That said, I beg no excuse if what I have produced does not, at the end, leave the reader feeling rewarded by the treasures found in Basile’s tales. For with all of its circumlocutions, digressions, extrapolations, and proliferations—all of its marvelous excess—The Tale of Tales can be a rocky ride, but never a tedious one.
NANCY L. CANEPA
The Tale of Tales
I
THE FIRST DAY
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF TALES*
[Frame Tale]
A seasoned proverb of ancient coinage says that those who look for what they should not find what they would not, and it’s clear that when the monkey tried putting on boots it got its foot stuck,1 just like what happened to a ragged slave girl who although she had never worn shoes on her feet wanted to wear a crown on her head. But since the millstone grinds out the chaff and sooner or later everything is paid for, she who deceitfully took from others what was theirs ended up caught in the circle of heels,2 and however steep her climb up was, her tumble down was even greater. It happened in the manner that follows.
It is said that there once was3 a king, the king of Hairy Valley, who had a daughter named Zoza, who, like a second Zoroaster or Heraclitus,4 had never been seen to laugh. Hence her miserable father, whose sole life breath was his only daughter, left nothing undone in his attempts to banish her melancholy. He tried to whet her appetite first with stilt walkers, then with hoop jumpers, acrobats, Master Ruggiero,5 jugglers, strongmen, a dancing dog, Vracone the jumping monkey, the ass that drinks from a glass, bitchy Lucia,6 and then with this and then with the other thing. But it was all a waste of time, for not even Master Grillo’s remedy,7 not even the sardonic herb,8 not even a sword in her chest would have made the corners of her mouth turn up. Finally, not knowing what else to do, as a last resort her poor father ordered that a great fountain of oil9 be erected before the palace gate, with the idea that as the passersby came and went like ants along the street they would be sprayed and, so as not to lubricate their clothes, would hop about like crickets, jump like goats, and run like hares, slipping and bumping into each other, and that in this way something might happen to make his daughter laugh.
The fountain was thus constructed, and one day while Zoza was sitting at the window as sourly as a pickle an old woman chanced to pass by. She began to fill a jar she had brought with her, sopping up the oil with a sponge, and as she was busily going about her task a certain devil of a court page threw a stone at her with such precision that it hit the jar and broke it to pieces.
At that, the old woman, who had no hairs on her tongue and let no one ride on her back, turned to the page and began to say, “Ah, you worthless thing, you dope, shithead, bed pisser, leaping goat, diaper ass, hangman’s noose, bastard mule! Just look, even fleas can cough now! Go on, may paralysis seize you, may your mother get bad news, may you not live to see the first of May!10 Go on, may you be thrust by a Catalan lance11 or torn apart by ropes (so that no blood will be wasted), may you suffer a thousand ills and then some with winds in your sails! May your seed be lost! Scoundrel, beggar, son of a taxed woman,12 rogue!”
After hearing this juicy outburst, the lad, who had little hair on his chin and even less discretion, repaid her in the same coin, saying, “Why don’t you shut that sewer hole, you bogeyman’s grandmother,13 blood-sucking witch, baby drowner, rag shitter, fart gatherer?” When this news hit home the old woman became so angry that, losing her phlegmatic compass bearings and charging from the stable of patience, she raised her stage curtain and revealed a woodsy scene about which Silvio might have said, “Go and open eyes with your horn.”14 And at this spectacle Zoza started laughing so hard that she nearly lost her senses.
When she saw herself being made fun of, the old woman flew into such a rage that she turned to Zoza with a frightful face and said, “Begone, and may you never pluck a blossom of a husband unless you take the prince of Round Field.” Upon hearing those words, Zoza had the old woman called over, for she wanted to know at all costs whether the old woman had insulted her or laid a curse on her.
The old woman answered, “Now you should know that the prince I mentioned is a splendid creature named Tadeo, who on account of a fairy’s curse gave the last brushstroke to the canvas of his life and was laid in a tomb outside the city walls. Inscribed on the stone is an epitaph proclaiming that any woman who within three days fills the pitcher that hangs there on a hook with her tears will bring him back to life and win him for her husband. And since it’s impossible that two human eyes can piddle enough to fill a pitcher that holds half a bushel—unless they belonged to that Egeria15 who, I’ve heard, became a fountain of tears in Rome—this is a curse that I have put on you, because you mocked me and made fun of me, and I beg the heavens that it hits you square on as a vendetta for the offense done to me.” As she was saying this she fled down the stairs, fearing a beating.
At that same moment Zoza began to ruminate and chew over the old woman’s words, and a little demon entered her lovely head. And after spinning many thoughts and milling countless doubts about the matter, she finally found herself pulled by the winch of that passion that blinds judgment and enchants discourse, and when she had taken a fistful of gold coins from her father’s treasury, she slipped out of the palace and kept on walking until she came to the castle of a fairy.
She unloaded her heart’s torments on the fairy and, out of compassion for such a beautiful young woman, who had been thrown off her horse by the two spurs of her tender age and her blinding love for things unknown, the fairy gave her a letter of presentation for a sister of hers, also a fairy. And after bestowing all sorts of compliments on her, the next morning—when Night had the birds emit the proclamation that whoever had seen a herd of wandering black shadows would be amply rewarded—she gave her a lovely walnut and said, “Take this, my dear girl, and hold it dear; but open it only in a moment of great need.”
And with another letter she entrusted her to another sister. After a long journey Zoza arrived, was welcomed with the same affection, and the next morning received another letter for another sister, together with a chestnut and the same warning she had been given with the walnut. When she had walked a way, she arrived at the castle of the next fairy, who caressed her a thousand times over, and the next morning when she was leaving presented her with a hazelnut and the same warning to open it only under the knife of need.
Once she had these objects, Zoza threw up her legs and traveled through so many countries and crossed so many woods and rivers that after seven years—just when the Sun, having been awakened by the roosters’ trumpets, was putting on its saddle and preparing to make the usual deliveries16—she reached Round Field with barely a tail left on her. And there, before entering the city, she saw a marble tomb at the foot of a fountain that, imprisoned in porphyry, was crying crystal tears.
She took the pitcher that was hanging there, put it between her legs, and began to trade lines from the Menaechmi17 with the fountain, hardly lifting her head from the edge of the pitcher, so that it took her less than two days to fill it to within two fingers of the rim—just two more fingers and it would have been full. But she was exhausted from all that crying, and without meaning to she was hoodwinked by sleep and forced to rest for a couple of hours under the tent of her eyelids.
In the meantime there arrived a certain cricket-legged slave girl18 who often went to that fountain to fill her urn and who knew about the epitaph business, since talk of it was everywhere. When she saw Zoza crying so hard to make those two trickles of tears, she sat for a long time and spied on her, waiting until the pitcher was almost full so that she could wrench that fine booty from Zoza’s hands and leave her with a fistful of flies.
As soon as she saw that Zoza was asleep, she took advantage of the opportunity and skillfully slipped the pitcher out from under her, placed her own eyes above it, and, in four snaps, filled it. The moment it was full to the brim the prince g
ot out of his coffin of white stone as if he were awakening from a long sleep, took hold of that mass of black flesh, and carried her off to his palace where, amid festivities and royal fireworks, he made her his wife.
But when Zoza awoke and found the pitcher overturned, and with it her hopes, and saw the coffin open, her heart squeezed shut so tightly that she nearly unpacked the parcels of her soul at the customshouse of Death. Finally, realizing that there was no remedy for her ills and that all she had to complain about were her own eyes, which had insufficiently guarded the calf of her hopes,19 she set off, one foot after another, until she arrived at the city. There she heard of the prince’s festivities and of the fine sort of wife he had taken, and at once imagined what must have happened, exclaiming with a sigh that two black things had brought her to her downfall: sleep and a slave.
Even so, in her attempt to defy Death, against which every animal defends itself to the best of its abilities, she moved into a fine house across from the prince’s palace, where although she could not see her heart’s idol she could at least contemplate the walls of the temple that held the desired prize. And one day she was sighted by Tadeo, who like a bat was always flying round that black night of a slave but became an eagle when he fixed his eyes upon Zoza—that monster of nature’s bounty, that “I’m out”20 of the game of beauty.
When the slave realized what was going on she raised all hell and, as she was already pregnant, threatened her husband, saying, “If you no move from windowsill, me punch belly and little Georgie kill.” Tadeo, who was concerned about his heir, trembled like a reed at the thought of causing his wife any displeasure and tore himself from the sight of Zoza like a soul from its body.
When Zoza saw that sip of broth taken away from her weak hopes, she knew not what course to follow in the moment of extreme need. But then she remembered the fairies’ gifts, and opened the walnut. Out came a tiny little man, as big as a doll, the most delicious little plaything in the world, who got up on the windowsill and began to sing with so many trills, warbles, and embellishments that he sounded like Compar Biondo, he surpassed Pezzillo,21 and he left Cieco di Potenza and the King of Birds far behind.
The slave happened to see and hear this, and became pregnant with such longing that she called Tadeo and said to him, “If me no have singing devil from sill, me punch belly and little Georgie kill.” The prince, who had let himself be harnessed by the Moorish slave, immediately sent someone to ask Zoza if she was willing to sell it, to which she answered that she was not a merchant but that if he wanted it for a gift, he could take it as an homage. Tadeo, who yearned to keep his wife happy so that she could bring her pregnancy to term, accepted the offer.
Four days later Zoza opened the chestnut, and out came a hen with twelve golden chicks, which she put on the same windowsill. When the slave saw them she felt a craving all the way down to the little bones in her feet, and after she called over Tadeo and showed him what a lovely thing it was, she said, “If you no hen get from sill, me punch belly and little Georgie kill.”
Tadeo, who let this bitch give him the runs and pull on his tail, again sent someone to Zoza to offer her whatever price she was asking for such a lovely hen. Her answer was the same as before: he would have to accept it as a gift, since any talk about buying it was a waste of time. The prince thus had no choice in the matter and out of need was forced to beat down all discretion, and as he snatched up the lovely morsel he marveled over the generosity of this woman, since women are by nature so greedy that all the gold bars in India are not enough to satisfy them.
After just as many days went by, Zoza opened the hazelnut, out of which came a doll that spun gold, an object amazing beyond all imagination. No sooner had it been placed on the windowsill than the slave caught a whiff, called Tadeo, and said to him, “If you no buy me dolly from sill, me punch belly and little Georgie kill.”
Tadeo let himself be wound like wool and pulled by the nose by the arrogance of this wife who rode him like a horse, but since he did not have the courage to send for Zoza’s doll he decided to go in person, recalling the mottos “No better messenger than yourself,” “If you want something, go yourself; if you don’t, send someone else,” and “If you want to eat fish, you have to get your tail wet.” He beseeched her endlessly to pardon his excesses, caused by the cravings of a pregnant woman; Zoza, who now that the cause of her misfortunes stood in front of her was in raptures, forced herself not to give in to his pleas, so that she might still her oars and enjoy at greater length the sight of her lord, who had been robbed from her by an ugly slave. Finally, she gave him the doll as she had done with the other objects, but before parting with it she begged the little piece of clay to instill in the slave’s heart the desire to hear tales.
Tadeo, who discovered himself with the doll in hand without having shelled out a penny,22 was astonished at such kindness and offered Zoza his state and his life in exchange for so many favors. He returned to the palace and gave the doll to his wife; as soon as she took it in her arms to play with it assumed the appearance of Cupid, in the form of Ascanius, in Dido’s arms.23 And it put fire in her chest; she was struck by such a burning desire to hear tales that, unable to resist and fearing that she might touch her mouth and give birth to a querulous son capable of infecting an entire ship of poor souls,24 she called her husband and said, “If people no come and with tales my ears fill, me punch belly and little Georgie kill.”
In order to do away with this March cure25 Tadeo immediately issued a proclamation: all the women of the land were to come to his palace on such and such a day. And that day—at the rise of Diana’s star, which awakened Dawn so that she might adorn the streets where the Sun was to promenade—they all gathered in the appointed place. But since Tadeo did not think it proper to detain such a mob to satisfy his wife’s whim, and since, moreover, the sight of such a crowd suffocated him, he chose just ten women, the best of the city, the ones who appeared to be the most expert and quick-tongued. They were: lame Zeza, twisted Cecca, goitered Meneca, big-nosed Tolla, hunchback Popa, drooling Antonella, snout-faced Ciulla, cross-eyed Paola, mangy Ciommetella, and shitty Iacova.26
Once he had written down their names and sent the other women away, together with the slave they all arose from under the canopy and made their way with measured step to a garden of the same palace, where the leafy branches were so entangled that the Sun was unable to separate them with its rod. After taking their seats under a pavilion topped by a pergola of grapevines in the middle of which flowed a large fountain, schoolmaster of courtiers whom it daily instructed in the art of murmuring, Tadeo began to speak in this manner: “There is nothing in the world more delicious, my illustrious women, than to hear about the doings of others, nor without obvious reason did that great philosopher27 set the supreme happiness of man in hearing pleasant tales; since when you lend an ear to tasty items, cares evaporate, irksome thoughts are dispelled, and life is prolonged. And it is because of this desire that you see artisans leave their workshops, merchants their commerce, lawyers their cases, and shopkeepers their businesses, and go open-mouthed to barbershops and gossip circles to hear false news, invented broadsides, and airy gazettes.28 For this I must apologize on behalf of my wife, who has gotten the melancholic urge to hear tales stuck in her head. And so if it be your pleasure to shatter the jug of the princess’s fancy and to hit the bull’s-eye of my cravings, you will content yourselves for these four or five days before she empties her belly to each tell one tale a day, of the sort that old women usually entertain the little ones with. We will always meet in the same place, and after we gulp down our food the talk will begin, and each day will end with a few eclogues, which will be recited by our own servants.29 And thus our lives will be spent merrily, and woe to those who die.”
At these words the women all accepted Tadeo’s orders with a nod of their heads; in the meantime the tables were set and the food arrived, and they began to eat. After they finished slurping i
t up, the prince signaled to lame Zeza to fire her weapon. She bowed down low to the prince and his wife, and began to speak in this manner:
1
THE TALE OF THE OGRE*
First Entertainment of the First Day
After Antuono of Marigliano is kicked out by his mother for being the ringleader of all oafs, he enters into the service of an ogre, from whom he receives a gift whenever he wants to go back and see his home. Antuono is tricked each time by an innkeeper, but finally the ogre gives him a club that punishes him for his ignorance, makes the innkeeper do penance for his ruses, and brings Antuono’s family riches.
“Whoever said that Fortune is blind knows a lot more than master Lanza,1 stick it to him! For she certainly strikes blindly, raising people you wouldn’t deign to kick out of a bean field to great heights and beating to the ground people who are the flower of mankind, as you shall now hear.2
“It is said that in the town of Marigliano3 there once was a respectable woman named Masella. Besides her unmarried daughters, six little farts as thin as poles, she had a son who was such a birdbrain and muttonhead that he couldn’t even throw a snowball. And so she sat around like a sow with a bit in her mouth, and there wasn’t a day that she didn’t say to him, ‘What are you doing in this house? Damn the bread you eat! Clear out, you big piece of you know what; make yourself scarce, Maccabee; go fall in a hole, troublemaker; get out of my sight, chestnut-guzzler! Someone must have switched you in the cradle; in exchange for an adorable dollikins and a pretty little baby I got a big lasagna-gobbling pig.’ But even with all this, Masella talked and he just whistled.
“Seeing that there was no hope that Antuono4 (that was her son’s name) would get it into his head to do any good, one day that was like any other she gave his head a good washing without soap, took a rolling pin in her hand, and began to measure him for a jacket.5 Antuono found himself fenced in, stockaded, and staked when he least expected it, and as soon as he could get out of her hands he threw up his heels and walked so far that around dusk—when the lamps began to be lit in Cynthia’s6 shop—he reached the foothills of a mountain so high that it butted horns with the clouds. Here, atop an enormous poplar root at the foot of a grotto decorated in pumice stone, there sat an ogre; and oh, dear mother, what an ugly one he was!
The Tale of Tales Page 8