Not so long ago, in Naples, a poor man took to wife a charming and beautiful girl, whose name was Peronella.1 He was a bricklayer by trade, and earned a very low wage, but this, together with the modest amount she earned from her spinning, was just about sufficient for them to live on.
Now one day, Peronella caught the eye of a sprightly young gallant, who, finding her exceedingly attractive, promptly fell in love with her, and by using all his powers of persuasion, he succeeded in gaining her acquaintance. So that they could be together, they came to this arrangement: that since her husband got up early every morning to go to work or to go and look for a job, the young man should lie in wait until he saw him leaving the house; and as the district where she lived, which was called Avorio, was very out-of-the-way, as soon as the husband had left, he should go in to her. And in this way they met very regularly.
But one particular morning, shortly after the good man had left the house and Giannello Scrignario2 (such was the young gallant’s name) had gone inside to join Peronella, the husband, who was usually away for the whole day, returned home. Finding the door locked on the inside, he knocked, and after he had knocked he said to himself:
‘May the Lord God be forever praised; for though He has willed that I should be poor, at least He has given me the consolation of a good, chaste girl for a wife. See how quick she was to lock the door after I left, so that no one should come in and give her any trouble.’
Now, Peronella knew it was her husband from his way of knocking, and she said:
‘O alas, Giannello my love, I’m done for! That’s my husband, curse the fellow, who for some reason or other has come back home. I’ve never known him to return at this hour before; perhaps he saw you coming in. But whatever the reason, for God’s sake hop into this tub over here while I go and let him in and find out what has brought him home so early in the day.’
Giannello promptly got into the tub, whereupon Peronella went and opened the door to her husband, and, pulling a long face, she said:
‘What’s got into you this morning, coming back home so early? It looks to me, seeing that you’re carrying your tools, as if you’ve decided to take the day off, in which case what are we going to live on? How are we to buy anything to eat? Do you think I’m going to let you pawn my Sunday dress and my other little bits and pieces? Here I am, stuck in this house from morning till night and working my fingers to the bone, so that we shall at least have sufficient oil to keep our lamp alight! Oh, what a husband! I haven’t a single neighbour who doesn’t gape and laugh at me for slaving away as I do; and yet you come back here twiddling your thumbs when you ought to be out working.’
At this point she burst into tears, then started all over again, saying:
‘O alas, woe is me, why was I ever born, what did I do to deserve such a husband! I could have had a decent, hard-working young fellow, and I turned him down to marry this worthless good-for-nothing, who doesn’t appreciate what a good wife I am to him. All the other wives have a jolly good time: they have two or three lovers apiece, and they whoop it up under their husbands’ noses, whereas for poor little me, just because I am a respectable woman and find that sort of thing distasteful, there’s nothing but misery and ill luck. I just can’t understand why I don’t take one or two lovers, as other women do. It’s time you realized, husband, that if I wanted to misbehave, I’d soon find someone to do it with, for there are plenty of sprightly young fellows who love and admire me, and who have offered me large sums of money, or dresses and jewels if I preferred, but not being the daughter of that kind of woman, I never had it in me to accept. And what is my reward? A husband who slopes back home when he ought to be out working.’
‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake, woman,’ said her husband, ‘stop making such a song and dance about it. I know how virtuous you are, and as a matter of fact I saw the proof of it this very morning. The fact is that I went to work, but what you don’t seem to realize, and I didn’t either, is that today is the feast of Saint Galeone3 and everybody’s on holiday, and that’s the reason I came home so early. But even so I’ve made sure that we shall have enough food to last us for over a month. You know that tub that’s been cluttering up the house for ages? Well, I’ve sold it for five silver ducats to this man waiting here on the doorstep.’
Whereupon Peronella said:
‘That really does put the lid on it. One would think that since you are a man and get about a good deal, you ought to know the value of things; yet you sell a tub for five silver ducats, which I, a there woman who hardly ever puts her nose outside the front door, seeing what a nuisance it was to have it in the house, have just sold to an honest fellow here for seven ducats. He’s inside the tub now, as a matter of fact, seeing whether it is sound.’
When he heard this, her husband was delighted, and turning to the man who had come to collect the tub, he said:
‘Run along now, there’s a good fellow. You heard what my wife said. She’s sold it for seven, and all you would offer me for it was five.’
‘So be it,’ said the good fellow, and away he went.
And Peronella said to her husband:
‘Now that you are here, you’d better come up and settle this with him yourself.’
Giannello was listening with both ears to see whether there was anything he had to guard against or attend to, and on hearing Peronella’s words, he leapt smartly out of the tub. And with a casual sort of air, as though he had heard nothing of the husband’s return, he called out:
‘Are you there, good woman?’
Whereupon the husband, who was just coming up, said:
‘Here I am, what can I do for you?’
‘Who the hell are you?’ said Giannello. ‘It’s the woman who was selling me this tub that I wanted to speak to.’
‘That’s all right,’ said the good man. ‘You can deal with me: I’m her husband.’
So Giannello said:
‘The tub seems to be in pretty good shape, but you appear to have left the lees of the wine in it, for it’s coated all over with some hard substance or other that I can’t even scrape off with my nails. I’m not going to take it unless it’s cleaned out first.’
So Peronella said:
‘We made a bargain, and we’ll stick to it. My husband will clean it out.’
‘But of course,’ said the husband. And having put down his tools and rolled up his sleeves, he called for a lamp and a scraping tool, lowered himself into the tub, and began to scrape away. Peronella, as though curious to see what he was doing, leaned over the mouth of the tub, which was not very wide, and resting her head on her arm and shoulder, she issued a stream of instructions, such as: ‘Rub it up there, that’s it, and there again!’ and ‘See if you can reach that teeny-weeny bit left at the top.’
While she was busy instructing and directing her husband in this fashion, Giannello, who had not fully gratified his desires that morning before the husband arrived, seeing that he couldn’t do it in the way he wished, contrived to bring it off as best he could. So he went up to Peronella, who was completely blocking up the mouth of the tub, and in the manner of a wild and hot-blooded stallion mounting a Parthian mare4 in the open fields, he satisfied his young man’s passion, which no sooner reached fulfilment than the scraping of the tub was completed, whereupon he stood back, Peronella withdrew her head from the tub, and the husband clambered out.
Then Peronella said to Giannello:
‘Here, take this lamp, my good man, and see whether the job’s been done to your satisfaction.’
Having taken a look inside the tub, Giannello told her everything was fine, and he was satisfied. He then handed seven silver ducats to the husband, and got him to carry it round to his house.
THIRD STORY
Friar Rinaldo goes to bed with his godchild’s mother; her husband finds them together in the bedroom, and they give him to understand that the Friar was charming away the child’s worms.
Filostrato’s reference to the Parthian mare was not so
abstruse as to prevent the alert young ladies from grasping its meaning and having a good laugh, albeit they pretended to be laughing for another reason. But when the king saw that the story was finished, he called upon Elissa to speak, and she promptly obeyed, beginning as follows:
Winsome ladies, Emilia’s exorcizing of the werewolf has reminded me of a story about another incantation, and although it is not so fine a tale as hers, it is the only one I can think of for the moment that is relevant to our theme, and I shall therefore relate it to you.
You are to know that there once lived in Siena a dashing young man of respectable parentage, Rinaldo by name, who had fallen desperately in love with the very beautiful wife of a wealthy neighbour of his. Having convinced himself that if only he could find a way of conversing with her in private he would obtain all he wanted from her, he resolved, since the woman was pregnant and he could think of no other pretext, to offer himself as the child’s godfather;1 so having made friends with the woman’s husband, he put this proposition to him in as tactful a way as he could manage, and it was all agreed.
Having thus strengthened his hand by becoming the godfather to Madonna Agnesa’s child, which gave him a slightly more plausible excuse for conversing with her, he conveyed to her in so many words what had long been apparent to her from the gleam in his eyes. But his words made little impression on the lady, though she was not displeased to have heard them.
Not long afterwards, for reasons best known to himself, Rinaldo decided to become a friar, and there were clearly some good pickings to be had, for he persevered in that profession. Although at first he put aside his love for his neighbour’s wife and gave up one or two of his other vices, nevertheless in the course of time, without abandoning the habit of his Order, he reverted to his former ways; and he began to take a pride in his appearance, wear expensively tailored cassocks, affect an air of sprightliness and elegance in all his doings, compose canzonets and sonnets and ballades, sing various songs, and engage in countless other activities of a similar nature.
But why do I ramble on about this Friar Rinaldo of ours? Is there a single one of these friars who behaves any differently? Ah, scandal of this corrupt and wicked world! It doesn’t worry them in the least that they appear so fat and bloated, that a bright red glow suffuses their cheeks, that their clothes are smooth as velvet, and that in all their dealings they are so effeminate; yet they are anything but dovelike, for they strut about like so many proud peacocks with all their feathers on display. Furthermore, their cells are stuffed with jars filled with unguents and electuaries, with boxes full of various sweetmeats, with phials and bottles containing oils and liquid essences, and with casks brimming over with Malmsey and Greek and other precious wines, so that to any impartial observer they look more like scent shops or grocery stores than the cells of friars. But what is worse, they are not ashamed to admit that they suffer from gout, as though it were not widely known and recognized that regular fasting, a meagre and simple diet, and a sober way of life make people lean and slender, and for the most part healthy. Or at least, if they produce infirmity, this does not take the form of gout, for which the remedy usually prescribed is continence and all the other features of a humble friar’s existence. Moreover, they think we are too stupid to realize that a frugal life, lengthy vigils, prayer and self-restraint ought to give to people a pale and drawn appearance, and that neither Saint Dominic nor Saint Francis had four cloaks apiece, or swaggered about in habits that were elegantly tailored and finely woven, but clad themselves in coarse woollen garments of a natural colour, made to keep out the cold. However, God will doubtless see that they, and the simple souls who keep them supplied with all these things, receive their just deserts.
As I was saying, then, Friar Rinaldo was filled once more with all his earlier cravings, and began to pay regular visits to the mother of his godchild. And having become more self-confident, he entreated her to grant his wishes with greater persistence than ever.
One day, Friar Rinaldo importuned her so repeatedly that the good lady, finding herself under so much pressure and thinking him more handsome, perhaps, than he had seemed to her in the past, resorted to the expedient that all women fall back upon when they are itching to concede what is being asked of them, and said:
‘Come now, Friar Rinaldo! Do you mean to say that friars indulge in that sort of thing?’
‘Madam,’ he replied, ‘from the moment I am rid of this habit, which I can slip off with the greatest of ease, I shall no longer seem a friar to you, but a man who is made no differently from the rest.’
The lady puckered her lips in a smile, and said:
‘Heaven help me, you are my child’s godfather; how could you suggest such a thing? It would be awfully wicked; in fact I was always told it was one of the worst sins anyone could commit, otherwise I should be only too willing to do as you suggest.’
‘If that’s the only thing that deters you,’ said Friar Rinaldo, ‘then you’re just being silly. I don’t say it isn’t a sin, but God forgives greater sins than this to those who repent. However, tell me this, to whom is this child of yours more closely related: myself, who held him at his baptism, or your husband, by whom he was begotten?’
‘My husband, naturally,’ she replied.
‘Exactly,’ said the friar, ‘and doesn’t your husband go to bed with you?’
‘Of course he does,’ the lady replied.
‘Well then,’ said the friar, ‘since your husband’s more closely akin to the child than I am, surely I can do the same.’
Since logic was not one of her strong points, and she needed little persuasion in any case, the lady either believed or pretended to believe that the friar was speaking the truth, and she replied:
‘How could anyone refute so sensible an argument?’
After which, notwithstanding the fact that he was her child’s godfather, she allowed him to have his will of her. And thereafter, having taken the first step, they forgathered very frequently, for his sponsorship of the child made it easy for him to come and go without arousing suspicion.
On one of these occasions, having called at the lady’s house with one of his fellow friars, to discover that she was alone except for the child and a very pretty and attractive little maidservant, he packed his companion off to the attic to teach the wench the Lord’s Prayer, whilst he and the lady, who was holding her little boy by the hand, made their way into her bedroom, locking the door behind them. And having settled down on a sofa, they began to have a merry time of it together.
But while they were carrying on in this fashion, the child’s father happened to return home, and before anyone realized he was there, he was knocking at the door of the bedroom and calling for his wife.
Hearing his voice, Madonna Agnesa said:
‘Oh my God, I’m done for, that’s my husband. Now he’s bound to discover why you and I are always so friendly.’
‘That’s true enough,’ said Friar Rinaldo, who had nothing on except his vest, having discarded his habit and his hood. ‘If only I had my clothes on, we could invent some explanation. But if you open the door and he sees me like this, no excuse can possibly do any good.’
Then the woman had a sudden inspiration. ‘You get dressed,’ she said, ‘and as soon as you’ve got your clothes on, take your godson in your arms and listen carefully to what I shall say to him, so that you can back me up later. But in the meantime, leave everything to me.’
Scarcely had the good man finished knocking at the door, when his wife replied:
‘All right, I’m coming.’ And, getting up, she went and opened the bedroom door, looking a picture of innocence.
‘Oh, husband,’ she said, ‘I tell you it was God who sent our neighbour Friar Rinaldo to us today, for if he hadn’t come, we should certainly have lost our child.’
‘What’s this?’ exclaimed the poor fool of a husband, turning white as a sheet.
‘Oh, husband,’ said the woman, ‘a short while ago, the child fell into
a sudden faint, and I thought he must be dead. I was so terrified that I could neither move nor speak, but just at that moment our neighbour Friar Rinaldo turned up. He took the child in his arms and said: “Neighbour, these are worms that he has in his body, and if they were to come any closer to his heart, they could easily be the death of him. But don’t you worry, because I am going to cast a spell on them and kill them all off. And before I leave this house the child will be as fit and well as you have ever known him” He wanted you to recite some special prayers, but the maid couldn’t find you, so he got a companion of his to recite them in the highest part of the house, while he and I came in here with the child. And since it is only the mother who can be of service in matters of this sort, we locked ourselves in so that we shouldn’t be disturbed. He still has the child in his arms, and all he’s waiting for now, I think, is to hear from his companion that the prayers have been said, and then the spell will be complete, for already the child is quite himself again.’
The simple soul believed all this nonsense, being so overwhelmed by his concern for the child that he never stopped to think that his wife could be deceiving him. And fetching a deep sigh, he said:
‘I want to go and see him.’
‘Don’t go to him yet,’ said the woman, ‘or you’ll ruin what’s been done. Wait here while I go and see whether it’s all right for you to come in, and I’ll give you a call.’
Friar Rinaldo, who had overheard the entire conversation and put on his clothes with time to spare, took the child in his arms, and when he had arranged things to his liking, he called out:
‘Is that the father’s voice I can hear out there, my dear?’
‘It is indeed,’ our simple friend replied.
‘In that case,’ said Friar Rinaldo, ‘come along in.’
The simpleton went in, and Friar Rinaldo said to him:
‘Here, take this child, who has been restored to health by the grace of God, when at one time I never thought you would see him alive at vespers. I suggest that you commission a wax figure, the same size as the child, and have it placed to the glory of God in front of the statue of Saint Ambrose, through whose merits God has granted you this favour.’
Tales From the Decameron of Giovanni Boccaccio Page 74