All that now remained was for the king to tell his story, and as soon as he perceived that the ladies had stopped mourning over the fate of the innocent pear-tree, he began:
It goes without saying that a just king must be the first to observe those laws that he has himself prescribed, and that, if he fails to do so, he deserves rather to be punished as a slave than honoured as a king. And yet, almost of necessity, it now behoves me, as your king, to commit precisely this error and thus incur your censure. Yesterday evening, when I decreed the form that our discussions of today were to take, I fully intended to forgo my privilege for once, submit to the same rule as yourselves, and address myself to the theme upon which you have all been speaking. But the story I was proposing to relate has now been told; and moreover, the subject has been so extensively and admirably discussed, that for my own part, however much I cudgel my brains, I cannot think of anything to say on this topic that will stand comparison with the things already said. Since, therefore, being obliged to infringe the law which I myself have made, I am worthy of punishment, I shall straightway declare that I am ready to make whatever amends may be required of me, and fall back upon my customary privilege.
Taking my cue, dearest ladies, from Elissa’s compelling account of the godfather and the mother of his godchild, as well as from the extraordinary simplicity of the Sienese,1 I shall tell you a little tale about them, which has nothing to do with the tricks played by clever wives on their foolish husbands, but which, albeit much of it will strain your credulity, should nevertheless prove entertaining in parts.
There once lived, in the Porta Salaia district of Siena, two young men of the people, called Tingoccio Mini and Meuccio di Tura, who nearly always went about together and who, to all outward appearances, were quite devoted to one another. Being in the habit, like other folk, of going to church and listening to sermons, they had frequently heard about the glory and the suffering that awaited the souls of the dead, each according to his merits, in the world to come. But since they wanted to find out for certain about these matters, and could think of no other way of doing it, they promised one another that whichever of them died first would return, if possible, to the one who was still alive, and give him all the information he wanted; and they sealed this compact with a solemn oath.
Not long after making this promise, whilst the pair of them were still going about together in the way we have described, Tingoccio happened to become godfather to the infant son of a man called Ambruogio Anselmini, who lived with his wife, Monna Mita, in the district of Camporeggi.
Now, this Monna Mita was a woman of great beauty and attractiveness, and notwithstanding his sponsorship of the child, Tingoccio, who called to see her every now and then with Meuccio, fell in love with her. But he was not the only one, for Meuccio, having heard Tingoccio singing her praises and finding her very attractive, also fell in love with her. Neither man spoke to the other about his love for the lady, but each for a different reason. Tingoccio took care not to say anything to Meuccio because he had a guilty conscience about falling in love with the mother of his godchild, and would have been ashamed to have anyone know about it. But Meuccio kept it to himself for quite another reason, namely, that he realized how fond Tingoccio was of her, and therefore said to himself: ‘If I take him into my confidence, he will be jealous of me; and since he is her child’s godfather, and can talk to her whenever he likes, he will do his best to turn her against me, with the result that I shall never get anywhere with her.’
Things remained much as we have described them, with the two young men pining away for Monna Mita, until Tingoccio, who was in a better position to open his heart to the lady, played his cards so skilfully that he obtained what he wanted from her – a circumstance that did not escape the notice of Meuccio, who was anything but pleased about it. However, since he was hoping that his own desires would one day find fulfilment, and was anxious not to provide Tingoccio with the slightest cause to ruin his chances or interfere in any way with his plans, he pretended to know nothing.
And there, for the time being, the matter rested, Tingoccio being luckier than his comrade in his love for the lady. But the richness of the soil in Monna Mita’s garden inspired Tingoccio to dig it over with so much energy and zeal that he contracted a fever from his labours, which left him so enfeebled that within the space of a few days, being unable to shake it off, he departed this life.
On the night of the third day after his unfortunate demise (being unable, perhaps, to make it any sooner), he kept his promise and appeared to Meuccio, who was lying in bed fast asleep. Tingoccio called out to him, and Meuccio woke up with a start, saying:
‘Who are you?’
‘I am Tingoccio,’ he replied, ‘and I have returned, as I promised, to bring you tidings of the other world.’
Having recovered from the shock of seeing him, Meuccio said:
‘My brother, you are welcome.’
He then asked him whether, as he put it, he was ‘lost’, and Tingoccio replied:
‘Lost? If a thing is lost, it can’t be found; so what on earth would I be doing here, if I was lost?’
‘That’s not what I mean,’ said Meuccio. ‘What I want to know is whether you’re among the souls of the damned, in the scourging fires of Hell.’
‘Not exactly,’ replied Tingoccio. ‘But I’m being severely punished just the same, because of the sins I committed, and it’s all very painful.’
Then Meuccio questioned him in detail about the punishments that were meted out there for each of the sins committed on earth, and Tingoccio described them one by one. And when Meuccio went on to ask him whether there was anything he could do for him, Tingoccio replied in the affirmative, saying that he should arrange for prayers and masses to be recited on his behalf, and for alms to be given, since these things were highly beneficial to the souls of the dead. All of this Meuccio readily agreed to do.
Just as Tingoccio was leaving, Meuccio remembered about Monna Mita, and raising his head a little, he said:
‘By the way, Tingoccio: what punishment have they given you for making love to the mother of your godchild?’
Whereupon Tingoccio replied:
‘My brother, as soon as I arrived down there, I was met by one who seemed to know all of my sins by heart, and who ordered me to proceed to the place where I am being severely punished for my misdeeds. There I found a large company of souls condemned to the same punishment as myself, and as I stood in their midst, I suddenly remembered how I had carried on with my godchild’s mother. And since I was expecting to have to pay a much heavier penalty for this than the one I had been given, I began, even though I was being roasted in a fierce and enormous fire, to tremble all over with fear. On noticing this, one of my fellow sinners said: “Why do you tremble so when standing in the fire? Have you done something worse than the rest of us?” “Oh, my friend,” said I, “it fills me with terror when I think of the judgement that awaits me for a dreadful sin I have committed.” He then asked me which sin I was referring to, and I said: “I made love to the mother of my godchild, and went to it so heartily that I shed my pelt in the process.” He had a good laugh over this, and said: “Be off with you, you fool! There’s nothing special down here about the mother of a godchild.” I was so relieved to hear it that I could have wept.’
The dawn was now approaching, so Tingoccio said:
‘Farewell, Meuccio, I can’t stay here any longer.’ And all of a sudden he was gone.
Having learnt that there was nothing special down there about the mother of a godchild, Meuccio began to laugh at his own stupidity for having in the past spared several such ladies from his attentions. From that day forth, having shed his ignorance, he was a much wiser man in dealing with such matters. And if only Friar Rinaldo had known as much as Meuccio, there would have been no need for him to make up syllogisms when persuading Madonna Agnesa to minister to his pleasures.
* * *
The sun was descending in the west and a gentle
breeze had risen, when the king, having brought his story to an end, removed the crown of laurel from his brow, there being no one else left to speak, and placed it upon the head of Lauretta, saying:
‘With this, your namesake,1 madam, I crown you queen of our company. And now it is up to you, as our empress, to give such orders as you consider apt for our common entertainment and pleasure.’
He then returned to his place and sat down, and Lauretta, having be come their queen, summoned the steward and ordered him to set the tables in the delectable valley at a somewhat earlier hour than usual, so that they could return at their leisure to the palace; and she also instructed him about the things he was to do during the rest of her reign.
This done, she turned to address the company, saying:
‘Yesterday, Dioneo insisted that we should talk, today, about the tricks played upon husbands by their wives; and but for the fact that I do not wish it to be thought that I belong to that breed of snapping curs who immediately turn round and retaliate, I should oblige you, on the morrow, to talk about the tricks played on wives by their husbands. But instead of doing that, I should like each of you to think of a story about the tricks that people in general, men and women alike, are forever playing upon one another. This, I feel sure, will be no less agreeable a topic than the one to which we have today been addressing ourselves.’
Having spoken these words, she rose to her feet and dismissed the company until suppertime.
And so the whole company arose, gentlemen and ladies alike, and some of them began to wade, barefooted, in the limpid waters of the lake, whilst others went roaming off over the greensward to beguile the time amongst the tall, straight trees. Dioneo and Fiammetta sang a long duet about Palamon and Arcite.2 And so, in their several different ways, they whiled away the time to their entire delight and joy until the hour of supper, when they seated themselves at table beside the tiny lake. There they supped in gay and leisurely fashion with never a fly to trouble them, fanned by a gentle breeze that came from the surrounding hills, with the dulcet songs of a thousand birds delighting their ears.
No more than half the vesperal hour had elapsed when the tables were cleared away, and at the queen’s behest, they wandered for a while through the delectable valley before slowly retracing their steps towards their lodging. Jesting and laughing not only about the things they had been saying earlier in the day, but many others also, in due course they arrived at the goodly palace a little before dark. There they dispelled the fatigue of their brief journey with the coolest of wines and the daintiest of sweetmeats, and in no time at all they were dancing caroles beside the beautiful fountain, accompanied sometimes by Tindaro on the cornemuse and sometimes by the music of other instruments.
Finally, however, the queen ordered Filomena to sing a song, and she began as follows:
‘Alas, my life is desolate!
For will I ne’er return
Whence I departed all disconsolate?
‘Certain I know not, such is the desire
That burns within my breast
There to return, alas, where once I was.
Oh, my true love, who sets my heart afire,
My one, my only rest,
Tell me what I should do, my dearest lord;
I dare ask none, nor know to whom to go
To beg for hope and help except thyself,
My soul is wounded so.
‘I cannot well relate how great the pleasure
Which so impassioned me
That neither day nor night could yield me rest.
My hearing, sight and touch, in strongest measure
Were so increased in me
That each sense lit new fires within my breast
Which burn and scorch me to the very core.
Save thee alone, no one can comfort me
Or my faint heart restore.
‘Alas, come tell me when it is to be,
When will that time return
When I may come upon thee once again
And kiss those eyes which have so murdered me?
My love, for whom I yearn,
Tell me when thou wilt come, and tell me “soon”,
And somewhat ease the pains Love made me bear.
Say thou wilt swiftly come, then linger here;
How long I do not care.
‘If I perchance should hold thee once again,
I may not be the fool
That I have been before to let thee go.
My grasp this time I firmer will maintain;
Let Fate do what she will.
For I must satisfy my craving soul
With thy sweet lips: I have no more to say.
Therefore come quickly, come embrace me soon;
I sing to think you may!’
All of her companions surmised from this song that Filomena was engrossed in some new and exciting love; and since the words seemed to imply that she had gone beyond the there exchange of amorous glances, some of those present, supposing her to have savoured the fruits of her love, were not a little envious. But when her song was finished, the queen, remembering that the following day was a Friday, graciously addressed the whole company as follows:
‘Noble ladies, young gentlemen, tomorrow as you know is the day that is consecrated to the Passion of Our Lord, and you will doubtless recall that when Neifile was our queen,3 we observed it devoutly, abstaining from our agreeable discussions, not only on that day, but on the ensuing Saturday. Wherefore, being desirous to follow the good example which Neifile has set us, I feel that for the next two days it would be seemly for us to suspend our pleasant storytelling, as we did last week, and meditate upon the things that were done on those two days for the salvation of our souls.’
The queen’s devout words commanded general approval, and so, a goodly portion of the night being already spent, she dismissed the whole company and they all betook themselves to their rest.
Here ends the Seventh Day of the Decameron
EIGHTH DAY
Here begins the Eighth Day, wherein, under the rule of Lauretta, are discussed the tricks that people in general, men and women alike, are forever playing upon one another.
On the Sunday morning, the rays of the rising sun had already appeared among the highest mountain peaks, the shades of night had departed, and all things were plainly visible, when the queen and her companions rose from their beds; and after sauntering for a while upon the dew-flecked lawns, they made their way, the hour of tierce being nearly half spent, to a nearby chapel,1 where they heard divine service. Returning to the palace, they breakfasted in gay and festive mood, and after they had sung and danced a little, they were dismissed by the queen, so that those who wished to go and rest were free to do so.
But in compliance with the wishes of the queen, once the sun was past its zenith they took their places beside the delectable fountain to proceed as usual with their storytelling, and at the queen’s command Neifile began as follows:
FIRST STORY
Gulfardo borrows from Guasparruolo a sum of money equivalent to the amount he has agreed to pay the latter’s wife in return for letting him sleep with her. He gives her the money, but later tells Guasparruolo, in her presence, that he has handed it back to his wife, and she has to admit it.
Since God has ordained that I should tell the first of our stories today, I am well content to do so. And since we have talked a great deal, fond ladies, of the tricks played by women upon men, I should like to tell you of one which was played by a man upon a woman, my intention being, not to censure the man for what he did or to claim that the woman was misused, but on the contrary to commend the man and censure the woman, and to show that men are just as capable of deceiving those who trust them, as of being deceived by those in whom they place their trust. Strictly speaking, however, the incident I am about to relate should not be termed a deception, but rather a reprisal. For a woman should act at all times with the greatest decorum, and guard her chastity with her life, on no account pe
rmitting herself to defile it; and although it is not always possible for us to observe this precept to the full on account of our frailty, nevertheless I declare that any woman who strays from the path of virtue for monetary gain deserves to be burnt alive, whereas the woman who yields to the forces of Love, knowing how powerful they are, deserves a lenient judge who will order her acquittal – which, as was pointed out to us the other day by Filostrato, is what happened to Madonna Filippa in Prato.
Now, in the city of Milan there was once a German soldier of fortune, a fearless fellow by the name of Gulfardo, who, unlike the majority of his countrymen, was extremely loyal to those in whose service he enrolled. And since he was always most scrupulous in repaying sums of money he had borrowed, he could find any number of merchants who were willing to lend him as much as he wanted, at a low rate of interest.
Since coming to live in Milan, he had fallen in love with a very beautiful woman called Madonna Ambruogia,1 the wife of a wealthy merchant, Guasparruolo Cagastraccio by name, with whom he was on the most friendly and familiar of terms, but neither her husband nor anyone else was aware of his love for the lady, for he proceeded at all times with the utmost discretion. And one day, he sent her a message, imploring her to grant him the sweet reward of his devotion, and affirming that he, for his part, was prepared to do whatever she might ask of him.
After much humming and hawing, the lady made up her mind, and informed Gulfardo that she was prepared to comply with his request on two conditions: firstly, that he must never breathe a word of it to anyone; and secondly, that since he was well off and she wanted to buy something for herself, he was to give her two hundred gold florins, and then she would always be at his service.
On hearing of the woman’s rapacity, Gulfardo, who had always thought of her as a perfect lady, was incensed by her lack of decorum, and his fervent love was transmuted into a feeling more akin to hatred. Being resolved to beat her at her own game, he sent word that he would be only too willing to meet her wishes, and do everything else in his power to make her happy. She was therefore to let him know when she would like him to come to her, and he would bring her the money. And she could rest assured that nobody would hear of the matter, except for a comrade of his whom he greatly trusted, who was privy to all his affairs.
Tales From the Decameron of Giovanni Boccaccio Page 80