The Tale of Tales

by Giambattista Basile

  MAR.: Gosh, you’re making yourself clearer by the minute! This is an amazing art! An art, though, that doesn’t work for poor fellows, but only for certain ringleaders who come from afar and who are permitted to call—as dryly as can be—their booties comforts and their thefts fruits!

  COLA: Take a lazy turncoat, a pants-shitting Jew,3 a hen, a weak-spirited little fellow with the heart of a chick. He’s frightened, terrified, frozen stiff, on the verge of a heart attack; he trembles like a reed, is always spinning the fine thread of fear, always full of vermin and with diarrhea in his bowels, and is afraid of his own shadow. If someone eyes him the wrong way, out comes a quarter bushel of worms; if someone threatens him, he looks likes a plucked quail, he becomes pale and lifeless, he’s without words, and he immediately gets the runs. And if that someone puts his hand on his sheath, he pulls up anchor and beats it out of there. But with this noble dye, people take him for a person who is prudent, composed, and respectable, one who makes his way with a plumb line and a compass, who never grabs flying shit, nor buys lawsuits in cold cash. He doesn’t hang around courts; he minds his own business; he’s calm and measured. And in this way, my son, a rabbit is taken for a fox!

  MAR.: It seems to me that those who save their own skin have the right idea, for once I read in a story, I don’t remember if handwritten or printed, that “a beautiful flight can save a whole life.”4

  COLA: But then, someplace else, you see a man all of a piece, a man who takes risks, a man of courage who’s not a crumb less worthy than Rodomonte,5 who could exchange blows with Orlando and trade punches with Hector,6 who doesn’t allow a fly to pass by his nose and sees to facts before words, who keeps every bully and gang leader tight in his fist and with their two feet in one shoe. He works his hands well, he has a lion’s heart, he duels with Death; nor does he ever take a step backward, and he’s always butting like a ram. But if he is treated with this dye, he’s taken by everyone for an impertinent breakneck, an insolent daredevil, a touchy madman fragile as glass, a demon, a house-consuming fire; one who makes sure you trip on every stone, who looks for fights with a stick; a man without reason, a person without control and without rein for whom there’s not a day without a brawl, who makes his neighbors anxious and provokes the stones on the street. In short, the man who we saw to be worthy of verses is now deemed worthy of the oar!7

  MAR.: You be quiet! They’re right; a wise and well-adjusted person is one who makes himself respected without a sword!

  COLA: Now here we have a miser, a penniless wretch, a belt tightener, a bag closer, a tinker’s pincer, a constipated dry shitter, a nail gnawer, a Sienese horse, a juiceless citron, a greasy cork, a prune pit, a sorb ant, a skinflint; the mother of misery, poor little thing, who like a frisky horse will show you a pair of buns8 before he gives you a hair from his tail. Mean and tight-fisted, he’ll run a hundred miles but won’t drop a cent; he’ll take a hundred bites of a bean; he’ll tie a hundred knots around a half-penny;9 and he never shits so he won’t have to eat. But this dye immediately puts things right, and it’s said that he’s a man who saves, who doesn’t throw away or waste what he has, who doesn’t allow his possessions to be thrown out with the water, who’s a good man around the house and doesn’t let a crumb of bread fall on the ground. At the end, he’s called (but only by certain rabble) a man as meticulous as a compass, when he’s a pincer!

  MAR.: Oh, may this race, who keep their hearts inside their money, vanish! They follow diets unprescribed by doctors, they wear a hundred rags, you always see them afflicted; they treat themselves like beggars and servants, and then die, all dried up, amid richness!

  COLA: But on the other side of the coin is he who spends and squanders: he would empty a ship, he would consume a mint; like a sack coming apart at the seams he scatters whatever he has and pays no attention to the things he possesses. He’s surrounded by a hundred spongers and scoundrels, all without a single virtue, and heaps compensation on them. He dissipates without judgment, throws away without reason, gives to dogs and pigs and sends himself up in smoke. But with this dye he acquires the reputation of a generous spirit, courteous, magnanimous, and kind, who would give the pupils of his eyes and is the friend of all friends; a man who has the stink of a king about him and never says no to anyone who asks him; and with this fine face he empties chests and sends his house to ruin!

  MAR.: Whoever calls one of these men generous is lying through the teeth: a generous man is one who gives at the right time and place and doesn’t throw worthless coins to buffoons and people without honor, but distributes his money to the poor and honorable man of virtue.

  COLA: You see a pimp, a full pot, a wooly sheep, a ram,10 a billy goat, a jump-and-butt, a house with two doors, a shoehorn that comes from Corneto and lives in Forcella, a procurer, a bullock who is the original painting of infamy and the spitting image of excess. And when he, too, is dyed, they call him a calm, respectable man, a gentleman who minds his own business and gets along with everyone; he is courteous with all, his house is open to friends, he is not one for ceremonies nor piques, he’s as good as bread, as sweet as honey, you can do with him what you like. And meanwhile, without even blushing, he trades in meat and saves the bones!

  MAR.: Nowadays these types live richly; they can even see when they go out at night to the tavern, since they’ve got a lantern that shines from between their bones.11

  COLA: A man lives in seclusion, has nothing to do with rascals and thieves; he avoids conversation, he wants neither headaches nor to be accountable to the third or fourth in line. He lives a peaceful life; he is master of himself and has no one who wakes him when he is sleeping or counts the mouthfuls when he is eating. But there are those who use the dye on him and call him wild and woodsy; hawk shit that smells neither fragrant nor fetid; a bitter, insipid, rustic lout; a man without flavor and without love; wretched, beastly, a good-for-nothing; macaroni without salt.

  MAR.: Oh, happy is he who lives in the desert, for he neither sees nor has cause for anger! Let them say what they will: but I find well proven the saying that goes, “Better alone than badly accompanied.”

  COLA: But then, on the other hand, you find a conversational type, who’s like flesh and blood with his friends, a good pal, affable, who treats you without any fuss. But with this dye—who would believe it?—he discovers those who cut him to pieces and tear him to shreds, sew him up and then take out the stitches, rub him the wrong way, and bring a case against him behind his back, calling him impudent, nosy, a pants farter, a punch face, a broken shoelace, insolent, parsley for every sauce, one who would salt whatever he sees and stick his nose in everything he smells, a busybody, arrogant, a big pain in the neck: take this and spend it, you poor little thing!

  MAR.: There’s this, and even worse! It was well understood by that Spaniard who said, a long time ago, “La mucha aqueja es causa de desprecio.”12

  COLA: If by chance a man is clear of speech, chats and converses and makes a display of wit and eloquence, and however you touch him and turn him round you find that he’s knowledgeable and answers you by the rule, this dye reduces him to where he’s given the mortarboard of a jabbering bigmouth, a sewer throat, one who would have a thing or two to teach crickets, who’s wordier than a magpie and makes your ears ring and your head ache with such nonsense, so many nursery rhymes and ogre tales,13 and so much complaining and psst-pssting that, when he puts that tongue in motion, with his mouth like a chicken’s ass, he infects you, stuns you, and deafens you.

  MAR.: In this age of jackasses, you try as hard as you can but you’re always going to be wrong!

  COLA: But if someone else is silent and mute, all clammed up, with his trap shut and plugged, and if he saves his mouth for eating figs and you don’t hear one peep out of him, this dye changes his color so that he is called an Antuono, a baboon, a retard, a blockhead, a ninny, a log good for burning in hell, always cold and frozen, like the bride who came against he
r will. I see no possibility of a north wind for this gulf: if you speak, poor you, and if you don’t speak, even worse!

  MAR.: That’s the truth; nowadays you don’t know how to behave, you don’t know where to fish, there’s no beaten road to walk on: lucky are those who are able to guess it right in this world!

  COLA: But who could ever describe from A to Z the effects of this dye? It would take a thousand years, without a doubt, nor would a tongue of metal suffice! Do with it what you will, treat it as you like; in any case it will change your color, and the buffoon is called humorous and entertaining; the spy, one who knows the map of the ways of the world; the scoundrel, an ingenious man and a bream who knows his waters; the lazybones, a calm man; the glutton, a man who knows how to live the good life; the flatterer, an able courtier who pays attention to his master’s moods and knows how to please him; the whore, courteous and of noble bearing; the ignoramus, a simple and respectable man. And so, you go on and on discussing and then . . . enough! It’s no marvel if at court the mean man gurgles with delight and the good man laments his lot, because their true colors are concealed from the lords by this dye, and they mistake and exchange this one for that one, as has always been the case, leaving the good man for the bad.

  MAR.: Wretched is he who serves! Oh, better if his mother had delivered him dead! A storm is always brewing, and he can never hope to find port.

  COLA: The court is made solely for people of vice, who keep good as far from them as possible, kicking, pushing, and throwing it away. But let us leave these tales, for if I scratched wherever it itches I would finish neither tomorrow nor the day after. So let’s cut it short and leave our labors, now that the Sun is playing hide-and-seek,14 and we can cover the rest another evening!

  At the same time that Cola Ambruoso closed his mouth the Sun closed the day; and thus, after agreeing to return the next morning with a new arsenal of tales, they all went off to their houses, full of words and loaded down with appetite.

  End of the second day.

  III

  THE THIRD DAY

  No sooner were all of the shadows that had been imprisoned by the tribunal of Night liberated by the Sun’s visit than the prince and his wife, together with the women, returned to the usual place. And in order to pass in merry fashion the hours that had placed themselves between morning and the time to eat, they had musicians brought in and they began to dance with great pleasure. They did the Ruggiero, the Villanella, the Tale of the Ogre, the Sfessania, the Beaten Peasant, All Day Long with That Little Dove, the Stupefaction, the Nymph’s Basso, the Gypsy, the Capricious, My Clear Star, My Sweet Fire of Love, What I’m Looking For, the Charmer and Little Charmer, the Go-Between, Short Lady, Tall Lady, the Chiarantana, Stick Your Foot Out, Look Who I’ve Gone and Fallen in Love With, Open Up ’Cuz It’s a Good Idea, Clouds Floating Up in the Air, the Devil in a Shirt, Living on Hope, Change Hands, the Cascarda, and the Little Spanish Girl; and they closed the dancing with the Lucia Canazza, to please the slave.1 And thus time raced by faster than they realized, and the hour to work their jaws arrived and brought with it all of the heavens’ riches, and, indeed, they’re still eating. And when the tables had been cleared, Zeza, who had sharpened herself like a razor to tell her tale, spoke in this manner:

  1

  CANNETELLA*

  First Entertainment of the Third Day

  Cannetella is unable to find a husband to her liking, and her sin causes her to fall into the hands of an ogre, where she is given an awful life; finally a sewer cleaner who is a vassal of her father’s frees her.

  “It is a bad thing, ladies and gentlemen, to look for bread better than that made from wheat,1 because you end up desiring what you’ve thrown away. One should be content with what is honest, for those who want everything lose everything and those who walk on treetops have just as much madness in their noggins as danger under their heels, as was the case with a king’s daughter, who will be the subject of the tale that I’m about to tell you.

  “There once was a king, the king of Lovely Knoll, who had a greater desire to breed than porters have the desire for funerals to be held so that they can gather the melted wax. He even made a vow to the goddess Syrinx:2 if she gave him a child he would call her Cannetella, in memory of how the goddess had transformed into a reed. And he prayed and prayed so hard and long that he received the grace, and with his wife Renzolla had a lovely little fart of a baby girl to whom he gave the promised name.

  “She grew by leaps and bounds, and when she was as tall as a pole the king said to her, ‘My daughter, you’ve already grown as big—may the heavens bless you!—as an oak tree, and it’s the right time for you to pair up with a little husband who’s deserving of that lovely face, so that we can maintain our family line. And so, since I love you like the pupils of my eyes and desire your happiness, I’d like to know what breed of a husband you would like. What sort of man suits your fancy? Do you want a man of letters or a swashbuckler? A young boy or a mature man? Dark, white, or red? Tall and lanky or a little twig? Narrow-waisted or round as an ox? You choose and I’ll sign off on it.’

  “When Cannetella heard these generous offers, she thanked her father and told him that she had dedicated her virginity to Diana and that under no circumstance did she want to glut herself on a husband. But in spite of all this, after the king begged and pleaded with her, she said, ‘So as not to reveal myself indifferent to so much love I will be content to do your wishes, as long as I am given a man who has no equal in the world.’ Upon hearing this, her father sat with great joy from morning till evening at the window, studying, measuring, and examining everyone who passed through the square. And when a nice-looking man passed by, the king said to his daughter, ‘Run, look out the window, Cannetella, and see if this one measures up to your liking!’ And she had him come up, and they prepared a splendid banquet for him, where there was everything that one could possibly desire. As they were eating, an almond fell out of the young man’s mouth, and he bent over and picked it up from the ground expertly, pushing it under the tablecloth. And when the meal was over, he left. The king said to Cannetella, ‘How do you like the young man, my dear heart?’ And she: ‘Keep that worthless fellow away from me, because a great big man like him shouldn’t have let an almond fall out of his mouth!’

  “When the king heard this he went back to the window again, and when another man of the right sort passed by he called his daughter to see if this other one pleased her. Cannetella answered that he should come in, and he was called up and another feast prepared. After they finished eating and the man left, the king asked his daughter if she liked him. She said, ‘What am I supposed to do with that wretched soul? He should have at least brought a couple of servants with him to take off his cape.’ ‘If that’s how it is, we’re in trouble,’ said the king. ‘These are the excuses of someone who doesn’t want to pay, and you’re looking for lint so you won’t have to do me this favor. But resolve yourself, for I want to marry you off and find a root strong enough to make my line of succession regerminate.’ At these heated words Cannetella answered, ‘If, Lord Daddy, you want me to speak frankly and tell you how I really feel, you’re hoeing in the sea and counting things wrong on your fingers, since I’ll never subjugate myself to any man alive unless he has a head and teeth of gold.’ The hapless king saw that his daughter had a hard head and issued a proclamation: if there was anyone in his kingdom who fulfilled his daughter’s requirements he should come forward, and the king would give him his daughter and his kingdom.

  “This king had a great enemy named Fioravante, whom he couldn’t even stand to see painted on a wall. When Fioravante, who was an expert necromancer, heard of this proclamation, he summoned a number of those expelled by God and ordered them to make him a head and teeth of gold immediately. They answered that they would be able to do him this service only with great effort because it was a most extravagant thing for this world, and that it would be easier for them to give him
golden horns,3 which was a more usual thing nowadays. But in spite of all this they were forced by charms and spells to do what he desired.

  “When he had his head and teeth of twenty-four carats, Fioravante passed by under the windows of the king, who, when he saw exactly what he was looking for, called his daughter. As soon as she saw him she said, ‘Now this is the one; he couldn’t be any better if I had molded him with my own hands!’ And as Fioravante was getting up to leave, the king said to him, ‘Wait a minute, brother, your back is really burning! You’re acting like you’re at the Jew’s with something to pawn,4 like you’ve got mercury at your backside and a stick under your tail! Slow down; I’m going to give you baggage and people to accompany you and my daughter, whom I want to be your wife.’ ‘I thank you,’ said Fioravante, ‘but there’s no need. A horse will be more than enough; I’ll just throw her on its back, and once we get to my house there will be as many servants and furnishings as grains of sand.’ After arguing for a while Fioravante finally won, and he put her on the horse’s back and left.

  “In the evening—when the red horses were led away from the waterwheel of the sky and the white oxen yoked up—they arrived at a stable where some horses were feeding. Fioravante brought Cannetella in and said to her, ‘Take heed: I have to race back home, and it takes seven years to get there; make sure you wait for me in this stable, and don’t go out or let yourself be seen by a living soul or I’ll make you remember it for as long as you’re alive and healthy.’ To which Cannetella answered, ‘I am your subject and will do what you command, right down to the fennel. I would only ask to know what you’re going to leave me to live on during this time.’ And Fioravante replied, ‘What’s left in those horses’ feedbags will be enough for you.’