back to Capsa, and made her his wife, and shared with her her vast patrimony. But before he had lain with her, she was questioned by the ladies of the manner in which she had served God in the desert, where too she answered that she had been wont to serve him by putting the devil in hell, and that near Bali had committed a great sin when he took her out of such service. The ladies, being curious to know how the devil was put in hell, the girls satisfied them, partly by words, partly by signs. Where at they laughed exorbitantly, and still laughed, and said to her, Be not down-hearted, daughter, it is done here, too. Near Bali will know well how to serve God with you in that way.  Wherefore, young ladies, you that have need of the grace of God, see to it that you learn how to put devil in hell, because it is mightily pleasing to God, and of great solace to both the parties, and much good may thereby be engendered and ensue. End of Day 3 The 10th Story More had Dionneo's story brought the love to the lips of the honourable ladies, so he went on curiously entertaining, found there is a fashion of it. And now at its close, the queen, seeing the term of her sovereignty come, took the laurel breast from her head, and his mane, most de Bonneo, set it on the brow of Filostrato, saying, We shall soon see whether the wolf will know better how to guide the sheep, than the sheep have yet succeeded in guiding the wolves. Whereout Filostrato said with the love, Had I been hurken too, the wolves would have taught the sheep to put the devil in hell, even as Rustico taught Alibach. Wherefore, call us not wolves, seeing that you have not shown yourself sheep. However, as best I may be able, I will govern the kingdom committed to my charge. Whereupon Neyfila took him up. Harkey Filostrato, she said, While you thought to teach us, you might have learned a lesson from us, as did Massetto da Lamporeccio from the Nuns, and have recovered your speech when the bones had learned to whistle without master. Filostrato perceiving that there was a skith for each of his arrows, gave up jesting, and addressed himself to the governance of his kingdom. He called the seneschal and held him strictly to account in every particular. He then judiciously ordered all matters as he deemed would be best, and most to the satisfaction of the company, while his sovereignty should last. And having so done, he turned to the ladies and said, Loving ladies, as my ill luck would have it, since I have had wit to tell good from evil, the charms of one or other of you have kept me ever a slave to love, and for all I should myself humble and obedient and conformable, so far as I knew how, to all his ways. My fate has been still the same, to be discarded for another, and go ever from bad to worse, and so I suppose it will be with me to the hour of my death. Wherefore I am minded that tomorrow our discourse be of no other topic than that which is most German to my condition, to wit of those whose loves had disastrous clothes, because mine, I expect, will in the long run be most disastrous, nor for other cause was the name by which you address me, given me by one, that well knew its signification. Which said, he arose and dismissed them all until supper time. So fair and delightsome was the garden, that none so fit to quit it, and seek diversion elsewhere, rather for the sun now shone with the temper radiance that caused no discomfort. Some of the ladies gave chase to the kids and cornies, and other creatures that hounded it, and scampering to and fro among them as they said, had caused them a hundred times, or so, some slight embarrassment. Dionio and Fiametta fell as singing of Messergull Glioomo and the Lady of Vergio. Filomena and Pamphilo sat them down to a game of chess, and as thus they pursued each their several diversions, time sped so swiftly, that the supper hours stole upon them almost unaverse, whereupon they arranged the tables round the beautiful fountain, and sapped with all glad and festal cheer. When the tables were removed, Filostrato, being minded to follow in the footsteps of his fair predecessors in Sve, Bate Lauretta led a dance and sing a song. She answered, My Lord, songs of others know I none, nor does my memory furnish me with any of mine, own that seems meat for so gay a company. But if you will be content with what I have, gladly will I give you thereof. Not of thine, return the king, could be other than goodly and delectable, wherefore give us even what thou hast. So encourage Lauretta with dulcet voice, but manner somewhat languishing, raised an suing strain, to which the other ladies responded. What dame disconsolate may so lament as I, that vainly sigh to love still dedicate. He that the heaven and every orb doth move formed me for his delight, fair, debonair, and gracious, apt for love, that here on earth each soaring spirit might have foretaste how above that beauty shows that standeth in his sight. Ah, but dull wit and slight, for that it judgeth ill, likeeth me not, nay doth me violently rate. There was who loved me, and my maiden grace did fondly clip and strain, as in his arms so in his soul's embrace, and from mine eyes loves fired it drink amane, and time that glides apace in naught but courting me to spend was fain, whom courteous I did dain even as my peer to entreat, but am of him bereft. Ah, dullerous fate! Came to me next a gallant, swollen with pride, brave in his own conceit, and no less noble eke, whom woe betide that he me took, and holds in all unmeet suspicion jealous-eyed, and I who what that me the world should greet as the predestined sweet of many men, well-nigh despair to beat a one thus subjugate. Ah, woe is me! Cursed be the luckless day when, a new gown to wear, I said the fatal eye. For blithe and gay in that plain gown I lived, no wit less fair, while in this rich array a sad and far less honoured life I bear. Would I had died, or ere sounded those notes of joy, ah, dullerous cheer, my woe to celebrate. So list my supplication, lover dear, of whom such joyance I as near another had, thou that in clear light of the maker's presence art, deny not pity to thy fear who thee may never forget, but let one sigh breathe tidings that on high thou burnest still for me, and sooth of God that he me there translate. So ended Laura to her song, to which all hearkened attentively, though not all interpreted it alike. Some were inclined to give it a moral, after the millenie's fashion, to wit, that a good porker was better than pretty quen. Others construed it in a higher, better and truer sense, which did not to the present purpose to unfold. Some more songs followed by command of the king, who caused torches not afew to be lighted and ranged about the flowery mead, and so the night was prolonged until the last star that had risen had begun to set. Then, besinking him, that was time for slumber, and the king bade all good night, and dismissed them to their several chambers. End of Day 3 The Conclusion Day 4 The introduction of the Decameron This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio, translated by H. M. Rigg Day 4 The Introduction Endless here, the third day of the Decameron, begins the fourth, in which, under the rule of Filostrato, this course is head of those whose loves had a disastrous close. Dearst Ladies, as well, from what I heard in converse with the wise, as from matters that not seldom fell within my own observation and reading, I formed the opinion that the vehement and scorching blast of envy was up to end itself only upon lofty towers or the highest treetops. But therein I find that I misjudged, for whereas I ever thought and studied how best to elude the buffettings of that furious hurricane, and to that end kept a course not merely on the plane, but by preference in the depths of the bolly, I should be abundantly clear to whose looks at these little stories. Britain, as they, are not only in the vulgar Florentine and in prose and without dedicatory flourish, but also in as homely and simple a style as may be. Nevertheless, all this has not stood me in such stead, but that I have been shrewdly shaken, nay, all but uprooted by the blast, and all together lacerated by the bite of the same envy. Whereby I may very well understand that it's true, what the sags other, that only misery accept from envy in the present life. Know, then, discreet ladies, that some there are, who, reading these little stories, have alleged that I am too fond of you, and that it is not a seemly thing that I should take so much pleasure in ministering to your gratification and solace, and some have found more fault with me for praising you as I do. Others, affecting to deliver a more considered judgment, have said that it ill befeats my time of life, to ensue such matters, to wit, to this coursing of woman, or endeavouring to pleasure them. And not a few, feigning a mighty tender regard to my fame, other, that I should do more wisely to keep ever with the muses of Parnassus, than to forgother with you in such vain dalliance. Those again there are, who, evincing less wisdom than despite, have told me that I should shoe sounder sense, if I bethought me how to get my daily bread, than going after these idle toys, to nourish myself upon the wind, while certain others, in disparagement of my work, strive might and main, to make it appear that the matters which I relate fell out otherwise than as I said them forth. Such, then, noble ladies, are the blasts, such a sharp and cruel fangs, by which, while I champion your cause, I am assailed, harassed, and well-knigh pierced through and through, which tensors I hear and mark, good-nose, with equal mind, and though to you belongs all my defence, yet I mean not to be niggered of my own powers, but rather, without dealing out to them the castigations they deserve, to give them such slight answer as may secure my ears, some respite of their clamour, and that without delay. Seeing that, if already, though I have not completed the third part of my work, they are not a few and very presumptuous, I deem it possible, that before I have reached the end, should they receive no check, they may have grown so numerous, that it would scarce tax their powers, to sink me, and that your forces, great so they be, would not suffice to withstand them. However, I am minded to answer none of them, until I have related in my behoof, not indeed an entire story, for I would not seem to foist my stories in among those of so honourable a company, as that, with which I have made you acquainted, but a part of one, that is very incomplete-ness, may show, that it is not one of them. Therefore, addressing my assailants, I say, that in our city there was an old time a citizen named Philippi Balducci, a man of quite low origin, but of good substance and well-worse, an expert in matters belonging to his condition, who had a wife, that he most dearly loved, as did she him, so that their life passed in peace and concord, nor there was odd they studied so much as how to please each other perfectly. Now it came to pass, as it does to every one, that the good lady departed this life, leaving Philopo enough of hers, but an only son, that she had had by him, and who was then about two years old. His wife's death left Philippo as disconsolate as ever was any man, for the loss of a loved one, and sorely missing the companionship that was most dear to him. He resolved to have done with the world, and devote himself and his little son to the service of God. Therefore, having dedicated all his goods to charitable uses, he forthwith betook him to the summit of Monte Asinayo, where he installed himself with his son in a little cell, and living on alms past his days in fasting and prayer. Being careful above all things, to say nothing to the boy of any temporal matters, nor to let him see odd of the kind, let's say should distract his mind from his religious exercises, but discoursing with him continually of the glory of the life eternal, and of God and the saints, and teaching him not else but holy horizons, in which way of life he kept him not a few years, never suffering him to quits a cell or see odd but himself. From time to time the worthy man would go to Florence, where diverse of the faithful would afford him relief according to his needs, and so he would return to his cell. And thus it fell out that one day Philippo, now an aged man, being asked by the boy, who was about eighteen years old, whether he went, told him, whereupon father said the boy, you are no old and scarce able to support fatigue, why take you me not with you for once to Florence, and give me to know the old friends of God, and you, so that I, who am young and fitter for such assertion than you, may thereafter go to Florence for our supplies at your pleasure, and you remain here. The worthy man, best thinking him that his son was now grown up, and so habituated to the service of God, as hardly to be seduced by the things of the world, said to himself, he says tell, and so as he must needs to go to Florence, he took the boy with him, where, seeing the palaces, the houses, the churches, and all matters else, was which the city abounds, and of which he had no more recollection, than if he had never seen them. The boy found all passing strange, and questioned his father of not a few of them, what they were and how they were named, his curiosity being no sooner satisfied, in one particular, than he plied his father with a further question, and so it befell that, while son and father were thus occupied in asking and answering questions, they encountered a bevy of damsels, fair and richly arrayed, being on their return from a wedding, whom the young man no sooner saw, than he asked his father what they might be. My son answered the father, fix thy gaze on the ground, regard them not at all, for naughty things are they. Oh! said the son, and what is their name? The father, fearing to awaken some mischievous craving of concupiscence in the young man, would not denote them truly to wit as women, but said, they are called Goslings. Whereupon, wonderful to tell, the lad who had never before said, eyes of any woman, sought no more of the palaces, the oxen, the horses, the asses, the money, or odd else, that he had seen, but exclaimed, Prithee, father, let me have one of those Goslings. Alas! my son replied the father, speaking out of them, they are naughty things. Oh! questioned the son, but are naughty things made like that. I returned the father. Whereupon the son? I know not, he said, what you say, nor why there should be naughty things. For my part I have as yet seen not, that seem to me so fair and delectable. They are fairer than the painted angels that you have so often shown me. Oh! if you love me, do but let us take one of these Goslings up there, and I will see that she how very on to bill. Nay, said the father, that will not I, though no is not where on thy bill. And straightway, being where that nature was more potent than his art, he repented him that he had brought the poet of Lawrence. But enough of the story, this time for me to cut it short, and return for those, for whose instruction it is told. They say then, some of these my censors, that I am too fond of you, young ladies, and am at too great pains to pleasure you.  They do verily marvel that I am fond of you, seeing that one who was nurtured, reared, and brought up on a savage and solitary mountain, within the narrow circuit of a cell, without other companions than his father, had no sooner seen you, than it was you alone, that he desired, that he demanded, that he sought with ardour. Will they tear, will they lacerate me with their sangors, if I, whose body heaven fashioned all apt for love, whose soul from every byhood was dedicated to you? I am not insensible to the power of the light of your eyes, to the sweetness of your honeyed words, to the flames that is kindled by your gentle sighs. But I am fond of you, and sadderless to pleasure you.  Of a truth whose taxes me thus must be one that, feeling, knowing not of the pleasure and power of natural affection, loves you not, nor craves your love, and such in one I hold in light esteem. And thus for those that go about to find ground of exception in my age, they do but show, that they ill-understand, that the leak, albeit its head in white, has a green tail. But justing apart, thus I answer them, that never to the end of my life shall I deem it shameful to me, to pleasure those to whom Gido Cavalcanti and Dante Alighieri, in their old age, and Messer Signode Pistoia, in extreme old age, accounted it an honor unfounded to delight, to minister gratification. And but that it were a deviation from the use and want of discourse, I would call history to my aid, and show it to abound with stories of noble men of all time, who in their ripest age studied above all things else, to pleasure the ladies, whereof if they be ignorant, go they and get them to school. To keep with the muses on Parnassus is counsel I approve, but tarry with them always we cannot, nor they with us, nor is a man blame worthy, if, when he happened apart from them, he find his delight in those that resemble them. The muses are ladies, and albeit ladies are not the peers of the muses, yet they have their old-word semblance, for which cause, if not for other, it's reasonable that I should be fond of them, besides which ladies have been to me the occasion of composing some thousand verses, but of never a verse, that I made were the muses the occasion. How bad it was with their aid, it was under their influence that I composed those thousand verses, and perchance, they have sometimes visited me, to encourage me in my present task, humble indeed though it be, doing honour and paying, as it were, tribute, to the likeness which the ladies have to them, wherefore, while I weave these stories, I stray not so far from mount Parnassus and the muses, as not a few perchance suppose. But what shall we say to those, in whom my hunger excites such commissuration, that they bid me get me bread? Why really I know not, save this, suppose that in my need I were to beg bread of them, what would be their answer? I doubt not, they would say, go seek it among the fables. And in those the poets have found more bread among their fables, than many rich men among their treasures, and many that have gone after fables have crowned their days with splendour, while, on the other hand, not a few, in the endeavour to get them more bread than they needed, have perished miserably. But why waste more warts on them? Let them send me packing, when I ask bread of them, not that, thank God I have yet need of it, and should I ever come to be in need of it? I know, like the Apostle, how to abound and to be in want, and so I am minded to be beholden to none but myself. As for those who say, that these matters fell out otherwise, than as I relate them, I should account it no smell favour, if they would produce the originals, and should what I write not accord with them, I would acknowledge the justice of their censor, and study to amend my ways. But until better evidence is forthcoming than their words, I shall adhere to my own opinion, without thinking to deprive them of theirs, and give them tit for tat. And being minded, that for this while this answer suffice, I say, that with God and you, in whom I trust most gentle ladies, to aid and protect me, and patience for my stay, I shall go forward with my work, turning my back on this tempest, however it may rage. For I see not, that I can fare worse than the fine dust, which the blast of the whirlwind either leaves where it lies, or burrows a laugh, not seldom over the heads of men, over the crowns of kings of emperors, and sometimes suffers to settle on the roofs of lofty palaces, and the summits of the tallest towers, whence if it fall, it cannot sink lower than the level from which it was raised. And if I ever devoted myself, and all my powers to minister and any wise to your gratification, I am now minded more than ever so to do, because I know, that there is not, that any can justly say in regards thereof, but that I, and others who love you, follow the promptings of nature, whose laws, whoso would withstand, has need of powers preeminent, and even so, will oft times labor not merely in vain, but to his own most grievous disadvantage. Such powers I own, that I neither have, nor to such end desire to have, and had I them, I would rather leave them to another than use them myself. Wherefore let my detractors hold their peace, and if they cannot get heat, why, let them shiver their life away, and, while they remain addicted to their delights, or as their corrupt taste is, let them leave me to follow my own, bent during the brief life that is accorded us. But this had been a long discretion, fair ladies, and this time to retrace our steps to the point where we deviated, and continue in the course on which we started. The sun had chased every star from the sky, and lifted the dark murk of night from the earth, when Filistrato being risen, and having roused all his company, they hid them to the fair garden, and there fell to desporting themselves. The time for breakfast being come, they took it where they had sapped on the preceding evening, and after they had slept their rows, when the sun was in his zenith, and seated themselves in their wanted manner by the beautiful fountain, where Fiametta, being bitten by Filistrato to lead off the storytelling, awaited no second command, but the bonerly thus began. End of introduction of Day 4. Day 4, the first story of the Decameron. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Gesina. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio, translated by J. M. Rigg. Day 4. The first story. Tankred, Prince of Salerno, slays his daughter's lover, and sends her his heart in a golden cup. She pours upon it a poisonous distillation, which she drinks and dies. A direful theme has our king allotted us for today's discourse, seeing that, whereas we are here met for our common delectation, needs must we now tell of others' tears, whereby, whether telling or hearing, we cannot but be moved to pity. Patanced was to temper, in some degree, the gaiety of the past days, that he so ordained, but whatever may have been his intent, his will must be, to me, immutable law. Wherefore, I will narrate to you a matter that befell piteously, nay, woefully, and so as you may well weep there at. Tankred, Prince of Salerno, a lord most humane and kind of heart, but that in his old age he imbrewed his hands in the blood of a lover, had in the whole course of his life but one daughter, and had he not had her, he had been more fortunate. Never was a daughter more tenderly beloved of a father than she of the Prince, who for that course not knowing how to part with her, kept her unmarried for many a year after she had come of marital age, but then at last he gave her to a son of the Duke of Capua, with whom she had lived but a short while when he died and she returned to her father. Most lovely was she of form and feature, never woman more so, and young and light of heart, and more knowing patrons than besiemed a woman. Dwelling thus with her loving father, as a great lady in no small luxury, nor feeling to see that the Prince, for the great love he bore her, was at no pains to provide her with another husband, and deeming it unseemly on her part to ask one of him, she cast about how she might come by a gallant to be her secret lover. And seeing at her father's court not a few men, both gentle and simple, that resorted zither, as we know men used to frequent courts, and closely scanning their mean and manners, she preferred before all others the Princess Page, Guiscardo by name, a man of very humble origin but preeminent for native, worse and noble bearing, of whom seeing him frequently she became hotly enamoured, hourly extolling his qualities more and more highly. The young man, who for all his use by no means lacked shrewdness, read her heart, and gave her his own on such wise that his love for her engrossed his mind to the exclusion of almost everything else, while thus they burned in secret for one another, the lady, desiring of all things a meeting with Guiscardo, but being shy of making any her confidant, hit upon a novel expedient to concert the affair with him. She wrote him a letter containing her commands for the ensuing day, and thrusted into a cane in the space between two of the knots, which cane she gave to Guiscardo, saying, Thou canst let thy servant have it for a bellows to blow thy fire up to-night. Guiscardo took it, and feeling sure that it was not unadvisedly that she made him such a present, accompanied with such words, hide him straight home, where, carefully examining the cane, he observed that it was cleft, and opening it, found the letter, which he had no sooner read and learned what he was to do, than, pleased as now another, he fell to devising how to set all in order that he might not fail to meet the lady on the following day after the manner she had prescribed. Now hard by the Princess Palace was a grotto, hewn in days of old in the solid rock, and now long disused, so that an artificial orifice by which it received a little light was all but choked with brambles and plants that grew about and overspread it. From one of the ground floor rooms of the palace, which room was part of the lady's suite, a secret stair led to the grotto, though the entrance was barred by a very strong door. This stair, having been from time immemorial disused, had passed out of mind so completely that there was scarce any that remembered it was there, but love, whose eyes nothing, however secret, may escape, had brought it to the mind of the enamoured lady. For many a day, using all secrecy, that none should discover her, she had wrought with her tools until she had succeeded in opening the door, which done she had gone down into the grotto alone, and having observed the orifice, had by her letter apprised Guiscardo of its apparent height above the floor of the grotto, and bidden him, contrived some means of descending thereby. Eager to carry the affair through, Guiscardo lost no time in digging up a ladder of ropes, whereby he might ascend and descend. And having put on a suit of leather to protect him from the brambles, he hide him the following night, keeping the affair close from all, to the orifice, made the ladder fast by one of its ends to a massive trunk that was rooted in the mouth of the orifice, climbed down the ladder, and awaited the lady. On the morrow, making as if she would faint sleep, the lady dismissed her damsels and locked herself into her room. She then opened the door of the grotto, hide her down, and met Guiscardo, to their marvellous mutual satisfaction. The lovers then repaired to her room, where, in exceeding great joins, they spent no small part of the day. Nor were they neglectful of the precautions needful to prevent discovery of their amour, but in due time, Guiscardo returned to the grotto, whereupon the lady locked the door and rejoined her damsels. At nightfall, Guiscardo re-ascended his ladder, and, issuing forth of the orifice, hide him home. Nor, knowing now the way, did he fail to revisit the grotto many a time thereafter. But fortune, noting with envious eyes a happiness of such degree and duration, gave the events a dolorous turn, whereby the joy of the two lovers was converted into bitter lamentation. It was Tancred's custom to come from time to time quite alone to his daughter's room and tarry talking with her a while. Whereby it so befell that he came down there one day after breakfast, while Guismonda, such was the lady's name, was in her garden with her damsels, so that none saw or heard him enter, nor would he call his daughter, for he was minded that she should not forego her pleasure. But finding the windows closed and the bed curtains drawn down, he seated himself on a divan, that stood at one end of the corners of the bed, rested his head on the bed, drew the curtain over him, and thus, hidden as if of said purpose, fell asleep. As he slept, Guismonda, who, as it happened, had caused Guiscardo to come that day, left her damsels in the garden, softly entered the room, and having locked herself in, unwitting that there was another in the room, opened the door to Guiscardo, who was waiting. Straightway they got them to bed, as was their want, and while they there solaced and disported them together, so it befell that Tancred awoke, and heard and saw what they did. Whereat he was troubled beyond measure, and at first was minded to abrade them, but on second sorts he deemed it best to hold his peace and avoid discovery, if so he might with greater stealth and less dishonour carry out the design which was already in his mind. The two lovers continued long together, as they were want, all unwitting of Tancred, but at length they saw fit to go out of bed. When Guiscardo went back to the grotto, and the lady hid her force of the room. Whereupon Tancred, o'de he was, got out at one of the windows, clambered down into the garden, and seen by none, returned sorely troubled to his room. By his command, two men took Guiscardo early that same night, as he eschewed force of the orifice occluded in his suit of leather, and brought him privily to Tancred, who as he saw him, all but wept, and said, Guiscardo, my kindness to thee is ill-requited by the outrage and dishonour which thou hast done me in the person of my daughter, as to-day I have seen with my own eyes. To which, Guiscardo, could answer not, but, love is more potent than either you or I. Tancred then gave order to keep him privily under watch and ward in a room within the palace, and so it was done. Next day, while Guiscardo watered not of these matters, Tancred, after pondering diverse novel expedience, hide him after breakfast, according to his want, to his daughter's room, where, having called her to him and locked himself in with her, he began, not without tears, to speak on this wise. Guiscardo, conceiving that I knew thy virtue and honour, never though it had been reported to me, would I have credited, had I not seen with my own eyes, that thou wouldst so much as an idea, not to say fact, have ever yielded thyself to any man but thy husband, wherefore for the brief residue of life that my age has in store for me, the memory of thy fall will ever be grievous to me. And would to God, as thou must needs demean thyself to such dishonour, thou hathst taken a man that match thy nobility, but of all the men that frequent my court, thou must needs choose Guiscardo, a young man of the lowest condition, a fellow whom we brought up in charity from his tender years. For whose sake, thou hast plunged me into the abyss of mental tribulation, in so much that I know not what cause to take in regard of thee. As to Guiscardo, whom I caused to be arrested last night as he issued from the orifice and kept endurance, my course is already taken, but how am I to deal with thee God knows I know not. I am distraught between the love which I have ever borne thee, love such as no father ever bared to daughter, and the most just indignation evoked in me by thy signal folly. My love prompts me to pardon thee, my indignation bids me harden my heart against thee, though I do violence to my nature. But before I decide upon my course I would feign hear what thou hast to say to this. So saying he bent his head, and wept as bitterly as any child that had been soundly thrashed. Her father's words and the tidings they conveyed that not only was her secret passion discovered but Guiscardo taken caused Guismondo immeasurable grief, which she was again and again on the point of evincing, as most women do, by cries and tears, but her high spirit triumphed over this weakness. By a prodigious effort she composed her countenance, and taking it for granted that her Guiscardo was no more, she inly devoted herself to death rather than a single prayer for herself should escape her lips. Therefore not as a woman stricken with grief or chidden for a fault, but unconcerned and underbashed, with tearless eyes, and frankened utterly dauntless mien, thus answered she her father. Tankard, your accusation I shall not deny, neither will I cry you mercy, for naught should I gain by denial, nor ought would I gain by supplication. Nay more, there is naught I will do to conciliate thy humanity and love. My only care is to confess the truth, to defend my honour by words of sound reason, and then by deeds most resolute to give effect to the promptings of my high soul. True it is that I have loved and loved Guiscardo, and during the brief while I have yet to live shall love him. Nor after death, so there be then love, shall I cease to love him. But that I love him is not imputable to my womanly frailty, so much as to the little zeal thou shodst me, for my bestowal in marriage, and to Guiscardo's own worth. It should not have escaped thee, Tankard, creature of flesh and blood as thou art, that thy daughter was also a creature of flesh and blood, and not of stone or iron, it was, and is, thy duty to bear in mind, old though thou art, the nature and the might of the laws to which youth is subject, and though thou hast spent part of thy best years in martial exercises, thou should nevertheless have not been ignorant how potent is the influence even upon the aged, to say nothing of the young, of ease and luxury. At not only am I, as being your daughter, a creature of flesh and blood, but my life is not so far spent, but I am still young, and thus doubly fraught with fleshly appetite. The vehemence whereof is marvelously enhanced by reason that, having been married, I have known the pleasure that ensues upon the satisfaction of such desire. Which forces being powerless to withstand, I did but act as was natural in a young woman, when I gave way to them, and yielded myself to love. Nor ensuth did I fail to the utmost of my power, so to order the indulgence of my natural propensity that my sin should bring shame neither upon thee nor upon me. To which end, love in his pity and fortune in a friendly mood, found and discovered me a secret way whereby, non-witting, I attained my desire, this from whomsoever thou hast learned it, howsoever thou comest to know it, I deny not. It was not at random, as many women do, that I loved Guiscardo, but by deliberate choice I preferred him before all other men, and of determinate forethought I lured him to my love, whereof, through his and my discretion and constancy, I have long had joints. Wherein it would seem that thou, following rather the opinion of the vulgar than the dictates of truth, find cause to tried me more severely than in my sinful love? For as if thou wouldst not have been vexed, had my choice fallen on a nobleman, thou complainest that I have foregathered with a man of low condition, and dost not see that therein thou censurist not my fault but that of fortune, which not seldom raises the unworthy of high place and leaves the worthiest in low estate. But leave with this, consider a little the principle of things, thou ceased that in regard of our flesh we are all moulded of the same substance, and that all souls are endowed by one and the same Creator with equal faculties, equal powers, equal virtues. It was merit that made the first distinction between us, born as we were, nay as we are, all equal. And those whose merits were and were approved in act the greatest were called noble, and the rest were not so denoted. Which law, albeit overlaid by the contrary usage of aftertimes, is not yet abrogated, nor so impaired that it is still traceable in nature and good manners? For which course whoso with merit acts does plainly show himself a gentleman, and if any denote him otherwise the default is his own, and not his whom he so denotes. Pass and review all thy nobles, weigh their merits, their manners and bearing, and then compare Guiscardo's qualities with theirs, if thou wilt judge without prejudice, thou wilt pronounce him noble in the highest degree, and thy nobles one and all childs. As to Guiscardo's merits and worths, I did but trust the verdict which thou thyself didst utter in words, and which my own eyes confound. Of whom had he such commendation as of thee, for all those excellences, whereby a good man and true merits commendation? And in sooth thou didst him but justice, for unless my eyes have played me false, there was naught for which thou didst commend him, but I had seen him practice it, and that more admirably than words of thine might express, and had I been at all deceived in this matter it would have been by thee. Would thou say, then, that I have foregathered with a man of low condition? If so, thou wilt not say true. Didst thou say with a poor man the impeachment might be allowed to thy shame, that thou so ill hast known how to requite a good man and true that is thy servant? But poverty, though it take away all else, deprives no man of gentiless. Many kings, many great princes, were once poor, and many a ditcher or herdsman has been and is very wealthy. As for thy last propended doubt, to wit, how thou shouldst deal with me? Banish it utterly from thy thoughts. If in the extreme old age thou art minded to manifest a harshness unwanted in thy youth, wreak thy harshness on me, resolved as I am to cry thee no mercy, prime cause as I am, that this sin, if sin it be, has been committed, for of this I warn thee, that as thou mayst have done, or shout to, to Griscardo, if to me thou do not the like, I with my own hands will do it. Now get thee gone to shed thy tears with the women, and when thy melting mood is over, ruthlessly destroy Griscardo and me, if such thou deem our merited doom by one and the same blow. The loftiness of his daughter's spirit was not unknown to the prince, but still he did not credit her with the resolve quite as firmly fixed, as her words implied, to carry their purport into effect. So parting from her without the least intention of using harshness towards her, in her own person, he determined to quench the heat of her love by wreaking his vengeance on her lover, and bade the two men, that had charged Griscardo to strangle him noiselessly that same night, take the heart out of the body, and send it to him. The men did his bidding, and on the morrow the prince had a large and beautiful cup of gold brought to him, and having put Griscardo's heart therein, sent it by the hand of one of his most trusted servants to his daughter, charging the servants to say as he gave it to her, thy father sends you this, to give thee joy of that which thou lovest best, even as thou hast given him joy of that which he loved best. Now when her father had left her, Gismonda, wavering not a joint in her stern resolve, had sent for poisonous herbs and roots, and therefrom had distilled water to have it ready for use, if that which she apprehended should come to pass. And when the servant appeared with the prince's present and message, she took the cup unblanchingly, and having lifted the lid and seen the heart, and apprehended the meaning of the words, and that the heart was beyond a doubt Griscardo's, she raised her head, and looking straight at the servant said, sepulchre less honorable than of gold, had ill-befitted heart such as this. Herein has my father done wisely. Which said she raised it to her lips and kissed it, saying, In all things, and at all times, even to the last hour of my life, have I found my father most tender in his love, but now more so than ever before. Wherefore I now render him the last thanks, which will ever be due from me to him, for his goodly present. So she spoke, and straining the cup to her, bowed her head over it, and gazing at the heart said, O sojourn most sweetly, of all my joys, accursed be he by whose ruthless act I see thee with a bodily eye. It was enough that to my mind's eye thou wert hourly present. Thou hast run thy course, thou hast closed the span that fortunately lot at thee, thou hast reached the goal of all, thou hast left behind thee the woes and weariness of the world, and thy enemy has himself granted thee sepulcher, and accordant with thy deserts. Now circumstance was wanting to duly celebrate thy obsequies, save the tears of her whom, while thou liftst, thou didst so dearly love, which that thou shouldst not lack, my remorseless father was prompted of God to send thee to me, and albeit my resolve was fixed to die with eyes unmoistened, and front all unperturbed by fear, yet will I accord thee my tears, which done my care shall be forthwith by thy means to join my soul to that most precious soul which thou didst once enshrine. And is there other company than hers, in which more of joy and peace I might fair to the abode's unknown? She is yet here within, I doubt not, contemplating the abodes of her and my delights, and, for sure I am that she loves me, awaiting my soul that loves her before all else. Having thus spoken, she bowed herself low over the cup, and, while no womanish cry escaped her, twas as if a fountain of water were unloosed within her head, so wondrous a flood of tears gushed from her eyes, while times without number she kissed the dead heart. Her damsels that stood around her knew not whose the heart might be or what her words might mean, but, melting in sympathy, they all wept, and, compassionately, as vainly, inquired the course of her lamentation, and, in many other ways, sought to comfort her to the best of their understanding and power. When she had wept her fill, she raised her head and dried her eyes. Then, oh heart, said she, much cherished heart, discharged is my every duty towards thee, naught now remains for me to do but to come and unite my soul with thine. So, saying, she sent for the vase that held the water which the day before she had distilled, and emptied it into the cup, where lay the heart bathed in her tears. Then, no wise afraid, she set her mouth to the cup and drained it dry, and so with a cup in her hand she got her upon her bed, and having there disposed her person in guise as seemly as she might, laid her dead lover's heart upon her own, and silently awaited death. Meanwhile the damsels, seeing and hearing what passed, but knowing not what the water was that she had drunk, had sent word of each particular to Tankred, who, apprehensive of that which came to pass, came down with all haste to his daughter's room, where he arrived just as she got her upon her bed, and, now too late, addressed himself to comfort her with soft words, and seeing and what plight she was burst into a flood of bitter tears. To whom, the lady, reserve thy tears, Tankred, to fortune send thee up less longed for this, waste them not on me who care not for them. Whoever yet saw any but thee bewail the consummation of his desire. But if of the love thou once didst bear me, any spark still lives in thee, be it thy parting grace to me, that as thou brook it's not that I should live with Guiscardo in privity and seclusion, so wherever thou mayst have caused Guiscardo's body to be cast, mine may be united with it in the common view of all. The prince replied not, for excess of grief, and the lady, feeling that her end was come, strained the dead heart to her bosom, saying, Fair you well, I take my leave of you. And with eyelids drooped and every sense evanished departed this life of woe. Such was the lamentable end of the loves of Guiscardo and Guismonda, whom Tankred, tardily repentant of his harshness, mourned not a little, as did also all the folk of Salerno, and had honorably interred side by side in the same tomb. End of Day Four The First Story