Myth-Folklore Unit: The Decameron by Boccaccio

Overview. Giovanni Boccaccio's Decameron ("The Ten Days") is a lively experiment in storytelling: seven young women and three young men have fled from Florence during the time of the Black Death around the year 1350. Each person tells one story for ten days in a row, resulting in one hundred stories; you will read eight of those stories here. Boccaccio delighted in stories that satirized the lascivious behavior of outwardly pious monks, and three of the stories explore that theme. There are also four love stories, all of them very dramatic... and very tragic. There is also a wisdom tale, a story about the Sultan Saladin and a wise Jew who ponder the relative merits of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, a topic that was of great interest in medieval Europe as it remains so even now, almost seven hundred years later. This translation, which is by J. M. Rigg, has a free audiobook version available too!

Language. This is a modern English translation of Boccaccio which stays very close to Boccaccio in the style and sentence structure. It might feel a bit old-fashioned, but it is also very lively and should not be too difficult to read.

Story Length. This unit contains stories of varying lengths, with single-page stories, along with stories that are two, three, or four pages long.

Navigation. You will find the table of contents below, and you can also use this link to see the story posts displayed on a single page: Decameron.

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Free audiobook available!

READING A:

1. Melchisedech and Saladin
2. The Monk and His Abbot
3. The Monk and His Abbot (cont.)
4. The Adventures of Ferondo
5. The Adventures of Ferondo (cont.)
6. The Adventures of Ferondo (cont. again)
7. The Adventures of Ferondo (end)

READING B:

1. Dom Felice and Fra Puccio
2. Dom Felice and Fra Puccio (cont.)
3. The Pot of Basil
4. Simona and Pasquino
5. Girolamo and Salvestra
6. Girolamo and Salvestra (cont.)
7. Girolamo and Salvestra (end)
8. The Heart of Guillaume de Cabestaing

(The Decameron, Waterhouse)

Decameron: Melchisedech and Saladin

One of the stories told on the first day is actually a "story within a story." In fact, we are quite deep into the structure here: Boccaccio is telling us the story of Filomena, Filomena tells us the story of the wise Jew named Melchisedech, and Melchisedech tells us the story of a father who loved all three of his sons equally. Filomena provides a moral at the beginning of her story: she wants to give an example of how people can get into big trouble if they speak before they think, but if people would just think carefully before they speak, they can escape from seemingly impossible dangers. To illustrate this moral, she tells the story of a Jew named Melchisedech and his conversation with the Sultan Saladin. You may be surprised when Saladin asks Melchisedech to tell him whether the faith of the Jews, the Christians or the Muslims was most admirable. That was just as controversial a question seven hundred years ago as it is today! You can read more about this story, sometimes called "The Ring Parable" at Wikipedia.

(sculpture of Saladin in Cairo)

[Notes by LKG]

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

Melchisedech and Saladin

(Filomena: Day 1, Story 3)

[LIBRIVOX AUDIO]

Filomena, at the queen's behest, thus began:

I propose to tell you a story which will perhaps dispose you to be more circumspect than you have been wont to be in answering questions addressed to you. Well ye know, or should know, loving gossips, that as it often happens that folk by their own folly forfeit a happy estate and are plunged in most grievous misery, so good sense will extricate the wise from extremity of peril and establish them in complete and assured peace. Of the change from good to evil fortune which folly may effect, instances abound; indeed, occurring as they do by the thousand day by day, they are so conspicuous that their recital would be beside our present purpose. But that good sense may be our succour in misfortune, I will now, as I promised, make plain to you within the narrow compass of a little story.

Saladin, who by his great valour had from small beginnings made himself Soldan of Egypt and gained many victories over kings both Christian and Saracen, having in divers wars and by divers lavish displays of magnificence spent all his treasure, and in order to meet a certain emergency being in need of a large sum of money and being at a loss to raise it with a celerity adequate to his necessity, bethought him of a wealthy Jew, Melchisedech by name, who lent at usance in Alexandria, and who, were he but willing, was, as he believed, able to accommodate him, but was so miserly that he would never do so of his own accord, nor was Saladin disposed to constrain him thereto. So great, however, was his necessity that, after pondering every method whereby the Jew might be induced to be compliant, at last he determined to devise a colourably reasonable pretext for extorting the money from him.

So he sent for him, received him affably, seated him by his side, and presently said to him: "My good man, I have heard from many people that thou art very wise and of great discernment in divine things, wherefore I would gladly know of thee: which of the three laws thou reputest the true law, the law of the Jews, the law of the Saracens, or the law of the Christians?"

The Jew, who was indeed a wise man, saw plainly enough that Saladin meant to entangle him in his speech that he might have occasion to harass him, and bethought him that he could not praise any of the three laws above another without furnishing Saladin with the pretext which he sought. So, concentrating all the force of his mind to shape such an answer as might avoid the snare, he presently lit on what he sought, saying:"My lord, a pretty question indeed is this which you propound, and fain would I answer it, to which end it is apposite that I tell you a story, which, if you will hearken, is as follows:

If I mistake not, I remember to have often heard tell of a great and rich man of old time who, among other most precious jewels, had in his treasury a ring of extraordinary beauty and value, which by reason of its value and beauty he was minded to leave to his heirs for ever; for which cause he ordained, that, whichever of his sons was found in possession of the ring as by his bequest should thereby be designate his heir and be entitled to receive from the rest the honour and homage due to a superior. The son, to whom he bequeathed the ring, left it in like manner to his descendants, making the like ordinance as his predecessor.

In short the ring passed from hand to hand for many generations, and in the end came to the hands of one who had three sons, goodly and virtuous all, and very obedient to their father, so that he loved them all indifferently. The rule touching the descent of the ring was known to the young men and, each aspiring to hold the place of honour among them, did all he could to persuade his father, who was now old, to leave the ring to him at his death.

The worthy man, who loved them all equally and knew not how to choose from among them a sole legatee, promised the ring to each in turn and, in order to satisfy all three, caused a cunning artificer secretly to make two other rings, so like the first that the maker himself could hardly tell which was the true ring. So, before he died, he disposed of the rings, giving one privily to each of his sons; whereby it came to pass, that after his decease each of the sons claimed the inheritance and the place of honour, and, his claim being disputed by his brothers, produced his ring in witness of right. And the rings being found so like one to another that it was impossible to distinguish the true one, the suit to determine the true heir remained pendent, and still so remains.

And so, my lord, to your question, touching the three laws given to the three peoples by God the Father, I answer: Each of these peoples deems itself to have the true inheritance, the true law, the true commandments of God, but which of them is justified in so believing, is a question which, like that of the rings, remains pendent."

The excellent adroitness with which the Jew had contrived to evade the snare which he had laid for his feet was not lost upon Saladin. He therefore determined to let the Jew know his need, and did so, telling him at the same time what he had intended to do in the event of his answering less circumspectly than he had done.

Thereupon the Jew gave the Soldan all the accommodation that he required, which the Soldan afterwards repaid him in full. He also gave him most munificent gifts with his lifelong amity and a great and honourable position near his person.

Next: The Monk and His Abbot

(1000 words)

Decameron: The Monk and His Abbot

This story is set in Lunigiana, Tuscany. You can find out more about Lunigiana at Wikipedia. This is the first in a series of scandalous stories that Boccaccio will tell about the monks and their love lives.

[Notes by LKG]

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

The Monk and His Abbot

(Dioneo: Day 1, Story 4)

[LIBRIVOX AUDIO]

The silence which followed the conclusion of Filomena's tale was broken by Dioneo, who sate next her and, without waiting for the queen's word, for he knew that by the rule laid down at the commencement it was now his turn to speak, began on this wise:

Loving ladies, if I have well understood the intention of you all, we are here to afford entertainment to one another by story-telling; wherefore, provided only nought is done that is repugnant to this end, I deem it lawful for each (and so said our queen a little while ago) to tell whatever story seems to him most likely to be amusing. Seeing, then, that we have heard howMelchisedech by his own good sense safe-guarded his wealth against the stratagems of Saladin, I hope to escape your censure in narrating a brief story of a monk, who by his address delivered his body from imminent peril of most severe chastisement.

In the not very remote district of Lunigiana there flourished formerly a community of monks more numerous and holy than is there to be found today, among whom was a young brother, whose vigour and lustihood neither the fasts nor the vigils availed to subdue. One afternoon, while the rest of the confraternity slept, our young monk took a stroll around the church, which lay in a very sequestered spot, and chanced to espy a young and very beautiful girl, a daughter, perhaps, of one of the husbandmen of those parts, going through the fields and gathering herbs as she went. No sooner had he seen her than he was sharply assailed by carnal concupiscence, insomuch that he made up to and accosted her, and (she hearkening) little by little they came to an understanding and, unobserved by any, entered his cell together.

Now it so chanced that while they fooled it within somewhat recklessly, he being overwrought with passion, the abbot awoke and, passing slowly by the young monk's cell, heard the noise which they made within and, the better to distinguish the voices, came softly up to the door of the cell and, listening, discovered that beyond all doubt there was a woman within. His first thought was to force the door open, but, changing his mind, he returned to his chamber and waited until the monk should come out.

Delightsome beyond measure though the monk found his intercourse with the girl, yet was he not altogether without anxiety. He had heard, as he thought, the sound of footsteps in the dormitory and, having applied his eye to a convenient aperture, had had a good view of the abbot as he stood by the door listening. He was thus fully aware that the abbot might have detected the presence of a woman in the cell. Whereat he was exceedingly distressed, knowing that he had a severe punishment to expect, but he concealed his vexation from the girl while he busily cast about in his mind for some way of escape from his embarrassment. He thus hit on a novel stratagem which was exactly suited to his purpose.

With the air of one who had had enough of the girl's company he said to her: "I shall now leave you in order that I may arrange for your departure hence unobserved. Stay here quietly until I return." So out he went, locking the door of the cell and withdrawing the key, which he carried straight to the abbot's chamber and handed to him, as was the custom when a monk was going out, saying with a composed air: "Sir, I was not able this morning to bring in all the faggots which I had made ready, so with your leave I will go to the wood and bring them in."

The abbot, desiring to have better cognisance of the monk's offence and not dreaming that the monk knew that he had been detected, was pleased with the turn matters had taken and received the key gladly, at the same time giving the monk the desired leave.

Next: The Monk and His Abbot (cont.)

(700 words)

Decameron: The Monk and His Abbot (cont.)

As you learn in this concluding part of the story, this is a Benedictine monastery, governed by the Rule of St. Benedict. You can learn more about the Benedictines at Wikipedia.

[Notes by LKG]

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

The Monk and His Abbot (cont.)

(see previous page for audio)

So the monk withdrew, and the abbot began to consider what course it were best for him to take, whether to assemble the brotherhood and open the door in their presence that, being witnesses of the delinquency, they might have no cause to murmur against him when he proceeded to punish the delinquent, or whether it were not better first to learn from the girl's own lips how it had come about. And reflecting that she might be the wife or daughter of some man who would take it ill that she should be shamed by being exposed to the gaze of all the monks, he determined first of all to find out who she was and then to make up his mind.

So he went softly to the cell, opened the door and, having entered, closed it behind him. The girl, seeing that her visitor was none other than the abbot, quite lost her presence of mind and, quaking with shame, began to weep. Master abbot surveyed her from head to foot and, seeing that she was fresh and comely, fell a prey, old though he was, to fleshly cravings no less poignant and sudden than those which the young monk had experienced, and began thus to commune with himself: "Alas! Why take I not my pleasure when I may, seeing that I never need lack for occasions of trouble and vexation of spirit? Here is a fair wench, and no one in the world to know. If I can bring her to pleasure me, I know not why I should not do so. Who will know? No one will ever know, and sin that is hidden is half forgiven; this chance may never come again — so, methinks, it were the part of wisdom to take the boon which God bestows."

So musing, with an altogether different purpose from that with which he had come, he drew near the girl, and softly bade her to be comforted, and besought her not to weep, and so little by little he came at last to show her what he would be at. The girl, being made neither of iron nor of adamant, was readily induced to gratify the abbot who, after bestowing upon her many an embrace and kiss, got upon the monk's bed, where, being sensible, perhaps, of the disparity between his reverend portliness and her tender youth, and fearing to injure her by his excessive weight, he refrained from lying upon her but laid her upon him, and in that manner disported himself with her for a long time.

The monk, who had only pretended to go to the wood and had concealed himself in the dormitory, no sooner saw the abbot enter his cell than he was overjoyed to think that his plan would succeed, and when he saw that he had locked the door, he was well assured thereof. So he stole out of his hiding-place and set his eye to an aperture through which he saw and heard all that the abbot did and said.

At length the abbot, having had enough of dalliance with the girl, locked her in the cell and returned to his chamber. Catching sight of the monk soon afterwards and supposing him to have returned from the wood, he determined to give him a sharp reprimand and have him imprisoned that he might thus secure the prey for himself alone. He therefore caused him to be summoned, chid him very severely and with a stern countenance, and ordered him to be put in prison.

The monk replied trippingly: "Sir, I have not been so long in the order of St. Benedict as to have every particular of the rule by heart, nor did you teach me before today in what posture it behoves the monk to have intercourse with women, but limited your instruction to such matters as fasts and vigils. As, however, you have now given me my lesson, I promise you, if you also pardon my offence, that I will never repeat it, but will always follow the example which you have set me."

The abbot, who was a shrewd man, saw at once that the monk was not only more knowing than he, but had actually seen what he had done; nor, conscience-stricken himself, could he for shame mete out to the monk a measure which he himself merited. So, pardon given with an injunction to bury what had been seen in silence, they decently conveyed the young girl out of the monastery, whither, it is to be believed, they now and again caused her to return.

Next: The Adventures of Ferondo

(800 words)

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]

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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)

[LIBRIVOX AUDIO]

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?"

Next: The Adventures of Ferondo (cont.)

(900 words)

Decameron: The Adventures of Ferondo (cont.)

In the Catholic tradition, Purgatory is a place where the dead go to be purified before they enter heaven. You can read more about Purgatory at Wikipedia.

To make Ferondo think that he is in Purgatory, the abbot will drug him using a powder he obtained from the "Levant" (i.e., the eastern Mediterranean). This powder supposedly was used by the Old Man of the Mountain, the legendary leader of the "Assassins," which would mean the drug was hashish, or something like it. You can find out more about the Assassins of Persia and Syria at Wikipedia.

[Notes by LKG]

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

The Adventures of Ferondo (cont.)

(see previous page for audio)

"Yes," replied the abbot, "for a certain time, during which you must be very careful not to let yourself be married to another, because 'twould offend God, and when Ferondo was restored to life, you would have to go back to him, and he would be more jealous than ever."

"Be it so then," said the lady, "if he be but cured of his jealousy, and so I be not doomed to pass the rest of my days in prison, I shall be content: do as you think best."

"And so will I," said the abbot; "but what reward shall I have for such a service?"

"My father," said the lady, "what you please, so only it be in my power. But what may the like of me do that may be acceptable to a man such as you?"

"Madam," replied the abbot, "'tis in your power to do no less for me than I am about to do for you: as that which I am minded to do will ensure your comfort and consolation, so there is that which you may do which will be the deliverance and salvation of my life."

"If so it be," said the lady, "I shall not be found wanting."

"In that case," said the abbot, "you will give me your love and gratify my passion for you, with which I am all afire and wasting away."

Whereto the lady, all consternation, replied: "Alas! my father, what is this you crave? I took you for a holy man; now does it beseem holy men to make such overtures to ladies that come to them for counsel?"

"Marvel not, fair my soul," returned the abbot; "hereby is my holiness in no wise diminished, for holiness resides in the soul, and this which I ask of you is but a sin of the flesh. But, however it may be, such is the might of your bewitching beauty that love constrains me thus to act. And, let me tell you, good cause have you to vaunt you of your beauty more than other women, in that it delights the saints, who are used to contemplate celestial beauties, whereto I may add that, albeit I am an abbot, yet I am a man even as others and, as you see, not yet old. Nor need this matter seem formidable to you, but rather to be anticipated with pleasure for, while Ferondo is in purgatory, I shall be your nightly companion and will give you such solace as he should have given you, nor will it ever be discovered by any, for all think of me even as you did a while ago, or even more so. Reject not the grace that God accords you, for 'tis in your power to have, and, if you are wise and follow my advice, you shall have that which women not a few desire in vain to have. And, moreover, I have jewels fair and rare, which I am minded shall be yours and none other's. Wherefore, sweet my hope, deny me not due guerdon of the service which I gladly render you."

The lady, her eyes still downcast, knew not how to deny him, and yet scrupled to gratify him, wherefore the abbot, seeing that she had hearkened and hesitated to answer, deemed that she was already half won and, following up what he had said with much more to the like effect, did not rest until he had persuaded her that she would do well to comply, and so with some confusion she told him that she was ready to obey his every behest, but it might not be until Ferondo was in purgatory.

The abbot, well content, replied: "And we will send him thither forthwith: do but arrange that he come hither to stay with me to-morrow or the day after." Which said, he slipped a most beautiful ring on her finger, and dismissed her.

Pleased with the gift, and expecting more to come, the lady rejoined her attendants, with whom she forthwith fell a talking marvellous things of the abbot's sanctity, and so went home with them.

Some few days after, Ferondo being come to the abbey, the abbot no sooner saw him than he resolved to send him to purgatory. So he selected from among his drugs a powder of marvellous virtue, which he had gotten in the Levant from a great prince, who averred that 'twas wont to be used by the Old Man of the Mountain when he would send any one to or bring him from his paradise and that, without doing the recipient any harm, 'twould induce in him, according to the quantity of the dose, a sleep of such duration and quality that, while the efficacy of the powder lasted, none would deem him to be alive.

Whereof he took enough to cause a three days' sleep and gave it to Ferondo in his cell in a beaker that had still some wine in it, so that he drank it unwittingly, after which he took Ferondo to the cloister, and there with some of his monks fell to making merry with him and his ineptitudes. In no long time, however, the powder so wrought that Ferondo was seized in the head with a fit of somnolence so sudden and violent that he slept as he stood and, sleeping, fell to the ground.

The abbot put on an agitated air, caused him to be untrussed, sent for cold water, and had it sprinkled on his face and applied such other remedies as if he would fain call back life and sense banished by vapours of the stomach, or some other intrusive force, but as for all that he and his monks did, Ferondo did not revive, they, after feeling his pulse and finding there no sign of life, one and all pronounced him certainly dead.

Next: The Adventures of Ferondo (cont. again)

(1000 words)

Decameron: The Adventures of Ferondo (cont. again)

When Ferondo awakes "in purgatory," or so the monk tells him, his cleansing begins, with the monk punishing Ferondo for his jealousy and mistrust of his wife. The monk even tells Ferondo that, if God is willing, he might return to life again, instead of going to heaven, as one would expect for a soul in purgatory!

[Notes by LKG]

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

The Adventures of Ferondo (cont. again)

(see previous page for audio)

Wherefore they sent word to his wife and kinsfolk, who came forthwith and mourned a while, after which Ferondo in his clothes was by the abbot's order laid in a tomb. The lady went home, saying that nothing should ever part her from a little son that she had borne Ferondo, and so she occupied herself with the care of her son and Ferondo's estate.

At night the abbot rose noiselessly and, with the help of a Bolognese monk in whom he reposed much trust and who was that very day arrived from Bologna, got Ferondo out of the tomb and bore him to a vault which admitted no light, having been made to serve as a prison for delinquent monks, and, having stripped him of his clothes and habited him as a monk, they laid him on a truss of straw and left him there until he should revive. Expecting which event and instructed by the abbot how he was then to act, the Bolognese monk (none else knowing aught of what was afoot) kept watch by the tomb.

The day after, the abbot with some of his monks paid a pastoral visit to the lady's house, where he found her in mourning weeds and sad at heart, and, after administering a little consolation, he gently asked her to redeem her promise. Free as she now felt herself and hampered neither by Ferondo nor by any other, the lady, who had noticed another beautiful ring on the abbot's finger, promised immediate compliance and arranged with the abbot that he should visit her the very next night.

So, at nightfall, the abbot donned Ferondo's clothes and, attended by his monk, paid his visit, and lay with her until matins to his immense delight and solace, and so returned to the abbey, and many visits he paid her on the same errand, whereby some that met him, coming or going that way, supposed that 'twas Ferondo perambulating those parts by way of penance, and fables not a few passed from mouth to mouth of the foolish rustics and sometimes reached the ears of the lady, who was at no loss to account for them.

As for Ferondo, when he revived, 'twas only to find himself he knew not where, while the Bolognese monk entered the tomb, gibbering horribly and armed with a rod wherewith, having laid hold of Ferondo, he gave him a severe thrashing.

Blubbering and bellowing for pain, Ferondo could only ejaculate: "Where am I?"

"In purgatory," replied the monk.

"How?" returned Ferondo; "am I dead then?" and the monk assuring him that 'twas even so, he fell a bewailing his own and his lady's and his son's fate, after the most ridiculous fashion in the world.

The monk brought him somewhat to eat and drink, of which when Ferondo caught sight, "Oh!" said he; "dead folk eat then, do they?"

"They do," replied the monk, "and this, which I bring thee, is what the lady that was thy wife sent this morning to the church by way of alms for masses for thy soul, and God is minded that it be assigned to thee."

"Now God grant her a happy year," said Ferondo; "dearly I loved her while I yet lived, and would hold her all night long in my arms, and cease not to kiss her, ay, and would do yet more to her when I was so minded." Whereupon he fell to eating and drinking with great avidity and, finding the wine not much to his taste, he said: "Now God do her a mischief! Why gave she not the priest of the wine that is in the cask by the wall?"

When he had done eating, the monk laid hold of him again and gave him another sound thrashing with the rod. Ferondo bellowed mightily, and then cried out: "Alas! Why servest thou me so?"

"God," answered the monk, "has decreed that thou be so served twice a day."

"For why?" said Ferondo.

"Because," returned the monk, "thou wast jealous, notwithstanding thou hadst to wife a woman that has not her peer in thy countryside."

"Alas," said Ferondo, "she was indeed all that thou sayst, ay, and the sweetest creature too — no comfit so honeyed — but I knew not that God took it amiss that a man should be jealous, or I had not been so."

"Of that," replied the monk, "thou shouldst have bethought thee while thou wast there and have amended thy ways, and should it fall to thy lot ever to return thither, be sure that thou so lay to heart the lesson that I now give thee: that thou be no more jealous."

"Oh!" said Ferondo; "dead folk sometimes return to earth, do they?"

"They do," replied the monk, "if God so will."

Next: The Adventures of Ferondo (end)

(800 words)

Decameron: The Adventures of Ferondo (end)

You will see a funny, and untranslatable, Italian play on words at the end, when Ferondo makes reference to the "Ragnolo Braghiello" (misspeaking the name of the angel Gabriel, "angelo Gabriele"), which means something like "Spider Pantaloons."

[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 (end)

(see previous page for audio)

"Oh!" said Ferondo; "if I ever return, I will be the best husband in the world: never will I beat her or scold her, save for the wine that she has sent me this morning, and also for sending me never a candle, so that I have had perforce to eat in the dark."

"Nay," said the monk, "she sent them, but they were burned at the masses."

"Oh!" said Ferondo. "I doubt not you say true, and, of a surety, if I ever return, I will let her do just as she likes. But tell me, who art thou that entreatest me thus?"

"Late of Sardinia I," answered the monk, "dead too, and, for that I gave my lord much countenance in his jealousy, doomed by God for my proper penance to entreat thee thus with food and drink and thrashings until such time as He may ordain otherwise touching thee and me."

"And are we two the only folk here?" inquired Ferondo.

"Nay, there are thousands beside," answered the monk, "but thou canst neither see nor hear them, nor they thee."

"And how far," said Ferondo, "may we be from our country?"

"Oh! ho!" returned the monk; "why, 'tis some miles clean out of shitrange."

"I'faith," said Ferondo, "that is far indeed: methinks we must be out of the world."

In such a course, alternately beaten, fed and amused with idle tales, was Ferondo kept for ten months, while the abbot, to his great felicity, paid many a visit to the fair lady and had the jolliest time in the world with her. But, as misfortunes will happen, the lady conceived, which fact, as soon as she was aware of it, she imparted to the abbot, whereupon both agreed that Ferondo must without delay be brought back from purgatory to earth and her, and be given to understand that she was with child of him.

So the very next night the abbot went to the prison and, in a disguised voice, pronounced Ferondo's name and said to him: "Ferondo, be of good cheer, for God is minded that thou return to earth, and on thy return thou shalt have a son by thy lady, and thou shalt call him Benedetto, because 'tis in answer to the prayers of thy holy abbot and thy lady, and for love of St. Benedict, that God accords thee this grace."

Whereat Ferondo was overjoyed and said: "It likes me well. God give a good year to Master Lord God, and the abbot, and St. Benedict, and my cheese-powdered, honey-sweet wife."

Then, in the wine that he sent him, the abbot administered enough of the powder to cause him to sleep for four hours, and so, with the aid of the monk, having first habited him in his proper clothes, he privily conveyed him back to the tomb in which he had been buried. On the morrow at daybreak, Ferondo revived and, perceiving through a chink in the tomb a glimmer of light to which he had been a stranger for full ten months, he knew that he was alive and began to bellow: "Let me out, let me out!"

Then, setting his head to the lid of the tomb, he heaved amain, whereby the lid, being insecure, started, and he was already thrusting it aside, when the monks, matins being now ended, ran to the spot and recognized Ferondo's voice and saw him issue from the tomb, by which unwonted event they were all so affrighted that they took to flight and hied them to the abbot, who, rising as if from prayer, said: "Sons, be not afraid; take the cross and the holy water, and follow me, and let us see what sign of His might God will vouchsafe us."

And so he led the way to the tomb, beside which they found Ferondo, standing, deathly pale by reason of his long estrangement from the light. On sight of the abbot, he ran and threw himself at his feet, saying: "My father, it has been revealed to me that 'tis to your prayers and those of St. Benedict and my lady that I owe my release from purgatorial pain and restoration to life, wherefore 'tis my prayer that God give you a good year and good calends, today and all days."

"Laud we the power of God!" said the abbot. "Go then, son, as God has restored thee to earth: comfort thy wife who, since thou didst depart this life, has been ever in tears, and mayst thou live henceforth in the love and service of God."

"Sir," answered Ferondo, "'tis well said, and, for the doing, trust me that, as soon as I find her, I shall kiss her; such is the love I bear her."

So saying, he went his way, and the abbot, left alone with his monks, made as if he marvelled greatly at the affair, and caused devoutly chant the Miserere.

So Ferondo returned to his hamlet where, all that saw him fleeing as folk are wont to flee from spectacles of horror, he called them back, asseverating that he was risen from the tomb. His wife at first was no less timorous, but, as folk began to take heart of grace perceiving that he was alive, they plied him with many questions, all which he answered as one that had returned with ripe experience, and gave them tidings of the souls of their kinsfolk, and told of his own invention the prettiest fables of the purgatorial state, and in full folkmoot recounted the revelation vouchsafed him by the mouth of Ragnolo Braghiello before his resuscitation.

Thus was Ferondo reinstated in his property and reunited to his wife who, being pregnant, as he thought, by himself, chanced by the time of her delivery to countenance the vulgar error that the woman must bear the infant in the womb for exactly nine months, and gave birth to a male child who was named Benedetto Ferondi. Ferondo's return from purgatory, and the report he brought thence, immeasurably enhanced the fame of the abbot's holiness. So Ferondo, cured of his jealousy by the thrashings which he had gotten for it, verified the abbot's prediction and never offended the lady again in that sort. Wherefore she lived with him, as before, in all outward seemliness, albeit she failed not, as occasion served, to forgather with the holy abbot, who had so well and sedulously served her in her especial need.

Next: Dom Felice and Fra Puccio

(1100 words)

Decameron: Dom Felice and Fra Puccio

This is the story of a wealthy man named Puccio who becomes a lay member of a Franciscan monastery, and thus was known as Fra Puccio, i.e. Brother Puccio. A lay member, or "tertiary" as he is called here, is someone who is not a monk or a nun, but who belongs to the "third order" of the monastery, meaning that they do not make religious vows, although they do join in the religious life of the monastery. You can find out more about monastic "third orders" at Wikipedia.

[Notes by LKG]

---

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

Dom Felice and Fra Puccio

(Pamfilo: Day 3, Story 4)

[LIBRIVOX AUDIO]

The queen glanced with a smile to Pamfilo, and said: "Now, Pamfilo, give us some pleasant trifle to speed our delight."

"That gladly will I," returned forthwith Pamfilo, and then, "Madam," he began:

Not a few there are that, while they use their best endeavours to get themselves places in Paradise, do, by inadvertence, send others thither: as did, not long ago, betide a fair neighbour of ours, as you shall hear.

Hard by San Pancrazio there used to live, as I have heard tell, a worthy man and wealthy, Puccio di Rinieri by name who, in later life under an overpowering sense of religion, became a tertiary of the order of St. Francis, and was thus known as Fra Puccio. In which spiritual life he was the better able to persevere that his household consisted but of a wife and a maid and, having no need to occupy himself with any craft, he spent no small part of his time at church, where, being a simple soul and slow of wit, he said his paternosters, heard sermons, assisted at the mass, never missed lauds when chanted by the seculars, fasted and mortified his flesh; nay — so 'twas whispered — he was of the Flagellants.

His wife, Monna Isabetta by name, a woman of from twenty-eight to thirty summers, still young for her age, lusty, comely and plump as an apple, had not unfrequently, by reason of her husband's devoutness, if not also of his age, more than she cared for of abstinence, and when she was sleepy, or, maybe, riggish, he would repeat to her the life of Christ, and the sermons of Fra Nastagio, or the lament of the Magdalen, or the like.

Now, while such was the tenor of her life, there returned from Paris a young monk by name Dom Felice, of the convent of San Pancrazio, a well-favoured man, and keen-witted, and profoundly learned, with whom Fra Puccio became very intimate, and as there was no question which he could put to him but Dom Felice could answer it, and moreover he made great shew of holiness, for well he knew Fra Puccio's bent, Fra Puccio took to bringing him home and entertaining him at breakfast and supper, as occasion served, and for love of her husband, the lady also grew familiar with Dom Felice and was zealous to do him honour.

So the monk, being a constant visitor at Fra Puccio's house and seeing the lady so lusty and plump, surmised that of which she must have most lack and made up his mind to afford, if he could, at once relief to Fra Puccio and contentment to the lady. So cautiously, now and again, he cast an admiring glance in her direction with such effect that he kindled in her the same desire with which he burned and, marking his success, took the first opportunity to declare his passion to her. He found her fully disposed to gratify it, but how this might be, he was at a loss to discover, for she would not trust herself with him in any place whatever except her own house, and there it could not be, because Fra Puccio never travelled, whereby the monk was greatly dejected.

Long he pondered the matter and at length thought of an expedient whereby he might be with the lady in her own house without incurring suspicion, notwithstanding that Fra Puccio was there. So, being with Fra Puccio one day, he said to him: "Reasons many have I to know, Fra Puccio, that all thy desire is to become a saint, but it seems to me that thou farest by a circuitous route, whereas there is one very direct, which the Pope and the greater prelates that are about him know and use, but will have it remain a secret because otherwise the clergy, who for the most part live by alms and could not then expect alms or aught else from the laity, would be speedily ruined. However, as thou art my friend and hast shewn me much honour, I would teach thee that way, if I were assured that thou wouldst follow it without letting another soul in the world hear of it."

Fra Puccio was now all agog to hear more of the matter and began most earnestly entreating Dom Felice to teach him the way, swearing that, without Dom Felice's leave, none should ever hear of it from him and averring that, if he found it practicable, he would certainly follow it.

"I am satisfied with thy promises," said the monk, "and I will shew thee the way. Know then that the holy doctors hold that whoso would achieve blessedness must do the penance of which I shall tell thee, but see thou take me judiciously. I do not say that after the penance thou wilt not be a sinner, as thou art, but the effect will be that the sins which thou hast committed up to the very hour of the penance will all be purged away and thereby remitted to thee, and the sins which thou shalt commit thereafter will not be written against thee to thy damnation, but will be quit by holy water, like venial sins.

Next: Dom Felice and Fra Puccio (cont.)

(900 words)

Decameron: Dom Felice and Fra Puccio (cont.)

While Fra Puccio is busily engaged in his spiritual exercises, his wife indulges in more carnal pleasures. In the satirical spirit you have seen in the other Decameron stories, Boccaccio refers to the wife "riding the horse of St. Benedict or St. John Gualbert," as if her sexual activity were a spiritual exercise also. You heard about Saint Benedict in an earlier story; Giovanni Gaulberto (John Gualbert) was a Benedictine monk who lived in Florence, Italy during the 11th century; he was made a saint in 1193. You can read more about him at Wikipedia.

[Notes by LKG]

---

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

Dom Felice and Fra Puccio (cont.)

(see previous page for audio)

"First of all then, the penitent must with great exactitude confess his sins when he comes to begin the penance. Then follows a period of fasting and very strict abstinence which must last for forty days, during which time he is to touch no woman whomsoever, not even his wife. Moreover, thou must have in thy house some place whence thou mayst see the sky by night, whither thou must resort at compline, and there thou must have a beam, very broad, and placed in such a way, that, standing, thou canst rest thy nether part upon it, and so, not raising thy feet from the ground, thou must extend thy arms, so as to make a sort of crucifix, and if thou wouldst have pegs to rest them on thou mayst, and on this manner, thy gaze fixed on the sky and never moving a jot, thou must stand until matins. And wert thou lettered, it were proper for thee to say meanwhile certain prayers that I would give thee, but as thou art not so, thou must say three hundred paternosters and as many avemarias in honour of the Trinity, and thus contemplating the sky, be ever mindful that God was the creator of the heaven and the earth, and being set even as Christ was upon the cross, meditate on His passion.

"Then, when the matin-bell sounds, thou mayst, if thou please, go to bed — but see that thou undress not — and sleep, but in the morning thou must go to church, and hear at least three masses, and say fifty paternosters and as many avemarias, after which thou mayst with a pure heart do aught that thou hast to do and breakfast, but at vespers thou must be again at church and say there certain prayers, which I shall give thee in writing and which are indispensable, and after compline thou must repeat thy former exercise. Do this, and I, who have done it before thee, have good hope that even before thou shalt have reached the end of the penance, thou wilt, if thou shalt do it in a devout spirit, have already a marvellous foretaste of the eternal blessedness."

"This," said Fra Puccio, "is neither a very severe nor a very long penance, and can be very easily managed, wherefore in God's name I will begin on Sunday." And so he took his leave of Dom Felice, and went home and, by Dom Felice's permission, informed his wife of every particular of his intended penance.

The lady understood very well what the monk meant by enjoining him not to stir from his post until matins, and, deeming it an excellent device, she said that she was well content that he should do this or aught else that he thought good for his soul, and to the end that his penance might be blest of, she would herself fast with him, though she would go no further.

So they did as they had agreed: when Sunday came, Fra Puccio began his penance, and master monk, by understanding with the lady, came most evenings, at the hour when he was secure from discovery, to sup with her, always bringing with him abundance both of meat and of drink and, after, slept with her till the matin hour when he got up and left her, and Fra Puccio went to bed.

The place which Fra Puccio had chosen for his penance was close to the room in which the lady slept and only separated from it by the thinnest of partitions, so that, the monk and the lady disporting themselves with one another without stint or restraint, Fra Puccio thought he felt the floor of the house shake a little and, pausing at his hundredth paternoster,but without leaving his post, called out to the lady to know what she was about.

The lady, who dearly loved a jest and was just then riding the horse of St. Benedict or St. John Gualbert, answered: "I'faith, husband, I am as restless as may be."

"Restless," said Fra Puccio, "how so? What means this restlessness?"

Whereto with a hearty laugh, for which she doubtless had good occasion, the bonny lady replied: "What means it? How should you ask such a question? Why, I have heard you say a thousand times: 'Who fasting goes to bed, uneasy lies his head.'"

Fra Puccio, supposing that her wakefulness and restlessness abed was due to want of food, said in good faith: "Wife, I told thee I would have thee not fast, but as thou hast chosen to fast, think not of it, but think how thou mayst compose thyself to sleep; thou tossest about the bed in such sort that the shaking is felt here."

"That need cause thee no alarm," rejoined the lady. "I know what I am about; I will manage as well as I can, and do thou likewise."

So Fra Puccio said no more to her but resumed his paternosters, and thenceforth every night, while Fra Puccio's penance lasted, the lady and master monk, having had a bed made up for them in another part of the house, did there wanton it most gamesomely, the monk departing and the lady going back to her bed at one and the same time, being shortly before Fra Puccio's return from his nightly vigil. The friar thus persisting in his penance while the lady took her fill of pleasure with the monk, she would from time to time say jestingly to him: "Thou layest a penance upon Fra Puccio whereby we are rewarded with Paradise."

So well indeed did she relish the dainties with which the monk regaled her, the more so by contrast with the abstemious life to which her husband had long accustomed her that, when Fra Puccio's penance was done, she found means to enjoy them elsewhere and ordered her indulgence with such discretion as to ensure its long continuance.

Whereby (that my story may end as it began) it came to pass that Fra Puccio, hoping by his penance to win a place for himself in Paradise, did in fact translate thither the monk who had shewn him the way and the wife who lived with him in great dearth of that of which the monk in his charity gave her superabundant largess.

Next: The Pot of Basil

(1000 words)

Decameron: The Pot of Basil

This story by Boccaccio inspired a poem by John Keats: Isabella, or the Pot of Basil. You can read Keats's English poem here: Isabella; or, The Pot of Basil. Boccaccio in turn had based his story on a Sicilian folksong and, as you will see, the story is set in Messina, Sicily.

[Notes by LKG]

---

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

The Pot of Basil

(Filomena: Day 4, Story 5)

[LIBRIVOX AUDIO]

The king then laid the burden of discourse upon Filomena, who, thus began:

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 debonair, 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 Pisan, 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 favour, 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, 'twas 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, whereby one night as Lisabetta was going to Lorenzo's room, she, all unwitting, was observed by the eldest of the brothers, who, albeit much distressed by what he had learnt yet ,being a young man of discretion, was swayed by considerations more seemly and, allowing no word to escape him, spent the night in turning the affair over in his mind in divers ways.

On the morrow he told his brothers that which, touching Lisabetta and Lorenzo, he had observed in the night, which, that no shame might thence ensue 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 nought 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 which purpose, they jested and laughed with Lorenzo as they had been wont, and after a while, pretending that they were all three going forth of the city on pleasure, they took Lorenzo with them and; being come to a remote and very lonely spot, seeing that 'twas apt for their design, they took Lorenzo, who was completely off his guard, and slew him, and buried him on such wise that none was ware of it.

On their return to Messina they gave out that they had sent him away on business; which was readily believed because 'twas 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, when she was very pressing in her enquiries, one of the brothers said: "What means this? What hast 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 deservest."

So the girl, sick at heart and sorrowful, fearing she knew not what, asked no questions; but many a time at night she called piteously to him, and besought him to come to her, and bewailed his long tarrying 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, wan and in utter disarray, his clothes torn to shreds and sodden, and thus, as she thought, he spoke: "Lisabetta, thou dost nought but call me, and vex thyself for my long tarrying, and bitterly upbraid 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 slew me." After which, he described the place where they had buried him, told her to call and expect him no more, and vanished.

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 aught 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 had appeared to her. So, having leave to go a little way out of the city for recreation in company with a maid that had at one time lived with them and knew all that she did, she hied her thither with all speed, and, having removed the dry leaves that were strewn about the place, she began to dig where the earth seemed least hard. Nor had she dug long 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 bewail him there, she would gladly, if she could, have carried away the body and given it more honourable sepulture elsewhere, but as she might not so do, 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 piece of fine cloth, and set it in a large and beautiful pot of the sort in which marjoram or basil is planted, and covered it with earth, and therein planted some roots of the goodliest basil of Salerno, and drenched them only with her tears or water perfumed with roses or orange-blossoms. And 'twas her wont ever to sit beside this pot and, all her soul one yearning, to pore 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 lay therein, the basil burgeoned out in exceeding great beauty and fragrance. And, the girl persevering ever in this way of life, the neighbours from time to time took note of it, and when her brothers marvelled to see her beauty ruined and her eyes as it were evanished from her head, they told them of it, saying: "We have observed that such is her daily wont."

Whereupon the brothers, marking her behaviour, chid her therefore once or twice and, as she heeded them not, caused the pot to be taken privily 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, ceased not to wail and weep, insomuch that she fell sick, nor in her sickness craved she aught but the pot of basil.

Whereat the young men, marvelling mightily, resolved to see what the pot might contain and, having removed the earth, they espied the cloth and therein the head, which was not yet so decayed but that by the curled locks they knew it for Lorenzo's head. Passing strange they found it, and, fearing lest it should be bruited abroad, they buried the head and, with as little said as might be, took order for their privy departure from Messina and hied them thence 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 a few in course of time coming to know the truth of the affair, there was one that made the song that is still sung: to wit:

A thief he was, I swear,
A sorry Christian he,
That took my basil of Salerno fair, etc.

[Although Boccaccio did not include the entire folksong, you can see the folksong here.]

Next: Simona and Pasquino

(1400 words)

Decameron: Simona and Pasquino

A poisonous toad will make an appearance in this story; you can find out more about the folklore of toads at this Exploratorium webpage.

[Notes by LKG]

---

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

(sage plant)

Simona and Pasquino

(Emilia: Day 4, Novel 7)

[LIBRIVOX AUDIO]

When Pamfilo had done with his story, the king, glancing at Emilia, signified to her his desire that she should now continue the sequence of narration. Emilia made no demur, and thus began:—

Dear gossips, as 'twas said among us a while ago, albeit Love affects the mansions of the noble, he does not, therefore, disdain the dominion of the dwellings of the poor, nay, does there at times give proof 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 to-day's discourse, roving from matter to matter, and one part of the world to another, has carried us so far.

Know then that no great while ago there dwelt in Florence a maid most fair, and, for her rank, debonair — she was but a poor man's daughter — whose name was Simona, and though she must needs 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 wool-monger.

Love being thus, with the pleasant image of her beloved Pasquino admitted into her soul, mightily did she yearn, albeit she hazarded no advance and heaved a thousand sighs fiercer than fire with every skein of yarn that she wound 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 wonted shyness and reserve, they came to an understanding for their mutual solace which proved so delightful to both, that neither waited to be bidden by the other, but 'twas rather which should be the first to make the overture.

While thus they sped their days in an even tenor of delight and ever grew more ardently enamoured of one another, Pasquino chanced to say to Simona that he wished of all things she would contrive how she might betake her to a garden, whither he would bring her, that there they might be more at their ease, and in greater security.

Simona said that she was agreeable, and, having given her father to understand that she was minded to go to San Gallo for the pardoning, she hied 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 sat 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 therefrom 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. Having done so, he returned to the topic of the junketing of which he had 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 both on the face and on the body, whereupon Stramba broke forth with: "Ah! Wicked woman! Thou hast poisoned him!" and made such a din that 'twas heard by not a few that dwelt hard 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, knew not how to defend herself, did all with one accord surmise that 'twas even as Stramba said.

Wherefore they laid hands on her and brought her, still weeping bitterly, to the palace of the Podesta, where at the instant suit of Stramba, backed by Atticciato and Malagevole, 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 or was guilty, 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 tun, whither he himself presently came and, marvelling 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 did as an idle and vain thing and being more than ever instant to affirm her guilt and to demand the fire as the sole condign penalty, 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 leaf) 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 bourn ye fared! Ay, and even yet more happy, if love there be in the other world, and there, even as here, ye love! But happiest above all Simona, so far as we, whom she has left behind, may judge, in that Fortune brooked not that the witness of Stramba, Atticciato and Malagevole, carders, perchance, or yet viler fellows, should bear down her innocence but found a more seemly issue and, appointing her a like lot with her lover, gave her at once to clear herself from their foul accusation and to follow whither 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: "'Twould seem that this sage is poisonous, which the sage is not used to be. Let it be cut down to the roots and burned, lest another suffer by it in like sort."

Which the gardener proceeding to do in the judge's presence, no sooner had he brought the great bush down than the cause of the deaths 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, none venturing to approach it, they set a stout ring-fence 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, Atticciato, Guccio Imbratta, and Malagevole in the church of San Paolo of which, as it so happened, they were parishioners.

Next: Girolamo and Salvestra

(1500 words)

Decameron: Girolamo and Salvestra

Neifile's story about Girolamo and Salvestra comes immediately after the story that you just read about the tragic lovers Simona and Pasquino. Since the theme of the day is tragic love stories, you should not be surprised that things do not turn out very well for Girolamo and Salvestra either.

[Notes by LKG]

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

Girolamo and Salvestra

(Neifile: Day 4, Story 8)

[LIBRIVOX AUDIO]

When Emilia's story was done, Neifile at a word from the king thus began:

Some there are, noble ladies, who, methinks, 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 counsels 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 betide 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 shew her wisdom, allowed, 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 'tis related by them of old time, there was once in our city a very great and wealthy merchant, Leonardo Sighieri by name, who had by his lady a son named Girolamo, after whose birth he departed this life, leaving his affairs in meet 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 neighbours' 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 vehement that Girolamo was ever ill at ease when he saw her not, nor was her love for him a whit less strong than his for her. Which his mother perceiving would not seldom chide him therefor 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 — Salvestra is the girl's name — that, if we part them not, he will, peradventure, 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, methinks, you would 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."

Whereto the guardians answered that 'twas 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; 'twere well thou shouldst now begin to learn something for thyself of thy own affairs, wherefore we should be very well pleased if thou wert 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 here, and when thou hast seen the lords and barons and seigneurs that are there 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, wheedling 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 that he consented to go to Paris for a year and no more, and so 'twas arranged.

Next: Girolamo and Salvestra (cont.)

(800 words)

Decameron: Girolamo and Salvestra (cont.)

By the end of this part of the story, you will see that Salvestra finds herself truly in a desperate state, one so shocking that she cannot even tell her husband about it directly and instead has to explain to him that something terrible as happened to someone she knows... when in fact Salvestra is the one who is in terrible trouble!

[Notes by LKG]

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

Girolamo and Salvestra (cont.)

(see previous page for audio)

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 Salvestra 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 wont of young men in love, thinking that she could no more have forgotten him than he her.

'Twas 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 ware, 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 privily 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 Salvestra lie down and said as he gently laid his hand upon her bosom: "O my soul, art thou yet asleep?"

The girl was awake and was on the point of uttering a cry when he forestalled her, saying: "Hush! for God's sake. I am thy Girolamo."

Whereupon she, trembling in every limb: "Nay, but for God's sake, Girolamo, begone: '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, begone, 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 and of his love that distance had not impaired, and therewith mingled many a 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 warmed he would go away. On which terms Salvestra, being not without pity for him, granted his request.

So the young man lay down beside her and touched her not, 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 'twas his own. So she awakened him 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.

Next: Girolamo and Salvestra (end)

(700 words)

Decameron: Girolamo and Salvestra (end)

You may think things could not really get any worse, but events are going to reach even more tragic proportions by the time you get to the end of this story which may, in the end, remind you of a certain play by Shakespeare. You might also be interested in comparing Boccaccio's story to the Spanish tragedy of the Lovers of Teruel. You can read more about those famous lovers at Wikipedia.

[Notes by LKG]

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

Girolamo and Salvestra (end)

(see previous page for audio)

The good man answered that he should deem it best to take the dead man privily 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. Whereat 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 borne 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 fashion. And when the wailing had reached its height, the good man, in whose house the death had occurred, said to Salvestra: "Go wrap a mantle about thy head, and hie thee to the church whither 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 aught be said to our disadvantage."

The girl assented, for 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 fordone, and, kindling anew with all its old flame, melted with such compassion that no sooner saw she his dead face, as there she stood wrapped in her mantle, than, 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 Salvestra and dead. Whereat all the women that were there, overborne by a redoubled pity, broke forth in wailing new and louder far than before.

From the church the bruit spread itself among the men and reached the ears of Salvestra'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 'twas 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 are wont to array the dead, and laid her on the same bed beside the youth, and long time they mourned her: then were they both buried in the same tomb, and thus those, whom love had not been able to wed in life, were wedded by death in indissoluble union.

Next: The Heart of Guillaume de Cabestaing

(600 words)