Tales From the Decameron of Giovanni Boccaccio

by Giovanni Boccaccio

  On arriving at the house, Titus retired to his room alone and began to meditate upon the young woman’s charms; and the longer he brooded upon her, the fiercer his ardour became. Perceiving the state he was in, he cast many a passionate sigh and began to commune with himself, saying: ‘Ah, Titus, what a beggarly way to behave! Where, upon whom, do you set your hopes, your heart and your love? Don’t you realize that the hospitality you have received from Chremes and his family, and the perfect friendship that unites you to Gisippus, her future husband, require that you should treat this girl with all the reverence owing to a sister? Will you allow yourself to be carried away by the delusions of love, the specious visions of desire? Open your eyes, you fool, and come to your senses. Make way for reason, bridle your lascivious desires, curb your unwholesome longings, and direct your thoughts elsewhere. Fight against your lust from the outset, and conquer yourself while you still have time. It is wrong for you to want this thing, it is dishonest; and even if you were certain (which you are not) of achieving your object, you would only have to think where the duty of a true friend lies, as you are bound to do in any case, to dismiss the idea from your mind. What will you do, then, Titus? If you want to do what is proper, abandon this unseemly love.’

  But then he remembered Sophronia’s beauty, and took the opposite viewpoint, rejecting all his previous arguments. And he said to himself: ‘The laws of Love are more powerful than any others; they even supplant divine laws, let alone those of friendship. How often in the past have fathers loved their daughters, brothers their sisters, or mothers their stepsons? These are far more reprehensible than the man who loves the wife of his friend, for he is only doing what a thousand others have done before him. Besides, I am young, and youth is entirely subject to the power of Love. So that wherever Love decides to lead me, I am bound to follow. Honesty is all very well for older people, but I can only act in accordance with the dictates of Love. The girl is so beautiful that no one could fail to love her; so that if I, who am young, fall in love with her, who can justly reproach me? It is not because she belongs to Gisippus that I love her, but purely for her own sake, and I should love her no matter to whom she belonged. Here Fortune is at fault for having conceded her to my friend Gisippus rather than to some other man. But if anyone has to love her (as she must be loved, and deservedly so, on account of her beauty), then Gisippus should be all the more pleased to discover that she is loved by me and not by another.’

  But then, reproaching himself for being so foolish, he returned to the contrary viewpoint, and for the rest of the day and the ensuing night he veered perpetually back and forth between the two sets of arguments. And after spending several days and nights, gradually wearing himself to a thread over it, and going without food or sleep, he was driven to take to his bed in a state of exhaustion.

  Great was the distress of Gisippus when, after observing Titus lost in deep thought for days on end, he now discovered that his friend was ill. Never leaving his side, he attempted to comfort him using all the skill and loving care in his power, and from time to time he earnestly entreated him to disclose the reason for his sickness and melancholy. Titus offered him a series of spurious explanations, none of which satisfied Gisippus, so that in the end, unable to withstand the pressure that Gisippus was continuing to apply upon him, he burst into tears. And heaving many a sigh, he answered him as follows:

  ‘If only the gods had so willed it, Gisippus, I would much rather have died than continued to live, when I think how Fortune has driven me to the point where my virtue had to be put to the test, and where, to my very great shame, you have found it wanting. But I confidently expect to receive, before long, my just reward in the form of my death, and this will be dearer to me than to go on living with the memory of my baseness, which, since there is nothing I either could or should conceal from you, I shall tell you about, though I burn with shame to speak of it.’

  And so, starting from the beginning, he explained the cause of his melancholy, describing the conflict that had raged between his contrasting thoughts, which of them had won the day, and how he was wasting away for love of Sophronia. Moreover he declared that since he knew his attitude to be wholly improper, he had resolved that he would die by way of penance, and believed he would shortly achieve this desirable aim.

  On hearing what Titus had said, and observing how bitterly he wept, Gisippus was at first somewhat taken aback, for although his own passionate feelings towards the beautiful Sophronia were more restrained, he too was fascinated by her charms. But he instantly decided that his friend’s life meant more to him than Sophronia, and being moved to tears by the tears of his comrade, he replied, sobbing continuously:

  ‘If, Titus, you were less in need of reassurance, I should take you severely to task, seeing that you have abused our friendship by not telling me earlier of this overwhelming passion. Even if you felt that your thoughts were improper, that was no reason for concealing them from your friend, any more than if they were proper: for just as a true friend takes a delight in sharing his friend’s proper thoughts, so he will attempt to wean him away from those that are improper. But enough of that for the present: let us turn to the question that I take to be the more urgent. The fact that you have fallen violently in love with Sophronia, my promised bride, does not surprise me in the least; indeed I should be most surprised if you hadn’t, considering her beauty and your own loftiness of spirit, which renders you all the more susceptible to passionate feelings, the greater the excellence of the object that arouses your liking. And inasmuch as you do right to love Sophronia, at the same time you do wrong to complain about Fortune (though you make no mention of this) for conceding her to me, as though you felt that there would be nothing improper about loving her if she belonged to another. But if you are still as wise as you always were, you should be counting your lucky stars that she was given to me and not to anyone else. For had she belonged to another, no matter how proper your love may have been, he would have preferred to keep her to himself rather than allow you to love her, whereas in my case, if you consider me your friend, as I am, you must hope for a kindlier fate. And the reason is this, that ever since our friendship began, I cannot recall possessing anything that was not as much yours as it was mine.

  ‘Just as I have shared my other possessions with you, so I would share Sophronia, if I were already married to her and no other solution were possible; but as the matter stands at present, I am able to ensure that she is yours alone, and that is what I intend to do. For I should be a poor sort of friend if I were unable to convert you to my own way of thinking when the thing can be so decorously arranged. It is perfectly true that Sophronia is my promised bride, that I love her a great deal, and that I was eagerly looking forward to our marriage; but because your love for her is greater, and because you desire more fervently than I to possess so precious an object, you may rest assured that she shall enter the bridal chamber, not as my wife, but as yours. Fret no more then, cast aside your gloom, retrieve your health, your spirits and your gaiety; and from this time forth, look forward cheerfully to the reward of your love – a love far worthier than mine ever was.’

  To hear Gisippus speak in these terms, Titus was at one and the same time delighted and ashamed: delighted on account of the tempting picture Gisippus had drawn, and ashamed because common sense argued that the greater the generosity of his friend, the more unseemly did it appear for him to profit from it. And so, with tears still rolling down his cheeks, he replied with an effort as follows:

  ‘Gisippus, your true and generous friendship shows me very clearly where my duty lies. God forbid that I should ever accept from you as mine the wife that He has given you as a mark of your superior worth. Had He judged that she ought to be mine, neither you nor anyone else can deny that He would never have given her to you. Be content, therefore, that in His infinite wisdom He has chosen you as the recipient of His largesse, and leave me to waste away in the tears of woe He has allotted to one who is unworthy of such bounty;
for either I shall conquer my grief, in which case you will be happy, or it will conquer me and I shall be released from my suffering.’

  To which Gisippus replied:

  ‘If, Titus, our friendship is such as to enable me to force your acquiescence in any single one of my decisions, or if it can induce you to consent of your own accord, now is the time when I intend to exploit it to the full; and if you are determined to reject my entreaties, I shall use whatever compulsion is necessary to protect the interests of a friend, and to make Sophronia yours. I know the havoc that the powers of Love can inflict, I know they have led, not one, but countless lovers to an unhappy death; and I can see that they have taken so tight a hold upon you that there is no longer any question of your turning back, or of conquering your tears. If you were to go on like this you would perish, in which event there is no doubt that I should speedily follow you. So even if I had no other cause for loving you, your life is precious to me because my own life depends upon it. Sophronia shall be yours, then, for it will not be easy for you to find another that you like nearly so much, whereas I can easily divert my love to some other woman, and then we shall both be satisfied. I should not perhaps be so generous, if wives were so scarce and difficult to find as friends, but since I can find another wife, but not another friend, with the greatest of ease, I prefer, rather than to lose you, not to lose her exactly, but as it were to transfer her. For I shan’t lose her by giving her to you, but simply hand her over to my second self, at the same time changing her lot for the better. So if my entreaties mean anything to you, I entreat you here and now to cast aside your sorrows and bring solace to us both. Take heart, and prepare to enjoy the bliss for which your ardent love is yearning.’

  Titus was reluctant to consent to the idea that Sophronia should become his wife, and hence refused at first to have anything to do with it; but being prodded by his love on the one hand, and propelled by his friend’s insistence on the other, he eventually faltered and said:

  ‘See here, Gisippus, I cannot tell which of us would remain the more contented if I were to do the thing you implore me to do, seeing that you claim it would give you so much pleasure. But as your liberality is such as to disarm my natural shame, I shall do it. Of this you may be certain, however, that I do it in the knowledge that you are not only giving me the woman I love, but also saving my life. Thus does your compassion for my plight exceed my own, and I pray that the gods may grant me the means whereby I may yet make you honourable amends and show you how deeply I prize the blessing you have conferred upon me.’

  When Titus had finished speaking, Gisippus said:

  ‘If we want our plans to succeed, Titus, this is what I think we ought to do. As you know, it was only after long discussions between Sophronia’s kinsfolk and my own that she became my promised bride, and hence, if I were suddenly to announce that I no longer wish to marry her, there would be an awful scandal and I would cause distress to both our families. This would not worry me in the least, if I could see her being married to you as a result. But if I were to leave her in the lurch like this, I fear that her kinsfolk would promptly marry her off to some other fellow, and not necessarily to you, in which case you will have lost Sophronia and I shall have gained nothing. So it seems to me that if you are in agreement I should carry on with what I have begun, fetch her back here as my wife, and celebrate the nuptials, after which you and Sophronia, by whatever secret means we shall devise, will sleep together as man and wife. Later on, when the time and the place are appropriate, we shall disclose how matters stand; if they like the idea, all well and good; but if they don’t, they’ll have to lump it, because by that time the deed will be done and there’ll be no way of setting things in reverse.’

  Titus agreed to the plan, and so Gisippus went ahead and welcomed Sophronia to his house as his bride, by which time Titus was strong and well again. A great feast was held, and when night had descended, the waiting maids left the new bride in her husband’s bed and departed.

  Now the rooms of Titus and Gisippus were adjacent, and it was possible to pass freely from the one to the other; so on entering his room, Gisippus extinguished all the lights, betook himself quietly to Titus, and bade him go sleep with his lady.

  Titus was overcome with embarrassment, began to have second thoughts, and refused to go. But Gisippus, after remonstrating with him at length, sent him all the same, being no less prepared to do Titus’ pleasure than he had claimed.

  Having eased himself into the bed, Titus took the girl in his arms, and asked her in a voice no louder than a whisper whether she wanted to be his wife, as though playing some sort of game with her. The girl replied in the affirmative, thinking he was Gisippus, whereupon he placed a fine and precious ring on her finger, saying:

  ‘And I want to be your husband.’

  The marriage was then consummated, and thereafter Titus long continued to disport himself amorously with her, neither Sophronia nor anyone else ever suspecting that the person with whom she shared her bed was not Gisippus.

  This, then, was where the marriage of Sophronia and Titus stood, when Titus was informed by letter that Publius, his father, had departed this life, and that hence he should return to Rome at once to attend to his affairs. So after consulting with Gisippus, he decided to leave Athens and take Sophronia with him, which he was neither prepared nor easily able to do without explaining everything to Sophronia.

  So one day, they called her into the room and took her fully into their confidence, nor could she doubt that their story was true because of numerous things that had passed between Titus and herself. And having cast a withering look, first at one, then at the other, she burst into floods of tears, complaining bitterly of the trick Gisippus had played on her. But before anyone else in the house came to hear of it, she took refuge in the house of her father, to whom, as well as to her mother, she recounted the way in which she and they had been hoodwinked by Gisippus, pointing out that she was married, not to Gisippus as they supposed, but to Titus.

  Sophronia’s father, who took a very grave view of the matter, complained loud and long to his kinsfolk, as well as to the kinsfolk of Gisippus, and there was a huge palaver, followed in turn by a great deal of gossip. Gisippus incurred the hatred of both Sophronia’s kinsfolk and his own, and everyone declared that he deserved to be not only censured but punished most severely. But he maintained that he had acted honourably and in such a way as to merit the gratitude of Sophronia’s kinsfolk, inasmuch as he had married her to someone better than himself.

  For his part, Titus heard all that was going on, and patiently bore the suffering it caused him. But eventually, knowing the Greeks had a habit of raising an enormous clamour and intensifying their threats until such time as they found someone to answer them back, when they would suddenly become not only humble but positively servile, he decided that their prattle could no longer be allowed to pass without a rejoinder. His Roman heart being wedded to the guile of an Athenian, he skilfully persuaded the kinsfolk of Gisippus and Sophronia to forgather in a temple, to which he came, accompanied only by Gisippus. And he addressed the people waiting there as follows:

  ‘In the opinion of many philosophers, all human actions conform to the will and decree of the immortal gods, and hence there are those who maintain that whatever we mortals do here on earth, either now or in the future, is inevitable and preordained; whereas certain others apply this principle of necessity only to what is already past and done with. Now, if we examine these opinions with a modicum of care, we shall clearly perceive that the person who criticizes that which cannot be changed is behaving exactly as though he wishes to prove himself wiser than the gods, who, to the best of our knowledge and belief, control and govern us, and all things pertaining to us, by a process of eternal and infallible logic. Thus you may very readily perceive the senseless and bestial arrogance of those who criticize their inscrutable ways, just as you will appreciate with what strong and substantial chains those people deserve to be bound, who permi
t themselves to be carried away by such excess of daring. Among these latter, you yourselves are all, in my opinion, to be numbered, unless I have been misinformed as to what you have been saying, and are still saying, about Sophronia’s having become my wife after you had given her to Gisippus; for you overlook the fact that she was destined, ab aeterno so to speak, not for Gisippus but for me, as we now know from the sequel. Since however it appears that the secret insight and inscrutable purpose of the gods are a subject too abstruse and difficult for many people to follow, I shall assume that the gods play no part whatever in our affairs, and confine myself to the logic of mortals, in appealing to which I shall be obliged to do two things that are wholly at odds with my nature: for in the first place I must praise myself a little, and in the second I must disparage or humiliate another. But since I have no intention of departing from the truth in either case, and since this is what the present occasion demands, I shall none the less proceed.

  ‘Prompted more by anger than by reason, you complain about Gisippus, whom you abuse, attack and condemn with these perpetual murmurs or rather outcries of yours, simply because he arranged to give to me the wife whom you had arranged to give to him. But in my opinion he deserves the highest praise, for two reasons: first, because he acted in the manner of a true friend, and secondly because his wisdom in so doing was superior to your own. Now, I have no intention of explaining to you, here and now, that which the sacred laws of friendship require that a man should do for his friend, being content simply to have reminded you that the ties of friendship may be much more binding than those of blood or kinship. For our friends are of our own choosing, whereas our kinsfolk are those that Fortune has allotted to us. So if my life was more precious to Gisippus than your goodwill, none of you should marvel thereat, since I am his friend, or regard myself as such.