 Day 10 the third story of the Decameron. This is a Libervox recording. All Libervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit Libervox.org. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio translated by J.M. Rigg. Day 10 the third story. Mitridanes holding Nathan in despite by reason of his courtesy, journeys with intent to kill him, and falling in with him unawares, is advised by him how to compass his end. Following his advice he finds in him a corpse, and recognizing him is shame-stricken and becomes his friend. Verily like to a miracle seemed it to all to hear that the prelet had done all with magnificence. But when the ladies had made an end of their remarks the king bathed Filistrato full of suit, and for Swiss Filistrato began. Noble ladies, great was the magnificence of the king of Spain, and perchance a thing unheard of, the magnificence of the abbot of Clooney. But Peradventure will seem not a wit less marvelous to you, to hear of one who, to show liberality towards another, did resolve artfully to yield to him his blood, nay his varied life, for which the other thirsted, and had so done, had the other chosen to take them, as I shall show you in a little story. Beyond all question, if we may believe the report of a certain Genoese and other folk that have been in those regions, their dwelt of yore in the parts of Cathay, one Nathan, a man of noble lineage, and incomparable wealth, who, having a seat hard by a road, by which whoso would travel from the west eastward, or from the east westward, must needs pass, and being magnanimous and liberal, and zealous to approve himself such in act, did set on work, cutting artificers, not a few, and cause one of the finest and largest and most luxurious palaces that were ever seen to be there built, and furnished in the goodliest manner with all things meet, for the reception and honorable entertainment of gentlemen. And so, keeping a great array of excellent servants, he courteously and hospitably did the honors of his house, to whoso came and went, in which laudable way of life he persevered, not until only the east, but well nigh all the west had heard of his fame, which thus, what time, he was well stricken in years, albeit not for that cause grown weary of showing courtesy, reached the ears of one Mitredanes, a young man of a country not far distant, who, knowing himself to be no one less wealthy than Nathan, grew envious of the renown that he had of his good deeds, and resolved to obliterate, or at least to obscure it by a yet greater liberality. So he had built for himself a palace like that of Nathan, of which he did the honors with a lavish courtesy that none ever equalled to whosoever came or went that way, and verily in a short while he became famous enough. Now it so befell that on a day when the young man was all alone in the courtyard of the palace there came in by one of the gates a poor woman, who asked him and alms, and had it, but not content therein came again to him by the second gate, and asked another alms, and had it, and after the like-sword did even unto the twelfth time, but she returning for the thirteenth time, my good woman, quote Mitridanes, thou art not a little pertinacious in thy begging. How-bate he gave her an alms! Whereupon? Ah! the wondrous liberality of Nathan, quote the Beldom, thirty-two gates are there to his palace, by which every one of them I have entered, and asking alms of him was never, for all he showed, recognized, or refused, and here, though I have entered as yet by but thirteen gates, I am recognized and reprimanded. And therewith she departed, and returned no more. Mitridanes, who accounted the mention of Nathan's fame as an abatement of his own, was kindled by her words with a frenzy of wrath, and began thus to commune with himself. Alas! what shall I attain to the grandeur of Nathan's liberality, to say not of transcending it as I would feign, seeing that in the various trifles I cannot approach him? Of a surety my labor is in vain. If I rid not the earth of him, which since old age relieves me not of him, I must forewith do with my own hands. And in the flush of his despite, up he started, and giving no one to know of his purpose got to horse with a small company, and after three days arrived at the palace, where Nathan abode, and having enjoined his comrades to make as if they were none of his, and knew him not, and to go quarter themselves as best they might until they had his further orders. He, being thus alone, towards evening came upon Nathan, who, also alone, had no great distance from his splendid palace. Nathan was recreating himself by a walk, and was very simply clad, so that Mitridanes, knowing him not, asked him if he could show him where Nathan dwelled. My son, replied Nathan glatsomely, that can, none in these parts better than I, so it please thee, I will bring thee thither. The young man replied that it would be mighty agreeable to him, but that, if so it might be, he had a mind to be neither known nor seen by Nathan. And herein also return, Nathan, since tis thy pleasure I will gratify thee, whereupon Mitridanes dismounted, with Nathan, who soon engaged him in delightsome discourse, walked to the Goodly Palace. Arrived there, Nathan caused one of his servants to take the young man's horse, and, drawing close to him, bade him in a whisper to see to it without delay, that none in the house should tell the young man that he was Nathan, and so t'was done. Being come into the palace, Nathan quartered Mitridanes in a most Goodly Chamber, where none saw him, but those whom he had appointed to wait upon him, and himself kept him company, doing him all possible honour. Of whom Mitridanes abate he reverenced him as a father, yet being thus with him forebored not to ask who he was. Where to, Nathan made answer, I am a petty servant of Nathan, old as I am I have been with him since my childhood, and never as he advanced me to higher office than this, wherein thou seeest me. Wherefore, whosoever other folk may praise him, little cause have I to do so? Which words afforded Mitridanes some hope of carrying his wicked purpose into effect with more of plan and less of risk than had been otherwise possible? By and by Nathan very courteously asked him who he was, and what business brought him thither, offering him such counsel and aid as he might be able to afford him. Mitridanes hesitated a while to reply, but at last he resolved to trust him, and when, with no little circumlocution, he demanded of him fidelity, counsel and aid, he fully discovered to him who he was, and the purpose and motive of his coming thither. Now, abate to hear Mitridanes thus unfold his norid design, cause Nathan no small inward commotion, yet was not long before courageously and composately he thus made answer. Noble was thy father, Mitridanes, and thou art minded to show thyself not unworthy of him by this lofty empress of thine, to wit of being liberal to all comers. For that thou art envious of Nathan's merit, and I greatly commend thee. For were many envious of a like cause, the world, from being a most wretched, would soon become a most happy place. Doubt not that I shall keep secret the design that thou hast confided to me. For the furtherance whereof, till a mile off, thou may see us to corpse, in which, almost every morning, Nathan is want to walk, taking his pleasure for quite a long time, to be an easy manner for thee to find him there, and deal with him as thou may us be minded. Now, shouldest thou slay him, that will get thee home with less risk of let, if thou take not the path by which thou came as thither, but that which thou seeeth issue from the corpse on the left. For, though, to somewhat more rough, it leads more directly to thy house, and will be safer for thee. Next of this information, Mitrodhanes, when Nathan had left him, privily apprised his comrades, who were likewise lodged in the palace, of the place where they were to await him on the ensuing day, which being come, Nathan inflexibly determined to act in all respects according to the advice which he had given Mitrodhanes, hide him forth to the copes, unattended, to meet his death. Mitrodhanes, being risen, took his bow and sword, for other arms he had none with him, mounted his horse, and rode to the copes, through which, while he was yet some way off, he saw Nathan passing quite alone, and being minded before he fell upon him, to see his face, and hear the sound of his voice, as, writing at a smart pace, he came up with him, he laid hold of him by his headgear, exclaiming, Graybeard, thou art a dead man! Where to, Nathan, answered, not, but, then, tis but my dessert! But Mitrodhanes, hearing the voice, and scanning the face, forthwith knew him, for the same man that had welcomed him heartily, consorted with him familiarly, and counseled him faithfully, whereby his wrath presently subsided, and gave place to shame. Wherefore, casting away the sore that he had drawn, and act to strike, he sprang from his horse, and weeping, threw himself at Nathan's feet, saying, Your liberality, dearest father, I acknowledge to be beyond question, seeing with what craft you did but plot, coming hither to yield me your life, for which, by mine own avowal, you knew that I, a beat cause I had none, did thirst. But God, more regretful of my duty than I myself, has now, in this moment of supreme stress, opened the eyes of my mind, that wretched envy had fast sealed. The prompter was your compliance. The greater is the debt of penitence that I owe you for my fault. Whereupon, wreck even such vengeance upon me as you may deem answerable to my transgression. But Nathan raised Mitridani's to his feet, and tenderly embraced him, saying, My son, thy enterprise, how soever they mayest denote it, whether evil or otherwise, was not such that thou shouldest crave, or I give pardon thereof. For it was not in malice, but in that thou wouldest feign have been reputed better than I that thou insudist it. Doubt, then, no more of me, nay rest assured that none that lives bears thee such love as I, who know the loftiness of thy spirit, bet not to heap up wealth, as do the catefs, but to dispense in bounty thy accumulated store. Think it no shame that to enhance thy reputation thou wouldest have slain me, nor deem that I marvel there at. To slay not one man, as thou wasst minded, but countless multitudes, to waste whole countries of fire, and to raise cities to the ground has been well nigh the sole art by which the mightiest emperors and the greatest kings have extended their dominions, and by consequence their fame. Wherefore, if thou to increase thy fame, wouldest feign have slain me, it was nothing marvelous or strange but wanted. Dare to, Mitrodonis made answer not to excuse his wicked design, but to commend the seemingly excuse found for it by Nathan, whom at length he told how, beyond measure, he marveled, that Nathan had not only been consenting to the Enterprise, but had aided him therein by his counsel. But Nathan answered, Leafer had I, Mitrodonis, for thou didst not marvel either at my consent or at my counsel, for that, since I was my own master, and of a mind that in prize, whereupon, thou art also bent. Never a soul came to my house, but so far as in me, Leafer. I gave him all that he asked of me. Thou came as lusting for my life, and so, when I heard thee crave, it of me, I forthwith, that thou minus not be the only guest that apart hence ill content, resolve to give it to thee, and to that end I gave thee such counsel, as I deemed would serve thee both to the taking of my life and the preservation of thine own. Wherefore, yet again I bid thee, nay I entreat thee, if so thou art minded, to take it for thy satisfaction. I know not how I could better bestow it. I have had the use of it now for some eighty years, and pleasure and solace thereof, and I know that, by the course of nature, and the common lot of manned, and all things mundane, it can continue to be mine but for a little while, and so I deemed that tour much better to bestow it, as I have ever bestowed and dispensed my wealth, than to keep it, until, against my will, it be refit from me by nature. Tour but a trifle, though, tour a hundred years, how insignificant then the six or eight years that are all I have to give. Take it, then, if thou hadest sleep. Take it, I pray thee, for long as I have lived here, none I have found but thee to desire it, nor know I when I may find another, if thou take it not, to demand it of me. And, if para-adventure, I should find one, yet I know that the longer I keep it, the less it is worth will be. Wherefore ere it be thus cheapened, take it, I implore thee. Sore, shame-stricken, Mitridani's made answer. Now God forfend that I should, so much as harbour, as but now I did, such a thought, not to say, do such a deed, as to rest from you a thing, as precious as your life. The years were of, so far from abridging, I would gladly supplement with mine own. So then rejoin, Nathan promptly, thou wouldest, if thou couldest, add thy years to mine, and cause me to serve thee, as I have never yet served any man, to wit, to take from thee, that which is thine, I, that never took ought from a soul. I, that I would, return Mitridani's, then, quote Nathan, do, as I shall bid thee, thou art young, tarry here in my house, and call thyself, Nathan, and I will get me to thy house, and ever call myself Mitridani's. Where to, Mitridani's made answer. Were I but able to discharge this trust, as you have been, and are, scarce should I hesitate to accept your offer. But, as too sure I am, that ought I might do, would but serve to lower Nathan's fame, and I am not minded to mar that in any other, which I cannot mend in myself, and accept it, I will not. After which, and the like interchange of delectable discourse, Nathan and Mitridani's, by Nathan's desire, returned to the palace, where Nathan, for some days, honorably entreated Mitridani's, and by his sage-council, confirmed, and encouraged him in his high and noble resolve. After which, Mitridani's, being minded to return home with his company, took leave of Nathan, fully persuaded that it was not possible to surpass him in liberality. End of Day 10 The Third Story Day 10 The Fourth Story of the Decameron This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Philippa Jevons. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio. Translated by J. M. Rigg. Day 10 The Fourth Story Mesergentile di Carisendi, being come from Modena, disinterrs a lady that he loves who had been buried for dead. She, being reanimated, gives birth to a male child, and Mesergentile restores her with her son to Nicoluccio Caccianimico, her husband. A thing marvellous seemed it to all, that for liberality a man should be ready to sacrifice his own life, and herring, they avert, that Nathan had without doubt left the king of Spain and the abbot of Clooney behind. However, when they had discussed the matter diversely and at large, the king, bending his regard on Loretta, signified to her his wills that she should tell, and forced with, accordingly, Loretta began. Goodly matters are they and magnificent that have been recounted to you young ladies. Nay, so much of our field of discourse is already filled by their grandeur, that for us that are yet to tell there is me thinks no room left, unless we seek our topic there where matter of discourse germane to every theme does most richly abound, to wit in the affairs of love. For which cause, as also for that our time of life cannot but make us especially inclinable there too, I am minded that my story shall be of a feat of magnificence done by a lover, which, all things considered, will, per-adventure, seem to you inferior to none that have been shown you. So it be true that to possess the beloved one, men will part with their treasures, forget their enmities, and jeopardise their own lives, their honour, and their reputation in a thousand ways. Know then, that at Bologna, that most famous city of Lombardy, the dwell tonight, Mesa Gentile Carisendi by name, worshipful alike for his noble lineage and his native worth, who in his youth, being enamoured of a young gentlewoman named Madonna Catalina, wife of one Nicoluccio Catianimico, and well-nigh despairing for that the lady gave him but a sorry requital of his love, betook him to Modena, being called by that as Podesta. Now, what time he was there, Nicoluccio being also away from Bologna, and his lady gone, for that she was with child, to lie in at a house she had some three miles or so from the city, it befell that she was suddenly smitten with a sore malady of such and so virulent equality, that it left no sign of life in her, so that the very physicians pronounced her dead, and for that the women that were nearest of kin to her professed to have been told by her that she was not so far gone in pregnancy that the child could be perfectly formed, they, without more ado, laid her in a tomb in a neighbouring church, and after long lamentation, closed it upon her. Whereof Mesa Gentile, being forthwith apprised by one of his friends, did, for all she had been most niggedly to him of her favour, grieve not a little, and at length fell a communing with himself on this wise. So, Madonna Catalina, thou art dead, while thou livest, never a glance of thine might I have, wherefore, now that thou art dead, tis but right that I go take a kiss from thee. To his night, while he thus mused, and forthwith observing strict secrecy in his departure, he got him to horse with a single servant, and halted not until he was come to the place where the lady was interred, and having opened the tomb, he cautiously entered it. Then, having lain down beside her, he set his face against hers, and again and again weeping profusely the while, he kissed it. But, as to this matter of common knowledge that the desires of men, and more especially of lovers, know no bounds but crave ever an ample satisfaction, even so Mese Gentile, albeit he had been minded to tarry there no longer, now said to himself, wherefore touch I not her bosom a while? I have never yet touched it, nor shall I ever touch it again. Obeying which impulse he laid his hand on her bosom, and keeping it there some time, but, as he thought, her heart faintly beating. Whereupon, banishing all fear and examining the body with closer attention, he discovered that life was not extinct, though he judged it but scant and flickering, and so, aided by his servant, he bore her as gently as he might, out of the tomb, and set her before him upon his horse, and brought her privily to his house at Bologna, where dwelt his wise and worthy mother, who, being fully apprised by him of the circumstances, took pity on the lady, and had a huge fire kindled, and a bath made ready, whereby she restored her to life. Whereof the first sign she gave was to heave a great sigh, and murmur, alas, where am I? to which the worthy lady made answer, be of good cheer thou art well lodged. By and by the lady, coming to herself, looked about her, and finding herself she knew not where, and seeing Mese Gentile before her, was filled with wonder, and besought his mother to tell her how she came to be there. Mese Gentile thereupon told her all, so distressed there at, the lady after a while thanked him as best she might, after which she besought him by the love that he had borne her, and of his courtesy, that she might, while she tarried in his house, be spared ought that could impair her honour and her husbands, and that at daybreak he would suffer her to return home. Madam! replied Mese Gentile, however I did affect you in time past, since God in his goodness has by means of the love I bore you restored you to me alive. I mean not now or at any time hereafter, to entreat you either here or elsewhere save as a dear sister. But yet the service I have to night rendered you merits some girdon, and therefore leave had I that you deny me not a favour which I shall ask of you. Where to the lady graciously made answer that she would be prompt to grant it, so only it were in her power, and consonant with her honour? Said then Mese Gentile, your kind folk, madam, one and all, nay, all the folk in Bologna are fully persuaded that you are dead. There is therefore none to expect you at home, wherefore the favour I crave of you is this, that you will be pleased to tarry privily here with my mother, until such time which will be speedily, as I return from Modena. And it is for that I purpose to make solemn and joyous donation of you to your husband in presence of the most honourable folk of this city that I ask of you this grace. Mindful of what she owed the night, and witting that what he craved was seemly, the lady, albeit she yearned not a little to gladden her king's folk with the sight of her in the flesh, consented to do as Mese Gentile besought her, and there too pledged him her faith. And scarce had she done so when she felt that the hour of her travail was come, and so tenderly suckered by Mese Gentile's mother, she not long after gave birth to a fine boy. Which event did mightily enhance her own and Mese Gentile's happiness? Then, having made all meat provision for her, and left word that she was to be tended as if she were his own wife, Mese Gentile, observing strict secrecy, returned to Modena. His time of office there ended. In anticipation of his return to Bologna, he appointed for the morning of his arrival in the city a great and goodly banquet at his house, where two were bidden not a few of the gentlemen of Bologna, and among them Nicoluccio Cagianimico, whom, when he was returned and dismounted, he found awaiting him, as also the lady, fairer and more healthful than ever, and her little son doing well, and so with a gladness beyond compare he ranged his guests at table, and regaled them with many a course magnificently served. And towards the close of the feast, having premonished the lady of his intention, and concerted her with how she should behave, thus he spoke. Gentlemen, I mind me to have once heard tell of, as I deem it, a delightsome custom which they have in Persia, to wit that when one would do his friend a special honour, he bids him to his house, and there shows him that treasure, be it wife, or mistress, or daughter, or what not, that he holds most dear, assuring him that yet more gladly were it possible, he would show him his heart. Which custom I am minded to observe here in Bologna, you of your cursesy have honoured my feast with your presence, and I propose to do you honour in the Persian fashion, by showing you that which in all the world I do and must ever hold most dear. But before I do so, tell me, I pray you, how you conceive of a nice question that I to lay before you. Suppose that one has in his house a good and most faithful servant, who falls sick of a grievous disorder, and that the master tarries not for the death of the servant, but has him borne out into the open street, and concerns himself no more with him, that then, a stranger comes by, is moved to pity of the sick man, and takes him to his house, and by careful tendance, and at no small cost restores him to his won'ted health. Now, I would feign know whether the first master has inequity any just cause to complain of, or be aggrieved with the second master, if he retained the servant in his employ, and refused to restore him when so required. The gentlemen discussed the matter after diverse fashions, and all agreed in one sentence, which they committed to Nicoluccio Cacianimico, for that he was an eloquent and accomplished speaker, to deliver on the part of them all. Nicoluccio began by commending the Persian custom, after which he said that he and the others were all of the same opinion, to wit that the first master had no longer any right in his servant, since he had not only abandoned, but cast him forth, and that by virtue of the second master's kind usage of him, he must be deemed to have become his servant, wherefore, by keeping him, he did the first master no mischief, no violence, no wrong. Were upon the rest that were at the table, said one and all, being worthy men, that their judgment jumped with Nicoluccio's answer. The night, well pleased with the answer, and that it was Nicoluccio that gave it, affirmed that he was of the same opinion, adding, "'Tis now time, that I show you that honour which I have promised you.'" He then called two of his servants, and sent them to the lady, whom he had caused to be apparels and adorned with splendour, charging them to pray her to be pleased to come and gladden the gentleman with her presence. So she, bearing in her arms her most lovely little son, came, attended by the two servants, into the saloon, and by the night's direction took a seat beside a worthy gentleman, whereupon— "'Gentlemen,' quoth the night, this is the treasure that I hold, and mean ever to hold, more dear than ought else. Behold, and judge whether I have good cause.'" The gentleman said not a little in her honour and praise, avering that the night ought indeed to hold her dear. Then, as they regarded her more attentively, there were not a few that would have pronounced her to be the very woman that she was, had they not believed that woman to be dead. But none scanned her so closely as Nicoluccio, who, the night being withdrawn a little space, could no longer refrain his eager desire to know who she might be, but asked her whether she were of Bologna or from other parts. The lady, hearing her husband's voice, could scarce forbear to answer, but yet, not to disconcert the night's plan, she kept silence. Another asked her if that was her little boy, and yet another, if she were Messer Gentile's wife, or in any otherwise his connection, to none of whom she vouchsafed an answer. "'Then, Messer Gentile coming up, sir,' quoth one of the guests, this treasure of yours is goodly indeed, but she seems to be dumb, is she so?' "'Gentlemen,' quoth Messer Gentile, that she has not, as yet spoken, is no small evidence of her virtue. "'Then tell us you who she is,' returned the other. "'That,' quoth the night, will I write gladly, so you but promise me that, no matter what I may say, none of you will stir from his place until I have ended my story.' All gave the required promise, and when the table-suming cleared, Messer Gentile, being seated beside the lady, thus spoke. "'Gentlemen, this lady is that loyal and faithful servant, touching whom a brief while ago I propounded to you my question, whom our own folk held none too dear but cast out into the open street as a thing vile and no longer good for ought. But I took thence, and by my careful tendance, rested from the clutch of death, whom God, regardless of my good will, has changed from the appalling aspect of a corpse to the thing of beauty that you see before you. But for your fuller understanding of this occurrence I will briefly explain it to you.' He then recounted to them in detail all that has happened from his first becoming enamoured of the lady to that very hour, where to they hearkened with no small wonder. "'And so,' he added, "'unless you, and more especially Nicoluccio, are now of another opinion than you were a brief while ago, the lady rightly belongs to me, nor can any man lawfully reclaim her of me.' None answered for all were intent to hear what more he would say. But while Nicoluccio and some others that were there wept for sympathy, Mr. Gentile stood up, and took the little boy in his arms and the lady by the hand, and approached Nicoluccio, saying, "'Rise, my gossip! I do not indeed restore thee thy wife, whom thy kinsfolk and hearth cast forth, but I am minded to give thee this lady, my gossip, with this her little boy, whom I know well to be thy son, and whom I held at the font, and named Gentile. And I pray that she be not the less dear to thee, for that she has tarried three months in my house, for I swear to thee that God, who peradventure ordained that I should be enamoured of her, to the end that my love might be, as it has been, the occasion of her restoration to life, that never with her father or her mother or with thee did she live more virtuously than with my mother in my house.' Which said he turned to the lady, saying, "'Madame, I now release you from all promises made to me, and so deliver you to Nicoluccio.' Then leaving the lady and the child in Nicoluccio's embrace, he returned to his seat. Thus to receive his wife and son was to Nicoluccio a delight great in the measure of its remoteness from his hope, wherefore in the most honourable terms at his command he thanked the night, whom all the rest weeping for sympathy greatly commended for what he had done, as did also all that hurt thereof. The lady, welcomed home with wondrous cheer, was long apportent to the Bonnieze, who gazed on her as one raised from the dead. Meso Gentile lived ever after as the friend of Nicoluccio, and his and the lady's kinsfolk. Now what shall be your verdict, gracious ladies? A king's largesse, though it was of his scepter and crown, an abbot's reconciliation at no cost to himself of a malefactor with the pope, or an old man's submission of his throat to the knife of his enemy, will you adjudge that such acts as these are comparable to the deed of Meso Gentile? Who, though young and burning with passion, and deeming himself justly entitled to that which the heedlessness of another had discarded, and he, by good fortune, had recovered, not only tempered his ardour with honour, but having that which, with his whole soul he had long been bent on resting from another, did with liberality restore it. Assuredly none of the feats aforesaid seemed to me like unto this. End of Day Ten, the Fourth Story Day Ten, the Fifth Story of the Decameron. This is the LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Anosimon. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio, translated by J. M. Rigg. Day Ten, the Fifth Story. Madara de Yonara craves of Messeransaldo a garden that shall be as fair in January as in May. Messeransaldo binds himself to a necromancer, and thereby gives her the garden. Her husband gives her leave to do Messeransaldo's pleasure. He, being apprised of her husband's liberality, releases her from her promise, and the necromancer releases Messeransaldo from his bond, and will take note of his. Each of the gay company had with supprelative commendation extolled Messer Gentile to the skis. When the king bade Emilia follow suit, and with a good courage, as burning to speak, thus Emilia began. Delegate, my ladies, none can justly say that was not magnificently done of Messer Gentile, but if it be alleged that was the last degree of magnificence, twill perchance not be difficult to show that more was possible, as is my purpose in the little story that I shall tell you. In Friuli, a country which, though its air is shrewd, is pleasantly diversified by fine mountains and not a few rivers and clear fountains, is a city called Udine, where dwelt of your affair and noble lady, Madonna Dionara by name, wife of a wealthy grandee named Giliberto, a very pleasant gentleman and debonair. Now this lady, for her high qualities, was in the last degree beloved by a great and noble baron, Messer Anzaldo Gradense by name, a man of no little consequence, and whose fame for feats of arms and curtsy was spread far and wide. But, though with all love his ardour, he left Norte and Donne that he might do to win her love, and to that end frequently plight her with his ambassages, it was all in vain, and the lady being distressed by his opportunity, and chat, refuse as she might, all that he asked of her, he nonetheless continued to love her and press his suit upon her. We thought her how she might rid herself of him by requiring of him an extraordinary, and as she deemed, impossible feat. So, one day, a woman that came often times from him to her, being with her. Good woman, Quatschi, thou hast many a time affirmed that Messer Anzaldo loves me above all else, and thou hast made profit to me on his part of wondrous rich gifts which I am mind that he keep to himself, for that I could never bring myself to love him, or pleasure him for their sake. But, if I might be certified that he loves me as much as thou sayest, then without a doubt I should not fail to love him, and do his pleasure. Wherefore, so he give me the assurance that I shall require, I shall be at his command. What is it, madam? returned the good woman, that you would have him do. This, replied the lady, I would have this next ensuing January, hard by this city, a garden full of green grass and flowers, and flowering trees, just as if it were me. And if he cannot provide me with this garden, bid him never again send either thee or any other to me. For that should he arrest me any further, I shall no longer keep silence, as I have hitherto done, but shall make my complaint to my husband and all my kinsmen, and I shall go hard, but I will be quit of him. The gentleman being apprised of his lady's stipulation and promise, notwithstanding that he deemed it no easy matter, nay a thing almost impossible to satisfy her, and knew besides that was but to deprive him of all hope that she made the demand, did nevertheless resolve to do his endeavour to comply with it, and causing search to be made in diverse parts of the world, if any he might find to afford him counsel or aid, he lit upon one who for a substantial reward offered to do the thing by necromancy. So, Messer and Saldo, having struck the bargain with him for an exceeding grade sum of money, gleefully accepted the appointed time. Which being come with extreme cold, in so much that there was nought but snow and ice, the adept, on the night before the calends of January, wrought with his spells to such purpose that on the morrow, as was avert by eyewitnesses, there appeared in a meadow hard by the city one of the most beautiful gardens that was ever seen, with no lack of grass and trees and fruits of all sorts. At sight whereof Messer and Saldo was overjoyed, and caused some of the finest fruits and flowers that it contained to be guarded, and privily presented to his lady, whom he bade come and see the garden that she had craved, that thereby she might have assurance of his love and mind her of the promise that she had given him, and confirmed with an oath, and as a loyal lady take thought for its performance. When she saw the flowers and fruits, the lady, who had already heard not a few folk speak of the wondrous garden, began to repent her of her promise. But for all that, being fond of strange sights, she hide her with many other ladies of the city to see the garden, and having gazed on it with wonderment, and commanded it not a little, she went home the saddest woman alive, befinking her to what it bound her. And so great was the distress that she might not well conceal it, but, being written on her face, it was marked by her husband, who was minded by all means to know the cause thereof. The lady long time kept silence, but at last she yielded to his urgency, and discovered to him the whole matter from first to last. Whereat Gileberta was at first very wroth, but on second thought, considering the purity of the lady's purpose, he was better advised, and dismissing his anger, Dianora Quati, there's not the act of a discreet or verges lady to give ear to messages of such assault, nor to enter into any compact touching her chastity with any man on any terms. Words that the ears convey to the heart have a potency greater than is commonly supposed, and there is scarce awe that lovers will not find possible. It was then ill done of thee in the first instance to harken, as afterwards to make the compact, but for that I know the purity of thy soul, that thou mayst be quit of thy promise, I will grant thee that which perchance no other man would grant, being also swayed thereto by fear of the necromancer, whom Messer An-Saldo should thou play him false, might, per adventure, cause to do is a mischief. I am minded then that thou go to him, and contrive, if on any wise thou canst, to get the quit of this promise without loss of virtue, but if otherwise it may not be, then for the nuns thou mayst yield him thy body, but not thy soul. Whereas the lady, weeping, would none such a favour at her husband's hand, but Gileberto, for all the lady's protestations, was minded that so it should be. Accordingly, on the morrow, about dawn, apparelled none to ornately, preceded by two servants, and followed by a chambermaid, the lady hide her to Messer An-Saldo's house. A prize that his lady was come to see him, Messer An-Saldo, marvelling not a little, rose, and having called the necromancer. I am minded, Quati, that thou see what goodly gain I've gotten by thine art. In the twain having met the lady, An-Saldo gave way to no unruly appetite, but received her with a seemly obeisance, and then the three repaired to a goodly chamber, where there was a great fire, and, having called the lady to be seated, thus spoke An-Saldo. Madam, if the love that I have so long borne you, merit any garden, I pray you that it be not grievous to you, to discover to me the true occasion of your coming to me at this hour, and thus accompanied. Shamefast, and the tears all but standing in her eyes, the lady made answer. Sir, this neither love that I bear you, nor faith that I pledged you, that brings me hither, but the command of my husband, who, regarding rather the pains you have had of your unbridled passion, than his own, or my honour, has sent me hither, and for that he commands it, I, for the nuns, am entirely at your pleasure. If Mr. An-Saldo had marvelled to hear of the lady's coming, he now marvelled much more, and touched by Gilebeto's liberality, and passing from passion to compassion. Now, God forbid, madam, Quati, that, it being as you say, I should wound the honour of him that has compassion on my love, wherefore, no otherwise than as if you were my sister shall you abide here, while you are so minded, and be free to departed your pleasure, nor crave I all of you, for that you shall convey from me to your husband such things as you shall deem meat for curtsy such as his has been, and entreat me ever henceforth as your brother and servant. Where had overjoyed in the last degree? Not, quat the lady, by what I noted of your behaviour could ever have caused me to anticipate other sequel of my coming hithe than this which I see is your will, and for which I shall ever be your debtor. She then took her leave, and, attended by a guard of honour, returned to Gilebeto, and told him what had passed, between whom and Mr. An-Saldo there was henceforth a most close and loyal friendship. Now, the liberality shown by Gilebeto towards Mr. An-Saldo, and by Mr. An-Saldo towards the lady, having been marked by the necromancer, when Mr. An-Saldo made ready to give him the promised reward. Now, God forbid, quat he, that as I have seen Gilebeto liberal in regard of his honour, and you liberal in regard of your love, I be not in like manner liberal in regard of my reward, which, accordingly, witting that is in good hands, I am minded that you keep. The night was abashed, and strove hard to induce him to take, if not the whole, at least a part of the money, but finding that his labour was in vain, and that the necromancer, having caused his garden to vanish after the third day, was minded to depart, he bade him adieu, and the carnal love he had borne the lady being spent, he burned for her thereafter with a flame of honourable affection. Now, what shall be our verdict in this case, lov' some ladies? A lady, as it were dead, and a love grown lukewarm for utter hopelessness. Shall we set a liberality show in such a case above this liberality of Maseransaldo, loving yet as ardently, and hoping per chance, yet more ardently than ever, and holding in his hands the prize that he had so long pursued? Folly indeed should I deem it to compare that liberality with this. End of Day 10, The Fifth Story Day 10, The Sixth Story of the Decameron This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Gesine The Decameron By Giovanni Bucaccio Translated by J. M. Ring Day 10, The Sixth Story King Charles the Old, being conqueror, falls in love with the young maiden, and afterward, growing ashamed of his folly, bestows her and her sister honourably in marriage. Who might fully recount, with what diversity of argument, the ladies debated, which of the three, Gilberto or Maseransaldo, or the necromancer, behaved with the most liberality in the affair of Madonna de Anora. Too long were it to tell. However, when the king had allowed them to dispute a while, he, with a glance at Fiametta, bade her rescue them from their wrangling by telling a story. Fiametta made no demore, but thus began. Illustry is my ladies. I have ever been of opinion that in companies like ours, one should speak so explicitly, that the import of what is said should never by excessive circumscription afford matter for disputation, which is much more in place among students in the schools than among us, whose powers are scarce adequate to the management of the distaff and the spindle. Wherefore I, that had in mind a matter of Patrans some nicety, now that I see you all at variance, touching the matters last mooted, am minded to lay aside and tell you some what else, which concerns a man by no means of slight account but a valiant king, being a chivalrous action that he did, albeit and no wise there to actuated by his honour. There is none of you but may not seldom have heard tell of King Child's the Old or the First, by whose magnificent empress, and the ensuing victory gained over King Manfred, the gibbalines were driven forth of Florence and the gulfs returned thither, for which cause a knight, Messoneri dell'Uberti by name, departing Florence with his household and not a little money, resolved to fix his abode under no other sway than that of King Child's. And being feign of a lonely place, in which to end his days in peace, he betook him to Castello d'Amare di Stabia, and there, Patrans a crossbow shot from the other houses of the place, amid the olives and hazels and chestnuts that abound in those parts, he bought an estate, on which he built a goodly house and commodious, with a pleasant garden beside it, in the midst of which, having no lack of running water, he set, after a Florentine fashion, a pond fair and clear, and speedily filled it with fish. And while thus he lived, daily occupying himself with naught else but how to make his garden more fair, it befell that King Child's, in the hot season, betook him to Castello d'Amare to refresh himself a while, and hearing of the beauty of Messoneri's garden was desirous to view it. And having learned to whom it belonged, he besought him that, as the knight was adherent to the party opposed to him, he would use more familiarity towards him than he would otherwise have done. And so he sent him word that he and four comrades would sup privily with him in his garden on the ensuing evening. Messoneri felt himself much honoured, and having made his preparations with magnificence, and arranged the order of the ceremonies with his household, did all he could and knew to make the King courtily welcome to his fair garden. When the King had viewed the garden throughout, as also Messoneri's house, and commended them, he washed and seated himself at one of the tables, which was set beside the pond, and bade Count Guidemont Four, who was one of his companions, sit on one side of him and Messoneri on the other, and the other three to serve as they should be directed by Messoneri. The dishes that were set before them were dainty, the wines excellent and rare, the order of the reparsed very fair and commendable, without the least noise or ought else that might distress, were on the King bestowed no stint at praise. As thus he gaily supped, well pleased with the lovely spot, there came into the garden two young maidens, each perhaps fifteen years old, blond both, their golden presses falling all in ringlets about them, and crowned with the dainty garland of periwinkle flowers, and so delicate and fair of face were they, that they showed likeer to angels than ought else, each clad in a robe of finest linen, whiter snow upon their flesh, close fitting as might be from the waist up, but below the waist ample like a pavilion to the feet. She that was foremost, bore on her shoulders a pair of nets, which she held with her left hand, carrying in her right a long pole, her companion followed, bearing on her left shoulder a frying pan, under her left arm a bundle of faggots, and in her left hand a tripod, while in the other hand she carried a cruise of oil and a lighted taper, at sight of whom the King marveled, and gazed intent to learn what it might import. The two young maidens came forward with becoming modesty, and did obeisance to the King, which done they hide them to the place of ingress to the pond, and she that had the frying pan, having set it down, and afterward the other things, took the pole that the other carried, and so they both went down into the pond, being covered by its waters to their breasts. Whereupon one of Mesoneri's servants, having forthwith lit a fire, and set the tripod on the faggots and oil therein, addressed himself to wait until some fish should be thrown to him by the girls. Who the one searching with a pole in those parts where she knew the fish lay hid, while the other maid ready the nets, did in a brief space of time, to the exceeding great delight of the King, who watched them attentively, catch fish not a few, which they tossed to the servant, who set them before the life was well out of them, in the frying pan. After which the maidens, as prearranged, addressed them to catch some of the finest fish, and cast them on to the table before the King and Count Guy and their father. The fish wriggled about the table to the prodigious delight of the King, who in like manner took some of them and courteously returned them to the girls, with which sport they diverted them until the servant had cooked the fish that had been given him, which by Messeneri's command was set before the King, rather as a side dish, than as ought very rare or delicious. When the girls saw that all the fish were cooked, and that there was no occasion for them to catch any more, they came forth of the pond, their fine white garments cleaving everywhere close to their flesh, so as to hide scarce any part of their delicate persons. Took up again the things that they had brought, and passing modestly before the King returned to the house. The King and the Count and the other gentlemen that waited had regarded the maidens with no little attention, and had one at all, inly bestowed on them, no little praise, as being fair and shapely, and there with all sweetened debonair. But it was in the King's eyes that they especially found favour. Indeed, as they came forth of the water, the King had scanned each part of their bodies so intently that, had one of them pricked him, he would not have felt it. And his thoughts afterwards dwelling upon them, though he knew not what they were, nor how they came to be there, he felt stir within his heart a most ardent desire to pleasure them, whereby he knew very well that, if he took not care, he would grow enamoured. How be it, he knew not whether of the twain pleased him the more, so like was each to the other. Having thus brooded a while, he turned to Messeneri and asked who the two damsels were. Where to? Sire, replied Messeneri, they are my twin daughters, and they are called the one Ginevra the Fair, and the other Isotta the Blonde. Whereupon the King was loud in praise of them, and exhorted Messeneri to bestow them in marriage, to which Messeneri demurred, for that he no longer had the means. And nought of the supper now remaining to serve, save the fruit, in came the two young damsels in gowns of taffeta very fine, bearing in their hands two vast silver salvers full of diverse fruits, such as the season yielded, and set them on the table before the King. Which done they withdrew a little space, and fell a singing to music a ditty, of which the opening words were as follows. Love many words would not suffice, there were I come to tell. And so dulcet and delightsome was the strain that to the King his eyes and ears alike charmed, it seemed as if all the nine orders of angels were descended there to sing. The song ended, they knelt, and respectfully craved the King's leave to depart, which, though sorely against his will, he gave them with a forced gaiety. Supper ended, the King and his companions, having remounted their horses, took leave of Messeneri, and conversing of diverse matters returned to the royal quarters. Where the King still harboring his secret passion, nor, despite affairs of state that supervened, being able to forget the beauty and sweetness of Ginevra the Fair, for whose sake he likewise loved her twin sister, was so limed by love that he could scarce think of ought else. So, feigning other reasons, he consorted familiarly with Messeneri, and did much frequent his garden that he might see Ginevra. And at length, being unable to endure his suffering any longer, and being minded, for that he could devise no other expedient to despoil their father not only of the one, but of the other damsel also, he discovered both his love and his project to Count Guy, who, being a good man and true, thus made answer. Sire, your tale causes me not a little astonishment, and that more especially, because of your conversation from childhood to this very day, I have, me thinks, known more than any other man. And as no such passion did I ever mark in you, even in your use, when love should more readily have fixed you with his fangs, as now I discern, when you are already on the verge of old age, it is to me so strange, so surprising, that you should veritably love, that it be made little short of a miracle. And were it meet for me to reprove you well what either language I should hold to you, considering that you are yet in arms in a realm but lately won, among a people as yet unknown to you, and wildly and treacherous in the extreme, and that the gravest anxieties and matters of high policy engross your mind, so that you are not as yet able to sit down, and nevertheless, amid all these weighty concerns, you have given Harbridge to false, flattering love. This is not the wisdom of a great king, but the folly of a feather-painted boy. And moreover, what is far worse, you say that you are resolved to despoil this poor knight of his two daughters, whom entertaining you in his house, and honouring you to the best of his power, he brought into your presence, all but naked, testifying thereby how great is his faith in you, and how assured he is that you are a king, and not a devouring wolf. Have you so soon forgotten that it was Manfred's outrageous usage of his subjects that opened you the way into this realm? What treachery was he ever guilty of, that better merited eternal torment than it would be in you to rest from one that honourably entreats you at once his hope and his consolation? What would be said of you if so you should do? Perchance you deem that it would suffice to say, I did it because he is a gibberlein. Is it then consistent with the justice of a king that those, be they who they may, who seek his protection, as this man has sought yours, should be entreated after this sort? King, I bid you remember that exceedingly great as is your glory to have vanquished Manfred, yet to conquer oneself is still a greater glory, wherefore you, to whom belongs the correction of others, see to it that you conquer yourself, and refrain this unruly passion, and let not such a blot mar the splendour of your achievements. So stricken at heart by the count's words, and the more mortified that he acknowledged their truth, the king heaved a fervent sigh or two, and then, count, quoth he, that enemy there is none, however mighty, but to the practised warrior, is weak enough and easy to conquer in comparison of his own appetite. I make no doubt. But great though this struggle will be, and immeasurable to the force that it demands, so shrewdly galled am I by your words, that not many days will have gone by, before I shall without fail have done enough to show you that I, that I am the conqueror of others, am no less able to gain the victory over myself. And indeed, but a few days thereafter, the king, on his return to Naples, being minded at once to leave himself no excuse for dishonourable conduct, and to recompense the night for his honourable entreatment of him, did, albeit towards hard for him to endow another with that which he had most ardently desired for himself, nonetheless resolved to bestow the two damsels in marriage, and that not as Messeneri's daughters, but as his own. Wherefore, Messeneri, consenting, he provided both with magnificent dowries, and gave Geneva the fare to Messamafio da Palitzi, and his utter the blonde, to Messagulielmo de la Mania, noble knights, and great barons both, which done, sad at heart beyond measure, he betook him to Apulia, and by incessant travail did so mortify his vehement appetite that he snapped and broken pieces the fetters of love, and for the rest of his days was no more vexed by such passion. Pochance there will be those who say that Tis put a trifle for a king to bestow two girls in marriage, nor shall I dispute it, but say we that a king in love bestowed in marriage her whom he loved, neither having taken nor taking of his love, leaf, or flower, or fruit. Then this, I say, was a great feat indeed, as great as might be. After such a thought, then, did this magnificent king at once generously rewarding the noble knight, commendably honouring the damsels that he loved, and stoutly subduing himself. End of Day 10. The Seventh Story of the Decameron This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Miet. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio, translated by J. M. Rig. Day 10. The Seventh Story King Pedro, being apprised of the fervent love born him by Lisa, who, far over sick, comforts her, and forthwith gives her in marriage to a young gentleman. And, having kissed her on the brow, ever after, professes himself her knight. When Fiametta was come to the end of the her story, and not a little praise had been accorded to the virile magnificence of King Charles, albeit one there was of the ladies, who, being a giebelin, joined not therein. Pompinea, having received the king's command, thus began. None is there of discernment, worshipful my ladies, that would say otherwise than you have said touching good King Charles. Unless, for some other cause, she bear him a grudge. However, for that there comes to my mind, thee, per chance, no less honorable in treatment of one of our Florentine girls by one of his adversaries. I am minded to recount the same to you. What time the French were driven forth of Sicily, their dwelt at Palermo, one of our Florentines. That was an apothecary, Bernardo Puccini by name, a man of great wealth, that, by his lady, had an only and exceeding fair daughter, then of marriageable age. Now, King Pedro of Aragon, being instated in the sovereignty of the island, did, at Palermo, make with his barren's marvellous celebration thereof, during which, as he tilted after the Catalan fashion, it befell that Bernardo's daughter, Lisa by name, being with other ladies at a window, did then inspire him in the course. Whereat, being prodigiously delighted, she regarded him again and again, and grew fervently enamoured of him. Nor yet, when the festivities were ended, and she was at home with her father, was there ought she could think of but this, her exalted and aspiring love, in regard whereof that which most irked her, was a sense of her low rank, which scarce permitted her any hope of a happy issue. But, for all that, give over her love for the King she would not. Nor yet, for fear of worse to come, dared she discover it. The King, meanwhile, wrecking, witting nothing of the matter, her suffering waxed immeasurable, intolerable, and her love ever growing, with ever-fresh accessions of melancholy, the fair maiden, overborn at last, fell sick, and visibly day by day wasted like snow in sunlight. Distraught with grief thereat, her father and mother afforded her such succour as they might with words of good cheer, and counsel of physicians, and physique. But all to no purpose, for that she, in despair of her love, was resolved no more to live. Now, her father assuring her that there was no whim of hers but should be gratified, the fancy took her that, if she might find apt means, she would before she died, make her love and her resolve known to the King, wherefore one day she besought her father to cause Minuccio Darezzo to come to her, which Minuccio was a singer, and the musician of those days reputed most skillful, and well-seen of King Pedro, Bernardo, deeming that Lisa desired both to hear him play and sing a while, conveyed her message to him, and he, being an agreeable fellow, came to her forthwith, and after giving her some words of loving cheer, sweetly discoursed some airs upon his vial, and then sang her some songs, whereby, while he thought to comfort her, he did but add fire and flame to her love. Presently the girl said that she would fear and say a few words to him in private, and when all else were withdrawn from the chamber. Minuccio, quote she, the have I chosen, deeming the most trusty to be the keeper of my secret, relying upon thee in the first place never to betray it to a soul, and next to lend me in regard thereof such aid as thou must be able, and so I pray thee to do. Thou must know then, Minuccio, mine, that on the day when our Lord King Pedro held the great festival and celebration of his triumph, I, seeing him tilt, was so smitten with love of him, that thereof was kindled within my soul the fire which has brought me, as thou seest, to this pass. And knowing how ill it besiems me to love a king, and being unable, I say not to banish it from my heart, but so much as to bring it within bounds, and finding it exceeding grievous to bear, I have made choice of death as the lesser pain, and die I shall. But should he what not of my love before I die, saw disconsolate should I depart, and knowing not by whom more aptly than by thee I might give him to know this my frame, I am minded to entrust the communication thereof to thee, which offers I entreat thee not to refuse, and having discharged it to let me know that dying thus consoled I may depart this pain, which said, she silently wept. Marvelling at the loftiness of the girl's spirit and her desperate determination, Minuccio commiserated her, not a little, and presently had occurred to him that there was a way in which he might honourably serve her. Wherefore, Lisa, quoth he, my faith I plight thee, wherein thou mayest place sure confidence that I shall never play thee false, and lording thy high and prized to wit, the setting nine affections upon so great a king I proffer thee mine aid, whereby so thou will be of good cheer, I hope, and believe, that before thou shalt see the third day from now go by, I shall have brought thee tidings, which will be to thee for an exceeding great joy. And not to this time I will set to work at once, and so Lisa assuring him that she would be of good cheer, and plying him afresh with instant obsecrations, made him godspeed. And Minuccio, having taken leave of her, hide him to one Mico de Siena, a very expert rhinester of those days. Who, at his instant request, made the ensuing song, hence hide thee love, and hasten to my king, give him to know what torment dire I bear, how that to death I fare still close for fear my passion harbouring. Low love to thee with clasped hands I turn, and pray thee seek him where he tarryeth, and tell him how I oft for him to yearn, so sweetly he my heart enamours. And of the fire wherewith I thoroughly burn I think to die, but may the hour on earth say, when my grievous pain shall with my breath surcease, till when neither may fear nor shame the least abate the flame. Ah, to his ear is my woeful story bring. Since of him I was first enamoured, never hast thou, oh love, my fearful heart, with any such fond hope encouraged, as ere its message to him to impart, to him, my lord, that me so-so bested holds, dying thus to where grievous to depart. Perchance were he to know my cruel start would not displease him, might I but make bold my soul to him to unfold, and show him all my woeful languishing. Love, since twost not thy will me to accord, such boldness as that ever unto my king, I may discover my sad heart's full horde, or any word or sign thereof him bring. This all my prayer to thee, oh sweet my lord, hide thee to him, and so him whispering, mind of the day I saw him turning, with all his paladins and vironed, and grew enamoured, even to my heart's disrupting. Which words minute your forthwith set to music, after a soft and plaintive fashion befitting their sense? And on the third day thereafter hide him to court, while King Pedro was yet at breakfast. And, being bid in by the king to sing something at the accompaniment of his vial, he gave them this song, with such sweet concord of words and music that all the folk that were in the king's hall seemed, as it were, entranced. So intent and absorbed stood they to listen, and the king, rather more than the rest. And when minutio had done singing, the king asked whence the song came, that as far as he knew he had never heard it before. Sire, replied minutio, it is not yet three days since twost made, words and music alike. And being asked by the king in regard of whom twost made, I dare not, Quothee, discover such a secret save to you alone, bent on hearing the story, the king. When the tables were cleared, took minutio into his privy chamber, and there minutio told him everything exactly as he had heard it from Lisa's lips. Whereby the king was much gratified, and lorded the maid in note a little, and said that a girl of such high spirit merited considerable treatment, and bade minutio to be his envoy to her, and comfort her, and tell her that without fail that very day at Vespers he would come to visit her. Overjoyed to bear the girl such gladsome tidings, minutio terried note but hide him back to the girl with his vial, and be encloseted with her, told her all that had passed, and then sang the song to the accompaniment of his vial, whereby the girl was so cheered and delighted, that forthwith there appeared most market and manifest signs of the amendment of her health, while with passionate longing, albeit none in the house knew or divined it, she awaited the Vespers hour when she was to see her lord, knowing the girl very well, and knowing how fair she was, and pondering diverse times on what minutio had told him, the king, being a prince of a liberal and kindly disposition, grew ever more compassionate. So about Vespers he mounted his horse and rode forth, as if for me a pleasure, and being come to the apothecary's house, demanded access to a very goodly garden that the apothecary had, and having dismounted after a while and quiet of Bernardo touching his daughter. And whether he had yet bestowed her in marriage, Sire replied Bernardo, she is not yet married, and indeed she has been and is still very ill, albeit since none she is wonderfully amended. The significance of which amendment being forthwith apprehended by the king, in good faith, quote he, to where a pity so far a creature were ref from the world so early, we would go in and visit her. And presently attended only by two of his lords and Bernardo, he betook him to her chamber, where, being entered, he drew nigh the bed whereon the girl had reclined half-sit in eager expectation of his coming. Untaking her by the hand, Madonna, quote he, what means this, and made him like you should be the comfort of others, and you suffer yourself to languish. We would entreat you that for the love of us you be of good cheer, so as speedily to recover your health, to feel the touch of his hand whom she loved above all else, albeit somewhat shame-fast, was so enraptured that it was as if she was in paradise, and soon as she was able. My lord, she said, it was the endeavour, weak as I am, to sustain a most grievous burden that brought this sickness upon me, but will not be long ere you will see me quit thereof, thanks to your courtesy. The hidden meaning of which words was apprehended only by the king, who momentarily made more account of the girl, and again and again inly cursed fortune, that had decreed that she should be the daughter of such a man. And yet a while he tarried with her and comforted her, and so took his leave, which gracious behaviour of the king was not a little commended, and accounted a signal honour to the apothecary and his daughter. The girl, glad at heart, as was ever lady of her lover, mended with reviving hope, and in a few days recovered her health, and therewith more than all her wanted beauty. Whereupon the king, having taken counsel with the queen, how to reward so great a love, got him one day to horse with a great company of his barons, and hide him to the apothecary's house. And being come into the garden, he sent for the apothecary and his daughter. And there, being joined by the queen with not a few ladies who received the girl into their company, they made such cheer as it was a wonder to see. And after a while the king and queen having called Lisa to them, quoth the king, honourable damsel, by the great love that you have borne us, we are moved greatly to honour you, and we trust that, for love of us, the honour that we designed for you will be acceptable to you. Now, tis thus we would honour you, to wit that, seeing that you are of marriageable age, we would have you take for husband him that we shall give you. Albeit, tis none the less our purpose ever to cool ourself your night, demanding no other tribute of all your love, but one soul kiss, scarlet from brow to neck, the girl making the king's pleasure her own, thus with a low voice replied, My Lord, very sure am I that, should it come to be known that I was grown enamoured of you, most folk would hold me for a fool, deeming perchance that I was out of my mind, and witless alike of my own rank and yours, but God, who alone reads the hearts of us mortals, knows that even then, when first I did affect you, I wist that you were the king, and I but the daughter of Ben Nardo, the apothecary, and that to suffer my passion to so so high did ill become me. But as you know far better than I, none loves of set and discreet purpose, but only according to the dictates of impulse and fancy, which all my forces, albeit not seldom opposed, being powerless to withstand, I loved, and still love, and shall ever love you. But as no sooner knew I myself subjugated to your love, than I vowed to ever have no will but yours. Therefore not only am I compliant to take right gladly him whom you shall be pleased to give me for husband, thereby conferring upon me great honour and dignity, but if you should bid me tarry in the fire, delighted were I to obey, so thereby I might pleasure you. How far it besiems me to have you my king for my night. You best know, and therefore I say, not thereof, nor will the kiss which you crave as your soul tribute of my love be granted you save by leave of my Lady the Queen. Nevertheless, may you have of this great graciousness that you and my Lady the Queen have shown me, and which I may not require abundant recompense in the blessing and favour of God. And so she was silent. The Queen was mightily delighted with the girl's answer and deemed her as discreet as the King had said. The King then sent for the girl's father and mother, and being assured that his intention had their approval, summoned to his presence a young man, Pericone by name, that was of gentle birth, but in poor circumstances, and put certain rings into his hand, and, he no wise game saying, wedded him to Lisa, which done, besides jewels many and precious that he and the Queen gave the girl, he forthwith bestowed upon Pericone two domains, right goodly and of ample revenues. To wit, cefalue, and calabalotta, saying, we give them to thee for thy wife's dowry, what we have in store for thee thou wilt learn hereafter. Which said he turned to the girl, and, now, quote he, we are minded to cull that fruit which is due to us of thy love. And so, taking her head between both his hands, he kissed her brow. Wherefore great was the joy of Pericone, and the father and mother and Lisa, herself, and mighty the cheer they made, and gaily did they celebrate the nuptials. And, as many affirm, right well did the King keep his promise to the girl, for that ever while he lived, he called himself her knight, nor went to any passage of arms bearing other device than that which he had from her. Now, tis by doing after this sort that sovereigns win the hearts of their subjects, give others occasion of well-doing, and gain for themselves an imperishable renown, at which mark few or none in our times have bent the brow of their understanding, the more part of the princes having become but cruel tyrants. End of day ten, the seventh story. Day ten, the eighth story of the Decameron, part a. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by J. C. Guan, the Decameron, by Giovanni Boccaccio, translated by J. M. Reg. Day ten, the eighth story, part a. Sofronia, albeit she deems herself wife to Gisipus, is wife to Titus Tuentius Folius, and goes with him to Rome, where Gisipus arrives in Indigens, and deeming himself scorned by Titus, to compass his own death a verse that he has lain a man. Titus recognizes him, and to save his life alleges that it was he that slew the man, whereof he that did the deed being witness, he discovers himself as the murderer, whereby it comes to pass that they are all three liberated by Octavianus, and Titus gives Gisipus his sister to wife, and shares with him all his substance. So ceased Pompinea, and when all the ladies, and most of them Gepelin, had commanded King Pedro, filomena by command of the king, thus began. Magnificent, my ladies, who what not that there is not so great but kings, when they have a mind, may accomplish it, as also that tis of them that magnificence is most especially demanded. Now who so, being powerful, does that which it pertains him to do, does well, but therein is no such a matter of marvel or occasion of extolling him to the skies, as in his deed, of whom, for that his power is slight, less is demanded. Wherefore, as you are so profuse of your word in exultation of the fine deeds, as you deem them, of monarchs, I make no manner of doubt, but that the doings of our peers must seem to you yet more delectable and commendable, when they equal or surpass those of kings. Accordingly, tis a transaction, laudable and magnificent, that passed between two citizens, who were friends, that I propose to recount to you in my story. I say then, that what time Octavianus Caesar, not as yet high Augustus, but being in the office, called triumvirate, swayed the empire of Rome, there dwelt at Rome a gentleman, Publius Quintius Fulvus, by name, who, having a son, Titus Quintius Fulvus, that was a very prodigy of wit, sent him to Athens to study philosophy, and to the best of his power commanded him to a noble man of that city, Cremes by name, who was his very old friend. Cremes lodged Titus in his own house with his son Gisippus, and placed both Titus and Gisippus under a philosopher named Aristippus, to learn of him his doctrine. And the two youths, thus keeping together, found each the other's conversation so congruous with his own, that there grew up between them a friendship so close and brotherly, that was never broken by art but death, nor knew either rest or solace safe when he was with the other. So, gifted alike with preeminent subtlety of wit, they entered on their studies, and with even pace and prodigious applause scaled together the glorious heights of philosophy, in which way of life, to the exceeding great delight of Cremes, who entreated Titus as no less his son than Gisippus, they continued for full three years, at the end whereof it befell, after the common course of things mundane, that Cremes, being now aged, departed this life, whom with equal grief they mourned as a common father, and the friends and kin spoke of Cremes were alike at a loss to determine whether of the twain stood in need of the more consolation upon the bereavement. Some months afterward, the friends and kin spoke of Gisippus, came to him and exhorted him, as did also Titus, to take a wife, and found him a maiden, wondrous fair, of one of the most noble houses of Athens, her name Sophronia, and her age about fifteen years. So a time was appointed for their nuptials, and one day, when it was near attend, Gisippus bade Titus come see the maiden, whom, as yet, he had not seen, and the day, being come into her house, and she, sitting betwixt them, Titus, as he were feigned to observe with care the several charms of his friend's wife, that was to be, surveyed her with the closest attention, and being delighted beyond measure was all that he saw, grew as inly he extolled her charms to the skies, and aimered of her, with love as ardent, albeit he gave no sign of it, as every lover bore to lady. However, after he had tarried a while with her, they took their leave and went home, where Titus repaired to his chamber, and there gave himself over to solitary musing on the damsel's charms, and the longer he brooded, the more he burned for her, whereon, as he reflected, having heaved many a fervent sigh, thus he began to commune with himself. Ah, woe worth thy life, Titus, whom makest thou the mistress of thy soul, thy love, thy hope, noest thou not, that's by reason as well of thy honorable entreatment, by creams, and his kin, as the whole-hearted friendship that is between thee and Gisippus, it behoves thee to have his betrothed in even such pious regard as if she were thy sister, with her art thou suffering beguiling love, delusive hope to hurry thee. Open the eyes of thine understanding, and see thyself, wretched man, as thou art, obey the dictates of thy reason, refrain thy carnal appetite, control thine inordinate desires, and give thy thoughts another bent, join battle with thy lust at the outset, and conquer thyself while there is yet time. This which thou wouldst have is not mead, is not seamly, this which thou art minded to ensue, thou wouldst rather, though thou wert, as thou art not, sure of its attainment, as shoe, hath thou but the respect thou shouldst have for the claims of true friendship. So then, Titus, what wilt thou do? What but abandon this unseemly love, if thou wouldst do, as it behoves thee? But then, as he remembered Sophronia, his thoughts took the contrary direction, and he recounted all that he had said, musing on this wise. The laws of love are a force above all others. They abrogate not only the law of human friendship, but the law divine itself. How many times here now has father loved daughter, brother sister, stepmother stepson. Aberrations far more notable than that a friend should love his friend's wife, which has happened a thousand times. Besides which, I am young, and use is altogether subject to the laws of love. Love's pleasure, then, should be mine. The seemly is for folk of riper years. Does not in my power, to will, ought save that which love wills. So beauty is this damsel, that there is none but should love her, and if I love her, who am young, who can justly censure me? I love her not, because she is the affianced of Gisippus. No matter whose she was, I should love her all the same. Herein is fortune to blame, that gave her to my friend Gisippus, rather than to another. And if she is worthy of love, as for beauty she is, Gisippus, if he should come to know that I love her, ought to be less jealous than another. Then, scorning himself that he should indulge such thoughts, he relapsed into the opposing mood, albeit not to abide there, but ever rearing to and fro. He spent not only the whole of that day and the ensuing night, but many others, in so much that, being able neither to eat nor to sleep, he grew so weak that he was feigned to take his bed. Gisippus, who had marked his moodiness for some days, and now saw that he was fairly sick, was much distressed, and with sedulous care, never quitting his side, he tended and strove as best he might to comfort him, not seldom and most earnlessly demanding to know of him the cause of his melancholy and his sickness. Many were the subterfuges to which Titus resorted, but as Gisippus was not to be put off with his fables, finding himself hard-pressed by him, with sighs and sobs, he made answer on this wise. Gisippus, had such pain the will of God, I refrained rather to die than to live, seeing that fortune has brought me astray in which needs must my virtue be put to the ordeal, and to my worst grievous shame this found wanting. Whereof I confidently expect my due reward to wit, death, which will be more welcome to me than to live, haunted ever by the memory of my baseness, which, as there is not that from Zee, I either should or can conceal, I, not without burning shame, will discover duty. And so he recounted the whole story from first to last, the occasion of his melancholy, its several moods, their conflict, and which of them the victory rested, avering that he was dying of love for Sophronia, and that, knowing how ill such love besieged him, he had for penance elected to die, and deemed the end was now not far off. Gisippus, hearing his words and seeing his tears, for a while knew not what to say, being himself smitten with the damsel's charms, albeit in a less degree than Titus, but earlong he made up his mind that Sophronia must be less dear to him than his friend's life. And so, moved to tears by his friend's tears, Titus, cruelty between his sobs, but that thou art in need of comfort, I should reproach thee, that thou hath offended against our friendship, in that thou hast so long kept close from me this most distressful passion, and albeit thou didst deem it unseemly, yet unseemly things should no more than things seemly be withheld from a friend, for that as a friend rejoices with his friend in things seemly, so he does in his endeavour to wean his friend from things unseemly. But enough of this for the nonce, I pass to that which I want is of greater moment, if thou art gently lovest Sophronia, my affianced, so far from marveling there at, I should greatly marvel where it not so, knowing how fair she is, and how noble is thy soul, and thus the after to be swayed by passion, the more excelling is she by whom thou art charmed, and the juster the cause thou hast to love Sophronia, the greater is the injustice, with which thou complainest of fortune, albeit though dost it, not in so many words, forgiving her to me, as if thy love of her had been seemly, had she belonged to any other but me, whereas if thou art still the wise man thou wast want to be, thou must know that to none could fortune have assigned her with such good cause for thee to thank her as to me. Had any other had her, albeit thy love had been seemly, he had loved her as his own, rather than as thine, which, if thou deem me even such a friend to thee as I am, thou wilt not apprehend from me, seeing that I mind me not, that since we were friends, I had ever ought that was not as much thine as mine, and so should I entreat thee herein, as in all other matters were the affair gone so far that not else were possible. But, as it is, I can make thee sole possessor of her, and so I mean to do, for I know not what cause thou shouldst have to price my friendship, if, where in seemly sort it might be done, I knew not how to surrender my will to thine. It is true that Sophronia is my bethroted, and that I loved her much, and had great sheer in expectation of the nuptials, but as thou, being much more discerning than I, dost more fervently affect this rare prize, rest assured that she will enter my chamber not mine. But thine, wherefore away with thy moodiness, banish thy melancholy, recover thy lost health, thy heartiness, and jollity, and glatsamne, and glatsamne, even from this very hour, but anticipate the garden of thy love, a love worthier far than mine. Delightful as was the prospect, with which hope flattered tittus, as he heard Gisippus dost speak, no less was the shame, with which right reason affected him, admonishing him, that the greater was the liberality of Gisippus, the less it would become him to profit thereby. Wherefore, still weeping, he dost constrain himself to make answer. Gisippus, thy generous and true friendship, leaves me in no doubt, as to the manner in which it becomes me to act, God forfriend, that her, whom as to the more worthy, he has given to thee, I should ever accept of thee for mine. Had he seen fit that she should be mine, far be it from thee, or any other, to suppose that he would ever have awarded her to thee, renounce not then, that which thy choice and wise counsel, and his gift, have made thine, and leave me to whom as unworthy, he has appointed no such happiness, to waste my life in tears, for either I shall conquer my grief, which will be grateful to thee, or it will conquer me, and so I shall be quit of my pain. Quote then Gisippus, if our friendship, Titus, is of such a sort as may entitle me to enforce thee, to ensue behests of mine, or as may induce thee of thine own free will, to ensue the same. Such is the use which, most of all, I am minded to put it, and if thou lend me considerate ear upon my prayers, I shall by force, that force, which is lawful in the interest of a friend, makes a thrown at thine. I know the might of love, how redoubtable it is, and how, not once only, but often times, it has brought ill-starred lovers to a miserable death, and thee, I see so hard-pasted, that turn back thou mightst not, nor get the better of thy grief, but, holding on thy course, must succumb, and perish, and without doubt, I shall speedily fellow thee, and so, had I no other cause to love thee, thy life is precious to me, in that my own is bound up with it. Sophronia then shall be thine, for thou wouldst not lightly find another so much to thy mind, and I shall readily find another to love, and so shall content both thee and me. In which matter, for adventure, I might not be so liberal, were wives so scarce, or hard to find as our friends, wherefore, is this so easy, a matter for me, to find another wife? I had leave her, I say not lose her, for in giving her to thee, lose her I shall not, but only transfer her to one that is my alter ego, and that, to her advantage, I shall leave her, I say, transfer her to thee, then lose thee. And so, if odd my prayers avail with thee, I entreat thee extricate thyself from thy woeful plight, and conformed at once thyself and me, and in good hope, address thyself to pluck that boon which thy fervent love craves of her, for whom thou yearnest. Still scrupling for shame, to consent that Sophronia should become his wife, Titus remained yet a while inexorable, but yielding at last to the solicitations of love, reinforced by the exhortations of Gisippus, thus he made answer. Lo now, Gisippus, I know not how to call it, whether this more thy pleasure than mine, this which I do, seeing that this, as thy pleasure, that thou so earnestly entreatest me, to do it. But, as thy liberality is such that my shame, though becoming, may not withstand it, I will even do it. But, of this, rest assured, that I do so, witting well that I receive from thee, not only the lady I love, but with her, my very life, and fate permitting, may the gods grant me to make thee such honorable and goodly requital, as may show thee how sensible I am of the boon, which thou, more compassionate of me, than I am of myself, conferrest on me. Quoth then, Gisippus, now for the giving effect to our purpose, me thinks Titus, which should proceed on this wise. Thou knowest, that Sophronia, by treaty at Lent, concluded between my family and hers, is become my betrooted, where I now to say that she should not be my wife. Great indeed were the scandal that would come thereof, and should affront both her family and vine own. Whereof indeed I should make no account, so it gave me to see her become dine. But I fear that, were I to give her up at this juncture, her family would forthwith bestow her upon another, perchance, than thee, and so we should both be losers. Wherefore me thinks that, should thou approve, I were best to complete what I have begun, bring her home as my wife, and celebrate the nuptials, and thereafter we can arrange that thou lie with her, privately, as thy wife. Then, time and occasion serving, we will disclose the whole affair, and if they are satisfied, well and good, if not, to be done all the same, and, as it cannot be undone, they must, per force, make the best of it. Which council, being approved by Titus, Gisippus brought the lady home as his wife, Titus being now recovered, and quite himself again, and when they had made great cheer, and now it was come, the ladies, having bedded the bride, took their departure. Now the chambers of Titus and Gisippus were contiguous, and one might pass from one into the other. Gisippus therefore, being come into his room, extinguished every ray of light, and stole into that of Titus, and bade him to get him to bed with his lady. Whereat Titus gave way to shame, and would have changed his mind, and refused to go in. But Gisippus, no less zealous at heart than in words to serve his friend, after no small contention, prevailed on him to go thither. Now no sooner was Titus a bed with the lady, than taking her in his arms, he, as if jestingly, asked in a low tone whether she minded to be his wife. She, taking him to be Gisippus, answered, yes, whereupon he set a fair and costly ring on her finger, saying, and I am minded to be thy husband. And having presently consummated the marriage, he long and amourously desported him with her, neither she, nor any other, being ever aware that another than Gisippus lay with her. Now Titus and Zephronia, being after this sort wedded, Phublius, the father of Titus, departed this life, for which cause Titus was bidden by letter to return forthwith to Rome to see to his affairs. Wherefore he took counsel with Gisippus, how he might take Zephronia thither with him, which might not well be done without giving her to know how matters stood. Whereof, accordingly, one day, having called her into the chamber, they fully apprised her, Titus, for her better assurance, bringing her recollection, not a little, of what had passed between them. Where at she, after glancing from one to the other, somewhat disdainfully, burst into a flood of tears, and re-perched Gisippus that he has so deluded her, and forthwith, saying not of the matter to any there, she hide her fort to Gisippus' house and home to her father. To whom, and her mother, she recounted the deceit which Gisippus had practised upon them as upon her, avering that she was the wife not of Gisippus, as they supposed, but of Titus. Whereby her father was aggrieved exceedingly, and prolonged and grave complaint was made thereof by him and his own and Gisippus' families, and there was not a little parliing, and a world of pother. Gisippus earned the hatred of both his own and Zephronia's kin, and all agreed that he merited not only censure, but severe punishment. He, however, avered that he had done a thing seemly, and that Zephronia's kin's fork owed him thanks for giving her in marriage to one better than himself. All which Titus witnessed, with great suffering, and witting that was the way of the Greeks to launch forth in high words and menaces, and refrain not until they should meet with one that answered them, whereupon they were want to grow not only humble, but even abject, was at length minded that their clavours should no longer pass unanswered, and as with his Roman temper he united Athenian subtlety. He cleverly contrived to bring the kin's fork as well of Gisippus as of Zephronia, together in a temple, where, being entered, attended only by Gisippus, thus they being intent to hear, he harangued them. It is the opinion of not a few philosophers that whatsoever mortals do is ordained by the providence of the immortal gods, for which cause some would have it that not either is, or ever shall be, done, save of necessity, albeit others there are that restrict this necessity to that which is already done. Regard we, but these opinions with some little attention, and we shall very plainly perceive that to censure that which cannot be undone is not else, but to be minded to show oneself wiser than the gods, by whom we must suppose that we and our affairs are swayed and governed with uniform and unerring wisdom, whereby you may very readily understand how vain and foolish a presumption it is to pass judgment on other doings, and what manner and might of chains they need who suffer themselves to be transported to such excess of daring, among whom in my judgment you must one and all be numbered. If it is true what I hear to wit that you have complained and do continue to complain that Zephronia, albeit you gave her to Gisippus, is nevertheless become my wife, not considering that was ordained from all eternity that she should become not the wife of Gisippus but mine, as the fact does now declare.