The lady, or strumpet rather, was delighted with this reply, and sent back word that in a few days’ time Guasparruolo, her husband, had to go to Genoa on business, and as soon as he was out of the way she would let Gulfardo know and invite him to call.
Having waited for the right moment, Gulfardo went to Guasparruolo and said:
‘I’m about to drive a bargain, for which I require two hundred gold florins. Would it be possible for you to lend them to me, at the same rate of interest as usual?’
Guasparruolo willingly agreed to lend him the money, and counted it out for him right away.
A few days later, Guasparruolo went off to Genoa as his wife had predicted, and she therefore sent word to Gulfardo that he should come to her, bringing the two hundred gold florins. So Gulfardo, taking his friend with him, went to the lady’s house, where he found her waiting for him, and the first thing he did was to hand over the two hundred gold florins in his comrade’s presence, saying:
‘Here, take this money, my lady, and give it to your husband when he returns.’
The lady took the money, thinking Gulfardo had used this form of words simply so that his comrade should not suspect he was giving it to her by way of payment. And she replied:
‘I shall see that he gets it, of course, but first I should like to make sure that it is all here.’ Whereupon she emptied the florins out on to a table, and on finding, to her great satisfaction, that they came to exactly two hundred, she put them away in a safe place. She then went back to Gulfardo and conveyed him to her bedroom, where, not only on that occasion but on many others before her husband’s return from Genoa, she placed her person freely at his disposal.
No sooner did Guasparruolo return from Genoa than Gulfardo, having made certain that his wife would be with him, called upon him with his companion, and said to him in the lady’s presence:
‘Guasparruolo, those two hundred gold florins you lent me the other day were not needed after all, as I was unable to complete the transaction. So I brought them straight back and handed them over to your wife. Do remember to cancel my debt, won’t you?’
Turning to his wife, Guasparruolo asked her whether she had received the money, and since she could hardly deny the fact when the witness was staring her in the face, she said:
‘Yes, I did indeed receive the money, but forgot to tell you about it.’
‘That settles it, then. Don’t worry, Gulfardo, I shall make quite sure that it’s entered up in the books.’
Having made a fool of the lady, Gulfardo took his leave, and she gave her husband the ill-gotten proceeds of her depravity; and thus the sagacious lover had enjoyed the favours of his rapacious lady free of charge.
SECOND STORY
The priest of Varlungo goes to bed with Monna Belcolore, leaving her his cloak by way of payment; then, having borrowed a mortar from her, he sends it back and asks her to return the cloak which he had left with her as a pledge. The good woman hands it over, and gives him a piece of her mind.
The gentlemen and ladies alike were still applauding Gulfardo’s treatment of the covetous Milanese lady when the queen turned, smiling, to Panfilo, and enjoined him to follow; so Panfilo began:
Fair ladies, it behoves me to relate a little story against a class of persons who keep on offending us without our being able to retaliate. I am referring to the priests, who have proclaimed a crusade against our wives, and who seem to think, when they succeed in laying one of them on her back, that they have earned full remission of all their sins, as surely as if they had brought the Sultan back from Alexandria to Avignon1 in chains. Whereas we poor dupes who belong to the laity cannot do the same to them, albeit we may vent our spleen against their mothers, sisters, mistresses and daughters with no less passion than the priests display when assailing our wives. But however that may be, I propose to tell you this tale of country love, more amusing for its ending than conspicuous for its length, from which you will be able to draw a useful moral, namely, that you shouldn’t believe everything that a priest tells you.
I say then, that in Varlungo,2 which as all of you know or will possibly have heard is a hamlet, no great distance from here, there once lived a worthy priest, robust and vigorous in the service of the ladies, who, albeit he was none too proficient at reading books, always had a rich stock of good and holy aphorisms with which to entertain his parishioners under the Elm every Sunday. And when-ever the men of the parish were away from their homes, he was far more assiduous in calling on their wives than any of his predecessors, bringing them fairings and holy water and a candle-end or two, and giving them his blessing.
Now, among the many women in his parish who had taken his fancy, there was one in particular for whom he had a very soft spot indeed. Her name was Monna Belcolore,3 she was married to a farmworker called Bentivegna del Mazzo,4 and without a doubt she was a vigorous and seductive-looking wench, buxom and brown as a berry, who seemed better versed in the grinder’s art than any other girl in the village. When, moreover, she had occasion to play the tambourine, and sing ‘A little of what you fancy does you good’, and dance a reel or a jig, with a dainty little kerchief in her hand, she could knock spots off every single one of her neighbours. Master Priest was so enthralled by all these talents of hers that he was driven to distraction, and spent his whole time loitering about the village in the hope of seeing her. Whenever he caught sight of her in church on a Sunday morning, he would intone a Kyrie and a Sanctus, trying very hard to sound like a master cantor when in fact he was braying like an ass, whereas if she was nowhere to be seen he would hardly open his lips. But on the whole he managed to disguise his feelings, so that neither Bentivegna del Mazzo nor any of his neighbours noticed anything unusual in his behaviour.
With the object of getting to know Monna Belcolore better, every now and then he gave her presents, sometimes sending her a few cloves of fresh garlic, of which he grew the finest specimens thereabouts in his own garden, and sometimes a basket of beans, or a bunch of chives or shallots. If he met her in the street, he would look at her with a forlorn expression on his face, and whisper fond reproaches in her ear, but being a stubborn little thing, she pretended not to notice and passed him by with her nose in the air, so that Master Priest was getting precisely nowhere.
One day, however, while the priest was strolling aimlessly about the village, a little after noon, he happened to meet Bentivegna del Mazzo, who was driving a heavily laden ass before him. The priest hailed him and asked him where he was going, and Bentivegna replied:
‘Faith, Father, to tell the honest truth I have some business to attend to in town, and I’m taking these things to the lawyer, Ser Bonaccorri da Ginestreto, so that he’ll help me to answer this ‘ere summings I’ve had from the tawny general to appear before the judge at the sizes.’
The priest was delighted.
‘You do well, my son,’ he said, ‘Go now, with my blessing, and come back soon. And if you should happen to meet Lapuccio or Naldino, don’t forget to ask them to bring me those leather thongs5 for my flails.’
Bentivegna promised he would see about it, and continued on his way towards Florence, while the priest, having decided that the time had come for him to call upon Belcolore and try his luck, set off at a spanking pace, never slowing up for a moment until he had arrived on her doorstep. As he entered the house, he called out:
‘God bless all here! Is anyone at home?’
Belcolore was upstairs, and on hearing his voice she called down to him:
‘Oh, Father, you are welcome! But why go traipsing round the village in this awful heat?’
‘By the grace of God,’ replied the priest, ‘I’ve come to keep you company for a while, for I met your husband on his way to town.’
Belcolore came downstairs, took a seat, and began to sift a heap of cabbage seed that her husband had gathered earlier in the day.
‘Come now, Belcolore,’ said the priest, ‘must you always drive me to despair like this?’
Belc
olore began to laugh, and said: ‘What have I done to you?’
‘Nothing,’ replied the priest. ‘But the trouble is that there’s something I’d like to do to you, something ordained by God, and you won’t let me do it.’
‘Bless my soul!’ said Belcolore. ‘Priests don’t do that sort of thing.’
‘We certainly do,’ replied the priest. ‘Why on earth shouldn’t we? What’s more, we do a much better job of it than other men, and do you know why? It’s because we do our grinding when the millpond’s full. So if you want to make hay while the sun shines, hold your tongue and let me get on with it.’
‘What sort of hay do you mean?’ said Belcolore. ‘You priests are all the same, you’re as tight-fisted as the very devil.’
‘You only have to tell me what you want,’ said the priest, ‘and you shall have it. Would you like a pretty little pair of shoes, or a silk head-scarf, or a fine woollen waistband, or what?’
‘That’s a splendid choice, I must say!’ exclaimed Belcolore. ‘I already have all those things. But if you’re really so fond of me, why not do me a little favour, and then I would do whatever you want?’
‘Tell me what the favour is, and I’ll do it gladly,’ said the priest.
So Belcolore said:
‘I have to go to Florence on Saturday to deliver some wool that I have spun, and get my spinning wheel mended. And if you’ll lend me five pounds, which a man like you can easily afford, I shall call at the pawnbroker’s and collect my black skirt and the waistband I wear on Sundays. I wore it on my wedding-day, you understand, and ever since I pawned it I haven’t been able to go to church or anywhere else. Do me this one favour, and I’ll be yours for evermore.’
‘So help me God,’ said the priest, ‘I haven’t the money with me, or I’d gladly let you have it. But you may depend on me to see that you get it by Saturday.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Belcolore, ‘you all make these fine promises, and then you fail to keep any of them. Do you think you’re going to treat me as you treated Biliuzza, who went away empty-handed and ended up walking the streets because of what you did to her? God’s faith, you’ll not fool me so easily. If you haven’t the money with you, you can go and fetch it.’
‘Oh come!’ said the priest. ‘Don’t make me go all the way back for it now, when you can see for yourself that I’m rearing to get on with the job. By the time I returned, there might be someone here to thwart our plans, and Lord knows when I shall be in such fine fettle again as I am at present.’
‘That’s your own lookout,’ she said. ‘If you want to go, go; if not, take your fettle elsewhere.’
Seeing that she was not prepared to do his bidding without a quid pro quo, and had turned down his suggestion of a sine custodia, the priest said:
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Since you won’t trust me to send you the money, I’ll leave you this fine blue cloak of mine by way of surety.’
Belcolore looked up at him and said:
‘Will you now? And how much is the cloak worth?’
‘How much is it worth?’ said the priest. ‘Why, I’ll have you know that it’s made of pure Douai,6 not to say Trouai, and there are those in the parish who would claim that it’s Quadrouai. I bought it less than a fortnight ago from Lotto, the old-clothes merchant, for exactly seven pounds, and according to Buglietto d’Alberto, who as you know is an expert in such matters, it would have been cheap at half the price.’
‘Is that so?’ said Belcolore. ‘So help me God, I would never have believed it. But anyway, let’s have a look at it.’
Master Priest, who was champing at the bit, took off his cloak and gave it to her. And when she had put it safely away, she said:
‘Let’s go into the barn, Father. Nobody ever comes near the place.’
So off they went to the barn, where he smothered her with luscious kisses and made her a kinswoman of the Lord God. And after spending some time in amorous sport with her, he made his way back to the church in his surplice, as though he’d been officiating at a wedding.
By the time he arrived there, it began to dawn on him that all the candle-ends he could muster from a whole year’s offerings would scarcely amount to a half of five pounds in value, and he could have kicked himself for being so stupid as to leave her his cloak. So he began to consider how he might retrieve it without having to pay.
Being a crafty sort of fellow, he soon thought of a very good way of getting it back, and it worked to perfection. On the following day, which happened to be a feast day, he sent the child of one of his neighbours to Monna Belcolore’s house, asking her whether she would kindly lend him her stone mortar, because Binguccio dal Poggio and Nuto Buglietti were due to breakfast with him later in the morning, and he wanted to prepare a sauce.
Belcolore sent him the mortar, and when it was nearly time for breakfast and the priest knew that Bentivegna del Mazzo and Belcolore would be about to sit at table, he called his sacristan and said:
‘Take this mortar back to Monna Belcolore, and say to her: “Father says thank you very much, and would you mind sending back the cloak that the boy left with you by way of surety.” ’
So the sacristan took the mortar along to Belcolore’s house, where he found her sitting at table with Bentivegna, having breakfast; and having put the mortar down on the table, he gave her the priest’s message.
When she heard him asking for the cloak, Belcolore tried to speak, but Bentivegna rounded on her angrily, saying:
‘What’s all this about taking sureties from the priest? Jesus Christ, I’ve a good mind to thrash the hide off you. Pox take you, woman, go and get the cloak and hand it back, and be quick about it. And just you remember from now on: if the priest wants anything, he’s to have it, no matter what it is, even if he asks for our ass.’
Belcolore got up, grumbling and muttering to herself, and went to fetch the cloak, which she had tucked away in a chest at the foot of the bed. And as she handed it over to the sacristan, she said:
‘Give the priest this message from me: “Belcolore says that she swears to God you won’t be grinding any more of your sauces in her mortar, after the shabby way you’ve treated her over this one.” ’
The sacristan took the cloak back to the priest and gave him Belcolore’s message, whereupon he burst out laughing and said:
‘Next time you see her, tell her that if she doesn’t lend me her mortar, I shan’t let her have my pestle. It’s no use having one without the other.’
Bentivegna supposed his wife had spoken as she did because of the scolding he had given her, and thought no more about it. But Belcolore was infuriated with the priest for having made such a fool of her, and refused to speak to him for the rest of the summer until the grape-harvest, by which time he had scared the life out of her so successfully by threatening to see that she was consigned to the very centre of Hell, that she made her peace with him over a bottle of must and some roast chestnuts. From then on, they had many a good guzzle together, and instead of giving her the five pounds, the priest put a new skin on her tambourine and tricked it out with a pretty little bell, which made her very happy.
THIRD STORY
Calandrino, Bruno and Bufalmacco set off in search of the heliotrope along the banks of the Mugnone. Thinking he has found it, Calandrino staggers home carrying an enormous load of stones, and his wife gives him a piece of her mind, causing him to lose his temper and beat her up. Then finally, he tells his companions what they have known all along.
The ladies laughed so heartily over Panfilo’s tale that they are laughing yet, and when it was over, the queen called upon Elissa to follow him. And so, still laughing, she thus began:
Charming ladies, I know not whether, with this little story of mine, which is no less true than entertaining, I shall succeed in making you laugh as much as Panfilo has done with his, but at any rate I shall do my best.
Not long ago, there lived in our city, where there has never been any lack of unusual customs and bizarre people,
a painter called Calandrino,1 a simple, unconventional sort of fellow, who was nearly always to be found in the company of two other painters, whose names were Bruno and Buffalmacco. These latter were a very jovial pair, but they were also shrewd and perceptive, and they went about with Calandrino because his simple-mindedness and the quaintness of his ways were an endless source of amusement to them.
Also in Florence at that time there was a most agreeable, astute, and successful young man called Maso del Saggio,2 who, having heard one or two stories about Calandrino’s simplicity, decided to have a little fun at his expense by playing some practical joke upon him, or putting some fantastic notion into his head.
So one day, happening to find him in the church of San Giovanni staring intently at the paintings and bas-reliefs of the canopy which had recently been erected above the high altar, he decided that this was the ideal time and place for doing what he had in mind. And having explained his intentions to a companion of his, they walked over to the place where Calandrino was sitting, and pretending not to notice him, they began to discuss the properties of various stones, of which Maso spoke with tremendous authority, as though he were a great and famous lapidary.
Hearing them talking together, Calandrino pricked up his ears, and after a while, seeing that their conversation was not intended to be private, he got up and joined them, much to the delight of Maso, who continued to hold forth until finally Calandrino asked him where these magical stones were to be found.
Maso replied that they were chiefly to be found in Nomansland, the territory of the Basques, in a region called Cornucopia, where the vines are tied up with sausages, and you could buy a goose for a penny, with a gosling thrown in for good measure. And in those parts there was a mountain made entirely of grated Parmesan cheese, on whose slopes there were people who spent their whole time making macaroni and ravioli, which they cooked in chicken broth and then cast it to the four winds, and the faster you could pick it up, the more you got of it. And not far away, there was a stream of Vernaccia wine, the finest that was ever drunk, without a single drop of water in it.’
The Decameron Page 81