 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio, translated by A. M. Rigg. Beginneth here, the book called Decameron, otherwise Prince Galeotto, wherein are contained one hundred novels told in ten days by seven ladies and three young men. Proem Dishumane to have compassion on the afflicted, and as it choose well in all, so it is especially demanded of those who have had need of comfort and have found it in others, among whom, if any had ever need thereof or found it precious or delectable, I may be numbered, seeing that from my early youth, even to the present, I was beyond measure of flame, with the most aspiring and noble love, more perhaps than were I to enlarge upon it, would seem to accord with my lowly condition, whereby, among people of discernment, to whose knowledge it had come, I had much praise and high esteem, but nevertheless extreme discomfort and suffering, not indeed by reason of cruelty, on the part of the beloved lady, but through superabundant ardour engendered in the soul by ill-bridled desire, the which, as it allowed me no reasonable period of quiescence, frequently occasioned me an inordinate distress. In which distress so much relief was afforded me by the delectable discourse of a friend, and his commendable consolations, that I entertain a very solid conviction, that to them I owe it that I am not dead. But as it pleased him, who, being infinite, has assigned by immutable law an end to all things mundane, my love, beyond all other fervent, and neither to be broken nor bent by any force of determination, or counsel of prudence, or fear of manifest shame or ensuing danger, did nevertheless in course of time abate of its own accord, in such wise that it has now left not of itself in my mind, but that pleasure which it is wanted to offer to him who does not adventure too far out in navigating its deep seas. So that, whereas it was used to be grievous, now all discomfort being done away, I find that which remains to be delightful. But the cessation of the pain has not banished the memory of the kind offices done me by those who shared my sympathy and burden of my griefs, nor will it ever, I believe, pass from me except by death. And as among the virtues gratitude is in my judgment most especially to be commended, and in gratitude unequal measure to be censured, therefore, that I show myself not ungrateful, I have resolved, now that I may call myself free, to endeavor, in return for what I have received, to afford, so far as in me lies, some solace, if not to those who suckered me, and who, per chance, by reason of their good sense or good fortune need it not, at least to such as may be apt to receive it. And though my support or comfort, so to say, may be of a little avail to the needy, nevertheless it seems to me meet, to offer it most readily, where the need is most apparent, because it will there be most serviceable and also most kindly received. Who will deny, that it should be given, for all that it may be worth, to gentle ladies much rather than to men? In their soft bosoms, betwixt fear and shame, they harbor secret fires of love, and how much of strength concealment adds to those fires, they know who have proved it. Moreover, restrained by the will, the capris, the commandment of fathers, mothers, brothers and husbands, can find most part of their time within the narrow compass of their chambers. They live, so to say, a life of vacant ease, and yearning and renouncing in the same moment, meditate diverse matters which cannot all be cheerful. If thereby a melancholy bread of amorous desire make entrance into their minds, it's like to tarry there to their sore distress, unless it be dispelled by a change of ideas. That's which they have much less power to support such a weight than men. For when men are enamored, their case is very different as we may readily perceive. They, if they are afflicted by a melancholy and heaviness of mood, have many ways of relief and diversion. They may go where they will, may hear and see many things, may hawk, hunt, fish, ride, play or traffic. By which means all are able to compose their minds, either in whole or near part, and their peerly ravage wrought by the dumpish mood, at least for some space of time. And shortly after, by one way or another, either solace ensues or the dumps become less grievous. Wherefore, in some measure, to compensate the injustice of fortune, which to those whose strength is lessed, as we see it to be in the delicate frames of ladies, has been most niggered of support, I, for the succour and diversion of such of them as love, for others may find sufficient solace in the needle and the spindle and the reel. Do intend to recount one hundred nobles or fables or parables or stories, as they may please to call them, which were recounted in ten days by an honorable company of seven ladies and three young men, in the time of the late mortal pestilence, as also some consonants, thanked by the said ladies for their delectation. In which pleasant nobles will be found some passages of love rudely crossed, with other courses of events of which the issues are felicitous, in times as well modern as ancient, from which stories the said ladies, who shall read them, may derive both pleasure from the entertaining matters set forth therein, and also good counsel, in that they may learn what to shun, and likewise what to pursue, which cannot, I believe, come to pass, unless the dumps are banished by diversion of mind. And if it so happen, as God granted may, let them give thanks to love, who, liberating me from his fetters, has given me the power to devote myself to their gratification. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio, translated by H. M. Rigg, Day the First, The Introduction Beginners hear the first day of the Decameron, in which, when the order has set forth how it came to pass, that the persons, who appear hereafter, met together for interchange of discourse, they, under the rule of Pompineia, discourse of such matters, as most command themselves to each in turn. As often most gracious ladies, as I be-sink me, how compassionate you are by nature, one and all, I do not disguise from myself, that the present work must seem to you to have but a heavy and distressful prelude, in that it bears upon its very front, what must needs revive the sorrowful memory of the late mortal pestilence, the course whereof was grievous not merely to eyewitnesses, but to all, who in any other wise had cognizance of it. But I would have you know, that you need not therefore be fearful to read further, as if your reading were ever to be accompanied by sighs and tears. This horrid beginning will be to you even such as to wave horrors, is a steep and rugged mountain, beyond which stretches a plain, most fair and delectable, which the toil of the assent and descent does but serve, to render more agreeable to them. For as the last degree of joy brings with its sorrow, so misery has ever its sequel of happiness. To this brief exhortium of woe, brief I say, inasmuch as it can be put within the compass of a few letters, succeed forthwith the sweets and delights which I have promised you, and which perhaps, had I not done so, were not to have been expected from it. In truth, had it been honestly possible to guide you wither, I would bring you by a road less rough than this will be, I would gladly have so done. But because without this review of the past, it would be not be in my power to shoehouse the matters, of which you will hear after read came to pass, I am almost bound of necessity to enter upon it, if I would write of them at all. I say then, that the years of the beatific incarnation of the Son of God had reached the tale of 1348, when in the illustrious city of Florence, the fairest of all the cities of Italy, there made its appearance the deadly pestilence, which, whether desesminated by the influence of the celestial bodies, or sent upon as mortals by God, in his just wrath, by way of retribution for our iniquities, had had its origin some years before in the east, whence, after destroying an innumerable multitude of living beings, it had propagated itself without respite from place to place, and so calamitously had spread into the west. In Florence, despite all that human wisdom and forethought could devise to averted, as the cleansing of the city from many impurities by officials appointed for the purpose, the refusal of entrance to all sick folk, and the adoption of many precautions for the preservation of health. Despite also humble supplications addressed to God, and often repeated both in public procession and otherwise, by the devotee, towards the beginning of the spring of the said year, the doleful effects of the pestilence began to be horribly apparent by symptoms that should as if miraculous. Not such, were they as in the east, where an issue of blood from the nose was a manifest sign of inevitable death, but in men and women alike, it first betrayed itself by the emergence of certain tumors in the groin or the armpits, some of which grew as large as a common apple, others as an egg, some more, some less, which the common folk called gavacioli. From the two sad parts of the body, this deadly gavacioli soon began to propagate and spread itself in all directions indefinitely, after which the form of the melody began to change. Black spots or livid making, their appearance in many cases on the arm or the thigh or elsewhere, now a few enlarge, now minute and numerous. And as the gavacioli had been, and still was an infallible token of approaching death, such also were these spots, on whom so ever they should themselves. Which melodies seemed to sit entirely at naught, both the art of the physician and the virtues of physics, indeed, whether it was that the disorder was of a nature to defy such treatment, or that the physicians were at fault. Besides the qualified, there was now a multitude both of men and of women, co-practised without having received the slightest tincture of medical science, and being in ignorance of its source, failed to apply the proper remedies. In either case, not merely were those that recovered few, but almost all within three days from the appearance of the sad symptoms, sooner or later, died, and in most cases without any fever or other attendant melody. Moreover, the virulence of the past was the greater by reason that intercourse was apt to convey it from the sick to the whole, just as fire devours things dry or greasy when they are brought close to it. Nay, the evil went yet further, for not merely by speech or association with the sick was the melody communicated to the healthy with consequent peril of common death. But any that touched the clothes of the sick or old else that had been touched or used by them seemed thereby to counter the disease. So Marullus' sound-sat, which I have now to relate, that had not many and I among them, observed it with their own eyes, I had hardly dared to credit it, much less to set it down in writing, though I had had it from the lips of a credible witness. I say, then, that such was the energy of the contagion of the sad pestilence, that it was not merely propagated from man to man, but what is much more startling, it was frequently observed that things which had belonged one sick or dead of the disease, if touched by some other living creature, not of the human species, were the occasion not merely of sickening, but of an almost instantaneous death. Whereof my own eyes, as I said a little before, had cognizance, one day among others, by the following experience. The rags of a poor man who had died of the disease, being strewn about the open street, two hogs came wither, and after, as is their want, no little travelling with their snouts, took the rags between their teeth, and tossed them to unfro about their chaps, whereupon almost immediately they gave a few turns, and fell down dead, as if by poison, on the rags, which in an evil hour they had disturbed. In which circumstances, not to speak of many others of a similar or even graver complexion, diverse apprehensions and imaginations were engendered in the minds of such, as were left alive, inclining almost all of them to the same harsh resolution, to it, to shun and abhor all contact with the sick, and all that belonged to them, thinking thereby to make each his own health secure. Among whom, there were those who thought that to live temperately, and avoid all access would count for much, as a preservative against seizures of this kind. Therefore they banded together, and dissociating themselves from all others, formed communities in houses, where there were no sick, and lived a separate and secluded life, which they regulated with the utmost care, avoiding every kind of luxury, but eating and drinking very moderately of the most delicate vines, and the finest vines, holding converse with none but one another, lest tidings of sickness or death should reach them, and diverting their minds with music and such other delights as they could devise. Other, the bias of whose minds was in the opposite direction, maintained that to drink freely frequent places of public resort, and take their pleasure with song and revel, sparing to satisfy no appetite, and to laugh and mock at no event, was the sovereign remedy for so great an evil, and that which they affirmed they also put in practice, so far as they were able, resorting day and night, now to this tavern, now to that, drinking with an entire disregard of rule or measure, and by preference making the houses of others, as it were their ends, if they but saw in them ought that as particularly to their taste or liking, which they were readily able to do, because the owners, seeing death imminent, had become reckless of their property as of their lives, so that most of the houses were open to all comers, and no distinction was observed between the stranger, who presented himself and the rightful lord. Thus, adhering even to their inhuman determination to shun the sick, as far as possible, they ordered their life. In this extremity of our city's suffering and tribulation, the venturable authority of laws, human and divine, was abased, and all but totally dissolved, for lack of those who should have administered and enforced them, most of whom, like the rest of the citizens, were either dead or sick, or so hard bested by servants that they were unable to execute any office, whereby every man was free to do what was right in his own eyes. Not a few there were who belonged to neither of the two said parties, but kept a middle course between them, neither laying the same restraint upon their diet as the former, nor allowing themselves the same license in drinking and other dissipations as the latter, but living with a decree of freedom sufficient to satisfy their appetites and not of recluses. They therefore walked abroad, carrying in their hands flowers of fragrant herbs or diverse sorts of spices, which they frequently raised to their noses, deeming it an excellent thing thus to comfort the brain with such perfumes, because the air seemed to be everywhere laden and reeking, with the stench emitted by the dead and the dying, and the odors of drugs. Some again the most sound perhaps in judgment, as they were also the most harsh in temper of all, affirmed that there was no medicine for the disease superior or equal in efficiency to flight, following which prescription a multitude of men and women, negligent of all but themselves, deserted their city, their houses, their estates, their kinsfolk, their goods, and went into voluntary exile or migrated to the country parts, as if God in visiting men with these pestilence in requital of their iniquities would not not pursue them with his wrath wherever they might be, but intended the destruction of such alone as remained within the circuit of the walls of the city or deeming perchance, that it was now time for all to flee from it, and that its last hour was come. Of the adherents of these diverse opinions not all died, neither did all escape, but rather they were of each sort and in every place many that second, and by those who retained their health were treated after the example which they themselves, while whole, had said, being everywhere left to languish in almost total neglect. Did you swear it to recount, how to citizen avoided citizen, how among neighbors was scarce found any, that should fellow feeling for another, how kinsfolk held aloof, and never met, or but rarely, enough that this sort of lecture entered so deep into the minds of men and women, that in the horrors thereof, brother was forsaken by brother, nephew by uncle, brother by sister, and often times husband by wife, nay, what is more, and scarcely to be believed, fathers and mothers were found to abandon their own children, and tendon, and visited to their fate, as if they had been strangers. Wherefore the sick of both sexes, whose number could not be estimated, were left without resource but in charity of friends, and usage therewhere, or in the interest of servants, who were hardly to be had, at high rates and on unseemly terms, and being moreover one and all, men and women of gross understanding, and for the most part unused to such offices, concerned themselves no further than to supply the immediate and expressed wants of the sick, and to watch them die, in which service they themselves not seldom perished with their gains. In consequence of which thereof, of servants and their eliction as the sick by neighbors, kind folk and friends, it came to pass, a thing perhaps never before heard of, that no woman, however dainty, fair or well, born she might be, shrank when stricken with the disease, from the ministrations of a man, no matter whether he were young or no, or scrappled to expose to him every part of her body, with no more shame, than if he had been a woman. Submitting of necessity to that, which her melody required, wherefrom perchance, there resulted in after-time some loss of modesty in such as recovered, besides which many succumbed, who with proper attendance would perhaps have escaped death, so that, what with the virulence of the plague and the lack of due tendons of the sick, the multitude of the death, the daily and nightly took place in the city, was such that those who heard the tale, not to say witness the fact, were struck down with amazement, whereby practices contrary to the former habits of the citizens, could hardly fail to grow up among the survivors. It had been, as to-day it still is, the custom for the women that were neighbors and of kin to the deceased, together in his house with the women that were most closely connected with him, to wail with them in common, while on the other hand his male kin's folk and neighbors was not a few of the other citizens, and the due proportion of the clergy according to his quality, assembled without, in front of the house, to receive their corpse. And so the dead man was born on the shoulders of his peers, with funeral pomp of taper and urge, to the church selected by him before his death. Which rides at the pestilence waxed in fury, were either in whole or in great part disused, and gave way to others of a noble order. For not only did no crowd of women surround the bed of the dying, but many passed from this life and regarded, and few indeed were, they to whom were accorded the lamentations and bitter tears of surviving relations. Nay, for the most part, their place was taken by the love, the jest, the festival gathering. Observances which the women, domestic pity in large measures set aside, had adopted with very great advantage to their health. Few also there were whose bodies were attended to the church by more than ten or twelve of their neighbors, and those not the honorable and respected citizens, but the sort of corpse carriers drawn from the baser ranks, who called themselves bechini, and performed such offices far higher, would shoulder the beer, and with hurried steps carry it, not to the church of the dead man's choice, but to that which was nearest at hand, with four or six priests in front and a candle or two, or perhaps none, nor did the priests distress themselves with too long on solemn and office, but with the aid of the bechini hastily consigned the corpse to the first tomb, which they found untenanted. The condition of the lower and perhaps in great measure of the middle ranks, as the people should even worse and more deplorable, for, deluded by hope or constrained by poverty, they stayed in their quarters, in their houses, were they sickened by thousands a day, and being without service or help of any kind, were, so to speak, irredeemably devoted to the death which overtook them. Many died daily or nightly in the public streets. Of many others who died at home, the departure was hardly observed by their neighbours, until the stench of their putrifying bodies carried the tidings. And what was their corpses and the corpses of others who died on every hand the whole place was a sepulchre. It was the common practice of most of the neighbours, moved no less by fear of contamination, by the putrifying bodies, than by charity towards the deceased, to drag the corpses out of the houses with their own hands, aided perhaps by a porter, if a porter was to be had, and to lay them in front of the doors, where anyone who made their own might have seen, especially in the morning, more of them than he could count. Afterwards they would have beers brought up, or in default planks, whereupon they laid them. Nor was it once or twice only, that one and the same beer carried two or three corpses at once. But quite a considerable number of such cases occurred, when beers sufficing for husband and wife, two or three brothers, father and son, and so forth. And times without number it happened, that, as two priests, bearing the cross, were on their way to perform the last office for someone, three or four beers were brought up by the porters in rear of them, so that, whereas the priests supposed that they had but one corpse to bury, they discovered that there were six or eight, or sometimes more. Nor, for all their number, were there obsequies honoured by either tears or lights, or crowds of mourners. Rather it was come to this, that a dead man was then of no more account than a dead goat would be to-day. From all which it is abundantly manifest, that that lesson of patient resignation, which the sages were never able to learn from the slight and infrequent mishaps, which occur in the natural course of events, was now brought home, even to the minds of the simple, by the magnitude of their disasters, so that they became indifferent to them. As consecrated ground there was not in extent sufficient to provide toms for the vast multitude of corpses, which day and night, and almost every hour, were brought in eager haste to the churches for interment. Least of all, if ancient custom were to be observed, and a separate resting place assigned to each, they dug for each graveyard, as soon as it was full, a huge trench, in which they laid the corpses, as they arrived by hundreds at a time. Pilling them up as merchandise is stowed in the hold of a ship, tear upon tear, each covered with a little earth, until the trench could hold no more. But I speared to rehearse with my new particularity each of the woes that came upon our city, and say in brief, that, harsh as was the tenor of her fortunes, the surrounding country knew no mitigation, for there, not to speak of the castles each as it were a little city in itself. In sequestered village, or on the open champagne, by the wise side, on the farm in the homestead, the poor, hate-less husbandsmen and their families, forlorn of physician's care or servants' tendons, perish day and night alike, not as men, but rather as beasts. Wherefore they too, like the citizens, abandoned all rule of life, all habit of industry, all council of prudence, nay, one and all, as if expecting each day to be their last, not merely cease to aid nature to yield her fruit in due season of their beasts and their lands and their past labours. But left no means unused, which ingenuity could devise, to waste their accumulated store, denying shelter to their oxen, asses, sheep, goats, pigs, foes, nay, even to their dogs, men's most faceful companions, and driving them out into the fields, to roam at large amidst the unsheathed, nay and reaped corn. Many of which, as if endowed with reason, took their field during the day and returned home at night without any guidance of herdsmen. But enough of the country, what need we add, but reverting to the city, that such and so grievous was the harshness of heaven, and perhaps in some degree of man, that what was the fury of the pestilence, the panic of those whom it spared and their consequent neglect or desertion of not a few was stricken in their need, it is believed without any manner of doubt that between March and the ensuing July upwards of a hundred thousand human beings lost their lives within the walls of the city of Lawrence, which before the deadly visitation would not have been supposed to contain so many people. How many grand palaces, how many stately homes, how many splendid residences, once full of retainers, of lords, of ladies, were now left desolate of all, even to the meanest servant. How many families of historic fame, of vast ancestral domains, and wealth proverbial, found now no skin to continue the cess session. Now many brave men, how many fair ladies, how many gallant youths, come any physician, where he gallant Hippocrates or Askolapius himself, would have pronounced in the soundest of health, broke fast with their kinsfolk, comrades and friends in the morning, and when evening came, subbed with their forefathers in the other world. Irksome it is to myself, to rehearse in detail so sorrowful history. Therefore, being minded to pass over so much, thereof, as I fairly can, I say that our city, being thus well-nigh depopulated, it so happened, as I afterwards learned from one worthy of credit, that on a Tuesday morning, after divine service, the venerable church of Santa Maria Novella was almost deserted, save for the presence of seven young ladies, habited sadly in keeping with the season. All were connected either by blood or at last as friends or neighbors, and fear of good understanding were they all, as also of noble births, gentle manners, and a modest prickliness. In age none exceeded twenty-eight, or fell short of eighteen years. Their names I would set down in due form, had I not good reason to withhold them, being solicitous lest the matters which there ensue, as told and heard by them. Should in after time be occasion of approach to any of them, in view of the ample indulgence, which was then, for the reasons herefore set forth, accorded to the lighter hours of persons, of my tripere years and day, but which the manners of today have somewhat restricted. Nor would I furnish material to tractors, ever ready to bestow their bite, where praise is due, to cast by indefinite speech the least slur upon the honour of these noble ladies. Therefore, that what each says might be apprehended without confusion, I intend to give them names more or less appropriate to the character of each. The first, then, being the eldest of the seven, we will call Pompinea, the second, Fiametta, the third, Filomena, the fourth, Emilia, the fifth, we will distinguish as Lauretta, the sixth as Neyfile, and the last, not without reason, shall be named Elissa. It was not of said purpose, but by mere chance, that these ladies met in the same part of the church, but at length grouping themselves into a sort of circle, after heaving a few sighs, they gave up saying pattern nostrils and began to converse, among other topics, on the times. So they continued for a while, and then Pompinea, thrust listening in silent attention, thus began, Dear ladies mine, often have I heard it said, as you doubtless as well as I, that wrong is done to none, by whoso but honestly uses his reason, and to fortify, preserve, and defend his life to the utmost of his power, is the dictate of natural reason in every one that is born, which right is accorded in such measure, that in defense thereof men have been hailed blameless in taking life. And if this be allowed by the laws, albeit on their stringency, depends the well-being of every mortal, how much more exempt from censor should we, and all other honest folk, be in taking such means as we may, for the preservation of our life. As often as I think me, how we have been occupied this morning, and not this morning only, and what has been the tenor of our conversation, I perceive, and you will be readily do the like, that each of us is apprehensive on her own account, nor there are do I marvel, but at this I do marvel greatly, that none of us lacks a woman's wit, yet none of us has recourse to any means to a word that which we all justly fear. Here we tarry, as if missing, for no other purpose, than to bear witness to the number of the corpses that are brought hither for the interment, or to hearken, if the brothers there was in, whose number is now almost reduced to naught, chance their offices at the canonical hours, or by our weeds of woe, to obdrew it on the attention of every one that enters, the nature and degree of our sufferings. And if we quit the church we see dead or sick folk carried about, or we see those who for their crimes were of late condemned to exile by the outraged majesty of the public laws, but who now, in contempt of those laws, while knowing that their ministers are afraid to death or disease, have returned, and traverse the city in packs, making it hideous with their reotus antics, or else we see the refuse of the people, fostered on our blood, vicini, as they call themselves, who for our torment go prancing about here and there and everywhere, making mock of our miseries and quarrelous songs. Nor here we ought but, such and such are dead, or such and such are dying, and should hear dolorous veiling on every hand, further but any to wail, or go we home, but see we there, and know not if you are in like case with me, but there, where once were servants and plenty, I find none left but my maid, and chudder with terror, and feel the very hairs of my head to stand on end, and turn, or tarry, where I may, I encounter the ghosts of the departed, not with their wanted mean, but with something horrible in their aspect that appalls me. For which reason church and street and home are alike distrustful to me, and the more so that none, me thinks, having means and place of retirement as we have, abides here save only we? Or if any such there be, there are of those, as my senses too often have borne witness, who make no distinction between things honorable and their opposites. So they but answer the cravings of appetite, and alone or in company, due daily and nightly, what thinks so ever give promise of most gratification. Nor are these secular persons alone, but such as liver clues in monasteries breaks their rule, and gives themselves up to carnal pleasures, persuading themselves that they are permissible to them, and only forbidden to others, and thereby thinking to escape, are become unchaste and disolute. If such be our circumstances, and such most manifestly they are, what do we hear? What we wait for? What dream we of? Why are we less prompt to provide for our own safety than the rest of the citizens? Is life less dear to us than to all other women? Or think me, that the bond which unites soul and body is stronger in us than in others, so that there is no blow that may light upon it, of which we need be apprehensive? If so, we are, we are deceived. What instance that fully were it in, us to be so believe? We have but to call to mind the number and condition of those young as we, and of both sexes, who cause succumbed to the cruel pestilence, to find their inconclusive evidence to the contrary. Unless from lethargy or indolence we fall into the vain imagination, that by some lucky accident we may in some way or another, when we would escape. I know not if your opinion accord with mine, I should deem it most wise in us, our case being what it is, if, as many others have done before us, and are still doing, we were to quote this place, and shining like death, the evil example of others. We take ourselves to the country, and there live as honorable women on one of the estates, of which none of us has any lack, with all cheer of festock-othering and other delights, so long as in no particular we overstep with the bounds of reason. There we shall hear the chant of birds, have sight of verdant hills and plains, of cornfields, undulating like the sea, of trees of a thousand sorts. There also we shall have a larger view of the heavens, which have ever harsed usward, yet denied not their eternal beauty, things fire far too deep to rest, on that the desolate walls of our city. Moreover, we shall there breeze the fresh air, find ample store of things meet for such as live in these times, have fewer causes of annoy. For though the husband's men dithe there, even as hear the citizens, they are dispersed in scattered homesteads, and is thus less painful to witness. Nor so far as I can see is there a soul here, whom we shall desert, rather we may truly say that we are ourselves deserted, for our kinsfolk being either dead or fled in fear of death, no more regardless of us than if we were strangers. We are left alone in our great affliction. No stranger then shall fall on us if we do as I propose, and otherwise grievous suffering, perhaps death, may ensue. Wherefore, if you agree, it is my advice, that attended by our maids, with all things needful, we sojourn, now on this, now on the other estate, and in such way of life continue, until we see, if death should not first overtake us, the end which heaven reserves for these events. And I remind you that it will be at least as seemly in us to leave his honor as in others, of whom there are not a few, to stay with this honor. The other ladies praised Pimpineo's plan, and indeed were so prompt to follow it, that they had already began to discuss the manner in some detail, as if they were forced to rise from their seats and take the road. When Filomena, whose judgment was excellent, interposed, saying, Ladies, though Pimpineo has spoken to most excellent effect, yet it were not well to be so precipitated, as you seem disposed to be. Be think that we are all women, nor is there any here so young, but she is of years to understand how women are minded towards one another, when they are alone together, and how ill they are able to rule themselves without the guidance of some man. We are sensitive, perverse, suspicious, pusillanimous, intimate, wherefore I much misdubbed, that if we find no other guidance than our own, this company is likely to break up sooner, and is less credit to us than it should, against which it were well to provide at the outset. Said Elisa, without doubt man is women's head, and without man's governance, it is seldom that odd that we do is brought to a commendable conclusion. But how are we to come by the man? Every one of us here knows that her kinsmen are of the most part dead, and that the survivors are dispersed, one here, one there. We know not where, bent each on escaping the same fate as ourselves, nor were it simply to seek the aid of strangers. For as we are in quest of health, we must find some means so to order matters that, wherever we seek diversion or repose, trouble and scandal do not follow us. While the ladies were thus conversing, there came into the church three young men, young, I say, but not so young, that the age of the youngest was less than twenty-five years, in whom neither the sinister course of events, nor the loss of friends or kinsfolk, nor fear for their own safety, had availed to quench, or even temper, the ardor of their love. The first was called Pamphilo, the second Filustrato, and the third Dioneo. Very debonair and chivalrous were they all, and in the strapless time they were seeking, if happily, to their exceeding great solace. They may have sight of their fair friends, all three of whom chanced to be among the said seven ladies, besides some that were of kin to the young men. At one and the same moment they recognized the ladies and were recognized by them. Wherefore, with a gracious smile, Pampineas thus began. Lo, fortune is propitious to our enterprise, having watched saved us the good offices of the young men, who are as gallant as they are discreet, and will gladly give us their guidance and escort, so we but take them into our service. Whereofon, Neyfila, crimson from brow to neck with the blush of modesty, being one of those that had a lover among the young men, said, For God's sake, Pampinea, have a care what you say. Well assured am I, that not but good can be said of any of them, and I deem that fit for office far more honours than this which you propose for them. And they are good and honourable company worthy of ladies fairer by far, and more tenderly to be cherished than such as we. But it's no secret that they love some of us here, wherefore I misdub that we take them with us. We may thereby give occasion for scandal, and send their merited neither by us nor by them. That, said Filomena, is of no consequence, so I but live honestly, my conscience gives me no disquietude, if others espouse me. God and the truth will take arms in my defence. Now, should they be disposed to attend us, of a truth we might say with Pampinea, that fortune favours our enterprise. The silence which followed betokent consent on the part of the other ladies, who then with one accord resolved to call the young men, and acquaint them with their purpose, and praise them to be of their company. So, without further poorly, Pampinea, who had the kinsmen among the young men, rose and approached them where they stood, intently regarding them, and greeting them gaily, she opened to them their plan, and bestowed them on the part of herself and her friends, to join their company, in terms of honourable and fraternal comradeship. At first the young men thought she did but trifle with them, but when they saw that she was in earnest, they answered with alacrity, that they were ready, and promptly, even before they left the church, set matters in train for their departure. So all things meet, being first sent forward in due order to their intended place of sojourn, the ladies with some of their maids, and the three young men, each attended by a men's servant, celled forth of the city on the moral, being Wednesday, about daybreak, and took the road, nor had they journeyed more than two short miles, when they arrived at their destination. The estate lay upon a little hill, some distance from the nearest highway, and embelloured in shrubberies of diverse hues, and other greenery, afforded the eye a pleasant prospect. On the summit of the hill was a palace, with galleries, halls, and chambers, disposed around a fair and spacious court, each very fair in itself, and the goodlier to see for the gladsome pictures, with which it was adorned. The hall set amidst meads and gardens, laid out his marvellous art, wells of the coolest water, and vaults of the finest vines, things more suited to dainty drinkers than to sober an honourable woman. On their arrival the company, to their no small delight, found their beds already made, the rooms well swept and garnished with flowers, of every sort that the season could afford, and the floors carpeted with rushes. When they were seated, Dioneo, a gallant who had not his match for courtesy and wit, spoke thus, My ladies, this not our forethought so much as your own mother with, that has guided us hither. How you mean to dispose of your cares I know not, mine I left behind me within the city gate, when I issued sense with you a brief while ago. Wherefore I pray you, either address yourselves to make merry, to laugh and sing with me, so far I mean as may consist with your dignity, or give me leave to hide me back to the stricken city, there to abide with my cares. To whom, lastly, Pompineer, it lied, as if she too had cast off all her cares. Well says Dioneo excellently well, gaily we mean to live, it was a refuge from sorrow, that there we sought, nor had the other cause to hums hither. But as no other he can long endure, I, who initiated the deliberations of which this fair company is the fruit, do now, to the end that our joy may be lasting, deem it expedient, that there be one among us in chief authority, honoured and obeyed by us as our superior, whose exclusive care it shall be to devise how we may pass our time wisely, and that each in turn might prove the weight of the care, as well as enjoy the pleasure of sovereignty, and no distinction being made of sex, and why be felt by none by reason of exclusion from the office. I propose that the weight and honour be borne by each one for a day, and let the first to be or sway be chosen by a soul, those that follow to be appointed towards the west per hour by him or her, who shall have had the scenery for that day, and let each holder of the scenery be, for the time, sole arbiter of the place, and manner in which we are to pass our time. Pampineo's speech was received with the utmost applause, and with one accord she was chosen queen for the first day, where upon Filomena hid her lightly to obey tree, having often heard of the great honour in which its leaves, and such as were deservedly crowned their ways, there was it beholden, and having gathered a few sprays, she made thereof a goodly rest of honour, and set it on Pampineo's head, which rest was then's force, while their company endured the visible sign of the wearer's sway and sovereignty. No sooner was Queen Pampineo crowned than she bade all be silent. She then caused someone to her presence the four maids, and the servants of the three young men, and all keeping silence said to them, that I may show you all at once how, while still giving place to better, our company may flourish and endure, as long as it shall pleasure us, with order, meat, and assured delight, and without reproach. I first of all constitute Dioneo's man, Parmeno, my son-a-shell, and entrust him with the care, and control of all our household, and all that belongs to the service of the whole. Pampineo's man, Cirisco, I appoint treasurer and chancellor of our excurb, and be he ever answerable to Parmeno. While Parmeno and Cirisco are too busy about their duties to serve their masters, let Filostrato's men, Tindaro, have charge of the chambers of all three. My maid, Misia, and Filomeno's maid, Likiska, will keep in the kitchen, and with all due diligence, prepare such dishes as Parmeno shall bid them. Loretta's maid, Cimero, and Fiametta's maid, Strathilia, we make answerable for the ladies' chambers, and wherever we may take up our quarters, let them see that all is spotless. And now we enjoin you, one and all alike, as you value our favor, that none of you go where you may, return whence you may, hear or see what you may, bring us any tidings but such as be cheerful. These orders thus succinctly given were received with universal approval, whereupon Pampineo rose and said gaily, Here our gardens, meads, and other places delight some enough, where you may wander at will, and take your pleasure, but on the stroke of tears let all be here to breakfast in the shade. Thus dismissed by their new queen, the gay company sauntered gently through the garden, the young men saying sweet things to the fair ladies, who woe fair garlands of diverse sorts of leaves, and sang love songs. Having thus spent the time, allowed them by the queen, they returned to the house, where they found that Parmeno had entered on his office with zeal, for in a hall on the ground floor they saw tables covered with the whitest of clothes, and beakers that shone like silver, and sprays of broom scattered everywhere. So at the bidding of the queen, they washed their hands, and all took their places as marshaled by Parmeno. Dishes, dainty prepared, were served, and the finest vines were at hand, thus reserving men did their office noiselessly, in a ward all was fair and ordered in a seemly manner, whereby the spirits of the company rose, and they seasoned their vines with pleasant jests and sprightly cellies. Breakfast done, the tables were removed, and the queen bade fetch instruments of music, for all, ladies and young men alike, knew how to tread a measure, and some of them played and sang with great skill. So at her command, Diornevo having taken a lute, and Fiumetta a vile, they struck up a dance in sweet concert, and the servants being dismissed to their past, the queen, attended by the other ladies and the two young men, led off a stately carol, which ended, they fell to singing ditties, dainty and gay. Thus they diverted themselves under the queen, deeming it time to retire to rest, dismissed them all for the night. So the three young men and the ladies withdrew to their several quarters, which were in different parts of the palace. There they found the beds well made, and abandoned the flowers as in the hall, and so they untressed, and went to bed. Shortly after noon the queen rose, and roused the rest of the ladies, as also the young men, averring that it was injurious to have the health to sleep long in the daytime. They therefore heed them to a meadow, where the grass grew green and luxuriant, being nowhere scorched by the sun, and the light breeze gently fan them. So at the queen's command they arranged themselves in a circle on the grass, and harkened while she thus spoke. You mark that the sun is high, the heat intense, and the silence unbroken, saved by the cicadas among the olive trees. It was therefore the heat of folly, to quid the spotted present. Here the air is cool and the prospect fair, and here observe our dice and chess. Take then your pleasure as you may be severly minded. But if you take my advice, you will find pastime for the hot hours before us, not in play, in which the loser must needs be vexed, and neither is the winner, nor the unlooker much be better pleased. But in telling of stories, in which the invention of one may afford solace to all the company of his hearers. You will not each have told the story before the sun will be low, and the heat abated, so that we shall be able to go and severly take our pleasure, where it may seem best to each. Therefore, if my proposal meet with your approval, for in this I am disposed to consult your pleasure, let us adopt it, if not divert yourselves as your best you may, until the west per hour. The queen's proposal, being approved by all, ladies and men alike, she added. So please, you then, I ordain, that for this first day we be free to discourse of such matters, as most command themselves to each in turn. She then addressed Pamphilot, who sat on her right hand, bidding him with a gracious air to lead off with one of his stories, and prompted the word of command, Pamphilot, while all listened intently, thus began. End of introduction of the first day. Day one, the first 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 Eugene Smith. The Decameron, by Giovanni Boccaccio, translated by J.M. Rigg. Day one, the first story. Sir Ciapaletto cheats a holy friar by a false confession and dies, and having lived as a very bad man, is, on his death, reputed a saint, and called San Ciapaletto. A seemly thing it is, dearest ladies, that whatever we do, it be begun in the holy and awful name of him who was the maker of all. Wherefore, as it falls to me to lead the way in this your enterprise of storytelling, I intend to begin with one of his wondrous works that, by hearing thereof, our hopes in him, in whom is no change, may be established, and his name be by us forever lauded. It is manifest that as things temporal are all doomed to pass and perish, so within and without, they abound with trouble and anguish and travail that are subject to infinite perils. Nor save for the special grace of God, should we whose being is bound up with and forms part of theirs have either the strength to endure or the wisdom to combat their adverse influences. By which grace we are visited and penetrated, so we must believe, not by reason of any merit of our own, but solely out of the fullness of God's own goodness, and in answer to the prayers of those who, being mortal like ourselves, did faithfully observe his ordinances during their lives, and are now become blessed forever with him in heaven. To whom, as to advocates taught by experience, all that belongs to our frailty, we, not daring per chance to present our petitions in the presence of so great a judge, make known our requests for such things as we deem expedient for us, and of his mercy richly abounding to usward, we have further proof herein that no keenness of mortal vision being able in any degree to penetrate the secret counsels of the divine mind, it sometimes per chance happens that, in error of judgment, we make one our advocate before his majesty, who is banished from his presence in eternal exile, and yet he to whom nothing is hidden, having regard rather to the sincerity of our prayers than to our ignorance or the banishment of the intercessor, hears us no less than if the intercessor were in truth one of the blessed who enjoy the light of his countenance. Which the story that I am about to relate may serve to make a parent, a parent I mean according to the standard of the judgment of man, not of God. The story goes then that Musciato Franzesi, a great and wealthy merchant being made a knight of France and being to attend Charles Sanstere, brother of the king of France, when he came into Tuscany at the instance and with the support of Pope Boniface, found his affairs as often happens to merchants to be much involved in diverse quarters and neither easily nor suddenly to be adjusted. Wherefore, he determined to place them in the hands of commissioners and found no difficulty except as to certain credits given to some Burgundians for the recovery of which he doubted whether he could come by a competent agent. For while he knew that the Burgundians were violent men and ill-conditioned and faithless, nor could he call to mind any man so bad that he could with confidence oppose his guile to theirs. After long pondering the matter, he recollected one Sir Chapelle de Prado who much frequented his house in Paris, who being short of stature and very affected, the French who knew not the meaning of Chapelle, but suppose that it meant the same as cappello, that is, garland in their vernacular, called him not cappello, but chapelletto by reason of his diminutive size. And as chapelletto, he was known everywhere, whereas few people knew him as chapellello. Now, chapelletto's manner of life was thus. He was by profession a notary, and his pride was to make false documents. He would have made them as often as he was asked, and more readily without fee than another at a great price. Few indeed he made that were not false, and great was his shame when they were discovered. False witness he bore, solicited or unsolicited, with boundless delight. And as oaths were in those days, had in very great respect in France, he, scrupling not to force were himself, corruptly carried the day in every case in which he was summoned faithfully to attest the truth. He took inordinate delight and bestowed himself with great zeal, infomenting ill-feeling, enmities, dissensions between friends, ginsfolk, and all other folk. And the more calamitas were the consequences, the better he was pleased. Set him on murder or any other foul crime, and he never hesitated, but went about it with alacrity. He had been known on more than one occasion to inflict wounds or death by preference with his own hands. He was a profuse blasphemer of God and his saints, and that on the most trifling occasions, being of all men the most irascible. He was never seen at church, held all the sacraments vile things, and derided them in language of horrible ribaldry. On the other hand, he resorted readily to the tavern and other places of ill repute and frequented them. He was as fond of women as a dog is of the stick. In the use against nature, he had not his match among the most abandoned. He would have pilfered and stolen as a matter of conscience as a holy man would make an ablation. Most gluttonous he was and inordinately fond of his cups, whereby he sometimes brought upon himself both shame and suffering. He was also a practiced gamester and thrower of false dice. But why enlarge so much upon him? Enough that he was, perhaps, the worst man that ever was born. The rank and power of Musciato Francesi had long been this reprobate's mainstay, serving in many instances to secure him considerate treatment on the part of the private persons whom he frequently and the court which he unremittingly outraged. So Musciato, having bethought him of this Ser Caparello, with whose way of life he was very well acquainted, judged him to be the very sort of person to cope with the guile of the Burgundians, he therefore sent for him and thus addressed him. Sir Ciappelletto, I am, as thou knowest, about to leave this place for good, and among those with whom I have to settle accounts are certain Burgundians, very wily naves, nor know I the man whom I could more fitly entrust with the recovery of my money than thyself. Wherefore, as thou hast nothing to do at present, if thou wilt undertake this business, I will procure thee the favor of the court, and give thee a reasonable part of what thou shall recover. Sir Ciappelletto, being out of employment, and by no means in easy circumstances, and about to lose Musciato, so long his mainstay and support, without the least amour, for in truth, he had hardly any choice, made his mind up, and answered that he was ready to go. So the bargain was strut, armed with the power of attorney in the Royal Letters' Commendatory, Sir Ciappelletto took leave of Messer Musciato and hired him to Burgundy, where he was hardly known to a soul. He set about the business, which had brought him thither, the recovery of the money, in a manner amicable and considerate, foreign to his nature, as if he were minded to reserve his severity to the last. While thus occupied, he was frequently at the house of two Florentine userers, who treated him with great distinction out of regard for Messer Musciato, and there it so happened that he fell sick. The two brothers forthwith placed physicians and servants in attendance upon him, and omitted no means meet and apt for the restoration of his health. But all remedies proved unavailing. For, being now old and having led, as the physicians reported, a disorderly life, he went daily from bad to worse, like one stricken with a mortal disease. This greatly disconcerted the two brothers, and one day, hard by the room in which Sir Chapoletto lay sick, he began to talk about him, saying one to the other. What shall we do with this man? We are hard-bested indeed on his account. If we turn him out of the house, sick as he is, we shall not only incur grave censure, but shall evince a signal want of sense. For folk must know the welcome we gave him in the first instance, the solicitude with which we had him treated and tended since his illness, during which time he could not possibly do ought to displease us, and yet they would see him suddenly turned out of our house, sick unto death. On the other hand, he has been so bad a man that he is sure not to confess or receive any of the church's sacraments, and, dying thus unconfessed, he will be denied burial in church, but will be cast out into some ditch like a dog. Nay, to be all one, if he do confess, for such and so horrible have been his crimes, that no friar or priest either will or can absolve him, and so, dying without absolution, he will still be cast out into the ditch, in which case the folk of these parts who reprobate our trade as iniquitous and revile it all day long, and would fame rob us, will seize their opportunity, and raise a tumult, and make a raid upon our houses, crying away with these lumbard dogs whom the church excludes from her pale, and will certainly strip us of our goods, and perhaps take our lives also, so that in any case we stand to lose if this man died. Cerciapoleto, who, as we said, lay close at hand while he thus spoke, and whose hearing was sharpened, as is often the case by his melody, overheard all that they said about him. So he called them to him, and said to them, I would not have you disquiet yourselves in regard of me, or apprehend lost before you by my death. I have heard what you have said of me, and have no doubt that would be as you say, if matters took the course you anticipate. But I am minded that it should be otherwise. I have committed so many offenses against God in the course of my life, that one more in the hour of my death will make no difference whatever to the account. So seek out and bring hither the worthiest and most holy fire you can find, and leave me to settle your affairs and mine upon a sound and solid basis, with which you may rest satisfied. The two brothers had not much hope of the result, but yet they went to a friary and asked for a holy and discreet man to hear the confession of a lombard that was sick in their house, and returned with an aged man of just and holy life, very learned in the scriptures, and venerable, and held in very great and a special reverence by all the citizens. As soon as he had entered the room where Ser Chapoleto was lying, and had taken his place by his side, he began gently to comfort him. Then he asked him how long it was since he was confessed. Where to, Ser Chapoleto, who had never been confessed, answered, Father, it is my constant practice to be confessed at least once a week, and many a week I am confessed more often. But true it is that, since I have been sick, now eight days, I have made no confession, so sore has been my affliction. Son, said the friar, how hast well done, and well for thee, if so thou continue to do. As thou dost confess so often, I see that my labor of harkening and questioning will be slight. Nay, but Master Fryer, said Ser Chapoleto, say not so. I have not confessed so often, but that I would faint make a general confession of all my sins that I have committed, so far as I can recall them, from the day of my birth to the present time. And therefore I pray you, my good Father, to question me precisely in every particular just as if I had never been confessed, and spare me not by reason of my sickness, for I had far rather due, despite through my flesh, than, sparing it, risked the perdition of my soul, which my Savi' redeemed with his precious blood. The holy man was mightily delighted with these words, which seemed to him to be token a soul in a state of grace. He therefore signified, to Ser Chapoleto, his high approval of this practice, and then began by asking him whether he had ever sinned carnally with a woman. Where to, Ser Chapoleto answered with a sigh, my Father, I scruple to tell you the truth in this matter, fearing lest I sin in vain glory. Nay, but, said the Fryer, speak boldly, none ever sinned by telling the truth, either in confession or otherwise. Then, said Ser Chapoleto, as you bid me speak boldly, I will tell you the truth of this matter. I am virgin, even as when I issued from my mother's womb. Now, God's blessing on thee, said the Fryer, well done, and the greater is thy merit in that, had thou so willed, thou mightest have done otherwise far more readily than we who are under constraint of rule. He then proceeded to ask whether he had offended God by gluttony. Where to, Ser Chapoleto, heaving a heavy sigh, answered that he had frequently so offended for being want to fast not only in lent, like other devout persons, but at least three days in every week, taking nothing but bread and water. He had quaffed the water with as good a gusto and as much enjoyment, more particularly when fatigued by devotion or pilgrimage, as great drinkers quaff their wine. And oftentimes he had felt a craving for such dainty dishes of herbs as ladies make when they go into the country. And now and again he had relished his food more than seemed to him meat in one who fasted, as he did for devotion. Son, said the Fryer, these sins are natural and very trifling, and therefore I would not have be burdened by conscience too much with them. There is no man, however holy he may be, but must sometimes find it pleasant to eat after a long fast and to drink after exertion. Oh, my father, said Ser Chapoleto, say not this to comfort me. You well know that I know that the things which are done in the service of God ought to be done in perfect purity of an unsullied spirit, and whoever does otherwise sins. The Fryer, well content, replied, glad I am that thou dost think so, and I am mightily pleased with thy pure and good conscience which therein appears. But tell me, hast thou sinned by avarice, coveting more than was reasonable, or withholding more than was right? My father, replied Ser Chapoleto, I would not have you disquiet yourself, because I am in the house of these users. No part have I in their concerns. Nay, I did not come here to admonish and reprehend them and wean them from this abominable traffic, and so I believe I had done, had not God sent me this visitation. But you must know that my father left me a fortune of which I dedicated the greater part to God, and since then, from my own support and the relief of Christ's poor, I have done a little trading, whereof I had desired to make gain, and all that I have gotten I have shared with God's poor, reserving one half on my own needs, and giving the other half to them. And so well has my maker prospered me, that I have ever managed my affairs to better and better account. Well done, said the friar, but how hast thou often given way to anger? Often indeed I assure you, said Ser Chapoleto, and who could refrain therefrom, seeing men doing frowardly all day long, breaking the commandments of God and wrecking naught of his judgments. Many a time in the course of a single day, I had rather be dead than alive to see the young men going after vanity, swearing and foreswearing themselves, haunting taverns, avoiding the churches, and in short, walking in the way of the world rather than in God's way. My son, said the friar, this is a righteous wrath, nor could I find occasion therein to lay a penance upon thee. But did anger ever by any chance betray thee into taking human life, or affronting or otherwise wronging any? Alas, replied Ser Chapoleto, Alas, sir, man of God, though you seem to be, how come you to speak after this manner? If I had had so much as the least thought of doing any of the things of which you speak, should I believe, thank you, that I had been thus supported of God? These are the deeds of robbers and such like evil men, to whom I have ever said, when any I saw, go, God, change your heart, said then the friar. Now, my son, as thou hopeest to be blessed of God, tell me, hast thou never borne false witness against any, or spoken evil of another, or taken the goods of another without his leave? Yes, master friar, answered Ser Chapoleto, most true it is, that I have spoken evil of another. For I once had a neighbor who, without the least excuse in the world, was ever beating his wife, and so great was my pity of the poor creature, whom, when he was in his cups, he would thrash as God alone knows how, once I spoke evil of him to his wife's kinsfolk. Well, well, said the friar, thou tellest me, thou hast been a merchant, hast thou ever cheated any, as merchants used to do? If faith, yes, master friar, said Ser Chapoleto, but I know not who he was, only that he brought me some money, which he owed me for some cloth that I had sold him, and I put it in a box, without counting it, where a month afterwards, I found four far things more than there should have been, which I kept for a year to return to him, but not seeing him again, I bestowed them at alms for the love of God. This, said the friar, was a small matter, and thou didst well to bestow them as thou didst. The holy friar went on to ask him many other questions, to which he made answer in each case in this sort. Then, as the friar was about to give him absolution, Ser Chapoleto interposed. Sir, I have yet a sin to confess. What? asked the friar. I remember, he said, I once caused my servant to sweep my house on a Saturday afternoon, and that my observance of Sunday was less devout than it should have been. Oh, my son, said the friar, this is a light matter. No, said Ser Chapoleto, say not a light matter, for Sunday is the more to be had in honor, because on that day our Lord rose from the dead. Then said the holy friar. Now is there ought else that thou hast done? Yes, master friar, replied Ser Chapoleto. Once by inadvertence I spat in the church of God. At this the friar began to smile, and said, My son, this is not a matter to trouble about. We who are religious spit there all day long, and great impiety it is when you so do, replied Ser Chapoleto. For there is nothing that is so worthy to be kept from all impurity as the holy temple in which sacrifice is offered to God. More, he said, in the same strain which I pass over. And then at last he began to sigh, and by and by to weep bitterly, as he was well able to do when he chose. And the friar demanding, My son, why weepest thou? Alas, master friar, answered Ser Chapoleto. A sin yet remains which I have never confessed. Such shame were it to me to tell it. And as often as I call it to mine, I weep as you now see me weep, being well assured that God will never forgive me this sin. Then said the holy friar. Come, come, my son, what is this that thou sayest? If all the sins of all the men that ever were or ever shall be, as long as the world shall endure, were concentrated in one man, so great is the goodness of God that he would freely pardon them all, were he but penitent and contrite as I see thou art, and confess them. Wherefore tell me thy sin with a good courage. Then said Ser Chapoleto, still weeping bitterly. Alas, my father, mine is too great a sin. And scarce can I believe if your prayers do not cooperate that God will ever grant me his pardon thereof. Tell it with a good courage, said the friar. I promise thee to pray God for thee. Ser Chapoleto, however, continued to weep and would not speak for all the friar's encouragement. When he had kept him for a good while in suspense, he heaved a mighty sigh and said, My father, as you promised me to pray God for me, I will tell it you know then that once, when I was a little child, I cursed my mother. And having so said, he began again to weep bitterly. Oh, my son, said the friar, does this seem to thee so great a sin? Men curse God all day long, and he pardons them freely if they repent them of having so done. And think as thou, he will not pardon thee this. Weep not, be comforted, for truly, hathst thou been one of them that set him on the cross with the contrition that I see in thee, thou wouldst not fail at his pardon. Alas, my father rejoined Ser Chapoleto, what is this you say? To curse my sweet mother that carried me in her womb for nine months, day and night, and afterwards on her shoulder more than a hundred times? Painless indeed was my offense. It is too great a sin, nor will it be pardoned unless you pray God for me. The friar now perceiving that Ser Chapoleto had nothing more to say gave him absolution and his blessing, reputing him for a most holy man, fully believing that all that he had said was true. And who would not have so believed, hearing him so speak at the point of death? Then, when all was done, he said, Ser Chapoleto, if God so will, you will soon be well. But should it so come to pass that God call your blessed soul to himself in this state of grace? Is it well pleasing to you that your body be buried in our convent? Yay, verily, master friar, replied Ser Chapoleto, there would I be, and nowhere else, since you have promised to pray God for me, besides which I have ever had a special devotion to your order. Wherefore I pray you that on your return to your convent, you cause to be sent me that very blood of Christ which you consecrate in the morning on the altar. Because, unworthy though I be, I purpose with your leave to take it, and afterwards the holy and extreme unction, that though I have lived as a sinner, I may die at any rate as a Christian. The holy man said that he was greatly delighted that it was well said of Ser Chapoleto, and that he would cause the host to be forthwith brought to him, and so it was. The two brothers, who much misdoubted Ser Chapoleto's power to deceive the friar, had taken their stand on the other side of a wooden partition which divided the room in which Ser Chapoleto lay from another, and hearkening there, they readily heard and understood what Ser Chapoleto said to the friar, and at times could scarce refrain their laughter as they followed his confession. And now and again they said to one another, What manner of man is this, whom either age nor sickness, nor fear of death, on the threshold of which he now stands, nor yet of God, before whose judgment seat he must soon appear, has been able to turn from his wicked ways that he die not even as he has lived. But seeing that his confession had secured the interment of his body in church, they troubled themselves no further. Ser Chapoleto, soon afterwards communicated, and growing immensely worse, received the extreme unction, and died shortly after Vespers on the same day on which he had made his good confession. So the two brothers, having from his own moneys provided the wherewith to procure him an honorable sepulcher, and sent word to the friars to come at even, to observe the usual vigil, and in the morning to fetch the corpse, set all things in order accordingly. The holy friar who had confessed him, hearing that he was dead, had audience of the prior of the friary. A chapter was convened, and the assembled brothers heard from the confessor's own mouth how Ser Chapoleto had been a holy man, as had appeared by his confession, and were exhorted to receive the body with the utmost veneration and pious care, as one by which there was good hope that God would work many miracles. To this the prior and the rest of the credulous co-fraternity assenting, they went in a body in the evening to the place where the corpse of Ser Chapoleto lay. And kept a great and solemn vigil over it, and in the morning they made a procession habited in their surpluses and copes, with books in their hands and crosses in front. And chanting as they went, they fetched the corpse and brought it back to their church with the utmost pomp and solemnity, being followed by almost all the folk of the city, men and women alike. So it was laid in the church, and then the holy friar who had heard the confession got up in the pulpit and began to preach marvelous things of Ser Chapoleto's life, his fasts, his virginity, his simplicity, and godlessness and holiness, narrating among other matters that of which Ser Chapoleto had made tearful confession as his greatest sin, and how he had hardly been able to make him conceive that God would pardon him, from which he took occasion to reprove his hearers, saying, And you, accursed of God, on the least pretext blaspheme God and his mother, and all the celestial court, and much beside he told of his loyalty and purity, and in short, so wrought upon the people by his words, to which they gave entire credence, that they all conceived a great veneration for Ser Chapoleto. And at the close of the office came pressing forward with the utmost vehemence to kiss the feet and the hands of the corpse, from which they tore off all the sermons, each thinking himself blessed to have but a scrap thereof in his possession. And so it was arranged that it should be kept there all day long, so as to be visible and accessible to all. At nightfall it was honorably interred in a marble tomb in one of the chapels, where on the morrow, one by one, folk came and lit tapers and prayed and paid their vows, setting there the waxen images which they had dedicated. And the fame of Chapoleto's holiness and the devotion to him grew in such measure that scarce any there was that in any adversity would vow ought to any saint but he. And they called him, and still call him, San Chapoleto, affirming that many miracles have been and daily are wrought by God through him, for such as to vouchally crave his intercession. So lived, so died, Ser Chaporello da Prato, and came to be reputed a saint, as you have heard. Nor would I deny that it is possible that he is the number of the blessed in the presence of God, seeing that though his life was evil and depraved, yet he might in his last moments have made so complete an act of contrition that perchance God had mercy on him and received him into his kingdom. But, as this is hidden from us, I speak according to that which appears, and I say that he ought rather to be in the hands of the devil in hell than in paradise, which, if so it be, is a manifest token of the superabundance of the goodness of God to usward in as much as he regards not our error, but the sincerity of our faith and hearkens unto us when, mistaking one who is at enmity with him for a friend, we have recourse to him as to one holy indeed as our intercessor for his grace. Wherefore, that we of this gay company may by his grace be preserved safe and sound throughout this time of adversity, commend we ourselves in our need to be him, whose name we began by invoking with lords and reverent devotion and good confidence that we shall be heard. End of Day 1 The First Story Day 1 The Second 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 Ruth Golding. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio, translated by J. M. Rugh. Day 1 The Second Story Abraham, a Jew, at the instance of Gianna de Chevini, goes to the court of Rome, and having marked the evil life of the clergy returns to Paris and becomes a Christian. One fellow's story elicited the mirth of some of the ladies, and the hearty commendation of all, who listened to it with close attention until the end. Whereupon the queen paid Neyfile, who sat next to her, to tell a story, said the commencement thus made of their diversions might have its sequel. Neyfile, whose graces of mind matched the beauty of her person, consented with a gladsome goodwill, and thus began. Pam Filot had shown by his story that the goodness of God spares to regard our errors when they result from unavoidable ignorance, and in mine I mean to show you how the same goodness, bearing patiently with the shortcomings of those who should be its faithful witness in deed and word, draws from them contrary wise evidence of his infallible truth, to the end that what we believe we may with more assured conviction follow. In Paris, gracious ladies, as I have heard tell, there was once a great merchant, a large dealer in drapery, a good man, most loyal and righteous, his name Gennot de Chéveny, between whom and a Jew Abraham by name, also a merchant, and a man of great wealth, as also most loyal and righteous, there subsisted a very close friendship. Naginot, observing Abraham's loyalty and rectitude, began to be sorely vexed in spirit that the soul of one so worthy and wise and good should perish for want of faith. Wherefore he began in a friendly manner to plead with him that he should leave the errors of the Jewish faith and turn to the Christian verity, which, being sound and holy, he might see daily prospering and gaining ground, whereas on the contrary his own religion was dwindling and was almost come to nothing. The Jew replied that he believed that there was no faith sound and holy except the Jewish faith in which he was born, and in which he meant to live and die. Nor would anything ever turn him therefrom. Nothing daunted, however, Gennot some days afterwards began again to ply Abraham with similar arguments, explaining to him in such crude fashion as merchants use, the reasons why our faith is better than the Jewish. And though the Jew was a great master in the Jewish law, yet whether it was by reason of his friendship for Gennot, or that the Holy Spirit dictated the words that the simple merchant used, at any rate the Jew began to be much interested in Gennot's arguments, though still too staunch in his faith to suffer himself to be converted. But Gennot was no less assiduous in plying him with argument, than he was obstinate in adhering to his law, in so much that, at length, the Jew overcome by such incessant appeals, said, Well, well, Gennot, thou wouldst have me become a Christian, and I am disposed to do so, provided I first go to Rome, and there see him whom thou callest God's vicar on earth, and observe what manner of life he leads, and his brother cardinals with him. And if such it be that thereby, in conjunction with thy words, I may understand that thy faith is better than mine, as thou hast sought to show me, I will do as I have said. Otherwise I will remain as I am, a Jew. When Gennot heard this, he was greatly distressed, saying to himself, I thought to have converted him, but now I see that the pains which I took for so excellent a purpose are all in vain. For if he goes to the court of Rome, and sees the iniquitous and foul life which the clergy lead there, so far from turning Christian, had he been converted already, he would without doubt relapse into Judaism. Then, turning to Abraham, he said, Nay, but my friend, why would thou be at all this labour and great expense of travelling from here to Rome? To say nothing of the risks, both by sea and by land, which a rich man like thee must needs run. Thinkest thou not to find here one that can give thee baptism? And as for any doubts that thou mayst have, touching the faith to which I point thee, where wilt thou find greater masters and sages therein than here, to resolve thee of any question thou mayst put to them? Wherefore, in my opinion, this journey of thine is superfluous. Think that the prelates there are such as thou mayst have seen here, Nay, as much better as they are nearer to the chief pastor, and so, by my advice, thou wilt spare thy pains, until some time of indulgence, when I perhaps may be able to bear thee company. The Jew replied, Shianno, I doubt not that so it is as thou sayest, but once and for all I tell thee that I am minded to go there, and will never otherwise do, that which thou wouldst have me, and hast so earnestly besought me to do. Go then, said Shianno, seeing that his mind was made up, and good luck go with thee. And so he gave up the contest, because nothing would be lost, though he felt sure that he would never become a Christian after seeing the court of Rome. The Jew took horse, and posted with all possible speed to Rome, whereon his arrival he was honourably received by his fellow Jews. He said nothing to any one of the purpose for which he had come, but began circumspectly to acquaint himself with the ways of the Pope, and the Cardinals, and the other prelates, and all the courtiers. And from what he saw for himself, being a man of great intelligence, or learned from others, he discovered that without distinction of rank they were all sunk in the most disgraceful lewdness, sinning not only in the way of nature, but after the manner of the men of Sodom, without any restraint of remorse or shame, in such sort that, when any great favour was to be procured, the influence of the courtesans and boys was of no small moment. Moreover, he found them one and all gluttonous wine-bibbers drunkards, and next after lewdness most addicted to the shameless service of the belly like brute beasts. And as he probed the matter still further, he perceived that they were all so greedy and avaricious that human, nay, Christian blood, and things sacred of what kind soever, spiritualities no less than temporalities, they bought and sold for money, which traffic was greater and employed more brokers than the drapery trade and all the other trades of Paris put together, open simony and gluttonous success being glosed under such specious terms as arrangement and moderate use of creature comforts, as if God could not penetrate the thoughts of even the most corrupt hearts to say nothing of the signification of words, and would suffer himself to be misled after the manner of men by the names of things. Which matters, with many others which are not to be mentioned, our modest and sober-minded Jew found by no means to his liking, so that, his curiosity being fully satisfied, he was minded to return to Paris, which accordingly he did. There, on his arrival, he was met by Gianno, and the two made great cheer together. Gianno expected Abraham's conversion least of all things, and allowed him some days of rest before he asked what he thought of the Holy Father and the Cardinals and the other courtiers. To which the Jew forthwith replied, I think God owes them all an evil recompense. I tell thee, so far as I was able to carry my investigations, holiness, devotion, good works, or exemplary living in any kind was nowhere to be found in any clerk, but only lewdness, avarice, gluttony, and the like, and worse, if worse may be, appeared to be held in such honour of all that, to my thinking, the place is a centre of diabolical rather than of divine activities. To the best of my judgment, your pastor, and by consequence all that are about him, devote all their zeal and ingenuity and subtlety to devise how best and most speedily they may bring the Christian religion to naught and banish it from the world. And because I see that what they so zealously endeavour does not come to pass, but that on the contrary your religion continually grows and shines more and more clear, therein I seem to discern a very evident token that it, rather than any other, as being more true and holy than any other, has the Holy Spirit for its foundation and support. For which cause, whereas I met your exhortations in a harsh and obdurate temper and would not become a Christian, now I frankly tell you that I would on no account omit to become such. Go, we then, to the church, and there, according to the traditional right of your holy faith, let me receive baptism. Giannull, who had anticipated a diametrically opposite conclusion, as soon as he heard him so speak, was the best pleased man that ever was in the world. So taking Abraham with him to Notre Dame, he prayed the clergy there to baptise him. When they heard that it was his own wish, they forthwith did so, and Giannull raised him from the sacred font and named him Jean. And afterwards he caused teachers of great eminence thoroughly to instruct him in our faith, which he readily learned, and afterwards practised in a good, a virtuous, nay, a holy life. End of Day 1, The Second Story, Recording by Ruth Golding The third story. Melchisedec, a Jew, by a story of three rings, averts a great danger with which he was menaced by Saladin. When Nepheli had brought her story to a close, amid the commendations of all the company, Philomena at the Queen's behest thus began. The story told by Nepheli brings to my mind another, in which also a Jew appears. But this time as the hero of a perilous adventure, and as enough has been said of God and of the truth of our faith, it will not now be inopportune if we descend to mundane events and the actions of men. Therefore I propose to tell you a story, which will perhaps dispose you to be more circumspect than you have been want to be in answering questions addressed to you. Well ye know, or should know, loving gossips, that, as it often happens, that folk by their own folly for faithy happy estate, and are plunged in most grievous misery, so good sense will extricate the wise from extremity of peril, and establish them in complete and assured peace. Of the change from good to evil fortune, which folly may affect, instances abound, indeed, occurring as they do by the thousand day by day, they are so conspicuous, that their recital would be beside our present purpose. But that good sense may be our succor in misfortune, I will now, as I promised, make plain to you within the narrow compass of a little story. Saladin, who by his great valor had from small beginnings made himself sultan of Egypt, and gained many victories over kings, both Christian and Saracen. Having in diverse wars, and by diverse lavish displays of magnificence, spent all his treasure, and in order to meet his certain emergency, being in need of a large sum of money, and being at his loss to raise it with a celebrity adequate to his necessity, bethought him of a wealthy Jew, Melchizedek by name, who lends at usans in Alexandria, and who were he but willing, was, as he believed, able to accommodate him, but was so miserly that he would never do so of his own accord, nor was Saladin disposed to constrain him there too. So great, however, was his necessity, that after pondering every method whereby the Jew might be induced to be compliant, at last he determined to devise a colorably reasonable pretext for extorting the money from him. So he sent for him, received him affably, seated him by his side, and presently said to him, My good man, I have heard from many people that thou art very wise, and of great discernment in divine things, wherefore I would gladly know of thee which of the three laws thou reputest the true law, the law of the Jews, the law of the Saracens, or the law of the Christians. The Jew, who was indeed a wise man, saw plainly enough that Saladin meant to entangle him in his speech, that he might have occasion to harass him, and bethought him that he could not praise any of the three laws above another without furnishing Saladin with the pretext which he sought. So, concentrating all the force of his mind to shape such an answer as might avoid the snare, he presently lit on what he thought, saying, My Lord, a project question indeed is this which you propound, and then would I answer it to which end it is opposite that I tell you a story, which, if you will hearken, is as follows. If I mistake not, I remember to have often heard tell of a great and rich man of old time, who, among other most precious jewels, had in his treasury a ring of extraordinary beauty and value, which by reason of its value and beauty he was minded to leave to his heirs for ever, for which cause he ordained, that whichever of his sons was found in position of the ring, as by his bequest, should thereby be designate his heir, and be entitled to receive from the rest the honor and homage due to his superior. The son, to whom he bequeathed the ring, left it in like manner to his descendant, making the like ordinance as his predecessor. In short, the ring passed from hand to hand for many generations, and in the end came to the hands of one who had three sons, goodly and virtuous all, and very obedient to their father, so that he loved them all indefinitely. The role touching the descent of the ring was known to the young men, and each aspiring to hold the place of honor among them, did all he could to spursuate his father, who was now old, to leave the ring to him at his death. The worthy man, who loved them all equally, and knew not how to choose from among them, a sole legity, promised the ring to each in turn, and in order to satisfy all three, caused a cunning artificer secretly to make other two rings, so like the first, that the maker himself could hardly tell which was the true ring. So before he died, he disposed of the rings, giving one privately to each of his sons, whereby it came to pass that after his disease each of the sons claimed the inheritance and the place of honor, and his claim being disputed by his brothers produced his ring in witness of right, and the rings being found so like one to another, that it was impossible to distinguish the true one. The suit to determine the true heir remained pendant, and still so remains. And so, my lord, to your question, touching the three laws given to the three peoples by God the Father, I answer each of these peoples deems itself to have the true inheritance, the true law, the true commandments of God. But which of them is justified in so believing is a question which, like that of the rings, remains pendant. The excellent adrodness with which the Jew had contrived to evade the snare which he had laid for his feet was not lost upon Saladin. He therefore determined to let the Jew know his need, and did so, telling him at the same time what he had intended to do in the event of his answering less circumspectly than he had done. Thereupon the Jew gave the soul then all the accommodation that he required, which the soul then afterwards repaid him in full. He also gave him most magnificent gifts with his life-long amity, and a great and honourable position near his person. And of Day One, the third story, recording by J. C. Guan, Montreal, December 2008. Day One, the fourth story of the Decameron. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. Reading by Andy Minter. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio. Translated by J. M. Rigg. Day One, the fourth story. A monk lapses into a sin meriting the most severe punishment. Justly censures the same fault in his abode, and thus evades the penalty. The silence, which followed the conclusion of Filomena's tale, was broken by Dioneo, who sat next to her, and without waiting for the Queen's word, for he knew that by the rule laid down at the commencement it was now his turn to speak. We began on this wise. Loving ladies, if I have well understood the intention of you all, we are here to afford entertainment to one another by storytelling. Therefore, providing only naught is done that is repugnant of this end, I deem it lawful for each, and so said our Queen a little while ago, to tell whatever story seems to him most likely to be amusing. Seeing, then, that we have heard how Abraham saved his soul by the Good Council of Jehanud de Chebigny, and Milsedich, by his own good sense, safeguarded his wealth against the stratageums of Saladin, I hope to escape your censure in narrating a brief story of a monk, who, by his address, delivered his body from imminent peril of most severe chastisement. In the not very remote district of Luginiana, though flourished formally a community of monks more numerous and holy than there is there to be found today, among whom was a young brother, whose vigor and lustyhood neither the fasts nor the vigils availed to subdue. One afternoon, while the rest of the confraternity slept, our young monk took a stroll around the church, which lay in a very sequestered spot, and chanced to aspire a young and very beautiful girl, a daughter, perhaps, of one of the husband men of those parts, going through the fields and gathering herbs as she went. No sooner had he seen her than he was sharply assailed by carnal concuspicence, in so much that he made up to and accosted her, and she, harkening, little by little, they came to an understanding, and, unobserved by any, entered his cell together. Now it's so chanced that, while they fooled it within somewhat recklessly, he being overraught with passion, the abbot awoke, and passing slowly by the young monk's cell heard the noise which they made within, and the better to distinguish the voices came softly up to the door of the cell, and listening, discovered that beyond all doubt there was a woman within. His first thought was to force the door open, but, changing his mind, he returned to his chamber, and waited until the monk should come out. Delightson beyond measure, though the young monk found his intercourse with the girl, yet was he not altogether without anxiety. He had heard, as he thought, the sound of footsteps in the dormitory, and having applied his eye to a convenient aperture, had had a good view of the abbot as he stood by the door listening. He was thus fully aware that the abbot might have detected the presence of a woman in the cell, whereat he was exceedingly distressed, knowing that he had a severe punishment to expect. But he concealed his vexation from the girl, while he busily cast about in his mind for some way of escape from his embarrassment. He thus hit on a novel stratagem, which was exactly suited to his purpose. With the air of one who had had enough of the girl's company, he said to her, I shall now leave you in order that I may arrange for your departure hence unobserved. Stay here quietly until I return. So out he went, locking the door of the cell, and withdrawing the key which he carried straight to the abbot's chamber, and handed to him, as was the custom when a monk was going out, saying, with a composed air, Sir, I was not able this morning to bring in all the faggots which I had made ready, so with your leave I will go to the wood and bring them in. The abbot, desiring to have better cognizance of the monk's offence, and not dreaming that the monk knew that he had been detected, was pleased with the turn matters had taken, and received the key gladly, at the same time giving the monk the desired leave. So the monk withdrew, and the abbot began to consider what course it were best for him to take, whether to assemble the brotherhood and open the door in their presence, that being witnesses of the delinquency they might have no cause to murmur against him, when he proceeded to punish the delinquent, or whether it were not better first to learn from the girl's own lips how it had come about, and reflecting that she might be the wife or daughter of some man who would take it ill that she should be shamed by being exposed to the gaze of all the monks, he determined first of all to find out who she was, and then to make up his mind. So he went softly to the cell, opened the door, and having entered closed it behind him. The girl, seeing that her visitor was none other than the abbot, quite lost her presence of mind, and quaking with shame began to weep. Master Abbott surveyed her from head to foot, and seeing that she was fresh and comely, fell her prey, although he was, to fleshly cravings no less poignant and sudden than those which the young monk had experienced, and began thus to commune with himself, alas, why take I not my pleasure when I may, seeing that I never lack for occasions of trouble and vexation of spirit? Here is a fair wench, and no one in the world to know. If I can bring her to pleasure me, I know not why I should not do so. Who will know? No one will ever know, and sin that is hidden is half forgiven. This chance may never come again, so, me thinks, it were the part of wisdom to take the boon which God bestows. So musing, with an altogether different purpose from that with which he had come, he drew near the girl, and softly bade her to be comforted, and besought her not to weep. And so, little by little, he came at last to show her what he would be at. The girl, being made neither of iron nor of adamant, was readily induced to gratify the abbot, who, after bestowing upon her many an embrace and kiss, got upon the monk's bed, where, being sensible perhaps of the disparity between his reverent portliness and her tender youth, and fearing to injure her by his excessive weight, he refrained from lying upon her, but laid her upon him, and in that manner, disported himself with her for a long time. The monk, who had only pretended to go to the wood, and had concealed himself in the dormitory, no sooner saw the abbot enter his cell than he was overjoyed to think that his plan would succeed, and when he saw that he had locked the door, he was well assured thereof. So he stole out of his hiding-place, and set his eye to an aperture through which he saw and heard all that the abbot did and said. At length, the abbot, having had enough of dalliance with the girl, locked her in the cell, and returned to his chamber. Catching sight of the monk soon afterwards, and supposing him to have returned from the wood, he determined to give him a sharp reprimand and to have him imprisoned, that he might thus secure the prey for himself alone. He therefore caused him to be summoned, chied him very severely, and with a stern countenance, and ordered him to be put in prison. The monk replied trippingly, Sir, I have not been so long in the order of Saint Benedict as to have every particular of the rule by heart, nor did you teach me before to-day in what posture it behoves the monk to have intercourse with women, but limited your instruction to such matters as fasts and vigils. As however you have now given me my lesson, I promise you, if you also pardon my offence, that I will never repeat it, but will always follow the example which you have set me. The abbot, who was a shrewd man, saw at once that the monk was not only more knowing than he, but had actually seen what he had done. Nor, conscience stricken himself, could he for shame, meet out to the monk a measure of what he himself merited. So, pardon given, with an injunction to bury what had been seen in silence, they decently conveyed the young girl out of the monastery. With her, it is to be believed, they now again caused her to return.