Decameron: The Adventures of Ferondo

This is the longest story in the unit, and it is one of Boccaccio's most famous satirical stories. Although the storyteller, Lauretta, claims that it is a "true story," the story comes from a French tale by Jean de Boves, a 12th-century medieval French author whose writings were known to Boccaccio.

[Notes by LKG]

This story is part of the Decameron unit. Story source: The Decameron by Boccaccio, translated by J. M. Rigg (1903).

The Adventures of Ferondo
(Lauretta: Day 3, Story 8)

A gesture of the queen sufficed to convey her behest to Lauretta, and cause her thus to begin:

Dearest ladies, I have it in mind to tell you a true story, which wears far more of the aspect of a lie than of that which it really was. My story then is of one that, living, was buried for dead, and after believed with many others that he came out of the tomb not as one that had not died but as one risen from the dead, whereby he was venerated as a saint who ought rather to have been condemned as a criminal.

Know then that there was and still is in Tuscany an abbey, situate, as we see not a few, in a somewhat solitary spot, wherein the office of abbot was held by a monk, who in all other matters ordered his life with great sanctity, save only in the commerce with women, and therein knew so well how to cloak his indulgence that scarce any there were that so much as suspected — not to say detected it — so holy and just was he reputed in all matters.

Now the abbot consorted much with a very wealthy contadino, Ferondo by name, a man coarse and gross beyond measure, whose friendship the abbot only cared for because of the opportunities which it afforded of deriving amusement from his simplicity, and during their intercourse the abbot discovered that Ferondo had a most beautiful wife of whom he became so hotly enamoured that he could think of nought else either by day or by night. But learning that, however simple and inept in all other matters, Ferondo shewed excellent good sense in cherishing and watching over this wife of his, he almost despaired.

However, being very astute, he prevailed so far with Ferondo that he would sometimes bring his wife with him to take a little recreation in the abbey-garden, where he discoursed to them with all lowliness of the blessedness of life eternal and the most pious works of many men and women of times past, insomuch that the lady conceived a desire to confess to him, and craved and had Ferondo's leave therefor.

So, to the abbot's boundless delight, the lady came and seated herself at his feet to make her confession, whereto she prefixed the following exordium: "If God, Sir, had given me a husband or had not permitted me to have one, perchance 'twould be easy for me, under your guidance, to enter the way of which you have spoken that leads to life eternal. But, considering what manner of man Ferondo is and his stupidity, I may call myself a widow while yet I am married in that, so long as he lives, I may have no other husband, and he, fool that he is, is without the least cause so inordinately jealous of me that 'tis not possible but that my life with him be one of perpetual tribulation and woe. Wherefore before I address myself to make further confession, I in all humility beseech you to be pleased to give me some counsel of this matter, for here or nowhere is to be found the source of the amelioration of my life, and if it be not found, neither confession nor any other good work will be of any avail."

The abbot was overjoyed to hear her thus speak, deeming that Fortune had opened a way to the fulfilment of his heart's desire. Wherefore he said: "My daughter, I doubt not that 'tis a great affliction to a lady, fair and delicate as you are, to have a fool for a husband, and still more so he should be jealous, and as your husband is both the one and the other, I readily credit what you say of your tribulation. But, to come to the point, I see no resource or remedy in this case, save this only: that Ferondo be cured of his jealousy. The medicine that shall cure him I know very well how to devise, but it behoves you to keep secret what I am about to tell you."

"Doubt not of it, my father," said the lady, "for I had rather suffer death than tell any aught that you forbade me to tell. But the medicine, how is it to be devised?"

"If we would have him cured," replied the abbot, "it can only be by his going to purgatory."

"And how may that be?" returned the lady; "can he go thither while he yet lives?"

"He must die," answered the abbot, "and so he will go thither, and when he has suffered pain enough to be cured of his jealousy, we have certain prayers with which we will supplicate God to restore him to life, and He will do so."

"Then," said the lady; "am I to remain a widow?"

(900 words)

No comments:

Post a Comment

Comments for Google accounts; you can also contact me at