But for some reason or other, whether because we are lacking in intelligence or because all the women of our generation were born under an unlucky star, few if any women now remain who can produce a witticism at the right moment, or who, on hearing a witticism uttered, can understand its meaning. Since Pampinea has already spoken at some length on this subject,1 I do not propose to elaborate further upon it. But in order to show you how exquisite these sayings can be if proffered at the right moment, I should like to tell you about the courteous way in which a lady imposed silence upon a certain knight.
*
As many of you will know, either through direct personal acquaintance or through hearsay, a little while ago there lived in our city a lady of silver tongue and gentle breeding, whose excellence was such that she deserves to be mentioned by name. She was called Madonna Oretta, and she was the wife of Messer Geri Spina. One day, finding herself in the countryside like ourselves, and proceeding from place to place, by way of recreation, with a party of knights and ladies whom she had entertained to a meal in her house earlier in the day, one of the knights turned to her, and, perhaps because they were having to travel a long way, on foot, to the place they all desired to reach, he said:
‘Madonna Oretta, if you like I shall take you riding along a goodly stretch of our journey by telling you one of the finest tales in the world.’
‘Sir,’ replied the lady, ‘I beseech you most earnestly to do so, and I shall look upon it as a great favour.’
Whereupon this worthy knight, whose swordplay was doubtless on a par with his storytelling, began to recite his tale, which in itself was indeed excellent. But by constantly repeating the same phrases, and recapitulating sections of the plot, and every so often declaring that he had ‘made a mess of that bit’, and regularly confusing the names of the characters, he ruined it completely.2 Moreover, his mode of delivery was totally out of keeping with the characters and the incidents he was describing, so that it was painful for Madonna Oretta to listen to him. She began to perspire freely, and her heart missed several beats, as though she had fallen ill and was about to give up the ghost. And in the end, when she could endure it no longer, having perceived that the knight had tied himself inextricably in knots, she said to him, in affable tones:
‘Sir, you have taken me riding on a horse that trots very jerkily. Pray be good enough to set me down.’
The knight, who was apparently far more capable of taking a hint than of telling a tale, saw the joke and took it in the cheerfullest of spirits. Leaving aside the story he had begun and so ineptly handled, he turned his attention to telling her tales of quite another sort.
SECOND STORY
By means of a single phrase, Cisti the Baker shows Messer Geri Spina that he is being unreasonable.
Madonna Oretta’s timely remark was warmly commended by all the men and ladies present, and then the queen ordered Pampinea to continue in the same vein. Pampinea therefore began, as follows:
Fair ladies, I cannot myself decide whether Nature is more at fault in furnishing a noble spirit with an inferior body, or Fortune in allotting an inferior calling to a body endowed with a noble spirit, as happened in the case of Cisti, our fellow citizen, and many other people of our own acquaintance. This Cisti was a man of exceedingly lofty spirit, and yet Fortune made him a baker.
I would assuredly curse Nature and Fortune alike, if I did not know for a fact that Nature is very discerning, and that Fortune has a thousand eyes, even though fools represent her as blind. Indeed, it is my conviction that Nature and Fortune, being very shrewd, follow the practice so common among mortals, who, uncertain of what the future will bring, make provision for emergencies by burying their most precious possessions in the least imposing (and therefore least suspect) part of their houses, whence they bring them forth in the hour of their greatest need, their treasure having been more securely preserved in a humble hiding place than if it had been kept in a sumptuous chamber. In the same way, the two fair arbiters of the world’s affairs frequently hide their greatest treasure beneath the shadow of the humblest of trades, so that when the need arises for it to be brought forth, its splendour will be all the more apparent. This is amply borne out by a brief anecdote I should now like to relate, concerning an episode, in itself of no great importance, in which Cisti the Baker opened the eyes of Messer Geri Spina1 to the truth, and of which I was reminded by the tale we have just heard about Madonna Oretta, who was Messer Geri’s wife.
I say, then, that when Pope Boniface,2 who held Messer Geri in the highest esteem, sent a delegation of his courtiers to Florence on urgent papal affairs, they took lodging under Messer Geri’s roof; and almost every morning, for one reason or another, it so happened that Messer Geri and the Pope’s emissaries were obliged by the nature of their business to walk past the Church of Santa Maria Ughi,3 beside which Cisti had his bakery, where he practised his calling in person.
Though Fortune had allotted to Cisti a very humble calling, she had treated him so bountifully that he had become exceedingly rich; but it would never have occurred to him to exchange this occupation for any other, for he lived like a lord, and in addition to numerous other splendid possessions, he kept the finest cellar of wines, both red and white, to be found anywhere in Florence or the surrounding region. On noticing that Messer Geri passed by his door every morning with the Pope’s emissaries, it occurred to Cisti that since the season was very hot he might as well do them the kindness of offering them some of his delicious white wine. But, being sensible of the difference in rank between himself and Messer Geri, he considered it would be presumptuous of him to issue an invitation and resolved to arrange matters in such a way that Messer Geri would come of his own accord.
And so every morning, wearing a gleaming white doublet and a freshly laundered apron, which made him look more like a miller than a baker, Cisti appeared in his doorway at the hour in which Messer Geri and the emissaries were due to pass by, and called for a shiny metal pail of fresh water and a brand new little Bolognese flagon containing a quantity of his best white wine, together with a pair of wineglasses, that gleamed as brightly as if they were made of silver. He then seated himself in the doorway, and just as they were passing, he cleared his throat a couple of times and began to drink this wine of his with so much relish that he would have brought a thirst to the lips of a corpse.
Messer Geri, having witnessed this charade on two successive mornings, turned to him on the third, and said:
‘How does it taste, Cisti? Is it good?’
‘Indeed it is, sir,’ Cisti replied, springing to his feet, ‘but how am I to prove how exquisite it tastes, unless you sample it for yourself?’
Now, whether because of the heat, or as a result of expending more energy than usual, or through observing Cisti drinking with so much gusto, Messer Geri had conceived such a keen thirst that he turned, smiling, to the emissaries, and said:
‘My lords, we would do well to test the quality of this gentleman’s wine; perhaps it will be such as to give us no cause for regret.’
He thereupon led them over to Cisti, who promptly arranged for a handsome bench to be brought out from his bakery and invited them to sit down. Their servants then stepped forward to wash the wineglasses, but Cisti said:
‘Stand aside, my friends, and leave this office to me, for I am no less skilled at serving wine than at baking bread. And if you are expecting to taste so much as a single drop, you are going to be disappointed.’
And so saying, he washed four handsome new glasses with his own hands, called for a small flagon of his best wine, and, taking meticulous care, filled the glasses for Messer Geri and his companions, none of whom had tasted such an exquisite wine for years. Messer Geri affirmed that the wine was excellent, and for the remainder of the emissaries’ stay in Florence, he called there nearly every morning with them to sample it afresh.
When their mission was completed and the emissaries were about to depart, Messer Geri held a magnificent banquet, to whic
h he invited a number of the most distinguished citizens of Florence. He also sent an invitation to Cisti, who could by no means be persuaded to accept. So he ordered one of his servants to take a flask, ask Cisti to fill it with wine, and serve half a glass of it to each of the guests during the first course.
The servant, who was possibly feeling somewhat annoyed that he had never been allowed to sample the wine, took along a huge flask, and when Cisti saw it, he said:
‘Messer Geri has not sent you to me, my lad.’
The servant kept assuring him that he had, but could obtain no other answer. So he returned to Messer Geri and told him what Cisti had said.
‘Go back to him,’ said Messer Geri, ‘and tell him that I am sending you to him; and if he gives you the same answer, ask him to whom I am sending you.’
The servant returned to Cisti, and said:
‘I can assure you, Cisti, that it is to you that Messer Geri sends me.’
‘And I can assure you, my lad,’ Cisti replied, ‘that you are wrong.’
‘To whom is he sending me then?’ asked the servant.
‘To the Arno,’4 replied Cisti.
When the servant reported this conversation to Messer Geri, his eyes were immediately opened to the truth, and he asked the servant to show him the flask. On being shown the flask, he said:
‘Cisti is perfectly right.’ And having given the servant a severe scolding, he ordered him to return with a flask of more modest proportions.
On seeing this second flask, Cisti said:
‘Now I know that he has sent you to me.’ And he filled it up for him contentedly.
Later that same day, Cisti filled a small cask with wine of the same vintage and had it tenderly conveyed to Messer Geri’s house, after which he called on Messer Geri in person, and said:
‘Sir, I would not want you to suppose that I was taken aback on seeing the large flask this morning. But since you appeared to have forgotten what I have shown you with the aid of my small flagons during these past few days, namely, that this is not a wine for servants, I thought I would refresh your memory. However, since I have no intention of storing it for you any longer, I have now sent you every single drop of it, and henceforth you may dispose of it as you please.’
Messer Geri set great store by Cisti’s gift, and thanked him as profusely as the occasion seemed to warrant. And from that day forth he held him in high esteem and regarded him as a friend of his for life.
THIRD STORY
With a quick retort, Monna Nonna de’ Pulci puts a stop to the unseemly banter of the Bishop of Florence.
When Pampinea came to the end of her story, Cisti’s reply was warmly applauded by all those present, and so too was his generosity, after which the queen was pleased to call upon Lauretta, who gaily began to speak, as follows:
Lovesome ladies, there is much truth in what both Pampinea and Filomena have been saying about the beauty of repartee and our own lack of skill in its use. It is unnecessary to repeat their arguments, but I should like to remind you that apart from what has already been said on this subject, the nature of wit is such that its bite must be like that of a sheep rather than a dog, for if it were to bite the listener like a dog, it would no longer be wit but abuse. The remark made by Madonna Oretta, and Cisti’s retort, were excellent examples of the genre.
It is of course true, in the case of repartee, that when someone bites like a dog after having, so to speak, been bitten by a dog in the first place, his reaction does not seem as reprehensible as it would have been had he not been provoked; and one therefore has to be careful over how, when, on whom, and likewise where one exercises one’s wit. To these matters, one of our prelates paid so little attention on one occasion, that he received no less painful a bite than he administered; and I should now like to tell you, in a few words, how this came about.
While Messer Antonio d’Orso,1 a wise and worthy prelate, was Bishop of Florence, there came to the city a Catalan nobleman called Messer Dego della Ratta,2 who was Marshal to King Robert of Naples. Being a fine figure of a man, and inordinately fond of women, Messer Dego pursued a number of the Florentine ladies, for one of whom, a ravishing beauty, he conceived a particular liking, and she happened to be the niece of the Bishop’s brother.
Having learnt that the lady’s husband, though he came of a good family, was very greedy and corrupt, he came to an arrangement with him whereby he would give him five hundred gold florins for allowing him to sleep for one night with his wife. But what he actually did was to gild five hundred coins of silver, called popolini, which were in everyday use at that period, and, having slept with the man’s wife against her will, he handed these over to the husband. Subsequently the story became common knowledge, so that the scoundrelly husband was not only cheated but held up to ridicule. And the Bishop, being a wise man, feigned complete ignorance of the whole affair.
The Bishop and the Marshal were frequently to be seen in one another’s company, and one day, it being the feast of St John,3 they happened to be riding side by side down the street along which the palio4 is run, casting an eye over the ladies, when the Bishop spotted a young woman (now, alas, no longer with us, having died in middle age during this present epidemic), whose name was Monna Nonna de’ Pulci. You all know the person I mean – she was the cousin of Messer Alesso Rinucci, and at the time of which I am speaking she was a fine-looking girl in the flower of youth, well spoken and full of spirit, who had recently been married and set up house in the Porta San Piero quarter. The Bishop pointed her out to the Marshal, then he rode up beside her, clapped his hand on the Marshal’s shoulder, and said:
‘How do you like this fellow, Nonna? Do you think you could make a conquest of him?’
It seemed to Monna Nonna that the Bishop’s words made her out to be less than virtuous, or that they were bound to damage her reputation in the eyes of those people, by no means few in number, in whose hearing they were spoken. So that, less intent upon vindicating her honour than upon returning blow for blow, she swiftly retorted:
‘In the unlikely event, my lord, of his making a conquest of me, I should want to be paid in good coin.’
These words stung both the Marshal and the Bishop to the quick, the former as the author of the dishonest deed involving the niece of the Bishop’s brother, and the latter as its victim, inasmuch as she was one of his own relatives. And without so much as looking at one another, they rode away silent and shamefaced, and said no more to Monna Nonna on that day.
In this case, therefore, since the girl was bitten first, it was not inappropriate that she should make an equally biting retort.
FOURTH STORY
Currado Gianfigliazzi’s cook, Chichibio, converts his master’s anger into laughter with a quick word in the nick of time, and saves himself from the unpleasant fate with which Currado had threatened him.
When Lauretta was silent, and they had all paid glowing tribute to Monna Nonna, the queen called upon Neifile to tell the next story, whereupon Neifile began:
Amorous ladies, whilst a ready wit will often bring a swift phrase, apposite and neatly turned, to the lips of the speaker, it sometimes happens that Fortune herself will come to the aid of people in distress by suddenly putting words into their mouths that they would never have been capable of formulating when their minds were at ease; which is what I propose to show you with this story of mine.
As all of you will have heard and seen for yourselves, Currado Gianfigliazzi1 has always played a notable part in the affairs of our city. Generous and hospitable, he lived the life of a true gentleman, and, to say nothing for the moment of his more important activities, he took a constant delight in hunting and hawking. One day, having killed a crane with one of his falcons in the vicinity of Peretola,2 finding that it was young and plump, he sent it to an excellent Venetian cook of his, whose name was Chichibio,3 telling him to roast it for supper and to see that it was well prepared and seasoned.
Chichibio, who was no less scatterbrained than he l
ooked, plucked the crane, stuffed it, set it over the fire, and began to cook it with great care. But when it was nearly done, and giving off a most appetizing smell, there came into the kitchen a fair young country wench called Brunetta, who was the apple of Chichibio’s eye. And on sniffing the smell of cooking and seeing the crane roasting on the spit, she coaxed and pleaded with him to give her one of the legs. By way of reply, Chichibio burst into song:
‘I won’t let you have it, Donna Brunetta, I won’t let you have it, so there! ’
This put Donna Brunetta’s back up, and she said:
‘I swear to God that if you don’t let me have it, you’ll never have another thing out of me!’ In short, they had quite a lengthy set-to, and in the end, not wishing to anger his girl, Chichibio cut off one of the crane’s legs and gave it to her.
A little later, the crane was set before Currado and his guests, and much to his surprise, Currado found that one of the legs was missing. So he sent for Chichibio and asked him what had happened to it. Being a Venetian, and hence a good liar,4 Chichibio promptly replied:
‘My lord, cranes have only the one leg.’
Whereupon Currado flew into a rage, and said:
‘What the devil do you mean, cranes have only the one leg? Do you think I’ve never seen a crane before?’
‘What I mean, sir,’ continued Chichibio, ‘is that they have only the one leg. We’ll go and see some live ones, if you like, and I’ll show you.’
Not wishing to embarrass his visitors, Currado decided not to pursue the matter, but said:
‘I’ve never seen a one-legged crane before, nor have I ever heard of one. But since you have offered to show me, you can do so tomorrow morning, and then I shall be satisfied. But I swear to you by the body of Christ that if you fail to prove it, I shall see that you are given such a hiding that you will never forget my name for as long as you live.’
Tales From the Decameron of Giovanni Boccaccio Page 69