 Day 4 The second story of the Decameran This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Miet. The Decameran by Giovanni Boccaccio Translated by J.M. Rigg Day 4 The second story For Alberto Gives a lady to understand That she is beloved of the angel Gabriel In whose shape he lies with her sundry times Afterward for fear of her kinsmen He flings himself forth of her house And finds shelter in the house of a poor man Who on the morrow leads him And the guise of a wild man into the piazza Where, being recognized, He is apprehended by his brethren And imprisoned. More than once had Viametta's story brought tears To the eyes of her fair companions. But now that it was ended The king said with an austere air I should esteem my life but a paltry price to pay Half the delight that Gismonda had with Giscardo Where at no lady of you all should marvel Seeing that each hour that I live I die a thousand deaths. Nor is there so much as a particle Of compensating joy allotted me. But atroast my own concerns I ordain that Pampinea do next ensue Our dyriful argument Wherewith the tenor of my life in part accords When she follows in Piametta's footsteps I doubt not I shall presently feel Some drops of dew distil upon my fire. Pampinea received the king's command In a spirit more accordant with what From her own bent she divined To be the wishes of her fair gossips Than with the king's words. Wherefore, being minded rather to afford Them some diversion, Then save us in duty bound To satisfy the king, That's a story which, Without deviating from the prescribed theme Should move aloft, and thus began Tis a proverb current among the vulgar, that Whoso being wicked is righteous reputed May sin as he will And will never be imputed Which proverb furnishes me With abundant matter of discourse Besides occasion to exhibit the quality And degree of the hypocrisy of the religious Who flaunt it in ample flowing robes And with faces made pallid by art With voices low and gentle to beg alms Most loud and haughty to reprove In others their own sins Would make believe that their way of salvation Lies in taking from us And ours in giving to them Nay, more, as if they had not Like us paradise to win But were already its lords and masters Assigned that in to each that dies A place more or less exalted According to the amount of money That he has bequeathed to them Which, if they believed, is by dint And to the effect of deluding All that put faith in their words Of whose guile were it lawful for me To make as full exposerettes were fitting Not a few simple folk should soon be enlightened As to what they cloak within the folds Of their voluminous habits But would to God all might have The like reward of their lies As a certain friar miner, no novice But one that was reputed Among the greatest at Venice Whose story, rather than aught else I am minded to tell you If so I may perchance By laughter and jolity Relieve in some degree your souls That are heavy laden With pity for the death of Gismonda No then, noble ladies That there was, in Imola A man of evil and corrupt life Berto della Martza, by name Whose pestilent practises came at length To be so well known to the good folk of Imola That it was all one whether he lied or spoke the truth For there was not a soul in Imola That believed a word he said Wherefore, seeing that his tricks Would pass no longer there He removed us in despair to Venice That common sink of all abominations Thinking there to find other means Than he had found elsewhere to the prosecution Of his nefarious designs And, as if conscious stricken For his past misdeeds He assumed an air of the deepest humility Turned the best castlic of them all And went and made himself a friar miner Taking the name of frail, bad or de-mole With his habit he put on a show of austerity Highly commending penitence And abstinence and eating or drinking No sort of meat or wine But such as was to his taste And scarce a soul was there That whistled at the thief The pimp The cheat The assassin Had not been suddenly converted into a great preacher Without continuing in the practice of the said iniquities Whensoever the same was privily possible And with all Having got himself made priest As often as he celebrated at the altar He would weep over the passion of our Lord So there were folk in plenty to see For tears cost him little enough When he had a mind to shed them In short What with his sermons and his tears He duped the folk of Venice to such a tune That scarce a will was there made But he was its executor and depository Nay, not a few made him Forstee of their moneys and most Or well-nigh most men and women alike Their confessor And counsellor In short he had put off the wolf And put on the shepherd And the fame of his holiness was such In those parts that St. Francis himself Had never looked like a sissy Now it so befell that among the ladies That came to confess to this holy friar Was one Mona Lisetta of Calquirino The young, silly, empty-headed wife Of a great merchant Who was gone with the galleys to Flanders Like a Venetian For unstable are they all Though she placed herself at his feet She told him but a part of her sins And when Friar Albertu asked her Whether she had a lover She replied with black looks How now must a friar Have you not eyes in your head So you know difference between my charms And those of the women? Lovers in plenty might I have So I would But charms such as mine Must not be cheapened It is not every man that might presume to love me How many ladies have you seen Whose beauty is comparable to mine? I should adorn a paradise itself Where too she added So much more in praise of her beauty That the friar could scarce here with patience How be it discerning at a glance That she was none too well furnished with scents He deemed the soil meat for his plough And fell forthwith inordinately in love with her Though he deferred his blandishments to a more convenient season And by way of supporting his character for holiness Began instead to chide her Telling her, among other novelties That this was vain glory Where too the lady retorted That he was a blockhead And could not distinguish one degree of beauty from another Wherefore frail beto Lest he should occasion her too much chagrin Cut short the confession and suffered her to depart With the other ladies Some days later Accompanied by a single trusty friend He hide him to Mona Lisetta's house And having withdrawn with her alone into a saloon Where they were safe from observation He fell on his knees at a feet and said Madame, for the love of God I crave your pardon Of that which I said to you on Sunday When you spoke to me of your beauty For so grievously was I chastise There for that very night That is but today That I have been able to quit my bed And by whom, quoth my lady, battledar Were you so chastised? I will tell you, returned frail beto That night I was, as is ever my want At my horizons When suddenly a great light shone in my cell And before I could turn me to see what it was I saw standing over me a right goodly youth With a stout cudgel in his hand Who seized me by the habit And threw me at his feet and belaboured me Till I was bruised from head to foot And when I asked him Why he used me thus he answered This because thou didst today presume To speak slightingly of the celestial charms Of Mona Lisetta Whom I love next to God himself Whereupon I asked And who are you? And he made answer that he was the angel Gabriel Then said I Oh my lord, I pray you're pardoned me Wherefore he answered I pardon thee on condition that thou go to her With what speed thou mist And obtain her pardon Which if she accord thee not I shall come back hither and give thee belabourings Enough with my cudgel to make thee a sad man For the rest of thy days What more he said I dare not tell you until you first pardon me Where at? Our flimsy, pompian-painted, lady lack-brain Was overjoyed Taking all the friars words for gospel So after a while she said And did I not tell you, frail battle That my charms were celestial But so help me God I am moved to pity of you And forthwith I pardon you Lest worse should befall you So only you can tell me what more the angel said So will I gladly, madam, return frail battle Now that I have your pardon This only I bid you bear in mind That you have a care That never a soul in the world hear from you A single word of what I shall say to you And if you would not spoil your good fortune Wherein there is not today in the whole world A lady that may compare with you No fan that the angel, Gabriel, bade me to tell you Stand so high in his favour that again and again He would have come to pass the night with you But that he doubted he should have frightened you So now he sends you word through me That he would then come one night and stay a while with you And seeing that, being an angel If he should come visit you in his angelic shape He might not be touched by you He would, to pleasure you Present himself in human shape And so he bids you send him word When you would have him come And in whose shape And he will come For which cause you may deem yourself more blessed Than any other lady that lives My Lady Vanity then said That she was highly flattered to be beloved of the angel, Gabriel Whom she herself loved so well That she had never grudged for solely to burn a candle Before his picture Whenever she saw it And that he was welcome to visit her as often as he liked And would always find her alone in her room On the understanding, however That he should not desert her for the virgin Mary Whom she had heard he did mightily affect And indeed, toward so apiece Far wherever she saw him He was always on his knees at her feet For the rest he might even come In what shape he pleased so that it was not Such as to terrify her Then said Fralbert Madam, it is wisely spoken And I will arrange it all with him just as you say But is in your power to do me a great favour Which will cost you nothing And this favour is that you will be consenting That he visit you in my shape Now, here wherein you will confer this favour Thus it will be he will disembodied my soul And set it in paradise entering himself into my body And as long as he shall be with you My soul will be in paradise Where to, my lady slender wit? So be it, she said I am well pleased that you have this solace To salve the bruises he gives you on my account Good, said Fralbert her Then you will see to it That tonight he find when he comes Your outer door enlarged That he may have ingress for coming As he will in human shape He will not be able to enter save by the door He shall be done Reply the lady Whereupon Fralbert her took his leave And the lady remained in such a state of exultation That her nether and new, not her chemise Seemed to her a thousand years until the angel Gabriel Should come to visit her Fralbert her, be thinking him That it was not as an angel but as a cavalier That he must acquit himself that night Thel to fortifying himself with confits and other dainties That he might not lose his saddle for a slight cause Then, a leave of absence gotten He betook him at nightfall with a single companion To the house of a woman that was his friend Which house had served on far more occasions As his base when he went chasing the fillies And having there disguised himself he hired him When he deemed towards time to the lady of the house Where, donning the gucass, he had brought with him He transformed himself into an angel And going up Entered the lady's chamber No sooner saw she this dazzling apparition Than she fell on her knees before the angel Who gave her his blessing, raised her to her feet And motioned her to go to bed She, nothing loath, obeyed forthwith And the angel lay down beside his devotee Now, Fralbert her was a stout, handsome fellow Whose legs bore themselves right bravely And being bedded with Mona Lisetta Who was lusty and delicate He covered her after another fashion Then her husband had been warned And took many a flight that night without wings So that she heartily cried him content And not a little therewith did he tell her Of the glory celestial Then, towards daybreak All being ready for his return He hide him forth and repaired Caprisened as he was to his friend Whom, lest he should be affrighted Sleeping alone, the good woman of the house Had sullest worth her company The lady so soon as she had breakfasted Betook her to Fralberto and reported The angel Gabriel's visit What he had told her of the glory of the life eternal Describing his appearance Not without some added marvels of her own invention Where to, Fralberto replied, Madam, I know not how you fared with him But this I know That last night he came to me And for that I had done his errand with you He suddenly transported my soul Seeing such a multitude of flowers and roses As was never seen here before And my soul What become of my body I know not Tarried in one of the most delightful places That ever was from that hour until my times As for your body, said the lady Do I not tell you who's it was It lay all night long with the angel Gabriel in my arms And if you believe me not Look under your left pup Where I gave the angel a mighty kiss Of which the mark will last for some days Why then, said Fralberto I will even today Walked his long since I did To wait on dress that I might see If you say so So they fooled it a long while And then the lady went home Where Fralberto afterwards Paid her many a visit without any let However, one day it so befell That while Mona Lisa Was with one of her gossips canvassing beauties Being minded to exhort her own charms Above all others, and having As we know none too much with In her pumpkin pot observed Did you but know By whom my charms are prized then For sure You would have not to say of the rest Her gossip all agog to hear For well she knew her foible answered Madame, it may be as you say But still while one knows not who he may be One cannot alter one's mind so rapidly Whereupon, my lady feather-brain Gossip, said she It is not for common talk But he that I walked of Is the angel Gabriel Who loves me more dearly than himself For that I am so he tells me The ferris-lady in all the world I and in the marima to boot Where at her gossip would fan have laughed But held herself in being minded To hear more from her Wherefore, she said God's faith, Madame If tis the angel Gabriel And he tells you so, why? So, of course, it must need be But I wish not the angels meddled With such martyrs There you add, gossip, said the lady Zounds he does have it better than my husband And he tells me they do it above there too But, as he rates my charms above Any that are in heaven, he is enamoured of me And not seldom visits me So now dost see So away went the gossip So agog to tell the story That it seemed to her a thousand years Till she was where it might be done And being met for recreation With a great company of ladies She narrated it all in detail Whereby it passed to the ladies husbands And to other ladies And from them to yet other ladies So that in less than two days All Venice was full of it But among others Whose is it reached? Were Mona Lissetta's brothers in law Who, keeping their own counsel Refused to find this angel And make out whether he knew how to fly To which end they kept watch for some nights Whereof no hint, as it happened Reached Frailberto's ears And so, one night When eagles come to enjoy the lady once more He was scarce undressed When her brothers in law Who had seen him come Were at the door of the room And all ready opening it When Frailberto, hearing the noise And apprehending the danger, started up And having no other resource Threw open a window that looked On to the grand canal And plunged into the water The depth was great And he was an expert swimmer So that he took no hurt But, having reached the other bank Found a house open And forthwith entered it Praying the good man that was within For God's sake to save his life And trumping up a story to account For his being there at so late an hour And stripped to the skin The good man took pity on him And having occasion to go out He put him in his own bed Bidding him stay there until his return And so having locked himself in He went about his business Now When the lady's brothers in law Entered the room and found that The angel Gabriel had taken flight Leaving his wings behind him Being balked of their prey They rang the rated lady and then Leaving her disconsolate Betook themselves home with the angel's spoils Whereby it befell that When towards broad day the good man Being on the realto Heard tell how the angel Gabriel Had come to pass the night with Mona Lissetta And being surprised by her brothers in law Had taken flight And thrown himself into the canal And none knew what was become of him The good man guessed in a trice That the said angel was no other Than the man he had at home Whom on his return he recognized And after much chaffering Brought him to promise him fifty dockets That he might not be given To the lady's brothers in law The bargain struck Frajoberto signified a desire To be going Where a pawn There is no way said the good man But one if you are minded to take it Today we hold a revel Where in folk lead others about In various disguises As one man will present a bear Another a wild man and so forth And then in the piazza of San Marco There is a hunt which done The revel is ended And then away they hire him Whether they will each with the man He has led about If you are willing to be led by me At one or another of these disguises Before it can get wind that you are here I can bring you whether you would go Otherwise I see not how you are To quit this place without being known And the ladies brothers in law Reckoning that you must be lurking Somewhere in the squatter I have set guards all about to take you Loth indeed was Frajoberto To go in such a guise But such was his fear of the ladies relations That he consented and told the good man Wither he desired to be taken And that he was content to leave The choice of the disguise to him The good man then smeared him All over with honey and covered him with down Set a chain on his neck And a visit on his face Gave him a stout cudgel to carry in one hand And two huge dogs Which he had brought from the shampoos To lead with the other And sent a man to the realtor to announce That whoso would see the angel Gabriel Should hire him to the piazza of San Marco In by the chain behind And through a great throng that clamoured What manner of thing is this? What manner of thing is this? He brought him to the piazza where? What were those that followed them? And those that had come from the realtor On hearing the announcement There were folk without end? Arrived at the piazza He fastened his wild man To a column in a high and exposed place Making as if he were minded To wait till the hunt should begin Whereby the flies and godflies Attracted by the honey With which he was smeared Caused him most grievous distress However, the good man waited Only until the piazza was thronged And then, making as if He were on chain his wild man He tore the visit from Friar Berto's face Saying, gentlemen As the boar comes not to the hunt And the hunt does not take place That had been not for nothing That you are come hither I am minded to give you a view Of the angel Gabriel who comes Down from heavens to earth by night To solace the ladies of Venice The visit was no sooner withdrawn Than all recognised Friar Berto And greeted him with hootings Rating him in languages offensive And upobrious as every rogue Was abused with all And pelting him in the face With every sort of filth that came to hand In which plight they kept him An exceedingly great while Until by chance the brute thereof Reached his brethren Of whom some six thereupon Put themselves in motion And arrived at the piazza Clapped a habit on his back And onchained him And amid an immense uproar Led him off to their convent Where, after languishing a while in prison It is believed that he died So this man By reason that, being reputed righteous He did evil And was not imputed to him Presumed to counterfeit the angel Gabriel And being transformed into a wild man Was in the end put to shame as he deserved And vainly bewailed his misdeeds God grant that so it may be tied all his likes End of Day 4, the second story Recording by Miet of Miet's Bedtime Story podcast Day 4, the third story of the Decameron This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Philippa Javins The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio Translated by J. M. Rigg Day 4, the third story Three young men love three sisters And flee with them to Crete The eldest of the sisters slays her lover for jealousy The second saves the life of the first By yielding herself to the Duke of Crete Her lover slays her and makes off with the first The third sister and her lover are charged with murder Are arrested and confess the crime They escape death by bribing the guards Flee destitute to Rhodes And there in destitution die Pompineus' story ended Philostrato mused a while And then said to her A little good matter there was That pleased me at the close of your story But before it was reached There was far too much to love at Which I could have wished had not been there Then turning to Laurecta he said Madame, give us something better to follow If so it may be Laurecta replied with a laugh Harsh beyond measure are you to the lovers To desire that their end be always evil But as in duty bound I will tell a story of three Who all alike came to a bad end They had little joyance of their loves And so saying she began Well, may ye watch, young ladies For it is abundantly manifest That there is no vice but most grievous disaster May ensue their ontane that practices it And not sell them to others And of all vices that which hurries us into peril With loosest reign is, me thinks, anger Which is not but a rash and hasty impulse Prompted by a feeling of pain Manishes reason, shrouds the eyes of the mind In thick darkness and sets the soul ablaze With a fierce frenzy Which, though it not seldom before men And one rather than another, has nevertheless Been observed to be fraught in women With more disastrous consequences In as much as in them the flame is both More readily kindled and burns more brightly And with less impediment to its vehemence Wherein is no cause to marvel For if we consider it we shall see That tis of the nature of fire to lay hold More readily of things light and delicate Than of matters of firmer and more solid substance And sure it is that we, without offence To the men, be it spoken, are more delicate Than they, and much more mobile Wherefore, seeing how prone we are There too by nature, and considering Also our gentleness and tenderness, How soothing and consolatory they are The men with whom we consort, and that thus This madness of wrath is fraught With grievous annoy and peril. Therefore, that with stout a heart We may defend ourselves against it, I purposed by my story to show you How the loves of three young men And as many ladies, as I said before Were by the anger of one of the ladies Changed from a happy to a most woeful complexion. Marce, as you know, is situate on the coast of Provence, A city ancient and most famous, and in old time The seat of many more rich men and great merchants Than are to be seen there to-day, Among whom was won a Narnald Clouada by name, A man of the lowest origin, but a merchant Of unsullied probity and integrity, And boundless wealth in lands and goods And money, who had by his lady several children, Three of them being daughters, older Each of them than the other children, who were sons. Two of the daughters, who were twins, Were when my story begins fifteen years old, And the third was but a year younger, So that in order to their marriage Their kinsfolk awaited nothing but the return Of Narnald from Spain, Whether he was gone with his merchandise. One of the twins was called Ninet, The other Madeline, the third daughter's name, Was Bertel, a young man restagnant by name, Who, though poor, was of gentle blood, Was in the last degree enamoured of Ninet and she of him, And so discreetly had they managed the affair, That never another soul in the world witting ought of it They had had joyance of their love, and that for a good while, When it so befell that two young friends of theirs, The one Fulc, the other Eug by name, Whom their fathers recently dead had left very wealthy, Fell in love, the one with Madeline, The other with Bertel. Whereof restagnant, being apprised by Ninet, Betthought him that in their love he might find a means To the relief of his necessities. He, accordingly, consorted freely and familiarly with them, Accompanying now one, now the other, And sometimes both of them, When they went to visit their ladies and his, And when he judged that he had made his footing As friendly and familiar as need was, He bade them one day to his house, And said, Comrades most dear, May not have left you without assurance Of the great love I bear you, And that for you I would do even as much as for myself. Wherefore, Loving you thus much, I purpose to impart to you that which is in my mind, That in regard thereof, You and I together may then resolve In such sort as to you shall seem the best. You, if I may trust your words, As also what I seem to have gathered from your demeanour, By day and night, Burn with an exceeding great love For the two ladies whom you affect, As I for their sister. For the assuagement whereof, I have good hope that if you will unite with me, I shall find means most sweet and delightsome To wit on this wise. You possess, as I do not, great wealth. Now, if you are willing to make of your wealth A common stock with me as third partner therein, And to choose some part of the world Where we may live in careless ease Upon our substance, without any manner of doubt I trust so to prevail that the three sisters With great part of their father's substance Shall come to live with us Wherever we shall see fit to go, Whereby each with his own lady We shall live as three brethren, The happiest men in the world. It is now for you to determine Whether you will embrace this prophet's solace Or let it slip from you. The two young men whose love Was beyond all measure fervent, Spared themselves the trouble of deliberation. It was enough that they heard That they were to have their ladies, Wherefore they answered that, So this should ensue, they were ready To do as he proposed. Having thus their answer, Chrestagne, a few days later, was closeted With Ninette, to whom, to as a matter Of no small difficulty for him to get access, Nor had he been long with her before He adverted to what had passed Between him and the young men, And sought to commend the project to her For reasons not a few. Little need, however, had he to urge her, For to live their life openly together Was the very thing she desired far more than he, Wherefore she frankly answered that She would have it so, that her sisters Would do more especially in this matter Just as she wished, and that he should Lose no time in making all the Needful arrangements. So, Chrestagne returned to the two young men Who were most urgent that it should be done Even as he said, and told them That on the part of the ladies the matter Was concluded. And so, having fixed upon Crete for their Destination, and sold some estates that They had, giving out that they were Minded to go a trading with the proceeds, They converted all else that they possessed Into money, and bought a brigantine, Which with all secrecy they handsomely Equipped, anxiously expecting the Time of their departure, while Ninette On her part, knowing well how her Sisters were affected, did so by Sweet converse forment their desire That till it should be accomplished They accounted their life as naught. The night of their embarkation being Come, the three sisters opened a Great chest that belonged to their Father, and took out therefrom A vast quantity of money and jewels With which they all three issued Forth of the house in dead silence As they had been charged, and found Their three lovers awaiting them, Who, having forthwith brought them Abort the brigantine, bade the rowers Give way, and tarrying nowhere Arrived the next evening at Genoa, Where the new lovers had for the First time joints and solace of Their love. Having taken what they needed of Refreshment, they resumed their Course, touching at this port and That, and in less than eight days Speeding without impediment, were Come to Crete. There they bought them domains Whereon, hard by Candia, they built The mansions most goodly and delight Some, wherein they lived as barons Keeping a crowd of retainers With dogs, hawks, and horses, And speeding the time with their Ladies in feasting and reveling And merry-making, none so Lighthearted as they. Such being the tenor of their life It so befell that, as it is Matter of daily experience, that However delightful a thing may be, Superabundance thereof will Restagnant, much as He had loved Ninette, being Now able to have his joints of Her without stint or restraint, Began to weary of her, and by Consequence to abate Somewhat of his love for her. And being mightily pleased with A fair gentlewoman of the country Whom he met at a merry-making, He set his heart upon her, and Began to show himself marvellously Curtious and gallant towards her. Which Ninette, perceiving, grew So jealous that he might not go A step but she knew of it, and Resented it to his torment and Her own with high words. But as, while Superfluity engenders discussed, Appetite is but wetted when Fruit is forbidden, so Ninette's wrath added fuel to The flame of Restagnant's new love. And whichever was the event, Whether in course of time Restagnant Had the lady's favour or had it not, Ninette, whoever may have brought Her the tidings, firmly believed That he had it. Whereby from the depths of distress She passed into a towering passion, And thus was transported into such A frenzy of rage that all the love She bought of Restagnant was Converted into bitter hatred, And blinded by her wrath She made up her mind to avenge By Restagnant's death The dishonour which she deemed That he had done her. So she had recourse to an old Greek woman that was very skillful In compounding poisons, Whom by promises and gifts She induced to distill a deadly water, Which, keeping her own counsel, She herself gave Restagnant a Drink one evening, when he was Somewhat heated and quite off His guard. Whereby such was the Effecacy of the water. She dispatched Restagnant Before Matins. On learning of his death And Eug and their ladies, Who knew not that he had been poisoned, United their bitter with Ninette's feigned lamentations And gave him honourable sepulchre. But so it befell That not many days after The old woman that had Compounded the poison for Ninette Was taken for another crime, And being put to the torture Confessed the compounding of the poison Among other of her misdeeds And fully declared what had Nearby come to pass. Wherefore the Duke of Crete Breathing no word of his intent Came privately by night And set a guard around Foult's palace When Ninette then was, And quietly and quite unopposed Took and carried her off, And without putting at a torture Learned from her in a trice All that he sought to know Touching the death of Restagnant. Foult and Eug had learned Privile of the Duke, While Ninette was taken. And being mightily distressed thereby Besturred themselves with all zeal To save Ninette from the fire To which the apprehended she would be condemned As having indeed richly deserved it. But all their endeavours Seemed to avail nothing, For the Duke was unwaveringly resolved That justice should be done. Madeleine, Foult's fair wife, Who had long been courted by the Duke But had never deigned to show him the least favour, Thinking that by yielding herself to his will She might redeem her sister from the fire, Dispatched a trusty envoy to him With the intimation that she was Entirely at his disposal Upon the twofold condition That in the first place Her sister should be restored to her Free and scatheless, And in the second place The affair should be kept secret. Albeit gratified by this overture The Duke was long in doubt Whether he should accept it. In the end, however, he made up his mind to do so, And signified his approval to the envoy. Then with the lady's consent He put Foult and Duke under arrest for a night, As if he were minded to examine them of the affair, And meanwhile courted himself Privilly with Madeleine. Ninette, Who, he had made believe, had been set in a sack And was to be sunk in the sea that same night, He took with him And presented her to her sister In requital of the night's joints, Which as he parted from her on the morrow He prayed her might not be the last As it was the first fruit of their love, At the same time enjoying her To send the guilty lady away That she might not bring reproach upon him, Nor he be compelled to deal rigorously with her again. Released the same morning And told that Ninette had been cast into the sea, Foult and Duke, Fully believing that so it was, Came home, thinking how they Should console their ladies for the death Of their sister. But, though Madeleine was at great pains To conceal Ninette, Foult nevertheless To his no small amazement Discovered that she was there, Which at once excited his suspicion, For he knew that the Duke had been An amour of Madeleine, And he asked her how it was That Ninette was there. Madeleine made up a long story By way of explanation, to which His sagacity gave little credit, And in the end, after long parley, He constrained her to tell the truth. Whereupon, overcome with grief, And transported with rage, He drew his sword, And deafed to her appeal to mercy, Slew her. Then, fearing the vengeful Justice of the Duke, He left the dead body in the room And hide him to Ninette, And with a counterfeit, glad some Mean said to her, Go we without delay, That thou fall not again into the hands Of the Duke. Ninette believed him, And, being feigned to go for very fear, She forwent further leave-taking Of her sister, more particularly As it was now night, and set out With Foult, who took with him such Little money as he could lay his hands upon, And so they made their way to the coast Where they got aboard a boat, But none ever knew where their voyage Ended. Madeleine's dead body being discovered Next day, certain evil disposed folk, That bore a grudge to Eugue, Forthwith a prized the Duke of the fact, Which brought the Duke for much He loved Madeleine in hot haste To the house, where he arrested Eugue and his lady, who as yet Knew nothing of the departure Of Foult and Ninette, and extorted From them a confession that they And Foult were jointly answerable For Madeleine's death. For which cause being justly Apprehensive of death, they with Great address corrupted the guards That had charge of them, giving them a Some of money which they kept concealed In their house against occasions of need, And together with the guards fled With all speed, leaving all that They possessed behind them, and Took ship by night for roads, Where, being arrived, they lived In great poverty and misery No long time. Such then was the issue to which Restagnant by his foolish love, And Ninette by her wrath Brought themselves and others. End of day four, the third story. Day four, the fourth Story of the Decameron. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in The public domain. For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org. The Decameron. By Giovanni Boccaccio. Translated by J. M. Rigg. Thank you. Day four, the fourth Story. Gervino, in breach of the plighted Faith of his grandfather, King Guglielmo, attacks A ship of the king of Tunis, Res offense his daughter. She, being slain By those aboard the ship, He slays them, and afterwards He is beheaded. Loretta, her story ended, Kept silence, And the king brooded As in deep thought, while one Or another of the company Deblawed the sad fate Of this or the other of the lovers, Or censored nine attempts for us, Or made some other command. At length, however, The king rose himself, And raising his head, Made sign to Elisa, That was now for her to speak. So modestly, Elisa Thus began. Gracious ladies, not A few there are that believe that Love loses no shafts Safe when he is kindled By the eyes, contemning Their opinion that whole That passion may be Engendered by words, whose Error will be abundantly Manifest in a story which I purpose to tell you, wherein You may see how mere rumour Not only wrought mutual love In those that had never Seen one another, but also Brought both to a miserable death. Guglielmo, the second, As the Sicilians compute King of Sicily, Had two children, A son named Rugeri And a daughter named Gostanza. Rugeri died before his father And left a son named Gervino, Who, being carefully trained By his grandfather, Grew up a most Goodly gallant and Of great renown in court In camp, and that not only Within the borders of Sicily, But in diverse other parts Of the world, among them Barbary, then tributary To the king of Sicily, and Among others, to whose ears Was wafted the bruit of Gervino's magnificent prowess And courtesy, was a daughter Of the king of Tunis, who By a verment of all that Had seen her was a creature As fair and debonair Of as great and noble as Spirit as nature ever formed To hear tell of brave men Was her delight, and what She heard, now from one, Now from another, of The brave deeds of Gervino She treasured him in her Mind so sedulously, and Pondered them with such Pleasure, rehearsing them To herself in imagination That she became hotly enamored Of him, and there was none Whom she talked, or heard Others talk so gladly. Nor, on the other hand, had The fame of her incomparable Beauty and other Excellences fail to travel As to other lands, so Also to Sicily, where Falling on Gervino's ears It gave him no small delight To such effect that he Burnt for the lady, no less Be himently than she For him. Wherefore Until such time as he might Upon some worthy occasion Have his grandfathers leave To go to Tunis, yearning Beyond measure to see her, he Charged every friend of his That went thither to give her to Know, as best he might, his Great and secret love for her And to bring him tidings of her Which office one of the said Friends discharged with No small address, for Having obtained access to her After the manner of merchants By bringing jewels for her to look At, he fully apprised her Of Gervino's passion, and placed Him in all that he possessed Entirely at her disposal. The lady received both Messenger and message With glad some mean Made answer that she loved With equal ardour, and Entoken thereof, sent Gervino one of her most Precious jewels. Gervino received the jewel with Extreme delight, and sent Her many a letter, and many A most precious gift by the hand Of the same messenger, and to Was well understood between them That should fortune accord him Opportunity he should see and Know her. Of this footing The affair remained somewhat Longer than was expedient, And so, while Gervino And the lady burned with Mutual love, it befell That the king of Tunis gave her In marriage to the king Of Granada, where at She was wroth beyond measure For that she was not only Going into a country Remote from her lover, but As she deemed was severed From him altogether. And so this might not come To pass gladly, could she But have seen how would She have left her father And fled to Gervino. Inlike manner Gervino on Learning of the marriage was Vexed beyond measure, and was Of times minded, could he But find means to win to Her husband by sea, to Rest her from him by force. Some rumor of Gervino's Love and of his intent Reached the king of Tunis, Who, knowing his prowess And power, took alarm, and As the time drew nigh For conveying the lady to Granada, sent word of his purpose To King Guglielmo, and Craved his assurance that It might be carried into effect Without let or hindrance On the part of Gervino Or anyone else. The old king had heard Nothing of Gervino's love affair And never dreaming that To us on such account that The assurance was craved, granted It without demure, and in pledge Thereof sent the king of Tunis His glove, which Received the king made ready A great and goodly ship in the Port of Carthage, and equipped her With all things mead for Those that were to man her, and With all appointments apt and Seemingly for the reception of His daughter, and awaited only Fair weather to send her therein To Granada, all which the young Lady Sien marking Sent one of her servants Privile to Palermo, beating him He sent the illustrious Gervino On her part, and tell him that A few days would see her On her way to Granada, wherefore To it now appear whether, or No, he were really as dowdy A man as he was reputed, and Loved her as much as he had So often protested. The servant did not fail To deliver her message exactly, And returned to Tunis, leaving Gervino, who knew that his Grandfather king Gulielmo Had given the king of Tunis The desired assurance, at a Loss how to act. But prompted by love, and goaded By the lady's words, and loath To seem a craven, he heed Him to Messina, and having Their arm two light galleys And manned them with good men And true, he put to sea, and Stood for Sardinia, deeming That the lady's ship must pass That way. Nor was he far Out in his reckoning, for He had not been there many days When the ship sped by a Light breeze, hoven sight Not far from the place where He lay and wait for her. Whereupon Gervino said To his comrades, Gentlemen, if you be As good men and true as I deem you, there is none Of you but must have felt If he feel not now the Might of love. For without Love I deem no mortal Capable of true worth or Odd that is good. And if you are or have been In love, it will be easy for You to understand that which I desire. I love, and This because I love, that I Have laid this travail upon You, and that which I love Is in the ship that you see Before you, which is fraught Not only with my beloved, but With immense treasures which If you are good men and True we, so we but Play the man in fight May with little trouble make Our own. Nor for my share Of the spoils of the victory Demand I ought but a lady, Whose love it is that prompts Me to take arms. All else I freely Seed to you from this very Hour. Forward then, Attack we this ship, Success should be ours, For God favors our Enterprise, nor Lends her wind to evade us. Fewer words might have Sufficed the illustrious Gervino, for the rapacious Mycenaeces that were with him Were already bent heart and Soul upon that, to which By his harangue he sought To animate them. So when He was done, they raised a Mighty shout, so that was As if trumpets did blare, And cut up their arms and With their oars, overhauled The ship. The advancing Gallies were observed while They were yet a great way Off by the ship's crew, who Not being able to avoid the Combat, put themselves in a Posture of defense. Arrived at close quarters, the Illustrious Gervino bade Descend the ship's masters Aboard the galleys, unless They were minded to do battle. Certified of the challenge, and Ceresans answered that was in Breach of the Faith plighted to Them by their assailants king That they were thus attacked, and In token thereof displayed King Guglielmo's glove, a Varying in set terms that There should be no surrender Either of themselves or of Odd that was aboard the Ship without battle. Gervino Who had observed the lady Standing on the ship's poop, and Seen that she was far more Than he had imagined, burned with A yet fiercer flame than Before, and to the display of The glove made answer that As he had no falcons there Just then, the glove booted Him not. Wherefore, so They were not minded to surrender The lady, let them prepare To receive battle. Whereupon Without further delay, the Battle began on both sides With a furious discharge of Arrows and stones, on which Wise it was long protracted To their common laws, until At last Gervino, seeing that He gained little advantage, took A light bark which they had Brought from Sardinia, and Having fired her, bored down With her, and both the galleys Upon the ship. Whereupon The sericent, seeing that They must perforce surrender The ship or die, caused the King's daughter, who lay beneath The deck weeping, to come Deck and let her to the prowl And shouting to Gervino, while The lady shrieked alternately Mercy and succour Opened her veins before His eyes, and cast Her into the sea, saying, Take her, we give her To thee on such wise As we can, and as Thy faith has merited. Maddened to witness This deed of barbarism Gervino, as if courting Death, wrecked no more Of the arrows and the stones, But drew alongside the ship And, despite the resistance Of her crew, boarded her, and As a famished lion Ravens amongst a herd Of oxen, and tearing And rending, now one, now Another, gluts his wrath Before he appears as hunger. So Gervino, sword in Hand, hacking and hewing On all sides among the Saracens, did ruthlessly Slaughter not a few of them Till, as the burning ship Began to blaze more fiercely, He bade the seamen take their Out all that they might By way of girdon, which Done, he quitted her, having Gained but a rueful victory Over his adversaries. His next care was To recover from the seed The body of the fair lady, whom Long and with many a tear He mourned. And so he returned To Sicily, and gave the body Honorable sepulcher in Ustica, an islet that faces As it were, Trapani, And went home the saddest Man alive. When these tidings reached the king Of Tunis, he sent to King Guglielmo ambassadors Habited in black, who made Complaint of the breach of faith And recited the manner Of its occurrence, which Caused King Guglielmo no small Chagrin, and seeing Not how he might refuse the Justice they demanded, he had Gervino arrested, and he Himself none of his parents Being able, by any entreaty To turn him from his purpose Sentenced him to forfeit his head, And had it severed from His body in his presence. Preferring to suffer the loss Of his only grandson, then To gain the reputation of a Loveless king, and so Miserably within the compass Of a few brief days, died The two lovers by woeful deaths As I have told you, and without Having known any Joins of their love. End of day four, the fourth Story. According by J. C. Guan, the Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio Translated by J. M. Reg. Day four, the fifth Story. Lisabetta's brothers slay Her lover. He appears To her in a dream, and shows Her where he is buried. She privately dissenters the head And sets it in a pot of basil, Whereupon she daily weeps A great while. The pot Being taken from her by her She dies not long after. Elisa's story ended. The king bestowed a few Words of praise upon it, and Then laid the burden of discourse Upon Filomena, who, full Of compassion for the woes Of Grbino and his lady, heaped A piteous sigh, and thus began. My story, gracious ladies, Will not be a folk Of so high a rank as those Of whom Elisa has told us, But perchance to not be Less touching. This brought To my mind by the recent Mention of Messina, where The matter befell. Know then that there were At Messina three young men That were brothers and merchants Who were left very rich on The death of their father, who Was of San Gimignano, And they had a sister, Lisabetta by name, a Girl fair enough, and no less Divinare, but whom, for some Reason or another, they had not As yet bestowed in marriage. The three brothers had also In their shop a young pison, Lorenzo by name, who managed All their affairs, and who Was so goodly of person and Gallant that Lisabetta bestowed Many a glance upon him, and Began to regard him with Extraordinary favor, which Lorenzo, marking from time To time, gave up all his other Amours, and in like manner Began to affect her, and so Their loves being equal, it was Not long before they took heart Of grace, and did that which Each most desired. Wherein, continuing to their No small mutual solace and delight, They neglected to order it With due secrecy, where by One night, as Lisabetta Was going to Lorenzo's room, She, all unwittingly, was Observed by the eldest Of the brothers, who Obeyed much distressed by what he had Learned, yet Being a young man of discretion Was swayed by considerations More seemingly, and Allowing no word to escape Spent the night interning the Affair over in his mind in Diverse ways. On the morning He told his brothers that which Touching Lisabetta and Lorenzo He had observed in the night Which, that no shame Might dance into either to them Or to their sister. They After long consultation Determined to pass over in silence Making as if they had Seen or heard not thereof Until such time as they In a safe and convenient manner Might banish this disgrace From their sight before it could go Further. Adhering to its purpose, they Justed and laughed with Lorenzo As they had been wont, and after A while pretending that they were Going forth of the city on pleasure They took Lorenzo with them And being come to a remote And very lonely spot Seeing that was apt for the design They took Lorenzo, who was Completely off his guard And slew him, and buried Him on such wise that none Was aware of it. On their return to Messina They gave out that they had Sent him away on business, which Was readily believed because To us what they had been frequently used to do But as Lorenzo did not return And Lisabetta questioned the brothers About him with great frequency And urgency, being sorely grieved By his long absence It so befell that one day Which was very pressing in their inquiries One of the brothers said What means this? What has thou to do with Lorenzo That thou shouldst ask about him so often? Ask us no more, or we will Give thee such answer as thou Deservist. So the girl, sick at heart And sorrowful, fearing she knew Not what, asked no questions But many a time at night She called picturesly to him And besought him to come to her And bewailed his long tearing With many a tear, and ever yearning For his return languished In total dejection. But so it was That one night, when After long weeping that her Lorenzo came not back She had at last fallen asleep Lorenzo appeared to her in a dream One, and in utter disarray His clothes torn to shreds And sodden, and thus As she thought he spoke Lisabetta, though dost not But call me, and vex Thyself from my long tearing And bitterly abrid me with thy tears Wherefore be it known to thee That return to thee I may not Because the last day that thou didst See me, thy brothers loom me After which he described The place where they had buried Him, told her to call And expect him no more And banished. The girl then awoke, and doubting Not that the vision was true Wept bitterly, and when morning Came, and she was risen Not daring to say ought to her Brothers, she resolved to go To the place indicated in the Vision, and see if what She had dreamed were even As it appeared to her. So having leave to go a little Way out of the city for recreation In company of a maid that had at One time lived with them, and knew All that she did, she hide her Seder without speed, and having Removed the dry leaves that were Strewed about the place, she began To dig where the earth seemed Leased hard, nor had she dug Along before she found the body Of her hapless lover, whereon As yet, there was no trace of Corruption or decay, and thus She saw without any manner of Doubt that her vision was true And so, saddest of women Knowing that she might not be Veil him there, she would Gladly, if she could, have Carried away the body, and Given its more honorable Sepulcher elsewhere. But as she might not do so She took a knife, and as best She could, severed the head From the trunk, and wrapped it In a napkin, and laid it In the lap of her maid. And having covered the rest of The corpse with earth, she left The spot, having been seen by None, and went home. There, she shut herself up in Her room, with the head, and Kissed it a thousand times in Every part, and wept long And bitterly over it, till She had bathed it in her tears. She then wrapped it in a Bath, and set it in a large And beautiful pot, of the source In which, margarine, or basil Is planted, and covered it With earth, and therein Planted some roots of the godliest Basil of Salerno, and drenched Them only with her tears, or Water perfumed with roses Or orange blossoms. And was her want ever to Sit beside this pot, and all Her soul one yearning to pour Upon it, as that which enshrined Her Lorenzo. And when long Time she had so done, she Would bend over it, and weep a great While, until the basil was quite Bathed in her tears. Fostered, with such constant Unremitting care, and nourished By the richness given to the soil By the decaying head that laid Therein, the basil burgeoned out In exceeding great beauty and fragrance. When the girl persevering ever In this way of life, the neighbors From time to time took note of it. And when her brothers marveled To see her beauty ruined, and her eyes As it were revanished from her head, They told them of it, saying, We have observed that such Is her daily want. Whereupon the brothers, marking Her behaviour, tried her there Four once or twice, and as She heeded them not, caused The pot to be taken privately From her. Which, so soon As she missed it, she demanded With the utmost instance and Insistence. And As they gave it not back to her Seized not to wail and weep In so much as she fell sick Nor in her sickness craved she Ought but the pot of basil. Whereat the young men, marveling Mightily, resolved to see What the pot might contain. And having removed the earth They aspired the cloth, and Therein the head, which was Not yet so decayed, but That by the curled logs they knew It for Lorenzo's head. Passing strange they found it, And fearing, lest it should be Brute at abroad, they buried The head, and, with as little Sad as might be, took order Of their private departure from Encina, and hide them dense to Naples. The girl ceased not To weep and crave her pot, And so weeping died. Such Was the end of her disastrous Love, but not of you in Course of time coming to know There was one that made the song That is still sung to wit. As the epe was, I swear A sorry Christian he That took my basil of Salerno Fair, etc. And, of day four, the fifth Story. Day four, the sixth story Of the Decameron. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the Public domain. For more information, or to Please visit LibriVox.org Recording By Eugene Smith. The Decameron By Giovanni Boccaccio Translated by J. M. Rigg. Day four, the sixth Story. Andreula loves Gavriotto. She tells him A dream that she has had. He tells her a dream of his Own, and dies Suddenly in her arms. While she and her Maya Are carrying his corpse to his House, they are taken by The signary. She tells How the matter stands, is Threatened with violence by the Podesta, that will not brook it. Her father hears how She is vested, and her Innocence being established Causes her to be said at Large. But she, being Minded to tarry no longer Becomes a nun. Glad indeed were the ladies To have heard Philomena's story. For that, often though They had heard the song sung, They had never yet, for all Their inquiries, been able To learn the occasion upon which It was made. Where it was Ended. Pamphillo received The king's command to follow Shoot, and thus spoke. By the dream told in The foregoing story, I am To relate one in which two Dreams are told, dreams of That which was to come, as Lisbetas was, of that which Had been, and which were both Fulfilled almost as soon as They were told by those that Had dreamed them. Wherefore, loving ladies, you Must know that is the common Experience of mankind to have Diverse visions during sleep, And I'll be at the sleeper While he sleeps, deems all But being awake judges some Of them to be true, others to Be probable, and others again To be quite devoid of truth. Yet not a few are found to Have come to pass. For which cause many are As sure of every dream as Have ought that they see in Their waking hours, and so As their dreams and gender in Them fear or hope are Sorrowful or joyous. And on the other hand, there Are those that credit no dream Until they see themselves fallen Into the very peril whereof they Were forewarned. Of whom I approve, neither sort For in sooth, neither are All dreams true, nor all Alike false. That they are not all true, there Is none of us, but may many a Time have proved, and that They are not all alike false Has already been shown in Philomena's story. And shall As I said before, be shown In mine. Wherefore, I deem that in a virtuous Course of life and conduct, there Is no need to fear ought by reason Of any dream that is contrary There to, or on that account To give up any just design. And as for crooked and sinister Enterprises, however dreams May seem to favor them, and Flatter the hopes of the dreamer With auspicious omens, none Should trust them. Rather, should all give full Credence to such as one Counter thereto. But come we to the story. In the city of Brescia, there lived Of yore, a gentleman named Messernegro da Ponte Carraro, Who, with other children, Had a very fair daughter, Andriola, by name, Who, being unmarried, Chanced to fall in love With a neighbor, one Gabriotto, a man of low Degree, but goodly a person In debonair, and endowed With all admirable qualities. And aided, and abetted By the housemaid, the girl Not only brought it to pass, that Gabriotto knew that he was Beloved of her, but that many A time, to their mutual delight, He came to see her in a fair garden Belonging to her father. And that not but death might avail To sever them from this Love, they became, privately, Man and wife. And while thus they continued Their clandestine intercourse, It happened that one night, While the girl slept, She saw herself in a dream In her garden with Gabriotto, Who, to the exceeding great Delight of both, held her in His arms. And while thus they lay, She saw issue from his body Somewhat dark and frightful, Not discern, which, as she thought, Laid hold of Gabriotto. And in her despite With prodigious force Reft him from her embrace And bore him with it underground, So that both were lost To her sight forevermore. Whereby stricken with Sore and inexpressible grief She awoke, and albeit She was overjoyed to find That was not as she had dreamed, Yet a haunting dread Of what she had seen in her vision Entered her soul. Wherefore, Gabriotto Being minded to visit her On the ensuing night, She did her best endeavor To dissuade him from coming. But seeing that he was bent upon it, Lest he should suspect somewhat, She received him in her garden. Where, having called roses many, White and red, For twice summer, She sat herself down with him At fair and lucent fountain. There, long and joyously They dalled, And then Gabriotto asked her Wherefore she had that day For bad his coming. Whereupon the lady told him Her dream of the night before And the doubt and fear Which it had engendered in her mind. Whereupon Gabriotto laughed And said that it was the height Of folly to put any faith in dreams For that they were occasioned Or too little food. And were daily seen to be One and all things of not. Adding, Where I minded to give heed to dreams I should not be here now For I too had a dream last night Which was on this wise. Me thought I was in a fair And pleasant wood, And there, a hunting, Caught a she-goat as beautiful And lovable as any that ever was seen. And, as it seemed to me, Whiter than snow, Which in a little while Grew so tame and friendly That she never stirred from my side. All the same, so jealous Was I, lest she should leave me, That, me seemed, I had set a collar of gold Around her neck, and held her By a golden chain. And presently, me seemed that While the she-goat lay at rest With her head in my lap. There came forth, I know not whence, A greyhound bitch, Black as coal, famished, And most fearsome to look upon. Which made straight for me. And for, me seemed, I offered no resistance, Set her muzzle to my breast On the left side, And gnawed through to the heart. Which, me seemed, she tore out To carry away with her. Whereupon ensued so sore a pain That it break my sleep. And as I awoke, I laid my hand to my side But were amiss there. But finding nothing, I laughed at myself that I had searched. But what signifies it all? Visions of the like sort, I, in far more appalling, Have I had plenty, And not whatever, Great or small, has come Of any of them. So let it pass, And think we how we may speed The time merrily. What she heard immensely enhanced The great dread which her own dream Had inspired in the girl. But not to vex Capriotto, She dissembled her terror As best she might. But though she made great cheer, Embracing and kissing him, And receiving his embraces and kisses, Yet she felt a doubt. She knew not why. And many a time, More than her want, She would gaze upon his face, And ever an anon, To see if any black creature Were coming from any quarter. While thus they passed the time, Of a sudden Capriotto heaved A great sigh, And embracing her said, Alas, my soul, Thy sucker, For I die. And so saying, He fell down upon the grassy mead, Whereupon the girl drew him To her, and laid him on her lap, And all but wept, And said, Oh, sweet my lord, What is it that ails thee? But Capriotto was silent, And gasping sore for breath, And bathed in sweat. In no long time Departed this life. How grievous was the distress Of the girl who loved him More than herself. You, my ladies, may well imagine. With many a tear She mourned him. For a long time she vainly called Him by his name. But when, having felt his body All over, and found it cold In every part, she could no longer Doubt that he was dead, Knowing not what to say or do, She went, tearful and woe be gone, To call the maid To whom she had confided her love, And showed her the woeful calamity That had befallen her. Periously a while They wept together over the Capriotto. And then the girl said to the maid, Now that God has reft him from me, I have no mind to linger In this life. But before I slay myself I would we might find apt means To preserve my honor And the secret of our love And to bury the body from which The sweet soul has fled. My daughter, said the maid, Speak not of slaying thyself, For so wits thou lose In the other world also Him that thou hast lost here. Seeing that thou wouldst go to hell, Wither, sure I am, His soul is not gone, For a good youth he was. Far better were it to put on A cheerful courage, and be Think thee to sucker his soul with Thy prayers or pious works If perchance he have need Thereof by reason of any sin That he may have committed. We can bury him readily enough In this garden, nor will anyone ever Know, for none knows That we ever came hither, And if thou wilt not have it so We can bury him forth of the garden And leave him there, and on the Moral he will be found And carried home and buried By his kinsfolk. The girl, heavy laden though She was with anguish and still Weeping, yet gave ear To the counsels of her maid And rejecting the former alternative Made answer to the latter On this wise. Now God forbid that a youth so dear Whom I have so loved and made My husband should with my consent Be buried like a dog Or left out there in the street. He has had my tears And so far as I may avail He shall have the tears of his kinsfolk And already want I what we must do. And forthwith she sent the maid For a piece of silken cloth Which she had in one of her boxes And when the maid returned with it They spread it on the ground And laid Gabriotto's body thereon Resting the head upon a pillow. She then closed the eyes And mouth Shedding the while, many a tear Woe for him A wreath of roses That strewed upon him all the roses That he and she had gathered. Which done She said to the maid Tis but a short way Hence to the door of his house So thither we will bear him Thou and I Thus, as we might have died him And will lay him at the door Day will soon dawn And they will take him up And though twill be No consolation to them I, in whose arms he died Shall be glad of it. So saying She burst once more into a torrent Of tears and fell with her face Upon the face of the dead And so long time She wept. Then, yielding at last The urgency of her maid Where day was drawing nigh She arose, drew from her finger The ring with which she had been wedded To Gabriotto, and set it On his finger, saying With tears, dear my lord If thy soul be witness Of my tears, or if When the spirit is fled Of intelligence or sense Shall lurk in the body Raciously received a last gift Of her whom in life Out it's so dearly love Which said, she swooned And fell upon the corpse But, coming after a while To herself, she arose And then she and her maid Took the cloth whereon the body lay And so, burying it Quitted the garden And bent their steps towards The dead man's house. As thus they went A chance that certain of the Podesta's guard, that for some Reason or other were abroad At that hour, met them And arrested them with the corpse. Andriola, to whom death Was more welcome than life No sooner knew them For the officers of the signary And she frankly said To you, who you are And that flight would avail me nothing I am ready to come with you Before the signary And to tell all there is to tell But let none of you presume to touch me So long as I obey you Or to take away ought that is on this body If he would not that I accuse him. And so, none venturing To lay hand upon either her person Or the corpse, she entered the palace. As soon as the Podesta Was apprised of the affair, he arose Had her brought into his room And there made himself Conversant with the circumstances And certain physicians being charged To inquire whether the good man Had met his death by poison Or otherwise, all with one accord A word that was not by poison But that he was choked By the bursting of an impostume Near the heart. Which, when the Podesta heard Receiving that the girl's guilt Could be but slight, he sought To make a pretence of giving What it was not lawful for him To sell her, and told her That he would set her at liberty So she were consenting To pleasure him. But finding that he did but Waste his words, he cast Aside all decency And would have used force. Whereupon Andrei Walla Kindling with scorn Waxed exceeding brave And defended herself with a Viral energy, and with high And contumelious words Drove him from her. When to his broad day The affair reached the ears Of Mesernegro, who, half Dead with grief, hide him With not a few of his friends To the palace. Where, having heard all That Podesta had to say, He required him peremptorily To give him back his daughter. The Podesta, being minded Rather to be his own accuser Than that he should be accused By the girl of the violist That he had meditated towards her, Began by praising her And her constancy, and in Proof thereof went on to tell What he had done. He ended by saying that, Marking her admirable firmness, He had fallen mightily in love With her. And so, not Withstanding, she had been wed To a man of low degree. He would, if to her agreeable To her, and to her father, Mesernegro, gladly Make her his wife. While they thus spoke, Andreola made her appearance And weeping through herself At her father's feet, saying, My father, I want I need not tell you The story of my presumption And the calamity that has Befallen me, for sure I am that you have heard it And know it, wherefore With all possible humility I crave your pardon of my fault To wit that without your knowledge I took from my husband Him that pleased me best. And this I crave Not that my life may be spared But that I may die as your daughter And not as your enemy. And so, weeping, She fell at his feet. Mesernegro, Now an old man, And naturally kindly and affectionate, Heard her not without tears, And weeping raised her Tenderly to her feet, saying, Daughter, mine, I had much leaver had it That thou hadst had a husband That I deemed a match for thee, And in that thou hadst Taken one that pleased thee, I too had been pleased. But thy concealing thy choice For me is grievous to me By reason of my distrust of me, And yet more so Seeing that thou hast lost him Before I have known him. But as tis even so To his remains be paid the honor Which, while he lived for thy contentment, I had gladly done him As my son-in-law. Then, turning to his sons And kinsmen, He bade them order Gabriotto's obsequies With all pomp and honorable circumstance. Meanwhile, The young man's kinsmen And kinswomen, having heard the news, Had flocked thither, Bringing with them almost all the rest Of the folk, men and women alike That were in the city. And so his body, Resting on Andruola's cloth, And covered with her roses, Was laid out in the middle Of the courtyard, and there Was mourned, not by her At his kinfolk alone, But publicly, by well-nigh All the women of the city, And not a few men. And shouldered by some of the noblest Of the citizens, as it had been The remains of no plebeian, But of a noble, was born From the public yard to the tomb With exceeding great pomp. But some days afterwards, As the potista continued To urge his suit, Mr. Negro would have discussed The matter with his daughter. And he would hear none of it. And he was minded in this matter To defer to her wishes. She and her maid Entered a religious house Of great repute for sanctity Where, in just esteem, They lived long time thereafter. End of day four, The sixth story. Day four, the seventh story Of the Decameron. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. Please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Anna Simon. The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio. Translated by J. M. Rigg. Day four, the seventh story. Simona loves Pasquino. They are together in a garden. Pasquino rubs a leaf of sage Against his teeth and dies. Simona is arrested. And, with intent to show the judge How Pasquino died, Rubs one of the leaves of the same plant Against her teeth and likewise dies. When Pamphilo had done with his story, The king, betraying no compassion For Andriola, Glancing at Emilia, Signified to her his desire That she should now continue The sequence of narration. Emilia made no demure, And thus began. Dear Gossips, Pamphilo's story Puts me upon telling you another In no wise like thereto, Savin' this, that as Andriola Lost her life, That as Andriola lost her lover in a garden, So also did she Of whom I am to speak, And, being arrested like Andriola, Did also deliver herself from the court, Albeit was not by any vigor Or firmness of mind, But by a sudden death. And, as was said among us a while ago, Albeit love affects dimensions Of the noble. He does not therefore disdain The dominion of the dwellings of the poor. Nay, thus there at times give Prove of his might no less signal Than when he makes him feared of the wealthiest As a most potent lord. Which, though not fully, Will in some degree appear in my story, Wherewith I am minded to return to our city, From which today's discourse Roving from matter to matter, And one part of the world to another Has carried us so far. No, then, that no great while ago, That dwell in Florence Amate most fair, And for her rank debonair, She was but a poor man's daughter, Whose name was Simone, And though she must need win With her own hands the bread she ate And maintain herself by spinning wool, Yet was she not therefore Of so poor a spirit, But that she dared to give harbourage In her mind to love, Who for some time had sought to gain entrance there By means of the gracious deeds and words Of a young man of her own order That went about distributing wool To spin for his master, A woolmonger. Love being thus with a pleasant image Of her beloved Pasquino Admitted into her soul, Mitely did she yearn, Albeit she hazarded no advance, And heaved a thousand sighs fiercer than fire, With every skein of yarn That she wand upon her spindle, While she called to mind who he was That had given her that wool to spin. Pasquino on his part became, Meanwhile very anxious That his master's wool should be well spun, And most particularly about that which Simona span. As if indeed it and it alone Was to furnish forth the whole of the cloth. And so what with the anxiety Which the one evinced And the gratification that it afforded To the other, it befell that The one waxing unusually bold And the other casting off not a little Of her wanted shyness and reserve They came to an understanding For their mutual solace, Which proved so delightful to both That neither waited to be bitten by the other, But was rather which should be The first to make the overture. While thus they sped their days In an even tenor of the light, And ever grew more ardently And a moored of one another, Pasquino chance to say to Simona That he wished of all things She would contrive how she might Be take her to a garden, With her he would bring her, That there they might be more at their ease And in greater security. And, having given her father to understand That she was minded to go to Sangallo For the pardoning, she hide her With one of her gossips, Lagina by name, To the garden of which Pasquino had told her. Here she found Pasquino Awaiting her with a friend, One Puccino, otherwise Stramba. And Stramba and Lagina Falling at once to love-making, Pasquino and Simona Left a part of the garden to them And withdrew to another part For their own solace. Now there was in their part of the garden A very fine and lovely sage-bush, At foot of which they set them down And made merry together a great while And talked much of a junketing They meant to have in the garden Quite at their ease. By and by Pasquino, turning to the great Sage-bush, plucked there from a leaf And fell to rubbing his teeth And gums therewith, saying that Sage was an excellent detergent Of aught that remained upon them After a meal. Once so, he returned to the topic Of the junketing of which he'd spoken before. But he had not pursued it far Before his countenance entirely changed And forthwith he lost sight and speech And shortly after, died. Whereupon Simona fell A weeping and shrieking And calling Stramba and Lagina Who, notwithstanding They came up with all speed, Found Pasquino not only dead But already swollen from head to foot And covered with black spots On the face and on the body Whereupon Stramba broke forthwith Ah! wicked woman, that was Poisoned him. And made such a din that was heard By not a few that dwelt harmed by the garden Who also hasted to the spot And seeing Pasquino dead and swollen And hearing Stramba bewail himself And accuse Simona Of having maliciously poisoned him While she, all but beside herself For grief to be thus Suddenly bereft of her lover Not how to defend herself Did all with one accord Surmised that was even as Stramba said Wherefore they led hands on her And brought her still weeping bitterly To the pellets of the Podesta Where at the instant suit of Stramba Backed by Atticciato and Malaguevole Two other newly arrived friends Of Pasquino, a judge Forthwith addressed himself To question her of the matter And being unable to discover That she had used any wicked practice He resolved to take her with him And go see the corpse and the place And the manner of the death As she had recounted it to him For by her words he could not well understand it So, taking care that there should be No disturbance, he had her brought To the place where Pasquino's corpse Lay swollen like a ton Whither he himself presently came And marveling as he examined the corpse Asked her how the death had come about Whereupon, standing by the sage bush She told him all that had happened And that he might perfectly apprehend The occasion of the death she did As Pasquino had done, plucked One of the leaves from the bush And rubbed her teeth with it Whereupon, Stramba and Atticciato And the rest of the friends and comrades of Pasquino Making, in the presence of the judge Open mock of what she said As an idle and vain thing And being more than ever instant To affirm her guilt and to demand The fire as the soul-condined Penity, the poor creature That, between grief for her lost lover And dread of the doom demanded By Stramba, stood mute and helpless Was stricken no less Suddenly and in the same manner And for the same cause To wit that she had rubbed her teeth With the sage-leave as Pasquino To the no small amazement Of all that were present Oh, happy souls for whom one And the same day was the term Of ardent love and earthly life Happier still If to the same born you feared Aye, and even yet more happy If love there be in the other world And there, even as here, you love But happiest of all Simona, so far as we Whom she has left behind may judge In that fortune broke not That the witness of Stramba, Atticciato And Malaguevole, Carter's Prachan's, or yet Viola fellow's Should bear down her innocence But found a more seemly issue And appointed her a like lot with her lover Gave her at once to clear herself From their foul accusation And to follow whether the soul That she so loved of her Pasquino Had preceded her. The judge and all else that witnessed The event remained long time In a sort of stupefaction Knowing not what to say of it But at length recovering his wits The judge said, To it seem that this sage is poisonous Which the sage is not used to be That it be cut down to the roots And burned, lest another suffer by it In like sort. With the gardener proceeding to do In the judge's presence, no sooner Had he brought the great bush down Than the cause of the death of the two lovers Plainly appeared. For underneath it Was a toad of prodigious dimensions From whose venomous breath As they conjectured The whole of the bush had contracted A poisonous quality. Around which toad, non-venturing to Approach it, they set the stout Infants of faggots, and burned it Together with the sage. So ended Master Judge's inquest On the death of hapless Pasquino Who, with his Simona Swollen as they were Were buried by Stramba, Adicciato, Cuccio and Brate, and Maliguevole In the Church of San Paolo Of which, as it so happened, They were parishioners. End of Day 4 The seventh story Day 4, the eighth 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. Rieg Day 4, the eighth story Girolamo love Salvestra Yielding to his mother's prayers He goes to Paris He returns to find Salvestra married He enters her house by stealth Lays himself by her side And dies He is born to the church Where Salvestra lays herself By his side and dies When Emilia's story was done They feel at a word from the king Thus began Some there are noble ladies Whom he thinks Deem themselves to be wiser Than the rest of the world And are, in fact, less so And by consequence Presume to measure their wit Against not only the councils of men But the nature of things Which presumption has from time to time Been the occasion of most grievous mishaps But nought of good Was ever seen to be tied thereof And as there is nought in nature That brooks to be schooled Or thwarted so ill as love The quality of which is such That it is more likely to die Out of its own accord Than to be done away of set purpose I am minded to tell you a story Of a lady who, while she sought To be more wise than became her And than she was And indeed than the nature Of the matter wherein she studied To show her wisdom aloud Thinking to unseat love From the heart that he had occupied And wherein perchance the stars Had established him, did in the end Banish at one and the same time Love and life From the frame of her son. Know, then, that as it is related By them of old time There was once in our city A very great and wealthy merchant Leonardo Sigieri by name Who had by his lady A son named Girolamo After whose birth He departed this life Leaving his affairs in meat and due order And well and faithfully Were they afterwards administered In the interest of the boy By his mother and guardians As he grew up Consorting more frequently With the neighbour's children Than any others of the quarter He made friends with a girl of his own age That was the daughter of a tailor And in course of time This friendship ripened into a love So great and vehemently That Girolamo was ever ill at ease When he saw her not Nor was her love for him A wit less strong Than his for her Which his mother perceiving Would not seldom chide him therefore And chastise him And as Girolamo could not give it up She confided her distress To his guardians Speaking for by reason Of her boy's great wealth She thought to make As it were an orange tree Out of a bramble on this wise This boy of ours Who is now scarce fourteen years old Is so in love with a daughter Of one of our neighbours, a tailor Salvestre is the girl's name That if we part them not He will, per adventure, none else witting Take her to wife some day And I shall never be happy again Or if he see her married to another He will pine away To prevent which Me thinks you could do well To send him away to distant parts On the affairs of the shop For so being out of sight She will come at length to be out of mind And then we can give him Some well-born girl to wife Where, too, the guardians answered That was well said And that it should be so done To the best of their power So they called the boy into the shop And one of them began talking To him very affectionately On this wise My son Thou art now almost grown up To a well thou should Now begin to learn something For thyself of thy own affairs Wherefore we should be very well pleased If thou wilt to go stay at Paris A while, where thou wilt see How we trade with not a little Of thy wealth, besides which Thou wilt there become a much Better, finer, and more complete Gentleman than thou couldst hear And when thou hast seen The lords and barons and seniors That there are in plenty And hast acquired their manners Thou canst return hither The boy listened attentively And then answered shortly That he would have none of it For he supposed he might remain At Florence as well as another Whereupon the worthy men Plied him with fresh argument But were unable to elicit Other answer from him And told his mother so Whereat she was mightily incensed And gave him a great scolding Not for his refusing to go to Paris But for his love Which done she plied him With soft weedling words And endearing expressions And gentle entreaties That he would be pleased to do As his guardians would have him Whereby at length She prevailed so far To go to Paris for a year And no more And so it was arranged To Paris accordingly Our ardent lover went And there under one pretext Or another was kept for two years He returned more in love than ever To find his salvestre Married to a good youth That was a tent-maker Whereat his mortification Knew no bounds But seeing that What must be must be He sought to compose his mind And having got to know where she lived He took to crossing her path According to the won't of young men in love Thinking that she could no more Have forgotten him than he her To us otherwise, however, She remembered him no more Than if she had never seen him Or if she had any recollection Of him she dissembled it Whereof the young man Was very soon where To his extreme sorrow Nevertheless he did all that he could To recall himself to her mind But as thereby he seemed To be nothing advantaged He made up his mind Though he should die for it To speak to her himself So, being instructed As to her house by a neighbour He entered it privilege one evening When she and her husband Were gone to spend the earlier hours With some neighbours And hid himself in her room Behind some tent-cloths That were stretched there And waited till they were come back And gone to bed And he knew the husband to be asleep Whereupon he got him To the place where he had seen Salvestre lie down And said as he gently laid His hand upon her bosom Oh, my soul, art thou yet asleep? The girl was awake And was on the point Of hearing a cry when he forestalled her Saying, Hush, for God's sake I am thy shirolamo Whereupon she Trembling in every limb Nay, but for God's sake Shirolamo be gone Tis past the time Of our childhood When our love was excusable Thou seest I am married Wherefore tis no longer Seemly that I should care For any other man than my husband And so by the one God I pray thee be gone For if my husband were to know That thou art here The least evil that could ensue Would be that I should never more Be able to live with him in peace or comfort Whereas, having his love I now pass my days with him In tranquil happiness Which speech caused the young man Grievous distress But twas in vain that he reminded her Of the past Of the love that distance had not impaired And therewith mingled many Of prayer and the mightiest Protestations Wherefore, yearning for death He besought her at last That she would suffer him To lie a while beside her Till he got some heat For he was chilled through and through Waiting for her And promised her that he would say Never a word to her nor touch her And that as soon as he was a little Formed he would go away On which terms Salvestre, being not without pity For him, granted his request So the young man lay down beside her And touched her knot But gathering up into one thought The love he had so long borne her The harshness with which she now Requited it and his ruined hopes Resolved to live no longer And in a convulsion Without a word and with fists clenched Expired by her side After a while the girl Marvelling at his continence And fearing lest her husband should awake Broke silence, saying Nay, but Girolamo, why goest thou not? But receiving no answer She supposed that he slept Wherefore, reaching forth her hand To arouse him, she touched him And found him to her great surprise Cold as ice And touching him again and again Somewhat rudely and still finding That he did not stir, she knew That he was dead Her grief was boundless And twas long before she could Bethink her how to act But at last she resolved to sound Her husband's mind as to what Should be done in such a case Without disclosing that it was his own So she awoke And told him how he was then bested As if it were the affair of another And then asked him If such a thing happened to her What course he would take The good man answered That he should deem it best To take the dead man privately home And there leave him Bearing no grudge against the lady Who seemed to have done no wrong And even so, said his wife It is for us to do And taking his hand She laid it on the corpse Where at he started up In consternation and struck a light And without further parley with his wife Clapped the dead man's clothes upon him And forthwith, confident In his own innocence, raised him On his shoulders and bore him To the door of his house Where he set him down and left him Day came, and the dead man Being found before his own door There was a great stir made Particularly by his mother The body was examined with all care From head to foot And no wound or trace of violence Being found on it The physicians were on the whole Of opinion that, as the fact was The man had died of grief So the corpse was born To a church, and thither Came the sorrowing mother and other Ladies, her kinswomen and neighbours And began to wail and mourn Over it without restraint After our florentine life And when the wailing had reached Its height, the good man In whose house the death had occurred Said to Salvestre, Go, wrap a mantel about thy head And hide thee to the church With her Girolamo has been taken And go about among the women And list what they say of this matter And I will do the like among the men That we may hear if ought be said To our disadvantage. The girl assented, fought With her husband and wife The girl assented, fought With tardy tenderness she now yearned To look on him dead, whom Living she would not solace with a Single kiss, and so to the Church she went. Ah! how marvellous to Whoso ponders it is the might Of love, and how Unsearchable his ways! That heart, which While fortune smiled on Girolamo Had remained sealed to him, Opened to him now that He was foredone, and kindling A new with all its old flame Melted with such compassion That no sooner saw she His dead face, as she there Stood wrapped in her mantel, Then edging her way forward Through the crowd of women, she Stayed not till she was beside The corpse, and there Uttering a piercing shriek She threw herself upon the Dead youth, and as her Face met his, and before She might drench it with her tears, Grief that had Reft life from him, had Even so, reft it From her. The women strove to comfort her, And bade her raise herself A little, for as yet They knew her not. Then, as she did not arise They would have helped her, but Found her stiff and stark, And so, raising her up, They in one and the same Moment saw her to be Salvestre and dead. Were at all the women That were there over-born by A redoubled pity, broke forth In wailing, new and Louder far than before. From the church The brute spread itself Among the men, and reached The ears of Salvestre's husband, Who, deaf to all that Offered comfort or consolation, Wept a long while. After which he told to not a few That were there what had passed In the night between the youth And his wife. And so it was known of all How they came to die, to the Common sorrow of all. So they took the dead girl And arrayed her, as they Won't to array the dead, And laid her on the same bed Beside the youth, and long Time they mourned her. Then they were both buried In tomb, and thus those whom Love had not been able to Weard in life, were wedded By death, in indissoluble Union. End of day four, the eighth Story, recording by Ruth Golding.